Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8884447.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_&
      Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Robb_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy_&_Robb_Stark, Robb_Stark/Margaery
      Tyrell
  Character:
      Jon_Snow, Ned_Stark, Wylla_(ASoIaF), Robb_Stark, Lyanna_Stark, Satin
      Flowers, Satin_(Game_of_Thrones), Pylos_(ASoIaF), Catelyn_Tully_Stark,
      Theon_Greyjoy, Arya_Stark, Petyr_Baelish, Chataya_(ASoIaF), Sansa_Stark,
      Cersei_Lannister, Joffrey_Baratheon, Jaime_Lannister, Tywin_Lannister,
      Rickon_Stark, Bran_Stark, Loras_Tyrell, Margaery_Tyrell, Varys_(ASoIaF),
      Garlan_Tyrell, Mace_Tyrell, Olenna_Tyrell, Renly_Baratheon
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Prostitution, Alternate_Universe_-
      Prostitution, Underage_Sex, Underage_Prostitution, Anal_Sex, Orphans, R
      plus_L_equals_J, Tower_of_Joy, Incest, House_Stark, direwolf, King's
      Landing, WE_NEED_MORE_LOVIN', This_is_eating_my_brain
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-18 Updated: 2017-12-18 Chapters: 14/18 Words: 53815
****** Strangers and Kin ******
by Suchthingbutnever
Summary
     At the Tower of Joy, as three Knights of the King's Guard left their
     lives in combat, a nursemaid with a babe rode for Oldtown. Or the fic
     where Jon Sand is raised by washer women and whores, a lowly bastard
     with no coin or claim. The heir to the North coming to him is a
     blessing and a curse.
     Jon Snow/Robb Stark
***** Prologue *****
No one had spared her a thought.
They rarely did, those of noble blood and upbringing. Seated on magnificent
Sand Steeds, feasting on the fruits of seasonal toil that the common folk
brought to their holdfasts, castles of white stone with towers looming high,
they never did learn to see anyone below their station.
Wylla had never presumed to be seen. She had entered the service of House Dayne
as a slip of a girl, a child with strong, sinewy arms that hauled baskets of
laundry and calloused hands darkened by the stinging sun of high noon. Her
father owned but a meagre plant of olives in an alcove within the Red Mountains
and she had been the eldest daughter.
Her cot was next to the laundry rooms, squeezed among five other girls,
whispering and snoring at night. Wylla had never once cried with homesickness
in their presence. Yet when her moon blood had failed to come and dread had
pooled low in her stomach, the women, rough and plain-of-face, had sought out
the herbs and potions in a joint effort.
Standing in a corner of the roughly furnished chamber, letting the agonized
wails wash over her, Wylla remembered the birth of her own son. The bastard of
a drunken knight, be it an Yronwood or a Dayne of High Hermitage, it mattered
to her so little. She hadn’t dared to refuse him when he had fumbled a hand
beneath her skirts, so many years past.
The Lady Lyanna cried, her voice raw and drenched with agony. The women
surrounding her urged her to push harder, battle cries in their own right.
Wylla knew that she ought to be on her way, fetching fresh water, joining their
efforts, but she remained as if rooted.
“Brandon! Brandon! Father, Father!”
The girl would not live, this she knew. Her hips were narrow, her collarbones
sharp while the hollows of her cheeks were more pronounced than ever. The linen
of her bed was soaked in a flood of crimson and her thighs, thin, stickly
little things, were smudged in a brilliant riot of red.
She had despaired, lying in bed among the feathered cushions, her Silver Prince
shattered at the Trident, her Lord Father, her beloved brother, all dead, all
gone. The swell of her middle had been the only thing for her to hold close in
the chill of the countless Dornish nights.
Wylla had never been allowed despair. She had birthed her son and taken up
service as a nursemaid mere hours after she had stood from the straw covered
dirt ground, her companions folding the babe into a cloth of rough wool.
The squalling of the babe woke her from her reverie, and for a moment she
thought of her own boy, black of hair with eyes a deep, dark, indigo that spoke
of his bastardy. Lady Lyanna had ceased her screams. Perhaps she had finally
succumbed to sleep, or perhaps to death.
A bundle was pressed into her arms, and Wylla blinked in surprise. How small a
babe, frail as its mother, with a shock of dark locks on top of its squashed,
red face. She freed her breast, lifting the little one with a practiced motion.
The crying stopped immediately, giving way to the reflex of a suckling motion.
Wylla’s were the first pair of arms laid around Prince Jon Targaryen, her’s
were the teats that nourished him. She sang to him the old tunes of the Red
Mountains, she hummed to him in his sleep.
No one spared her a thought.
Lady Lyanna spoke in her sleep, crazed tales of days gone by, of summer snows
and ponds of clear spring water that never cooled. As Wylla sat by her side,
holding her son, she would cry for her brothers, her Prince, but none came.
She woke twice, eyes unfocussed. The first time she named her quiet babe, the
second she had gripped Wylla by her forearm, her fingers weak and brittle, and
begged.
“Promise me. Promise me.”
The glorious Knights of the King’s Guard stood below the tower, day and night.
They stood, holding close their honour and their loyalty, while Wylla held Jon
and a promise she made without words.
She saw them from afar, through the small, slitted window. A party of many,
riding towards them with haste. Jon was asleep, little fists bundled into his
wrappings as Wylla took the sack of rough leather and shook a light cape over
her own shoulders. The Tower of Joy concealed her while she flitted down the
stairs, eyes downcast, a scullery maid, a nursemaid, a holder of promises
The valiant Knights of the King’s Guard charged forwards while she slipped out
the towers and was gone.
None lived to tell the tale, but then again, they had never learned to see her.
Eddard Stark went North with the bones of his sister.
Wylla rode for Oldtown.
***** Of Whores and Crows *****
 
Oldtown, 292 AC
No one knew the true origins of Oldtown. Though the maesters of the Citadel had
been squabbling over diverging theories for many centuries now, it was agreed
upon that the city’s past was yet shrouded with fanciful sagas and doubt. The
Dawn Age had seen men settle along the Honeywine, as maesters of ancient times
recorded the magic of the Children.
Many a name had been plucked from the dusty scrolls and binded books, ancient
with decay, in suggestion of a hero who might be the founding father of a city
as noble as theirs.
It mattered naught to Tanae.
Her’s was a world of back-door alleys and criss-crossing cobbled streets, of
taverns and fishmarkets. The gilded Hightower, the countless buildings of the
Citadel, they were as far away from her as the Wall in the North.
Her streets were cluttered, full of dirty children getting under foot, drunken
sailors with a few coppers in search of comfort, the smell of fish stew
permeating the air from the earliest morning hours.
She had her little chamber beneath the roof in a narrow, creaking house of a
seamstress, her own furs upon a straw pallet. When patrons saw fit to toss her
an extra silver or two, she would even afford herself baubles to place around
her arms and neck, thin bronze bracelets that chafed against her skin but shone
prettily in the light of fire.
The even smaller rooms adjoining hers belonged to her dear friend of many
years, and every evening they would share their laughs and sorrows and often,
fish stew.
She had met Wylla with a babe at her teat and a boy of five clutching her
skirts, the smooth olive tone of her face marking her as foreign to the Reach.
Tanae had been a girl of four-and-ten, only a few months away from the humble
home she had known, still looking for employment, still a maid fresh and
flowered.
They had sat together at the edge of Thief’s Market, sharing a wedge of cheese,
the hems of their skirts soaking in the brackish waters that washed over the
cobbled streets. Wylla had been kind, so very kind. The only one to share her
provisions, the only one to listen as she wept.
What silly tears! How young she had been.
She had come knowing nothing but the slow-paced, rhythmic life of the fields.
How she had longed for excitement, for the vision of Ladies dressed in cloth-
of-gold, of velvet doublets and striding destriers and men of gentle upbringing
that would see her sweet smiles and take her to live a charmed life.
To the very least, she had thought, she would be able to earn a few silvers as
a maid and send for her brothers and sisters. She would buy her mother oranges
and they would grind the peel for sweetcakes and loafs of bread.
How very ludicrous her dreams of old seemed when the stench of wine and the
soreness between her legs woke her during the day.
---
The sky was a lovely, tinted cream colour, darkening into hues of blue and
violet. She must needs prepare herself, for in her profession, the nights were
the hours of activity and flourish. She fiddled around, carefully applying
powder over the bruise on her neck, letting her chestnut hair fall open in
gentle waves.
The years had been kind to her. Though she had always been plain-faced, her
locks were still a full, glossy tumble. The scars she bore and the rough
callouses on her hands she covered with the toss of her head.
Next door, she could hear the boyish laughter, the quiet scolding. She missed
her sisters most when she heard the sound of child-play on the streets. A sharp
smell of peppers stirred her into action. She clicked the rickety door shut
behind her, arms and shoulders bared against the cooling air.
“Have you any peppers, Wylla?” she asked jokingly, shaking her hair to one
side. Her friend was serving fresh capers from the market, boiled with a
drizzle of lemon and bits of hot dragon peppers peeking from the pale, slit
stomachs.
“Not for you, my love, I don’t.” Nine years gone, and Wylla still spoke with a
drawl and curl of her tongue that rendered certain words quiet
incomprehensible. Tanae embraced her, smelling the clean scent of her hair, a
whiff of the markets and the sharp, distinct scent of soap, tallow and ash.
Her face was smooth, save for the lines that had crept beneath her kind, dark
eyes. Her smiles were seldom, but her mouth always held a peculiar angle, as if
she was bemused by their lowly life, their daily hardship.
Edric, a soft, gentle boy of four-and-ten, greeted her readily, while little
Jon sat before his dinner, eyebrows drawn, seemingly deep in thought. Tanae had
rocked him in her arms many-a-time when he was yet a suckling babe and Wylla
was away, earning every back-breaking coin they owned as a washer woman. As
Tanae worked at night and slept but fitfully during the day, it was in her
chamber that little Jon stayed the first years.
“Eat,” Wylla commanded simply, “you’ll have much awful sour wine later. It
isn’t good on an empty stomach.”
Edric spoke of his work at the market briefly – a specialty stall with goods
from the Free Cities had come for a moon’s turn, and while not at all uncommon
in Oldtown, he had still marveled at the spices, the pots carved from ivory and
the bushels of dried herbs that smelled tangy and strange. He disliked his
work, this Tanae knew, the shouting, the smells. Yet he brought home fish and
radishes, onions and leek.
Jon was a solemn boy. While both his mother and brother had straight, dark
hair, his jet-black curls bounced, framing his pale face like an unruly halo.
Tanae had once thought to ask who the father might have been – she knew best of
all that scullery maids who caught the attention of better men could ill afford
to say no. Wylla had only stared at her impassively, and said that it did not
matter.
Both her boys were Sands of Dorne, that was all.
Jon and Edric would sit after dinner, dark heads bowed together, while the
younger taught the elder what he had learned that day. Wylla was strange, but
wise, this Tanae had realized early on – instead of larger rooms, better food
or a new dress, she paid half of her earnings, and now Edric’s as well, to a
novice of Scribe’s Hearth. At first, both her boys had gone, learning letters
and reading histories. When harder times came upon them, only Jon went.
She made sure he taught his older brother every single thing he had learned in
the flickering light of a precious evening candle.
“When Jon’s old enough, they’ll take turns. They’ll both learn.” She had told
Tanae, who had been quite befuddled at the time. Reading, letters – those were
things of the noblefolk, Lords and Ladies and scholarly maesters. Her father
had been a farmer, who had known nothing besides the earth he toiled. Her
mother had known home, hearth and childbirth.
Jon showed her a scrap of old parchment on which he had written down words from
his readings. The lines and twirls of the ink looked fanciful and strange, but
Tanae lauded the boy heartily nonetheless.
“How clever you are, one day you shall be a maester and me and the girls will
come to you for moon tea!” she laughed.
Jon gazed at her seriously, his eyes a clear grey: “Yes, you’ll all have enough
tansy, and chamomile for you aches. You’ll have salves and pots made from ivory
and…” he had spoken too quickly, catching his breath and caughing. As serious
as he looked, Jon was but a boy.
“Yes, my sweetling.” Tanae tugged him closer, carding a hand through his unruly
locks.
---
The Quill and Tankard was bright with lamps and torches when she entered, most
of the tables and long benches already occupied. The terrace was crowded with
novices from the Citadel, and for a short moment Tanae thought of the unknown
young man who taught Jon his letters.
Emma was already serving, her arms loaded with cider mugs, and she merely gave
her a quick nod. Her movements were deft and sure, telling signs of the many
years she had been serving at the inn.
She went to work with a weary heart, dreading the sweat that was bound to wash
off her powder and reveal the ugly bruise.
The man had been the captain of a small trading galley, headed towards Braavos
from the Northern shores. He had doused himself in wine and told her of the
Wall, East-Watch-by-the-Sea and the Black Brothers who bought barrows of ale
and Arbor wine from his freight. He had shown her the pelt of a mountain lion,
thick and clammy in the heat of the Reach.
Despite his pudgy, wavering demeanor, he had been forceful while taking her,
choking the breath out of her until all she saw was a swimming darkness and
dimmed lights at the edge of her vision.
The bruise lingered even after days passed.
As it went, she did not receive another this night, as she was picked by a boy
still green and unsure in his ways. Those were the ones she liked best.
She would try to show them how gentle a tumble could be, lest they grow old and
discover a lust for blood and bruises on cheap whores like her.
 
 
 
295 AC
The day Edric left behind his name was at the height of the long summer.
It reminded him of his childhood days at Starfall, where he would play in the
sand despite the sun beating down on the crown of his head. He vaguely
remembered that there were other children as well, and that he had been quite
content.
Mother was abed, as she had been for many moons now, face drawn with fever and
lucid dreams. The sickly sweet scent of death filled his nostrils when he
breathed in. The single window of the chamber was thrown wide open, the noises
of back alleys and quarrels over coin never ceasing. At night, the voices
seemed to be amplified, for darkness gave the illusion of privacy.
Tanae had come to brush his hair, the comb a heartfelt gift from a suitor,
albeit a cheap one. She had spoken to him at length, and while he listened and
nodded, all he could think of was the smell of dust and decay that seemed to
linger around Mother.
“Wylla, sweetling. Wylla, take a drink.” Tanae was coaxing a waterskin near
Mother’s parched lips, yet she did not stir.
Death wasn’t at all uncommon in their parts of Oldtown. Edric had seen bodies
of the dead, old and young, haggard and smooth, thrown onto the streets,
carried out in dignity, covered for discretion. Thief’s Market had shown him
the fate of the dishonest, all evils.
Yet when Tanae pressed her ear against Mother’s chest, his breathing stopped on
its own accord.
Jon had begged Pylos to come see Mother, and while the acolyte had yet to forge
his silver link, he had obliged and gifted them some herbs to ease her pain. He
had not taught them letters for a few years now, yet Jon went to him
nonetheless, asking about stars and ravens and wars of times past.
He dreamed of joining the Citadel, of books and scrolls piled high, of faraway
places he would see.
Edric smoothed his hair, eyes downcast, and then balled his hands into tight
fists, his knuckles whitened with the effort, as Tanae wailed.
He was a man grown, ten-and-seven now. Mother had always told him that Jon was
their own blood, no matter his paternity. He belonged with them the same way
Edric had always belonged with his mother. They mustn’t ever part.
In his mind, he ran a thousand miles, diving into the Honeywine and howling his
sorrow to Gods and men alike.
Yet he stayed, sat with Mother until sunset, enjoying the rays of warmth that
found their way into their chamber, eyes tracking the twirling dust illuminated
in its dance through the air. He played with a strand of his hair, focusing on
the way it gleamed in the light.
He was pretty enough, that he had always been told.
As it was appointed, he left after dark and made his way down the winded,
criss-crossing streets and alleys, past familiar dead ends, thick, smudged
windows, open doors, beggars old and young alike.
His grief was a ball of lead in his chest, threatening to press the air from
his lungs. He would perish, choking and screaming soundlessly, and Jon, his own
blood, would be alone in the world.
So he continued on, steps surprisingly sure, hands without even a tremor. He
was a man grown, seven-and-ten.
Grown.
The oaken doors of the brothel creaked open before he could register his own
arrival. Lights in yellow and red hues covered the room in dimmed colours, and
for a moment Edric could not move at all. Then the madam had him by his elbow,
grip sure and strong, and he heard a far-off voice that told him there was a
side entrance for the whores.
---
Afterwards, with coins heavy in Mother’s old purse, he felt like worms had
eaten his insides hollow.
“Satin, what a lovely name. It suits you very much.” The man had been
nondescript, affluent enough to buy his first night, yet not so wealthy as to
frequent a brothel on the western riverbanks. His hands had been surprisingly
gentle, and Satin had mewled and spilled his seed, tilting his hips upward so
he could take him as he wished.
Mother was gone when he returned home.
Jon, solemn and gangly and bookish to a fault, he found on Mother’s bed, lying
stock still. Tanae had left, surely to serve tankards of ale first and her body
after, so that she might have a few morsels to eat upon the morrow, or the day
after that.
The thought of food, of hot peppers and tart oranges, felt strange. He could
not imagine ever eating again.
Satin lay down next to Jon and they curled towards each other like children in
their sleep. It was then that the tears came, and while with Jon they flowed
silently, a great sob broke out of Satin’s chest, and for a moment he felt
elated, light-headed with the sound. Then his voice failed him, and all he
could produce were choked remnants of what remained.
He knew that tomorrow at nightfall he would walk the streets to the brothel
again, that he would spread his legs at reduced worth, for now he was but a
common boy whore.
Jon’s breath, hitching and unruly with tears, ghosted against his ear, and
Satin smiled through the blur that the world had now become. “A maester of the
Citadel”, he whispered, and his hands tightened around all that was left to him
in the world.
 
 
 
Gulltown, 299 AC
It was far past noon until Conwy was received by a gruff, impatient Steward who
showed him to the dungeons without even a word of greeting.
South of the Neck, this was the welcome he had grown accustomed to, viewed as a
pestering presence all in black, inconsequential to say the least. Most of the
Lords had naught but scorn and casual arrogance, granting him the scum of their
dungeons. Some never bothered to receive him, hear his plea for aide.
Lord Shett of Gulltown was quite preoccupied with his duties, his Steward
declared imperiously while they descended the narrow stairs. The holdfast had
only one level below earth, and the cells were empty save the one at the very
end, where five men were huddled in various corners, the air thick with odours
unpleasant, but nonetheless familiar to him.
How many cells he had seen, how many more prone forms and eyes that dulled in
despair when the spotted his black garb. He had heard men beg for the noose
instead of following him North.
The men, all in shackles, trudged up the stairs, stumbling into the daylight as
he inspected them closely, one by one.
“A wandering crow!”
A man with a shaggy beard and a clubfoot had spoken, his voice craggy with lack
of use. Conwy disregarded him. Cripples and fools he had seen enough to know
that once under the looming shadow of the wall, even the lowliest and meanest
of thieves and robbers were of some use.
Two youths with fair hair and a man with shattered teeth stood next to him.
They all failed to meet his eyes.
All save a young man in a soiled satin robe. His eyes were wide and fearful,
yet he did not avert his gaze when Conwy declared that he would take them all,
and that they would be on their way immediately.
They were a pitiful procession.
The men barely had anything to themselves save the clothing they wore. The
clubfooted man had wrapped dirtied rags around his feet, and they were slow-
going. Conwy had arranged for a ship, a small, light vessel headed for
Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. They would sail past the Fingers, the Three Sisters, into
the Bay of Seals.
With some luck and good winds, the recruits would walk through the gates of
Castle Black in a moon’s turn.
Gulltown was small, but brimming with incoming sailors, boatmen and merchants.
Some of the North, some of Braavos, they all mingled in the inns and
whorehouses, where ale was served aplenty and more exotic fare from across the
narrow sea was on offer.
Conwy knew the best inns and the cheapest whores, rough, laughing wenches who
would hitch up their skirts without the blink of an eye. In a year’s turn he
would land in Gulltown yet again, as he had done for four winters now.
People along the dock-side threw them weary glances, some directed towards the
prisoners, some towards himself.
Angry voices were raised some few feet away, a stand of oysters was almost
toppled over in the turmoil. Then a youth burst through the crowd, jostling his
way across with sharp elbows. He stopped short before Conwy, brows drawn while
he gulped back ragged breaths.
“I wish to take the Black.”
In his many seasons spent as a recruiter of the Night’s Watch, this was a
novelty. A young, able-bodied man, while almost a child still, rushing to offer
his services. Before Conwy could give his reply, the dark-haired prisoner from
the ragged line behind him surged forward, hands tearing at the chains that
still bound his wrist.
“Jon, you fool! Be gone, walk away now!”
The youth’s eyes darted towards him, yet he kept his head turned to Conwy, and
spoke again: “M’lord, I beg of you, take me along.”
“I’m no lord, boy.” Conwy started to reply, yet his words were drowned by the
screams of the dark-haired prisoner. Irritated with the spectacle and the ever-
growing crowd of spectators, Conwy urged his recruits forwards. The eager youth
followed him without fail.
He had already spotted the mast of their galley when the dark-haired man threw
himself onto the boy, snarling and kicking, pressing him into the ground. The
others grew excited around him as the two struggled, mud and salt water
splashing around them.
“Go to Tanae, I beg you, Jon, I beg you.”
“No, I won’t, I won’t, you can’t stop me.”
Conwy breathed deep through his nose before stepping forwards and grabbing the
man by his chains, dragging him upwards. He gasped, eyes dark and deep-set,
before he freed one of his hands from the grasp and punched the youth with such
force that his head flew back against the hard stone of the Gulltown harbor.
The tug of the chain sent a few of the other recruits to their knees and curses
filled the air.
Voices rose and laughter broke out, some applauding, some spitting their
contempt. Finally, Conwy managed to stir the man away from his kin, now lying
limp and unmoving. “You, tell me your name. We can use some good fighters at
the wall, eh?” He gave no reply.
“I won’t take your brother there, a’ight? Now tell me your name.”
“Satin, it’s Satin.”
He had grown quite limp in his grip, and tears of exhaustion were sliding down
his pale, smooth cheeks. “I’m no fighter.” He professed while they boarded the
busy galley, ground under their feet now swaying to the lap of waves that
chased one another.
“I’m a whore.”
Conwy left him unbound with the other recruits, and walked to see the sails
set. A pity for the young man, he thought while gazing across the Bay of Crabs.
A voluntary recruit, and mayhaps the single one he might have brought back to
the Wall in his life time.
It mattered naught.
***** Hands of Gold *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Night had crept upon the Tower of the Hand when Father finally gave him leave.
 
Robb found Theon lounging in his chambers, jug of Dornish red already empty by
his elbow. He was speaking to Fat Tom, who was stationed outside Arya’s rooms,
quite close to his own.
 
“What has she done now?”
 
A loud thud could be heard – doubtlessly his youngest sister had been roaming
the Keep again. While ever so slightly subdued with the regular dancing lessons
she now received, Arya could hardly be refrained from jumping around the
stables, chasing cats and befriending the cooks in the kitchens.
 
The Queen had remarked upon it a few days ago during a dinner held at the
Queen’s Ballroom in honour of the Lord of Highgarden. Sansa, adamant to please
and sensitive to judgement, had flushed an unbecoming scarlet and later cried a
holy riot, cursing Arya and her ways.
 
While Mace Tyrell had only been befuddled, focused on the capons stirred with
plums and garlic, Margaery had smiled fondly and declared that Arya must tell
her all the secrets of Maegor the Cruel. That had softened the blow somewhat.
 
“Ah, she gave m’lady Sansa’s brooch to a maid for a favour or summat.” Fat Tom
smiled, quite unconcerned with the stomping sounds behind the locked door.
“Septa has told us she would eat dinner alone, didn’t she?”
 
Robb could hear Theon laughing, and he sighed, knocking in a quick succession.
For a moment, the movement stilled before the door opened a slit and the
tousled brown head of his sister came to view. “What?”
 
“I just sat with Father all day, reviewing the treasury. Surely you must have
nothing to complain about?”
 
Arya hesitated for a few seconds before she let the door slide open. Her
chamber was large, furnished in heavy oak, with drapes dainty and white and
Myrish rugs covering the stone floors. It was all as befitted the daughter of
the Hand, yet his sister had managed to overturn her chest, her gowns and
shawls, the pretty cloth Mother had sewn before their departure, strewn all
over the room.
 
Upon her bed laid Needle, gleaming silver between the embroidered bed linen.
 
“I hate it! I hate everyone! They’re so stupid. Sansa is the stupidestof them
all.”
 
Robb sat and folded his arms around his sister, small and scrawny and dark-
haired. Mother had often sighed when gazing at Arya, regret evident at her
obvious lack of grace and beauty. A second daughter, a lady, could ill-afford
such a plain face, such a love for horses and lowborn companions.
 
Her letters were piled in a heavy stack, all bearing the grey sigil of a
direwolf. Arya had not bothered to open the last few, where the wax was still
unbroken.
 
“The Queen is a vile bitch.”
 
“Arya!” Robb quickly clasped a hand over her mouth. She attempted to bite him,
then started licking the palm of his hand and they went down in a tumble, both
laughing.
 
“I’m sorry. But you know it’s true.” Arya had dropped her voice to a whisper.
“I shall stick her with the pointy end if she makes Father look bad again.”
 
Robb sighed, empathy heavy in his heart. He too disliked Robert’s Lannister
Queen, and he felt nothing but spite and disgust for the Crown Prince. “You
must guard your words, little sister. Father may be the Hand, but the Keep
crawls with Lannisters. We mustn’t show them any weakness.”
 
Arya shifted in his embrace, before dropping her head.
 
“I want to go home.”
 
This he had heard many times, ever since they sat foot in King’s Landing almost
a year ago. While Sansa reveled in her newfound role as Lady-in-Waiting for the
Queen and companion to Princess Myrcella, Arya struggled. In Winterfell only
Septa Mordane and Mother had scolded her for her antics – now disapproving eyes
followed her where ever she went.
 
“You will, one day. After Sansa has wedded the Prince, you may return with me.”
 
“Then she should hurry up and flower, so they can be married and bed each other
all they want.”
 
Robb cringed at the thought. Joffrey, that awful little beastling, bedding his
sweet sister. It was not a something he wanted to dwell on, no matter the
betrothal that was to seal House Stark and the Royal House of Baratheon
together by blood.
 
Joffrey, his good-brother, the future King he had to heed as Lord of
Winterfell.
 
“I overheard some ladies talking in the gardens. They say you will marry
Margaery Tyrell. They say that’s the only reason they came from Highgarden at
all!”
 
Robb cringed again. The rumors were true enough, but nothing besides talk
between Father and Lord Mace had taken place. He had barely even spoken two
sentences to the lovely lady Margaery, besides the customary pleasantries. She
had been courteous and sweet, yet that could have been said of any noble maiden
within the Red Keep.
 
“It would be a good match.” He replied simply, for it was the truth.
 
A maid came bearing Arya’s dinner, and Robb excused himself. Repeated promises
of their return to the North had placated Arya for the time being, and she had
tucked into the lemon cakes and honeyed chicken heartily.
 
Theon was still where he had left him, a second pitcher of wine now empty.
 
“Lord Robb, how about a little outing for just the two of us?” His eyes were
languid with drink, and his usual arrogant little smile twisted his lips. He
loved the brothels of King’s Landing with a fervor, for it was the only place
Robb suspected he felt at ease, where his experience and coin bought him
reverence and something akin to affection.
 
At court he was mostly ignored.
 
Robb hesitated. “We’ve a hunting party tomorrow.” The King himself had ordered
Robb along to squire for him, to “hold his cup and wipe his arse”, as he had
declared, raucous with bold laughter. It had been a slight to Lancel Lannister,
cousin of the Queen, a boy blonde and arrogant with youth and family pride.
 
“Scared, Robb? You’ve barely been out the Keep at all.”
 
Of course he then agreed. No one knew how to goad him like Theon.
 
---
 
They visited the kennels first.
 
Grey Wind stood as soon as they entered, Ghost quickly following his lead.
After so long a time it still felt strange to see them alone, with their
brothers and sisters absent and dead. Arya had often told him of dreams where
Nymeria roamed the Riverlands, head of a small pack. Sansa had cried for some
months before declaring that such a wild beast did not befit a future queen,
and that she was glad to be rid of it.
 
Arya had almost torn her gown apart in fury.
 
The Kennel master shrunk back with apprehension when they freed the wolves.
They had been given collars at first, but the direwolfs had aided one another
and by evening freed each other from the constraints.
 
They were silent as shadows, Theon leading the way, Robb flanked by his wolves
on either side. The guard recognized them quickly and opened the small gate
willingly, eyes sparkling with amusement. He knew the son of the Hand, his
wolves and his companion well enough.
 
The Great Sept of Baelor loomed above them in the distance, while the jagged
remains of the Dragonpit could be made out against the darkening sky of the
North. Lanterns and torches were lit everywhere, smallfolk bustling in the
shadowy lanes while they followed the Street of the Sisters down towards the
Guildhall of the Alchemists. Theon laughed and told boisterous tales of whores
he had tumbled and girls who had begged for his attention. Grey Wind skipped
ahead, scenting the air, sending grown men to their knees in fear.
 
“Look how they kneel before you, Lord Stark!” Theon laughed. None of the wolves
ever paid him any mind, but he had grown accustomed to their presence.
 
They reached the northwestern part of town. Flea Bottom was a sea of darkness,
where the poorest of the poor could not afford candles and torches to burn
through the nights. They descended Rhaeny’s Hill and finally came upon the
Street of Silk, lined with brothels to satisfy any need a man might have.
 
Some establishments were private to gaze upon, the front of the buildings
clean, with only a red lantern indicating a welcome, while in front of others
stood women clad in gowns, shoulders bared. Some of the visibly cheaper ones
clapped and hooted, calling out to men and lifting their skirts suggestively.
 
Theon was distracted soon enough, his costly velvet surcoat emblazoned with the
golden Kraken of House Greyjoy enough to mark him as wealthy and highborn. Many
of the whores called out to Robb as well, but none thought to approach him
thanks to Grey Wind and Ghost.
 
Robb crouched to pet his wolves, feeling uncomfortable. He had never possessed
the surety that Theon displayed when it came to whoring. He had had his first
woman in Wintertown, as a boy of four-and-ten. Afterwards, he had felt guilty
beyond reasoning, though it was well accepted that young Lords went out and
about to sate their curiosity and forge their manhood.
 
Ghost, silent as ever, sat unmoving, though his red eyes turned this way and
that, following the movements of bodies, ears twitching at high-pierced
laughter. Then his head jerked sideways, the sleek body rising at once, his
snout at a height with Robb’s elbow. They were growing, still.
 
Robb followed the gaze of his direwolf, and found the mundane storefront of yet
another whorehouse. A few girls were leaning against the door frame, tired
looks worn on their faces. They straightened as soon as they felt Robb’s eyes
and forced smiles onto their painted faces.
 
“What have you seen, Ghost?” He whispered, before rising and walking towards
the brothel. Theon laughed and promised that he would find him later, a wench
in both his arms, giggling and kissing his neck.
 
Robb nodded absentmindedly, before shoving the door open. A wooden bell chimed
a dulled sound.
 
The interior was clean enough, with benches and seating areas adorned
halfheartedly with worn cushions. Men, lowlier merchants and captains of
smaller cogs, were entertained with wine and cider.
 
They all fell silent once Robb entered.
 
A woman, broad of face, with a tumble of brown locks quickly came towards him,
before stopping short at the sight of his direwolves. Her mouth fell open and
she let out a curse quite unbecoming of her newfound customer.
 
“M’lord, I beg your pardon.” She curtsied crudely, while the chatter in the
room started again. “How can I be of service?”
 
“I, uh. Bring me some Arbor Gold.” Robb cleared his throat and found himself a
table to sit, Grey Wind curling by his feet while Ghost remained standing,
looking around the room with great interest.
 
He had been the runt of the litter, his Ghost. A mute little pup, white as
summer snow, and they would’ve left him to die had Robb not found him in the
last moment. How Bran and Rickon had cheered, arms full of their new
companions, and Robb, as the eldest and the heir, had declared that he would
take both wolves that remained.
 
“M’lord.” A cup and a jug was placed on the table before him and Robb jumped in
his skin. A boy had brought his wine, also bearing a bowl of Dornish Plums,
provided in clear recognition that he was well above their usual clientele.
“May I ask whether you’ve any preferences?”
 
The speech of the young man was meddled with rolling sounds, typical of Dorne
and parts of the Reach. His complexion was fair enough, and though his eyes
were downcast in the dimmed light, Robb could make out a dark colour. “Uhm.” He
cleared his throat, suddenly unsure. Was it typical to be served by a man? Was
it not customary for girls to come to him?
 
They remained silent for a while, before the boy spoke again, eyes respectfully
averted. “Or mayhaps m’lord wants to enjoy his wine first.”
 
Robb nodded quickly, thankful for the excuse.
 
He downed a cup in record time, glancing around to the other patrons. It took a
few moments until he registered that while there were enough women in the room,
many of the whores he had taken for dainty girls were, as a matter of fact,
young boys.
 
He could feel his cheeks colouring, and his head whipped back towards the one
that had served him. He was lean of build, with a head of long, unruly black
curls. While the other boy-whores were clearly younger and slighter of build,
it suddenly dawned on Robb that he had stumbled into a brothel and then rebuked
the very services it provided.
 
The youth had gone to stand in the back, once again, while the broad faced
woman laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. With a start, Robb realized that
Ghost was gone from his spot, and with another start, he saw his wolf walking
towards the boy whore and the homely woman soundlessly, before stopping before
them and gazing upwards.
 
“Ghost, to me!” Robb called, feeling the sharp looks of patrons and whores
alike. “Ghost, come on, now!”
 
The white direwolf turned to look at him before settling down on the ground.
Robb took a deep breath, utterly regretting his decision to leave the Red Keep.
He was dealt with one embarrassment after another.
 
“My apologies,” he left his wine where it stood and knelt next to Ghost, his
hand grasping the wolf at the thick furs of its nape. “He must like you, he
usually never strays…”
 
He flushed at his own words – the woman was now smiling, while the youth had
slowly settled into a crouch himself, extending a hand towards the great white
direwolf.
 
“Jon, careful now!” The broad faced whore clucked. Her smile showed a missing
tooth, yet she seemed pleasant enough. “M’lord – mayhaps, you’d want to take
Jon and your wolf ‘round back?”
 
“Tanae.” Jon, the dark-haired youth, looked discomfited at the suggestion.
Strange enough for a boy whore, Robb thought. He glanced between the two, and
registered the urgency in the woman’s gaze, silently pleading.
 
“Why ever not?” Robb heard himself say, “Ghost seems to like him well enough.”
He called for Grey Wind and stood, feeling bolder than ever before in his life.
Heat had pooled low in his stomach, and while the thought was fleeting and
guilt-ridden, he admitted to himself that Jon, dark-haired and lithe, was well
to his liking.    
 
They were led to a chamber in the back, clearly the best the brothel could
offer. Compared to his own rooms in the Tower of the Hand, it was sparse and
cold, yet his wolves settled by the fire quick enough.
 
The whore he had chosen for the evening busied himself, adding logs to the
fire, his shoulders tense, back straight. Even Robb, inexperienced as he was,
could see plain that the boy had none of the playful, seductive demeanor that
was usual in this line of work.
 
“We, uh. If it’s to you better linking, we could just sit with the wolves for a
while.” Robb heard himself ramble, and winced at the desperate note in his
voice. “I mean, I only really came in for Ghost, he wouldn’t look at any other
door besides yours.”
 
How Theon would gloat when he heard of this.
 
“Yes, m’lord.” Jon the whore rose before gingerly sitting down next to the
white direwolf and extending a hand, stroking its back softly. His expression
was guarded, solemn, and while his face was smooth enough, Robb recognized the
faint shadow of a beard along his jaw.
 
“You’re much too old,” he blurted out. It was true – the more he looked, the
more it became apparent that what set him apart from the other boy whores was
his age. He must already be a man grown.
 
Jon hesitated before speaking: “Six-and-ten, m’lord.”
 
He was Robb’s age. He suddenly felt foolish for calling him “boy” in his mind.
Then he registered with confusion that he had just hired a man, a man grown and
of an age with him, as his evening entertainment. 
 
How Theon would laugh.
 
“I may leave, m’lord. We can find another.” Jon made to stand, but to both
their surprise Ghost moved and laid his head in the whore’s lap.
 
“That settles it, then. I’ve bought you for my wolf.” Robb laughed, before
seeing the horror that flitted across Jon’s face. “No, not like that. Gods help
me. I merely meant that he likes your… presence.”
 
“Yes, m’lord.” Jon began stroking the white fur again, eyes wide with wonder.
“M’lord, may I ask…?”
 
“Yes, yes, of course.” Robb had settled down on the bed, eyes never leaving Jon
and his wolves. They had never shown such affection to anyone outside his
siblings. Not even Mother or Father.
 
“There aren’t s’posed to be any direwolfs south o’ the wall.”
 
Robb gave a surprised laugh. “No, that is correct. We came upon their mother,
she had been dead for quite some time, with antlers lodged in her throat. The
bitch had whelped six pups, each of my siblings own one, well… used to own one.
I thought it fitting, as, well, our sigil – “
 
“Is the direwolf.” Jon finished for him. “It must be a sign from the Gods,
then.”
 
He almost immediately dropped his gaze again, fingers combing through Ghost's
fur frantically. Robb felt himself smile. “You know who I am?”
 
“Of course, m’lord. They held a grand tourney for the Hand, didn’t they?” he
paused, before continuing on: “You joust very well.”
 
“Not well enough,” Robb laughed, remembering Jaime Lannisters pitying look
after he had unhorsed the heir to the North. “It matters not. I’ve never been
taught to joust properly. There are seldom tourneys in the North”
 
He told a few tales about the knights that had competed, about the Red Priest
and his flaming swords, about Ser Gregor the mountain and the fear he inspired,
then he spoke about Arya and her dancing lessons with Syrio Forell.
 
Before long, Jon was adding new logs to the fire and Grey Wind had closed his
eyes, content with the warmth. The broad faced whore came in only once, serving
wine and giving Jon stern looks.
 
The Arbor Gold was not the best he’d had, but Robb drank greedily, calming his
nerves. “We’re not doing very well, are we?” he asked while the blood rushed to
his head, tinting the tip of his ears an embarrassing pink, he was sure.
Jon gave a barking laugh. He too took a drink of wine, looking a mite guilty.
Mayhaps he wasn’t allowed to have any. “Come here, Jon, it’s Jon right? Have
more wine. It’s unbecoming to drink alone.”
 
They sat side by side, sipping from their cups.
 
Jon had very long lashes, and his lips formed the prettiest pout, which Robb
only noticed up-close. As jarringly different he seemed from the usual whores,
there seemed to be a reason he was in this very room. A voice, not unlike
Theon’s, sneered in Robb’s head for him to move, to do something. He had bought
him for the night, after all.
 
Their lips collided, and all of a sudden Jon’s hands were tangled in his hair.
He smelled of roses, sickly-sweet, but also of stables and sweat. Robb lifted
his arms and pushed their chests flush together, feeling light-headed and
victorious. His Father was the Hand of the King, it mattered not what he did.
He could have this, all of this, without anyone batting an eyelash.
 
Jon was pliant enough, he let himself be pushed flat on his back, before his
hands jumped to open Robb’s breeches.
 
They fumbled about for a bit until both were free of their garments, the heat
of the fire now palpable and radiating. The direwolves lay unconcerned, and for
once Robb did not spare his closest companions any thought.
 
“Lord Robb.” Jon’s voice was raw, his eyes dark. He looked bewildered and
unsure, yet there was something hard pressing against Robb’s thigh. “I’ve… I’ve
prepared meself for you.”
 
Even though it was blatant that Jon had prepared himself for any patron that
might have paid the price, Robb felt a sharp jolt of pleasure at the admission.
He had never had a man before, yet the numerous tales Theon shared left little
to the imagination. He reached down and spread the long, muscular legs beneath
him, feeling around with shaking hands.
 
Indeed, Jon was already slick with oil, though the tension in his body made him
unbearably tight for even just an intruding finger. Strangely afraid of
failure, Robb pressed his lips to the shaven jaw, lapping and nibbling,
astounded with his own newfound competence.
 
A soft sound escaped Jon’s lips when Robb added a second finger. He felt big
hands on his shoulders, squeezing. With his first whore in Wintertown,
everything had been quick and practiced. Jon, however, made him feel like an
eager green boy, stupid with arousal. He did not guide Robb but waited
pliantly, eyes shut tight, mouth a soft pink open shape.
 
“You’ve never… never done this before,” Robb stated, before pulling away his
hand and nudging his cock, heavy and leaking, forward. It was met with
resistance when Jon made an urgent humming sound, reaching down to take himself
in his hand.
 
Robb thought dimly that other patrons might have taken offense at that, yet he
himself could think of nothing more wanton and fitting. His arms shook with the
effort of keeping upright and he pushed forward once more, gasping when he was
finally engulfed in a tight, searing heat.
 
Jon had tensed beneath him, brows drawn together while his unfocussed eyes
looked up at Robb. They were a clear grey, the same grey of his wolf’s pelt.
“M’lord. You can… move.”
 
“Is it… do you want…” Robb gulped a few breaths of air, before pulling out a
little and pushing back in again. Jon’s legs were folded above his shoulders,
and his black curls were a tumble on top of the bed’s white linen.
 
“Yes, yes. Please, Robb. M’lord.”
 
Robb plunged back in, one hand fisted in Jon’s pretty curls, the other pressing
back his thigh. He tried for a slow rhythm and was rewarded with a bitten-back
moan from his whore.
 
“Gods look at you,” he hissed, the tightening in his groin almost unbearable.
“You’re beautiful, the most beautiful.”
 
Jon’s hands were gripping his sides, white-knuckled, the bed creaking softly
beneath him. He craned his neck, and for a moment Robb stared before descending
and ravishing him with a deep kiss, never ceasing his movements.
 
Robb came first, spilling his seed inside Jon. The boy-whore, finally living up
to his profession, came a few moments later, tugging at his own length
desperately. They stayed in their position for a while, before Jon let out a
little noise that bordered on pain.
 
Lying next to one another, he spoke, his voice deeper than Robb remembered:
“Thank the Seven for that.”
 
Robb gave a quiet chuckle, suddenly unsure again. “We thank the Old Gods in the
North. But what is it you give thanks for?”
 
“I like to take it up the arse, m’lord.” Jon had closed his eyes, weariness
lowering his inhibitions. “It could’ve been awful for all I know… but I liked
it.”
 
Robb remained silent at that.
 
Later, when he had taken the wolves and found Theon in one of the more costly
whorehouses, he marveled at Jon’s words again. Robb had taken his maidenhood,
so to speak. And it had been to his liking.
 
It was an experience he decided against sharing, even as he was late for the
Royal Hunt the following morning and teased mercilessly.
Chapter End Notes
     Thanks a ton for the many comments! I'll be sure to answer you
     individually.
***** Bitter Things *****
The dragons in his palm were heavy and cold to the touch.
 
Jon counted them over again, fingertips tracing the handsome profile of King
Robert, First of his Name. Ten coins of heavy gold, more than he had ever known
in his life. Two dragons he would need to pay to the madam. Another two he
would give to Tanae, for food and cloth and herbs for moon tea. That left him
with six coins, a good start, better than any he had dared to hope for.
 
The road North was long and perilous, and it might take him years until he
reached the Wall. He would walk, if necessary, or mayhaps he would be able to
acquire a horse. Best of all would be a fast trading galley, but those were
costly and East-Watch-by-the-Sea was still far from Castle Black.
 
At night, Jon dreamt of wildling raids, himself seated upon a pale mare, in his
hands swords and blades that gleamed in the dull, grey light of day. At his
heel was a direwolf, white as snow and quiet as a shadow.
 
He woke from those dreams feeling uneasy, his stomach in knots. Ghost, he
recalled, was not his to command. A direwolf, huge and sleek, red eyes knowing,
watching as Robb, the Lord of the North, took him.
 
Tanae had been joyous on his behalf, ignoring the jealous glares the others
sent him on the morning after the son of the Hand had visited. Madam Rivers had
been clear in her demands – while she was kind to him on Tanae’s behalf, he was
expected to earn his keep. When the first moon went by without a patron
throwing him even a passing glance, she had told him to gather his few
possessions, for brothels were no places for beggars and charity.
 
Robb Stark and his wolves had been his temporary salvation.
 
Jon knew, deep down, that is was only to be a short respite. For whatever
reason the young lord had taken a fancy to him, none of the other patrons
shared his preference. In the polished bronze mirror of their best chamber, all
Jon could see was a long, plain face with eyes the colour of muddied grey. The
only thing that could have passed as pretty on him were his dark locks of hair,
soft and glossy to the touch.
 
That, at least, he had in common with Tanae.
 
His hands were rough, his nails bitten and chipped from his work at Cobbler’s
Square, hauling animal hides, preparing them for Crayg the tanner and his
apprentices. It earned him the coin he needed to live, yet the physical strain
had also widened his shoulders and put cords of wiry muscle down his chest and
arms.
 
Most men did not seek market boys when entering the brothel, they liked thing
soft and supple to the touch, pliant and pleasing.
 
Tanae had dabbed him with rose water and combed his hair until he cried out in
pain. And magically enough, it had worked. The young lord had kissed him with a
passion that had Jon quite breathless, and in the afterglow he had slept
dreamlessly for the first time since the wandering crow had taken Edric.
 
Sometimes, when Jon’s thoughts wandered during the dull, rhythmic labour of
pounding the skin of beasts, the metallic taste in his mouth almost an
afterthought, he would pretend that Mother and Edric were still with him. That
he was back in their stuffed chamber in a crooked corner of Oldtown, returned
from lessons with Pylos, head full of new histories and worlds faraway.
 
Mother had been dead for so long now, he barely knew her face anymore. Edric,
his gentle brother, he would see again once he had sufficient coin to brave the
voyage and take the Black. They would be brothers again, in blood and name, and
they would walk the battlements of the wall together, gazing off the edge of
the world.
 
Crayg the tanner, a kindly man with perpetually stained hands and a mouth full
of missing teeth, had hired him out of sheer kindness, or so Jon often
suspected. The stench of his tannery never left him, gore and innards of
animals added with the smell of dung he used to pound the hides.
 
It was tedious, lowly business, yet so was whoring.
 
Tanae had washed his hair the next day with attentive hands and asked whether
the young lord had treated him well. Jon had thought back on his first night as
a whore, how wondrously simple it had been, how good Lord Robb had made him
feel. Truly, he could ill-afford to complain, not with the bruises and vicious
bite marks that often covered the shoulders and thighs of other whores.
 
Yet something inside him had bristled at the thought, something hard and angry
that would neither understand nor accept why his station in life was as such.
Why the young lord, tall and lean with muscles gained from swordplay, could
place ten golden dragons on Jon’s bedside table without a backward glance. Why
he could return to the Red Keep, where sweetmeats and fine wines were served
with the snap of his fingers.
 
“He must’ve seen something in you, Jon. I’ve heard that some men dislike soft
little boys, they prefer hardened ones, like you. Mayhaps his lordship will
return before long. You’re pretty enough, as it is.”
 
Madam Rivers had been well impressed when he handed her the promised coin. The
son of the King’s Hand, heir to the North, that was a patron no other brothel
along the Street of Silk could boast of.
 
---
 
The pale shadow of the half-moon had already risen when Jon made his way up the
Street of Silk. In his arms and back he felt a satisfying soreness that came
from a day of physical strain, while the gentle ache between his legs faded
more and more. The first day after the young lord’s visit he had barely been
capable of sitting, the immediate pleasure he had felt transformed into a sharp
pain of muscles over-stretched.
 
Jon went in through the side-entrance, where the door creaked and the mortar
had chipped away from the walls that had once been painted a brilliant white.
The brothel’s back rooms, where some of the whores slept and ate, were filled
with loud voices and bustles of movements.
A few candles had been lit, cheap looking-glasses propped up, while Madam
Rivers’ whores flitted around, brushing long hair until it shone and gleamed,
smudging coal around the rim of their eyes to mask the bone-deep weariness that
followed them all.
 
The other whores, especially the boys, not one of them older than four-and-ten,
had asked Jon how the coupling had been. They had vivid tales of their own
deflowering to tell, pain and discomfort evident in the recounts. Most of them
were children from Flea Bottom, pretty ones with fair hair and a slight build,
mangy and thin from the lack of nourishments.
 
The Madam, a self-proclaimed bastard daughter of House Blackwood, held a great
amount of pride in the services only her establishment could provide. True
enough, Chataya had the most exquisite girls, and the most discrete ones at
that. A few blocks over, The Rosy Maid had women on offer so cheap they might
as well have come for free. And indeed, the Scarlet Madam had beauties exotic
beyond imagination tucked up in all the chambers of her manse-like brothel. But
none, none offered boys so young and lithe, with eyes as large and innocent as
Madam Rivers did.
 
Jon greeted the others briefly before heading towards his own cot, stripping
himself of the soiled shift. A basin of cloudy water sat on the floor, and he
knelt to splash himself with the luke-warm brackishness.
 
He would need to clean himself more thoroughly if he hoped for another patron
this night. Edric, while still in Oldtown, had told him of the importance that
he always appear clean and smell pleasant. “Otherwise they might take me and
voice complaints after – that would cheat us of our coin, wouldn’t it,
brother?”
 
Jon had tried his luck back then, barely three-and-ten, working in the markets
during the day. Yet he had been rebuked, door after door, for he had been an
awkward, gangly child at the cusp of adulthood, hands and feet too large, ribs
showing through the pale skin on his chest.
 
Edric was five years his senior, yet his easy grace and pretty smile, combined
with a few favours owed to Tanae, had won him a position in Oldtown, and later
on in Gulltown as well.
 
How Jon had longed to join the Citadel then. He knew his letters well enough –
Pylos, the acolyte, full of strenuous smiles and faraway eyes, had given him a
few scraps of parchment, bound with stringed leather, where Jon had copied
verses from the Seven Pointed Star and Ten Thousand Ships.
 
As a maester, even a penniless bastard like him could rise high.
 
But Edric, his sweet brother who sold his body to place food on the table of
their lonely little chambers – Edric he could not leave. They had fought like
cats. Clawing and crying, his brother had begged him to enter the Citadel, to
become the maester he had always wanted to be. “Why else linger in this world?
What other good can come of us?”
 
It had been a particularly hard night, with only a few stags earned and robbed
almost directly after. Edric had bled, streaks of red droplets sliding down his
thighs, where the patron had carelessly torn him apart. Tanae, bless her soul,
had taken matters in hand and confronted the owner of the brothel.
 
They had left for Gulltown a few moons after that.
 
Jon jerked out of his reverie. He was mostly dry already, a rare, soft breeze
coming from the small slanted window. Out of habit and reflex, his hand crept
to find the pouch sewn onto his belt, a sturdy thing made of leftover leather
scraps from the tannery. Inside, he let the gold dragons slide through his
fingers, all six of them.
 
Tanae was in the kitchens with another maid, a former whore who had wizened
with age and spoke but little. They had a pot of broth boiling over the fire
and peeking in Jon saw the large bones of an ox, the marrow already swirling
around, large drops of grease swimming on the surface. His stomach rumbled
audibly and Tanae swatted him playfully with a wooden spoon.
 
“Look what I’ve here, Jon.”
 
On the rough, wooden work surface, slick with juices and fat, were three small
dragon peppers, half-chopped. The old maid gave a disgusted snort, while Jon
leaned in to catch a spicy whiff. He picked up a flat, white seed and popped it
into his mouth. The burn was immediate, his tongue scorched by the numbing
sensation.
 
“Dornishmen, crazy lot they are. You’ll be shitting and crying tomorrow, boy.”
The maid shoved him unceremoniously to the side and began stirring the broth.
There was some mirth in her wrinkled eyes, however, and Jon had known scarcely
any other form of interaction from the markets he had played in since he was
but a suckling babe.
 
The polite distance, the lowered gazes and pretty words were all for the high
born and their strange sense of propriety and manners.
 
“We’ll keep them in oil, as Wylla always did.” Tanae announced, and that was
how Jon found himself on his way again, the light of dusk guiding him through
the city that was growing more familiar every day.
 
Olive oil was worth its weight in gold. Even Mother, who had grown up among
groves of the very trees that carried the fruit, had rarely tasted it whilst in
the Reach. Thus he purchased rapeseed from a peddler already closing shop for a
few silver stags, enough to preserve the precious peppers. His stomach
tightened painfully – it had been a long day, and he had eaten but a wedge of
cheese and a crust of old bread.
 
His thoughts trailed while he held the pot of clay close, feet finding a way on
their own accord. At the wall, there would be neither olives nor dragon
peppers. If accounts he’d heard were true, then the sun rarely showed its face
and days were as bleak as nights. For the life of him, Jon could not imagine
Edric being content in a frozen wasteland as such. A child of Dorne, born in
the Red Mountains in the blinding sunlight of high noon.
 
“You, too were born in the Red Mountains, Jon. You are both Sands of Dorne.”
Mother had told him, hands calloused, rough and dry against his smooth cheeks.
He had dreamt that one day he would return to Starfall as a maester. Mother
would be a scullery maid no more, she could help him with the ravens. Edric
could be a guard, or a playmate to the lord’s children.
 
In those days, Jon could not have imagined anyone a better playmate than his
brother, tall and strong and full of fantastic stories.
 
It was not until the sun had fully set, the sky above him the deep, velvety
blue of a lord’s vest, that he realized he was lost. Below him, the sprawling
streets of King’s Landing were dotted with flicks of firelight, an awe-
inspiring sight even for a child of Oldtown.
 
He turned, disoriented, until his eyes focused on the looming shadow of the
Great Sept of Baelor, a stark presence against the night sky. The white marble
shone, even with the absence of daylight, while the dome was surrounded by
towers of clear crystal, reflecting the fires of a thousand hearths roaring.  
 
For a moment, all of the thoughts that had crowded Jon’s mind were gone, his
eyes blank slates that knew nothing but the marvel that towered above him.
 
Then he tore his gaze away, palms cold with sweat, and made to descend
Visenya’s Hill. Baelor the Blessed stood at his back, benevolent, eerily calm,
a statue larger than life itself.
 
The angry, burning thing inside him hardened while he hurried down the Street
of Steel, head bent, his thoughts full of Edric, Edric, Edric. Why was it, that
structures of such grandeur could be built, while at its foot sat a populace
squabbling for a crust of bread? Why did his brother have to sell himself,
while crystal chandeliers by the thousands were hung up high in the name of the
King and the realm?
 
Such was his station in life.
 
A lowly bastard, coinless, a whore for the virtue of trying. Mayhaps he would
never reach the Wall. He would die alone, staining his hands in the tannery,
beating hides, smelling of shit and sweat.
 
Then, without a further warning, something leapt at him, throwing him to the
ground. Jon heard himself give an undignified yelp, the pot of rapeseed oil
flying from his grasp and shattering against the paved streets.
 
“Ghost!” He said, the word coming to him without thought. The large white beast
crouched above him, his muzzle tracing over Jon’s face and neck while a large
tongue, rough and moist, trailed over his skin.
 
He managed to sit up straight, and saw an even greater direwolf approaching
him. Grey Wind looked on imperiously while his brother greeted Jon like a long
lost friend.
 
Jon buried his hands in the snowy pelt, the fine fur well-groomed and
luxuriously soft to the touch. Then he raised his eyes, only to drop them in
haste.
 
Lord Robb stood above him, the auburn of his hair reflecting the lights from
the numerous forges and smithies that lined the street. He was wearing a plain
grey doublet and woolen breeches, but both the quality of his garb and the fine
handiwork of his belt and sword gave away his status. A few paces behind were
two guardsmen, both showing the direwolf sigil of the Starks.
 
Jon stood, head bowed, eyes downcast, and mumbled an apology.
 
His eye caught the shattered oil pot and something inside him twisted
viciously. How he hated the young lord in that moment, so handsome and valiant,
with the easy grace of the well-fed and the surety of those who knew and
reveled their place in the world.
 
He gave Ghost a quick pat to the back before hurrying down the street, his pace
quickened with the route sending him downhill, towards the brothel he called
home.
 
---
 
The night dredged on endlessly.
 
While business was good and the other whores were duly preoccupied, Jon sat in
the back, well aware of how sullen he looked. Tanae had comforted him and made
a paste of the peppers, adding a clove of garlic and old grease. The taste had,
of course, been wonderful, but it did nothing to cheer him.
 
He eyed the patrons, most of them men well past their prime, eyes squinted in
the dim light, hands roaming the thighs of girls and boys alike. Some already
teetered with drink, while others pinched buttocks and cheeks with quick, cruel
fingers.
 
How different the young lord had been. Unsure yet demanding, careful in his
touches yet passionate. The straight line of his nose and the glint of blue in
his eyes had been so close when he pushed Jon into a position of his liking and
took him with his mouth slightly opened in wonder.
 
“Jon, c’mere now!”
 
Tanae gestured for him to come to the front, and Jon shook the pictures in his
head away. His cheeks felt heated and a part of him bristled at the daydream.
What a silly little whore he was, hoping for every night to be charmed with
handsome noblemen, hoping for soft hands and pretty words.
 
A young man with a face full of boils stood propped up in Tanae’s arms. The
redness of his skin clashed horribly with his head of limp carrot-coloured
hair. The golden cloak on his back, however, marked him as a member of the City
Watch. Those, most of all, brothel owners and whores could ill-afford to anger.
 
“Yes, yes, this’un will do it, wench.” The man slurred, “let’me see that mouth,
whore.”
 
Jon hesitated before stepping nearer. A thumb stroked over his lips clumsily
before plunging in to stroke his tongue. The sour taste of unwashed skin
threatened to overpower his senses, but Jon remained stoic, closing his eyes
for a while.
 
Tanae gave him a reassuring squeeze before he led the gold cloak towards one of
the simpler chambers. As soon as the doors were closed, he was pushed to his
knees while the pimply red man tried unsuccessfully to undo his breeches.
Jon took a deep breath before raising his hand and aiding the poor sop, who
repeatedly told him what a pretty wench he was, and how his boy cunt must be
dripping.
 
Jon sucked him down, as was expected.
 
The gold cloak spoke without pause, telling him everything from his mother’s
name to his latest mission of utmost importance, appointed by King Robert
himself. Jon gagged, saliva running down his chin, tears forming in his eyes,
tasting the bitterness of bile in the back of his throat.
 
The man, a distant cousin of Janos Slynt, the commander of the City Watch,
groaned and huffed like a boar before spilling his seed, musky and salty-sweet.
Jon swallowed and the man patted his head, dropping a few stags to the ground.
Drunk as he was, Jon had to lead him through the door, still swallowing as a
reflex to rid himself of the vile taste.
 
“Jon, come quick!”
 
Tanae, again. She had been so determined to establish him at this brothel – it
almost seemed that she had succeeded, now. She beamed at him, her missing tooth
visible where a patron had once smashed her face against a wall. In her hands
was a beautiful green glass bottle filled with liquid and next to her stood –
 
“M’lord Stark.”
 
Jon quickly looked to the ground, where he found neither Ghost nor Grey Wind.
 
“I’m afraid I’ve come alone tonight. Father was rather unhappy with Ghost’s
overbearing behaviour.” The young lord smiled, teeth white and straight, and
the blue of his eyes was striking even with just the torches burning. In his
hand he held another bottle, this one obviously filled with oil.
 
“I was unsure what sort of oil it was, so I’ve brought – well, I think one of
them should be olive!” He laughed, and Jon felt astonishment rise inside his
chest. “Well, the kitchens gave me what they found, I hope very much that it
should suffice for the actions of my rude wolf.”
 
“’Tis linseed oil, m’lord. And the other is olive oil.” Tanae had seized both
bottles, unashamed with her glee at the newfound luxuries. “It must be from
Dorne, or mayhaps the Free Cities, even!” Lord Robb shrugged carelessly, his
gaze now focused on Jon.
 
“Oh but of course, Jon, take m’lord upstairs, I’ll fetch the wine, quick now!”
Tanae smiled again, arms full of glass bottles, shoving Jon a few inches
forwards.
 
Jon inclined his head, feeling his heartbeat pickup, before leading Lord Robb
towards their best chamber, the one they had used the last time. He tried to
wipe at his mouth discretely, swallowing until the last traces of seed were
only the ghost of an unpleasant reminder on his palate.
 
He hated himself for the stiffness in his limbs, how graceless he must have
seemed, with nary a smile or the pleasant chatter to ease the way until their
coupling. Yet the young lord did not seem to mind, his expression pleasant
enough, his posture relaxed and sure.
 
Much like the last time, Jon busied himself with the hearth until Tanae brought
them sweet Arbor Gold and sugared rose petals, delicate sweets that Madam
Rivers had ordered precisely in hopes of seeing their most esteemed patron
again. The whores had gazed at the delights with eyes round and longing. One of
the youngest, Lyan, a boy whore from the outskirts of King’s Landing, had even
asked Jon to speak of the Reach and the roses that grew on every inch of
fertile land.
 
He had hesitated, but had been loathe to disappoint the young one, and thus
told the stunning tale of Garth the Green. Some parts he remembered from his
readings with Pylos, others he invented.
 
“Why, you must have bought these from the Tyrells – barely in the city and
already doing business, I see.” Lord Robb smiled at him and proceeded to pop a
delicate confection straight into his mouth, crunching away happily. “They’re
good, if a bit over-sweet, don’t you think?”
 
Jon stood, unknowing what to reply. He settled with the truth: “I’ve never had
any, m’lord.”
 
A solemn hush fell over the room, and Jon busied himself pouring wine, cursing
inwardly. When he risked an upward glance, the lord looked to be visibly upset.
Dread pooled low in his stomach, and for a while he daren’t even breathe.
 
“Jon, I feel I have to beg you forgiveness – “
 
“M’lord, I’ve misspoken, please – “
 
They had opened their mouths at the same time, and curiously enough, it sent a
gurgle of a laugh up his belly. For as much as he had hated the young lord all
those hours back, tall and regal while Jon crouched on the ground, sleeves
stained with spilled oil so precious to him, Jon wished fervently for him to
return, every night, giving him golden dragons and laughs and kisses.
 
For the son of the Hand was a patron like no other, and if Jon found his
favour, they would all flourish. He would be a person of importance on the
Street of Silk, Madam Rivers would buy him better garb. And then, when the time
was right, he would take his pouch of gold and sail for East-Watch-by-the-Sea.
 
He would use the spare coin to buy Edric dried dragon peppers and he would
leave Tanae with enough so she could settle down comfortably, mayhaps in
Oldtown, mayhaps someplace else she quietly preferred but never let slip.
 
The thought gripped him, and for a moment he could almost feel the deck of a
ship beneath his feet, the arms of his brother, his blood and kin, the only one
left in this world. Jon took the wine cups and handed one to his lord, this
time meeting his eyes. Then he took a sip of his own, relishing the sweet
taste, chasing the warm liquid over his tongue, this way and that.
 
Then, before he could think further on what folly he was about to commit, he
curled his hands in the glorious auburn locks atop lord Robb’s head and leaned
in to kiss him, the wine sweet and heady between them.
 
This time they weren’t so unsure, so eager. The young lord stroked a long-
fingered hand down his chest, humming with pleasure, the tip of his nose
brushing Jon’s with every kiss they exchanged. It was so vastly different from
the uncomfortable, stumbling affair with the gold cloak that to Jon it almost
seemed like a different night.
 
Lord Robb paused, and before Jon could register which way was up, he had a
candied petal on his tongue, delightfully sweet and fragrant, melting away as
fast as it had touched his lips. He moaned, a little sound he was unable to
suppress, but he felt no remorse – such a treat was something he would likely
never taste again, not if he was to join the Night’s Watch, or, Gods forbid,
remain a whore with Madam Rivers.
 
Lord Stark will give you more, a little voice in his head whispered, charm him
and you’ll never want for anything. Open your legs and he’ll bring you brocade
and silks and oranges.
 
“Jon, look at me,” the young lord was cradling his face in both his large
hands, expression one of genuine hunger, and Jon did not hesitate before
crashing their mouths together, tongues tracing and searching.
He realized, in that moment, that the bitterness inside him was nothing
compared to what Robb Stark had to offer. He was proud, raised to be proud
despite his station, a Sand of Dorne, where bastards weren’t frowned upon but
equals in the perpetual strive for something better.
 
But pride was nothing compared to a coffer of coin, the promise of meals to
fill his stomach and the face of Edric, smiling on top of the Wall, gazing down
onto the realms of men. 
 
He turned and spread his legs, his hole stretched with his own fingers and
grease. Lord Robb gave a small groan before lunging to bite at his neck, every
bit the wolf King’s Landing had proclaimed him to be. His cock, hard and hot,
pressed against Jon’s thigh from his opened breeches. His chest covered Jon’s
back, while one of his hands roamed and touched.
 
They rutted like dogs, or mayhaps wolves.
 
Afterwards, Robb lay on top of him, eyes closed, mouth opened with bliss. His
cock, though spent, twitched inside Jon, who had come a good while earlier,
spilling his seed on the bed linen that now stuck to his belly, uncomfortable
yet somehow part of the whole affair.
 
“How I’d love to take you back with me.” Robb murmured, half-asleep already.
“We could do this every single day, in between practice and lessons, before and
after dinner…”
 
Feelings of dread mixed with a warmth yet unknown to Jon. How sweet a dream,
for every single moment in life to be as pleasing as the last few. For the
young lord to hold him and feed him with sugared petals of roses, hands that
jerked at his own cock until he found his pleasure.
 
Yet of course he was a whore. At this brothel or within the Red Keep, that
would be his station. Here, at least he was among his own – the skinny boy
whores, Tanae, the elderly kitchen maid. Here, he could come and go as he
pleased, and at Crayg’s tannery they spoke to him readily enough, recognition
in their eyes when they saw him at his most desperate, begging for any work at
all.
 
“M’lord?”
 
Lord Robb stirred, blinking an eye open. He smiled mirthfully, beautiful and
wholesome and lordly in the light of the flickering fire. “Why not call me
Robb, Jon?”
 
“Robb.” The familiarity was painful to bear, for Jon knew that with the flick
of his hand, the son of the King’s Hand could have him executed out on the open
streets. “Could you tell me of the North?”
 
“Of the North?” the young lord turned to his side, supporting his head with one
folded arm, the muscles of his broad shoulders twisting deliciously. The flat
hardness of his speech was now more pronounced, with the wine and coupling.
“Well, it’s rather big, isn’t it?” He chuckled, so entirely assured in his
position in life, well used to people asking him of his opinions.
 
“I grew up in Winterfell with my siblings. I’ve travelled most of the lands and
visited all our bannermen. Well, I’ve never been to see the Wall, but it won’t
likely go away, will it?”
 
Jon laughed, something that tumbled out of him unexpectedly, and he presumed to
lay down his head in a comfortable position. Lord Robb started to speak, and
while he couldn’t help but refer to his siblings time and again, he told
stories of his visit to Karhold with his Lord Father, how they’d rode to see
the Grey Cliffs and told tales of Skagos and the eaters of human flesh, the
riders of unicorns.
 
Something inside Jon ached, yet another part soared triumphantly, for the young
lord was speaking to him, clearly enjoying his company, loose and comfortable
after a passionate fucking. A third part, belonging to the young boy he had
once been, listened in genuine fascination.
 
He would see Skagos, he decided. Sailing north from King’s Landing, gold
securely in his leather pouch, he would see the islands from afar. As a Brother
of the Night’s Watch, he might even be sent somewhere, as an envoy, to speak
with the lords and ladies of the North. Dressed all in Black, he would speak to
Lord Stark and demand his respect.
 
“I’ve never in my life been north of Gulltown.” Jon professed. “And I’ve always
lived near the sea.” He never had passed a day in his life without seeing the
ocean and its wide horizon.
 
“It’s quiet up north, I’m not sure it’ll be to your liking.” Lord Robb rolled
himself into a better position, a heavy arm draping over Jon’s waist. “Here
they throw feasts every other day. It’s rare if a singer or bard ever find
themselves in the halls of Winterfell. One came during the last Winter and
stayed until the first days of Spring. Gods, Sansa loved him well! She cried
rivers when he left.”
 
Jon had seen singers and bards ever since he was a young boy, if not of the
kind that played at court. “I’d love to see all of the realm.”
 
“But you must be of Dorne?” The young lord pulled closer, his chin resting
against Jon’s forehead, comfortable with the proximity, his full lips pulled up
into a content little smile. “I hear it in your talk.”
 
“My Mother, she was of Dorne. I’ve known scarce else but Oldtown, m’lord.”
 
“Robb, call me Robb.” And to Jon’s surprise, he closed the distance with
another kiss, languid and soft, as if they were lovers of many years and not
the Hand’s son and a boy whore who worked the tannery at daylight.
 
“It’s awful enough to think of my lordly duties when I am playing the heir for
all to see.”
 
How strange that sounded to Jon. Yet he answered the kiss, obediently echoing
the words, “Robb, Robb, Robb”, during a second round of coupling that had him
on his hands and knees again, a mantra that did not break even as the sun rose
and they fell asleep tangled beyond recognition.    
 
 
 
***** On the Bearing of Children *****
The Red Keep, King’s Landing, 299 AC
 
The gardens of the Red Keep were frightfully boring, but there was little else
for ladies of high birth to do. The roses, though in full bloom, looked pitiful
compared to the ones at Highgarden, shrunken little things, no doubt similar to
Prince Joffrey’s tiny pink cock.
 
It wasn’t the first time Lady Olenna had been to the glorious capital of the
realm. A decade later, it still reeked of filth, rotten innards and unwashed
feet.
 
Mace, her blessed son of an oaf, had finally put aside his misplaced ambitions,
and settled for something much more sensible. Her Margaery, a girl sweet and
sharp under her tutelage, was to be promised to the heir of the North. A
simpleton, if anyone cared to ask Olenna, still a boy newly freed from the
skirts of his mother, carefree as a flappy little bird, kind and smiling and
entirely lacking in ambition.
 
“He’s comely enough, that I’ll grant you, my dear. But you must make up for
what he lacks in wit, a bumbling oaf who dreams of Northern wastelands.” She
had told Margaery on the first night of their arrival, but young as she was,
the girl had only laughed.
 
Now she sat in the gardens of the Red Keep, utterly unimpressed with the
pleasantries, lemon cakes and frilly gowns, while her granddaughter and
numerous cousins flocked together, giggling and whispering as only young girls
could. Megga and Alla, the silly hens, spoke of Robb Stark in hushed tones,
confessing time and again that they found him most handsome, even more so than
Lord Renly or Beric Dondarrion.
 
At the far end of the table sat Sansa Stark, a vision in her light grey gown of
Myrish lace, her hair an elaborate, auburn up-do that twisted and shone
prettily in the sunlight. Her cheeks were flushed and her head was held high,
yet there was undeniably pleasure in her eyes, what with the fair maidens of
Highgarden praising her brother so.  
 
From the far corner of her eye, she could see the Queen approaching: golden and
bedecked in finery, Cersei was indeed hard to miss. Following her were a
retainer of her Ladies-in-waiting, as well as younger companions of Princess
Myrcella, a tiny, blonde doll, hurrying to catch up to her mother’s steps.
 
Of course, it had all been orchestrated, every move within this godforsaken
palace was. Olenna rose imperiously, and while it made little difference in
terms of height, Margaery and the girls hurried to follow her motions.
 
“Queen Cersei, what a delightful pleasure it is, though thoroughly unexpected.
Us silly women, we’re all reeling with the surprise.” Olenna put on her
nattering voice while eyeing Cersei sharply. A vengefull, vile woman full of
entitlement.
 
She would be Queen in her own right if the power was afforded to her.
 
“Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery.” They all curtsied while the Queen merely inclined
her head. “I trust you are enjoying our gardens.”
 
“Why, it is most engaging. Lady Sansa has shown us all the flowers in bloom –
we do know many from Highgarden, if I may say so.” Margaery smiled sweetly, her
pose demure, long brown hair falling down her back in gentle waves.
 
Olenna had done well by her, truly she had.
 
Cersei had been a famed beauty in her time, one that turned the heads of better
men, blinding as the sun, the Light of the West. Olenna had been unimpressed
with the girl sixteen years back – now she was impassive at the woman’s antics.
Of course, as the daughter of Tywin Lannister, she had a certain low cunning,
yet she lacked entirely the abilities to view matters from a distance.
 
Sansa Stark spoke at length about a newly made dress Cersei had ordered for
her, flushed with pride, eyes set on her future good-mother. The girl was a
dullard, it could not be helped. Charmed with glitter and gold, unaware of
political intricacies, her vapid little head filled with thoughts of silk and
sweet cakes and motherhood.
 
How sad it was, Olenna mused while sitting with the kindly smile of a senile
grandmother. How very sad what the world made of women, young girls capable of
thoughts and words, reduced to brood-mares that believed in songs of
knighthood, of princes that would give them joy and numerous children.
 
All that joy was bound to turn to ash in their mouths, for amongst the men she
had known in her, by now very long, life, there were no true knights.
 
“Little dove,” Cersei had put on a gentle look that sat surprisingly well with
her fair features, holding up the silver teacup with the practiced grace of a
woman highborn and tutored in the arts of pleasantries. “Joffrey has asked
after you again this morn. You must come dine with us at evenfall.”
 
Sansa Stark shone with pride, her chin inching upwards, hands tightened in her
lap. Her teats had barely budded and her face still had lingering traces of
childishness, round and soft. She would have regal cheekbones in years to come,
cheekbones that would carry bruises and cuts well.
 
Little Finger had offered her an arm at the God’s Wood, and Olenna had declined
brusquely. “I’m old, not an imbecile, now hurry and tell me what you’ve to say
that is of any use at all.”
 
Of course, it had interested her greatly. No one spoke ill of Joffrey within
the Red Keep, yet it was as she had expected: Beneath the gilded Lannister mask
was a little monster, best smothered in his sleep while still young. Another
Maelys the Monstrous, another mad King to be.
 
“My dear Lady Olenna, you have no cause to worry you heart – our very own Hand
of the King has taken matters into his hands. It came to my knowledge that Lord
Eddard has visited a certain smithy, owned by a Qohorik of the name Tobho
Mott.”
 
That had indeed been news to her.
 
Why ever the Hand was on the search for King Robert’s bastards, no doubt
numbered in the tens and twenties, was another question left to answer. But
Olenna was old, not daft – bastards were never good news for the righteous and
trueborn, the countless Blackfyres of the last one-hundred-and-fifty years
could attest to that. 
 
“Eddard the simple, Eddard the oaf. He is much too loyal to speak out against
any of Robert’s children, monstrous they may be.”
 
Little Finger had only smiled, eyes bright in the dead of the night.
 
---
 
Queen Cersei was not the only one that had requests and invitations for little
Lady Sansa – Margaery, clasping her in an embrace and naming her sister and
friend, asked of her to carry along an invite, written by her own hand, to her
brother Robb. They would dine with him this evening in the Maidenvault.
 
The heir to the North arrived without fail.
 
He had the Tully looks, red of hair and blue of eyes, tall and comely. His
mother had bred him well enough, for he was courteous towards Margaery and
knelt before Olenna so she could have a better look upon his visage.
 
They dined on roasted boar and turnips, onions cooked to a crisp and sweets of
the Reach that rarely made the King’s Road up north. Olenna had personally
provided the casket of Arbor Gold, with hippocras from Highgarden if the young
lord preferred a different taste.
 
The talk was dull. Mace, her oaf of a son, spoke about lances and swords and
other shiny things that men favoured. Loras and Garlan, who had both trained
with the boy extensively, lauded his sword hand, his grace with a bow and
arrow.
Margaery of course kept her smiles sweet and made well-placed remarks on the
cakes and puddings, urging Lord Robb to try some of the soft biscuits soaked in
rose syrup, laughing when he proclaimed that it was much too sugary for his
liking.
 
They would make a handsome pair, Olenna noted. Yet so would vile little Joffrey
and shallow, besotted Sansa Stark.
 
“Now, my lord, you must quench the curiosity of an old woman – have you a
proclivity towards whoring?”
 
Everyone gave the expected shouts of indignation. Loras, that tedious, prancy
pretty boy, giving but a snort. “Grandmother, you mustn’t goad the young lord
so.” Margaery reprimanded her softly, eyes bright with mirth.
 
“Why, is it so improper a question? I merely want to gauge you character, Lord
Stark, as any silly old grandmother would. Loras, cease with the snorting,
you’ll seem a horse bedecked in flowers if you keep up the efforts.”
 
“Of course, Lady Olenna. Well, no, the North is quite void of such services.”
The boy had coloured a ridiculous beet red, his ears glowing in the tasteful
candlelight.
 
“Oh tosh, don’t give me that. I promise you that there are brothels to be found
everywhere, even beyond the Wall, if I might say so. Then you must tell me –
does your family find King’s Landing to their liking?”
 
The boy coughed again, taking a sip of strong wine, the tips of his ears
glowing like hot coals. “Why, it’s very pleasant. Sansa loves the Gardens,
we’ve only trees and shrubbery in Winterfell. The food is also very becoming –
“
 
“Yes, it is not difficult, even for one of my age, to see that the Lady Sansa
favours court life.”
 
“It’s all rather busy, don’t you think?” Margaery, bless her heart, had stepped
in, their play-of-two, crone and fair maiden, perfected for all to see.
“Highgarden is also very beautiful, filled with pleasantries, and we’ve the
finest of flowers, of course. It’s much more quiet.”
 
Robb hummed in agreement. He had discovered a bowl of sugared rose petals and
had taken a taste, the blush on his high cheekbones never fading. He seemed
rather absentminded, Olenna thought to herself while skewering a choice cut of
boar, dripping with fat and herbs.
 
That, of course, could wait. A boy could be taught – though looking at both
Mace and Loras gave her little hope.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
Street of Silk, King’s Landing, 299 AC
 
Laeny was out of breath, her pregnant stomach jutting out before her while she
hurried down the little alleys and took a familiar turn to the right, sticking
her head through the kitchen doors of Madam Rivers’ with a practiced motion.
 
“Tanae! He’s comin’, he’ll be here any moment now.”
 
Tanae’s broad face appeared from behind a large cooking pot, her curls bound up
and hidden underneath stained white cloth.
 
Life was almost good for her now, Laeny imagined – childless and unbound, she
had found the most dignified way to retire from a life of whoring. Of course,
her connections and acquaintances did also help, for a position as a caretaker,
only second in all to the Madam of the brothel, was hard to come by.
 
“Love, c’mere, let me feel your bump. What is it that you speak of?”
 
“There’s no time to waste – the Hand, the Hand of the King, he’s headed towards
yours!”
 
“The Gods curse us, what in the name of the Seven is he doing here?”
 
Laeny helped her friend straighten her garb, tearing the stained cloth from her
hair, which fell in rich, glossy chestnut curls. She whispered to Tanae what
the girls at Chataya’s had let slip. The Hand had requested to see the babe of
a whore, a little girl named Barra with hair full and dark, eyes as blue as
cornflowers.
 
“The babe is King Robert’s.” Tanae said without a moment of doubt. They all
knew of the King’s bastards, strewn throughout the city and the Seven Kingdoms.
 
The wooden bells chimed at the front, and quickly she went to greet the early
guest. Laeny made to follow, but skulked in the background, heart beating fast
from her sprint down the streets. The babe inside her kicked a few times, as if
in protest.
 
Unlike most highborn men she had serviced in her time, Lord Eddard Stark did
not carry with him an imperious air. He was rather plain of face, and his garb
was simple and woolen, the bronze clasp in the form of a hand unassuming and
small at his throat. His guard, however, wore the sigil of the direwolf plain
for all to see, grey on a field of white.
 
“How may I be of service, m’lord?” Tanae’s voice had a slight tremor, and her
gaze was fixed to the ground along with her bowed head.
 
“I believe… that my son has paid your establishment a few visits.” The Hand had
a quiet, serious voice that matched his appearance, and Laeny strained to hear
his words.
 
“Oh, yes, m’lord. He’s very gallant, very, very – generous.”
 
Laeny hugged her swollen middle to herself, cringing at the discomfort clear in
Lord Eddard’s face. A small part inside her felt slightly bemused, for she had
been a whore on the Street of Silk for five years now, and prudish men, serious
with honour, were far and few in between, and often subjects to their japes and
crude talk.
 
A door opened to her left, and Jon, smudged and dirtied with his day’s work at
Cobbler’s Square, trudged in, before stopping short in his tracks, eyes darting
between Laeny, Tanae, the Lord and his guard.
 
It all had a rather comical quality to it, she thought to herself while backing
away slowly, leaning against the walls to support her aching back. The babe
kicked once again, as if also amused with the spectacle.  
 
Lord Stark’s solemn eyes jumped to Tanae once more in discomfort, before
settling on Jon, who had dropped his head in immediate recognition of the
highborn visitor. His sooty, stained hands twitched at his sides, and Laeny
felt a surge of sympathy well inside her. How many whores had suffered the
wrath of scorned spouses and angered fathers? It was always easier to blame the
lowly, shame the women as sluts and enchantresses.
 
Her heart skipped a beat with fear when Lord Stark strode forward, eyes wide,
mouth pinched in a harsh line. It would be the end of them, or mayhaps the end
of Jon. Laeny ached for Tanae, who had raised the boy at her breast and spent
her precious coin on such folly as dragon peppers, just to see him smile. 
 
“M’lord, m’lord. The boy, the boy who serviced your son is no longer here, he
left – he’s left for the Westerlands, m’lord.”
 
Jon had dropped to his knees, eyes downcast, head bent, while Tanae hurried to
kneel with him, rambling on, one hand clawing Jon’s shoulder like a vice.
 
“What is, what is your name?”
 
All fell silent, Laeny pressing herself flat against the wall, holding her
breath. Then Jon raised his eyes and spoke in a voice rough with fear.
 
“Jon Sand, m’lord.”
 
Another silence fell over the rooms, so heavy she could almost touch it. The
guard had stepped closer, eyes darting this way and that, hand covering the
hilt of his sword. He almost jerked it clean out of its sheath when the old
kitchen maid Dana stepped in, pot of broth in hand.
 
She too, stared for a brief moment before wisely closing the door again.
 
“You are of Dorne?” Lord Stark, to Laeny’s astonishment, also sank into a
crouch, his eyes fixed on Jon’s face. She could now see the lines around his
eyes, the way his mouth had opened slightly with awe.
 
“Yes, m’lord. My mother served at Starfall.” Jon’s hands were still twitching,
while Tanae jerked out of her reverie, urging the Hand of the King to stand.
After she had successfully pulled him up, she fell to her knees again.
 
“Jon was born in the Red Mountains, his mother always said t’me.”
 
“Where? Where exactly were you born?”
 
Jon remained silent, even as he was addressed, and Tanae kept on talking, her
voice high-pitched with tension.
 
“Oh, we don’t remember, do we, Jon? Wylla, she always said, what did she say
now? Something, she told me once, I swear I should remember better, m’lord.”
Laeny could hear her gulp for air, and she forced herself to loosen her grip on
a nearby bench. Her hands were clammy and cold with sweat.
 
“A tower, yes, that she told me once. She was in the service of the Daynes,
m’lord. She birthed Jon at some tower in the Red Mountains.”
 
---
 
Later in the evening, when Laeny sat with them for dinner, it was all anyone
would speak of. The whores told and re-told the tale, and made it to be quite
more extravagant than the short encounter that had come to pass.
A little boy even boasted of a pair of large direwolves bursting through the
door, one white and still as a deadly shadow, the other monstrous and grey as
death. They had sprung upon Jon and Lord Stark had pummeled him into the ground
mercilessly for debasing his firstborn and heir. 
 
Laeny had only laughed, and the other whores, some with children of different
fathers clutched to their chests, had assured the boy they believed every
single word. They shared a broth with grease floating about in a thick layer,
fresh bread from the single oven and turnips cooked soft.
 
She went looking for Tanae after she’d eaten her fill, and found her sitting
with Jon, watching dusk fall over King’s Landing, as it did every day.
 
She thought to bid her goodbye, yet remained silent, as her hand found the
round of her stomach, her little one turning and kicking, restless with energy.
Tanae indeed had very good fortune to find employment at Madam Rivers’.
 
But she had a son after all.  
 
 
 
 
 
 
Winterfell, 285 AC
 
Ned was waiting for a raven.
 
It was the hour of the wolf when Catelyn woke, finding him pacing before the
hearth of their chamber. How familiar his presence in their bed had become, she
could scarcely sleep without the broad of his back and the warmth of his body
near. Through the crackle of the fire, she could hear his rustling steps as he
walked to and fro, disturbing the fresh rushes the maids had laid on the stone
floors.
 
Instinctively, she turned her head to search for Robb.
 
But of course they had recently moved him to sleep in his own chambers, not at
all far from her own bedside, yet much too distant for her liking. He had
stopped suckling from her teats for a few moons now, and slept soundly at
night.
 
The nursemaid still occupied rooms adjoining to the nursery, and there was no
reason for her to worry, no reason at all.
 
“Go back to sleep, my love.” Ned spoke in a hushed tone, his eyes fixed on her,
a mite guilty. “I shall settle down very soon.”
 
“Peace, Ned. I’ve woken for our son.”
 
She left him to his sleepless brooding, to all the things he would not tell
her, and padded through the darkened corridors of Winterfell in slippers lined
with fur. They were soft to the touch, a present from her Lord Husband who had
sensed her unease with the ongoing coldness. Spring was slow to come in the
North.
 
Her babe, her firstborn lay slumbering beneath layers of fur, little fist
raised in a triumphant gesture, while underneath his eyelids the movement told
of many dreams, sweet and sunny. She carded her fingers through his locks
softly. In the darkness they were of an undiscernible colour, but she knew that
they were a rich Tully auburn, same as her own.
 
In a land of strangers that was but slowly warming to her touch, her Robb was
the greatest warmth, even as Ned embraced her night after night.  
 
They would make more children yet, fill the halls with laughter and flourish.
Mayhaps another boy, this one with Ned’s kind eyes and dark hair, so the North
might know she could be mother to one of their own.
 
A little whine escaped Robb’s mouth, and even in the darkness the furrow of his
brows was visible to Catelyn. She scooped him up without fail, holding him
close, her little boy, who would grow to become heir of Winterfell, Warden of
the North. In years to come, they would find him a suitable girl, mayhaps a
daughter of Arryn if Lysa birthed one, or another fine cousin of Tully blood…
 
She sang to him, tunes of rivers jolly and bright in the summer, rivers wide
traveling far, meeting the ocean in a splash so beautiful even the Merling King
wept.
 
When she returned to bed, Ned was gone, no doubt checking upon the rookery once
again.
 
---
 
She fell asleep thinking of a child growing inside her, hoping for the seed
they planted to take root. While before she had thought of a little boy, with a
head of black curls and Ned’s solemn eyes, she now dreamt of a girl, looking
just like her, with songs in the blue of her eyes. Just like her, but much more
beautiful, destined for things far greater.
 
In the morning she woke with Ned sitting upright, face worn, a frown etched
deep onto his forehead.
 
She tried to smooth it with a kiss, but Ned held her close and whispered in her
ear: “I’ve received word from Jory. It seems we must give up now – I shall tell
you all.”
 
She tensed, feeling Ned’s heartbeat against her own.
 
“I had a maester inspect Lyanna’s remains.” The words, hushed as they were,
wrecked through him like a sob. “She was with child, and she gave birth. He
swore upon the honour of his order.”
 
Cately felt her breath hitch. She saw her Robb, somewhere in the world, mayhaps
dead upon birth, mayhaps dead as an infant. Then the red of his hair turned
into waves of silver-gold, a babe with eyes of striking violet and a heart for
vengeance, and fear struck ice into her heart.
 
“Ned, you mustn’t.” She whispered, clutching him close. For a moment, they
leaned against one another, breathing in the rhythm of the exhausted and
fearful. Then Ned pushed her away, gently enough, but in his eyes there was
something quite distant.
 
“Worry not, my lady. We did not find it. We never will.” 
***** Grand Affections *****
Robb was breaking fast with his sisters and their septa when Tyrek Lannister,
the King’s own squire, came to summon him.
 
He had slept poorly, waking at first dawn with sweat on his brow and the linen
sheets tangled between his legs. He had touched himself furiously, cock
painfully hard from vivid dreams, memories that kept racing through his mind.
The pleasure he had found only granted him an exhausted few moments of respite
before the heat became too much to bear, the bed beneath him sticky with seed.
 
While in the North the first autumn snows fell and the Riverlands drowned in
waves upon waves of rain, King’s Landing remained a sweltering pit, soaked in
thick moisture that made breathing difficult, with nary a breeze from the sea.
 
Leaving his oaten meal, his bread and light ale behind, following the hasty
footsteps of young Tyrek, Robb longed desperately for a field of clean snow,
untouched in the early morning hours. There he would strip down and rub himself
clean, as he had often done as a boy, keen to prove himself a man of the North
and a man grown.
 
Perhaps that would suffice to cure him of the recurring images of his whore.
 
Jaime Lannister, standing guard at the far end of the drawbridge leading
towards Maegor’s Holdfast, gave him a sardonic smile and his cousin a
sympathetic one. Robb nodded in acknowledgement, but did not spare the man
another look. Ser Jaime always had a mocking air about him, and with Robb his
sneer, masked behind his fair face, seemed to deepen into something else that
he could not truly name.
 
The King’s solar had a handsome oaken table, large enough to seat five-and-
twenty. Around its far end were gathered the members of the small council, Lord
Baelish standing rather to the side, smiling pleasantly, Varys the Eunuch was
bent over a map, soft, pale hands tracing a line invisible. Lord Renly was
jovial enough, his hand clasped atop his brother’s thick shoulder.
 
King Robert looked hale, better than Robb had ever seen him. A flush had spread
over the bridge of his nose, though he acted sober enough. The black of his
beard had been groomed and trimmed, and while bloodshot, his eyes were quite
eager. As per usual, his girth overshadowed all the remaining High Lords, so
that Robb did not see his Father until he was announced and permitted to step
in.
 
“Ah, look at that boy. Tired from a night of fucking the best whores of my
city, I trust?”
 
Robb bowed low, hiding his embarrassment behind the gesture. Indeed, he was not
as secretive as he had liked to believe. His night-time ventures had quickly
made the rounds, as maids and Ladies high born alike gossiped about the
honourable heir to the North who had found his pleasure up and down the Street
of Silk.
 
Many a brothel owner now claimed that it was at their own establishment where
the icy Northern propriety had melted.
 
Arya had told him tales quite disturbing, of whores claiming he had paid for
them to service his direwolves, savage beasts that had knots at the base of
their cocks, long and thick as a man’s arm. Robb was still very much mortified,
not so much by the mindless stories, but by his little sister speaking on such
matters so carelessly. 
 
Arya had only shrugged, nose scrunching in disgust. “I’ve seen dogs do it, it
doesn’t look any fun.”
 
Oh, if only she knew.
 
The King, of course, liked him all the more for it.  He waved Robb closer with
a large, fleshy hand. “The Crow’s Eye is back, and what’s the merrier, Balon
Greyjoy has taken a dive at Pyke.” The news were dire ones – while Balon had
never quite buried his ambitions after his defeat at Robert’s hand a full ten
years past, his youngest brother had only time to foster his own.
 
The King, however, beamed with delight. With an uncomfortable jolt, Robb
realized that he meant to go to war. He had only ever witnessed the King as a
man fat and drunk, yet he knew that sixteen years ago, Robert Baratheon had
been a warrior like no other.
 
Father himself, who had always seemed as straight and tall as any man to him,
shrunk into the background when Robert’s voice boomed. Robb had once gazed upon
the famed warhammer, and he had been only able to lift it with both his hands
and a veritable grunt.
 
“Euro Greyjoy is no man to be trifled with, my Lords.” Varys had a voice soft
as song, and his eyes of an undefinable colour flitted back and forth, “Most
peculiar things have reached my ears, unsettling, to say the least…”
 
“Ah, tosh! We’ve smashed them once, we’ll do it again!” King Robert had a glint
in his eyes, and his breathing had grown heavy. Lord Renly, however, shook his
head with  a small sigh: “Stannis has yet to answer any raven at all. Our fleet
– “
 
“Stannis can rot in all the seven hells!” The King waved away the interjection
angrily, as if batting a fly. “I shall appoint a new master of ships, and the
Lannister fleet is better positioned anyhow. Why else did I marry that cold
hag?”
 
The meeting did not last very long thus after. The gathering of the Iron Fleet
was enough cause for the King to spring into action – finally, another war,
after so many tedious years of whoring and drinking.
 
The King and his Hand would dine with Mace Tyrell at evenfall, to speak upon
the matter. Paxter Redwyne was a bannerman of Highgarden and he commanded by
far the largest war fleet in all of the Seven Kingdoms. As a joint effort with
the Lannister forces, it should be an easy feat, or so Lord Baelish promised
his fellow High Lords, smile never wavering an inch.   
 
“The coast line in its entirety shall be mine,” Robert had promised the room on
his way out, voice trumpeting with laughter. No one echoed his enthusiasm,
though they all carried themselves with varying poise.
 
---
 
Robb went with Father.
 
They walked to the Hand’s Tower in silence, and while he had, with time,
learned to read his Lord Father’s expressions, he now felt unsure. Was he to go
with the King? Mayhaps squire for him? Would he finally wield a sword in
earnest, outside the training yards?
 
Then his thoughts jumped to a whore, black of hair with eyes a clear grey. He
immediately felt heat crawl up his spine, and then for a moment dread flooded
his veins at the possibility of never seeing him again.
 
Jon.
 
He quickly shook away the flash of images and went to sit in Father’s solar.
How many days he had spent here since arriving in King’s Landing! Going over
the treasury, the debts piled high, parchment after parchment. Reading letters
dreary and long, of minor Lords voicing complaints, begging the King’s favor,
proposing marriage between distant Baratheon cousins and their own offspring.
 
He had time and again thought that a Lord’s duty was not at all to his liking,
that he was not much inclined towards readings and numbers. Yet Father’s stern
gaze and Mother’s ravens from Winterfell never ceased to remind him of the very
reason he had gone south.
 
He was to learn his lordly duties, and within a few years’ time, possibly until
Sansa’s marriage was sealed with her maiden’s blood, he would return, to govern
the North in his Father’s stead.
 
“Stannis Baratheon sailed for Dragonstone almost a year ago.” Father had
settled down as well, eyes clouded with worry. While the King rejoiced in the
preparations for war, he was clearly weighed down with apprehensions. “He has
not returned a single time, and he leaves most ravens unanswered.”
 
Robb only nodded. The discord between the King and his straight-lipped,
unforgiving brother was often spoken about.
 
“I remember the day he walked onto the battlements of Storm’s End. The Tyrell
host had besieged him to the point of starvation – yet there he stood, gaunt
and stubborn as an ox. He would have rather died eating rats than yield.”
 
Father looked at him, eyes solemn, carrying concern that was beyond Robb’s
grasp. “You are my first-born, my heir. There will come times when you must
remember that your duties towards House Stark must be placed before any other…
affections.”
 
Robb felt the blood rush towards his face. He looked down, unable to meet his
Father’s eyes, while his mind took a leap across the roofs of King’s Landing,
flying over the cobbled streets where the smallfolk lived and breathed and ate
bowls of brown.
 
Jon had smiled at him in earnest when he received the scrolls.
 
Arya had copied pages from Archmaester Harmune’s Watchers on the Wall during
her lessons, and while she enjoyed Old Nan’s stories during bedtime as a child,
her’s was a world of swordplay and dank, dark corners filled with discovery.
Bran had always been the one to revel in the tales of old, even before his
fall.
 
But Jon, Jon had lit up, an honest pleasure that left his face open and
vulnerable.
 
In a moment of madness, Robb thought of telling Father about the breathless
nights he spent with his whore, fucking and talking and sharing wine between
kisses, drunk on the heady sensation of closeness.
 
Instead, he levelled his gaze and spoke with weight in his voice: “My duties
will always be of utmost importance, Father.”
 
Father returned his gaze, and there was something distant in his eyes,
something that told Robb his mind, too, had wandered.
 
Then, after a moment of silence, it was gone.
 
“You must speak with Theon.”
 
---
 
Robb found Theon in the yard, training with his bow. His sharp, casual grace,
even one-hundred paces from the mark, sent the familiar pang of envy that Robb
had known since they started training at archery as young boys.
 
He dismissed it quickly. While it was hard to be bested, Robb was not one to
hold childish misgivings. It was a petty thing to begrudge Theon the only skill
he had when Robb himself was allowed to attend Small Council meetings, speaking
to the King familiarly.
 
“Greyjoy! Care for a prayer in the Godswood?”
 
Theon snorted, a practiced look of disdain upon his face. He was quick to tuck
away his weaponry, however, and matched his stride to Robb’s. In Winterfell
Theon had always avoided stepping near the heart tree, for it was where Father
prayed, where all the true sons of the North went with thoughts and pleas for
the Old Gods.
 
The acre of alder, elm and black cottonwood that made up the sacred grounds
within the Red Keep, however, was a frequent scene for illicit meetings. For
kisses between scullery maids and lowly hedge knights, for words spoken in
confidence, with a gentle hush.
 
The great heart tree, an oak covered in smokeberry vines, had seldom heard
earnest prayers since the Age of Heroes.
 
“Your father has passed.” It was the first thing that tumbled out of Robb’s
mouth. He waited for a moment, but Theon’s face remained impassive. “Euron
Crow’s Eye sits the Seastone Chair.”
 
That did provoke a reaction. Theon’s mouth twisted, and this time his contempt
was not a mere play-act. “That sorcerous pirate has no claim,” he spat out.
 
“He has assembled the Iron Fleet at Old Wyk. King Robert has a mind to wage war
– Father, well, he thinks to try the path of diplomacy first.”
 
They sat beneath the tree, their backs leaning against the smooth bark. Theon
had always been a brother to him – with Sansa a proper little Lady and Bran
still much too young, it was him Robb had turned to for mock battles and runs
in the Wolfswood. It was Theon who had pushed his first whore upon him in
Wintertown, and it was Theon’s goading that had led him to Jon.
 
“Why, then it looks as if I should hurry with the wenching tonight. The Iron
Islands are said to have the ugliest whores.”
 
Robb failed to laugh: “It may be that I will join your efforts. The King likes
me well as his squire.”
 
Theon gave him a look that was at once apprehensive and scornful. “You do not
truly believe that your Lord Father will allow it. To tempt fate for such a
minor squabble! How would it look if you dropped off the far end of a longboat
and drowned in your armour?”
 
They did not speak for some time after that, and when words were found again,
they were of buxom women and a pretty whore named Marei whom Theon had taken a
fancy to recently.
 
“She has a cool air about her, and nipples like rose-buds.” Robb coloured at
the description, as his mind provided him with images of his own. He wistfully
mused upon his last visit to Madam Rivers’, and while Father’s guarded eyes
still pierced his back, he thought for a moment of chancing another outing this
evenfall.
 
“What of your whore? She must be something special, you’ve never cared to visit
anyone else.” Theon had regained his confidence with their conversation safely
steered towards his favoured topic. “You’re not one for sharing, I suppose?”
 
Robb did not answer him, yet something inside his chest bristled dangerously at
the suggestion.  
 
---
 
The afternoon found him sparring with the Tyrell brothers and the Redwyne
twins.
 
Lady Margaery and her wizened, thorny grandmother watched at the sides, seated
prim and proper, with an entourage of cousins distant and close. The talk of
marriage had come to a halt, and it looked to be a long game of courting and
wooing. Lord Mace had the highest of ambitions for his precious daughter, and
while Father had only told him abridged versions of their lengthy negotiations,
Robb understood that agreements of a more commercial nature were a Tyrell
priority.
 
Loras, the very vision of a knight, fought passably well. He had the grace of a
cat, slinking this way or that, avoiding the blows of the blunted swords more
often than parrying. His quickness made up for the unorthodox fashion, and Robb
did not dare drop his guard even once.
 
The other southron knights, most of all Horace and Hobber, were predictable, to
say the least. The standardized, sequenced manner in which they carried out
their attacks almost felt akin to court dancing. In the North, Ser Rodrik had
done his best to instill him with chivalry and valour, but Robb had always
fought instinctively, caring but very little for the formalities of a knightly
duell.
 
Of course, Garlan was matched by none. While by far the least famous member of
House Tyrell, his skill in battle was irrefutably superior to all the others.
 
Robb was glad for his light armour when his arms rose too slowly and he was
pushed to the ground from the force of a blow. He gave his opponent a good-
natured laugh, rolling his shoulder against the pain of a light bruise.
 
Ser Loras, who had been waiting for a match with his brother, hurried to pull
him to his feet, gracious as ever.
 
He had been aware of the gossip for quite some time now, but never before did
it pass his mind to cast another look at Loras Tyrell. Lithe and tall, with
large eyes the colour of molten bronze and a tumble of pretty curls atop his
head, Robb realized why Sansa and Jeyne fawned over him so.
 
Renly’s little rose, they called him.
 
Jon was not half as beautiful, that was certain. Yet it seemed quite ludicrous
to compare Jon, his whore, to the famed knight of flowers. For the life of him,
Robb could not imagine speaking to Ser Loras familiarly, or Gods forbid –
bedding him would be the strangest thing.
 
“I, too, often wonder how my oafish son and his Hightower wife managed to
produce such beautiful children. It is beyond me! Why, the Gods must have taken
pity on Highgarden after Luthor rode off that cliff, bless his fool’s heart.”
 
Lady Olenna had spoken aloud, and while she had addressed her words towards
everyone in her vicinity, her eyes rested upon Robb. He felt the sweat soak
through his garments, and for a moment the temptation to turn and make for his
chamber lured him. Then he caught sight of his very-possible future Lady wife
and reconsidered with a heavy heart.
 
“My lady Olenna. Lady Margaery. Lady Megga. Lady Alla. Lady Merryweather.”
 
He made the rounds, smiling kindly while they lauded his skill and professed
their awe at his fast recovery from Garlan’s strike. With the younger girls he
sensed a childish form of sincerity, while Margaery’s smile was serene as ever
and the Queen of Thorns did not bother to hide the sharpness of her words.
 
“Loras is quite the prancing fool, yes, we all love him dearly. Why, Lord Robb,
you should consider riding with him some time or other. He’s pretty to look at,
if nothing else at all.” Lady Olenna gazed at him, her dry, wrinkled face
making it impossible to gauge her moods. “You do at least enjoy beauty in the
North, pray tell?”
 
An awful sensation crept upon Robb, and he found himself quite tongue-tied.
 
“Grandmother, you’re much too old to be out. We’d hate to lose you to a sudden
ailment.” Loras was considerably shorter of temper than his sweet sister. He
laid a sure hand on Robb’s shoulder and led him towards the far end of the
yard. “Will you train with me, my Lord?”
 
“But they haven’t any brothels in the North!” Lady Olenna proclaimed, and this
time the glee in her voice was apparent.
 
Robb felt a flush spread across his face, and it had very little to do with the
heat of the afternoon sun beating down on them all. “You are very comely, ser.”
He told Ser Loras, raising his voice just a tad. “Would you care to ride with
me in the Kingswood?”
 
To his surprise, Loras grinned.
 
“Why, they tell me I’ve all the good looks of my family upon my person.”
 
“Ser, after a year of learning your southron ways, I too, have come to
appreciate beautiful things. In the North we customarily wear grey and dine on
raw hides.”
 
“And woe for the lack of brothels!”
 
They both turned when booming laughter filled the air, and much to Robb’s
astonishment it was Lady Margaery who was clutching her midriff, holding on to
one of her smaller cousins.
 
“She always did laugh like a man, my Margaery.” Lady Olenna shook her head in
mock disappointment, but there was a mirthful twinkle to her eye.
 
---
 
“I shall go riding with Ser Loras one of these days,” Robb told his sisters
when he saw them again for a supper of creamed soup and pheasant roasted crisp
and golden. 
 
Arya had the most awful day, and she sat sulking and unresponsive. Her usual
garb of breeches and a wild head of unruly hair was traded for a yellow silk
dress that seemed jarringly strange on her. She had been asked to join the
Princess and her companions for Cyvasse before bed, a pastime the young
Myrcella had developed ever since her betrothed had sent her a board of ivory
and onyx from Dorne.
 
“Oh, how wonderful!” Sansa ate but sparingly, and there was a high flush on her
face. “Today the Lady Margaery promised me a filly bred by her brother, Ser
Willas. He is most interested in animals of all kinds! Oh, what a pity he could
not come.”
 
She picked at her plate, and smiled at Robb with genuine excitement. They had
grown much closer ever since coming to King’s Landing. While Arya could not
care any less for Robb’s duties, Sansa took a great amount of pride in her
gallant brother, trusted and well-liked by the King himself. 
 
“Arya, you’ve stained your gown!” Septa Mordane gave a cry of distress, calling
for the serving maid.
 
“It’s stupid anyway.” Arya had indeed smudged herself. Her eyes found Robb’s,
and for a moment he could read her plea, clear as day, to make them all go away
and let her take off the silly yellow confection.
 
“It is barely visible.” He conceded, turning towards his pheasant. “I’m sure no
one will notice.”
 
“It is silk.” Sansa let out a testy huff, her eyes squinted. “Everyone will
notice.”
 
Robb did not care to join their renewed squabble. The day had been a long one,
and looking at his unfinished supper, his mind drifted towards Theon and his
role as an envoy of the crown. Of course, the King had an unquenched thirst for
war, but Father would bring him to his senses. Robert would rage and drink,
mayhaps a goblet or two would be smashed, but he would listen in the end.
 
Grey Wind came to his mind then, uneasy with the crowded kennels and the
sniffing and barking of the hounds. A rush of tightness seized his chest, and
for a moment or two, he felt as trapped as his direwolves. They were let out
but rarely, though the King had allowed them to join a recent hunt.
 
They had brought down a boar, a mighty beast, and devoured it almost on the
spot.
 
How King Robert had laughed then, drunk on strongwine, though Robb had thought
to water it down ever so slightly.
 
He ate another bite, the tender meat tasteless in his mouth. Another squirm of
restlessness accosted him, and it was as if he was pressed against the wooden
panels of the kennel, pacing back and forth, irritated with the heat. A growl
sat low in his throat, and for a very short moment, he felt as if he would
spring from his seat and savage whoever was keeping him fenced in.
 
“I’ll be with my wolves.”
 
Robb stood suddenly, and for the second time this day, left his meal
unfinished. Arya’s yellow gown had by now a few added smudges and she had once
again named Sansa a stupid princess. She whipped around and made to follow him:
“I want to come as well! I want to see Ghost!”  
 
“You are to sit with Princess Myrcella!”
 
“Come back here this instant, Arya, we shall find you another gown.”
 
Robb felt a slight twinge of guilt when he disregarded them all, making haste
while leaving the Tower of the Hand. His mind flickered between scenes of war,
Father’s quiet eyes and Theon’s impending departure. He thought of Balon
Greyjoy at the bottom of the sea, feasting his subjects in the halls of the
Drowned God. Then all he could see was the Wolfswood, with trees gnarled and
old, sentinels and soldier pines, the air cold and blue.
 
Deer and elk and other beasts roamed free, and he could give chase until they
fell to his bite, blood fresh and strikingly red.
 
How strange everything seems here, he thought to himself while freeing his
wolves. Ghost remained a few steps from him, eyes slanted against the brutish
orange sunlight of a southron sunset.
 
Robb carded his hand through Grey Wind’s fur, and the both of them knew who it
was that he had been thinking of without pause.
 
---
 
It was still much too early for whoring.
 
Madam Rivers’ had yet to light the torches and the red lanterns. Young boys,
awfully scrawny when closely inspected, flitted past Robb when he entered. The
smell of cooking permeated the air and lively chatter could be heard towards
the back.
 
Ghost did not hesitate. Ears peaked, silent as a shadow, he made his way
towards one of the rooms, and Robb followed, his heart beating almost audibly
against his ribcage.
 
The chamber was pitiful, to say the least. Cots and beddings yellowed with use
covered the dirt floor, while personal possessions, cheap baubles, wooden combs
and clay pots sat in corners. Strewn about were herbs, dried and tied in
bushels.
Jon was crouched in front of a basin of cloudy water, his upper body bared and
glistening with sweat and soil. His hands, hard and calloused, found the white
direwolf before his eyes lifted.
 
“I thought I might visit you,” Robb heard himself croak.
 
He could sense a thousand eyes on himself, and for sure talk would grow more
specific, and tomorrow Lady Margaery’s handmaiden would whisper to her about
his proclivities, a whore of six-and-ten, lithe and tall and black of hair, so
beautiful it hurt Robb to breathe.
 
Jon stood, casting a few looks towards the door. His expression was guarded,
and for one who did not know him well, he would have seemed impassive. But Robb
prided himself in seeing the slight raise of his brows, the way his eyes
widened in surprise.
 
What a fool I am, he thought. A few moons gone and he felt like he had known
this boy whore of King’s Landing for a lifetime. More of a fool than Theon, or
the King, or any man who took his pleasure wenching, for they would leave upon
the morrow, sated and content, while Robb –
 
Surged forward and tugged Jon into a kiss, hands tightening into fists in the
dark locks, soft between his fingers. The need for air had left altogether
while he stood biting and licking, exhilarated with the feel of smooth skin,
the bump of nose-tips, the way Jon inhaled sharply and leaned into him.
 
They broke apart only when Ghost nudged his head between them, red eyes set on
Jon’s face, apparently reproachful with the neglect.
 
“I dreamt of you.” Jon knelt to embrace the wolf, and there was a smile upon
his lips. He cast a glance upwards, and Robb itched to ask whether he was
speaking solely to Ghost. “We ran in a forest together.”
 
“They were born in the Wolfswood near Winterfell,” Robb supplied, recalling the
six pups and their dead mother. Summer, Bran had called his after waking from
his long slumber. “Their mother –“
 
“Was found dead, with’n antler in her throat,” Jon quirked an eyebrow, before
standing yet again and stepping closer. “You’ve told tha’ tale, m’lord.”
They stared at each other, and not ever in his life had Robb felt a tension so
acute, stilling the air until there was naught else in the world but Jon’s
eyes, wide and the clear grey of a sleeting sky.
 
Then everything went rather fast.
 
Jon tugged him upstairs by the hand, Ghost and Grey Wind bounding after them.
Their lips met yet again, and garments went flying once they reached their
usual chambers. In a hurried backwards stumble they went, until Jon was flat on
his back and Robb hovered above him, arms straining with the effort of keeping
upright while they rutted against each other.
 
Robb heard himself moan with the friction, a delicious tightness gathering low
in his stomach, before reaching to tug down the woolen breeches hindering his
way.
 
“Wait, Robb. Please – I haven’t, well, prepared me’self. You’ve come so early.”
Jon shifted beneath him, a flush high on his cheeks, his cock a heavy weight
against Robb’s thigh. He reached out and retrieved a vial from an unobtrusive
chest with a quick, practiced motion. 
 
“Do you – do you fuck yourself with your own hands, Jon? Does it give you
pleasure?” Robb’s voice had lowered to a whisper, and a miniscule part inside
him shriveled with shame at the filth he had just spoken. The rest thrived in a
red-hot rage that longed for nothing but a good, hard fuck.
 
“Of course, m’lord. I’m a whore.” The words were hard, but there was a heat to
them that sent Robb reaching for the vial and tugging it open with shaking
hands. “I work me’self open every night.” 
 
Robb had succeeded in coating his hand and everything in its vicinity with oil.
He rubbed a glistening trail downwards, leaving messy, heated kisses on the
flat of Jon’s chest, the tensed muscles of his stomach. He bumped his nose
against the hardness of his cock a few times before licking a broad stripe up
the length of it.
 
Jon let slip a moan that sounded quite helpless, and large hands came to rest
upon Robb’s head, tugging at his hair. “You don’t – don’t have to.”
 
Robb just hummed a reply, smiling to himself before sucking him down.
 
It was quite foreign, the velvety heat upon his tongue, the salty taste of
sweat. His fingers crept towards Jon’s entrance, driving in two at once with
ease.
 
Jon keened out a strangled sound, his body almost lifting off the bed with the
surprise. He responded to Robb’s ministrations like a harp played by the most
gifted of bards, every pump and stroke of his fingers elicited a string of
bitten-off noises, like curses left unfinished.
 
The pleasure wrecked through him so violently that he spent in Robb’s mouth
without even a word of caution.
 
How deprived they must have looked, spread out and half naked, smeared with oil
and perspiration. Robb thought of his Father and the certain disappointment he
was to face once talk started to spread. The heir to the North, servicing a
whore and gagging for every second of it.
 
Then Jon wiped his mind clean when he pushed himself on top of Robb and sank
down with a merciless movement of his hips.
***** A Simple Madness *****
The King rode at the very front of his party.
 
All seven knights of the King’s Guard came with him, three on either sides,
with Ser Barristan Selmy guarding the rear. Sixty knights bearing Baratheon
banners came after him on mighty destriers bred for war, with manes combed to a
high shine.
 
Behind them strode a row of High Lords in full regalia – Mace Tyrell, most
prominent of all, was red of face and swollen with pride. His doublet of
juniper silk was trimmed with thick sable despite the heat. A squire held up
high the sigil of Highgarden, a golden rose on a field of green. His sons came
after him, handsome and tall, their coat-of-arms emblazoned upon fine shields
of light alder wood.
 
None, however, could match the cheers that greeted sweet Lady Margaery, a
maiden so gentle and fair she might as well have been the deity herself. Unlike
the Lannister Queen, who was hidden away in a palanquin, she rode a chestnut
mare, her hair open with only two elegant braids on either side. 
 
Jon craned his neck as a large man moved before his line of vision. It was just
past noon, and the sun blazed down upon the procession viciously, turning the
armoured bodies of knights and Lords alike into blinding entities.
 
Lords of the Crownlands rode by, the ones near enough to attend to the King’s
will, each with their own banners and countless retainers. Some received cheers
and calls from the crowd, waving and smiling, while others looked onwards
stoically.
 
Renly Baratheon, the master of law and Lord of Storm’s End was ever the
favorite. He wore a broad smile while receiving the love of the lowborn,
dashing in his golden cloak, richly embroidered and set with opal stones.
 
“Tha’ un’ gets to fuck all the pretty ladies, I tell ya.” Lame Mord, chewing on
his sourleaf, cackled next to Jon. “Look at them all, in their gold and
silver.”
 
Jon gave him a nod and a small smile. Beside him, the fellows who worked the
tannery with him broke out into raucous laughter. Between them they passed a
ragged wineskin, the stench of their trade worsened by the tight squeeze of
bodies and the unrelenting heat.
 
He too, smelled sour and unwashed with just the morning’s toil.
 
“Which one d’ya reckon’ll die this time?”
 
“Tha’ one, that one will.”
 
“Ah, them’s not even going, you dullard.”
 
“Aye, the Lannisters are all stayin’ – more’s the pity!”
 
The smallfolk around him chattered excitedly, whooping, gathering small
children to sit on shoulders. The highborn would think themselves well-loved,
mightily important and famous. And while that held true to a certain extent,
mostly the dirtied men and women around Jon were happy for a respite from their
tedious day-to-day labour, for a chance to gaze at things clean and scented and
beautiful.
 
They laughed cruelly at the homely, pudgy ones, and gaped at the likes of the
King Slayer and Loras Tyrell.
 
Oh, how they a jeered when the imp, brother to the Queen and heir to the West,
rode by, stunted little legs resting in a specially fashioned saddle. His
mismatched eyes scanned the crowd, and he had an air of mild disinterest about
him despite the audible scoffs and hoots.
The whores at Chataya’s had already spoken of his visit – a half-man with
triple the amount of wit, newly arrived in King’s Landing, bringing with him a
prodigious appetite for pretty, young wenches. 
 
Jon watched him with fascination.
 
Had he been a peasant’s get surely he would not have lived. Yet there he sat,
ugly and twisted, wearing a patterned silken doublet with golden buttons, all
in Lannister crimson.
 
He had not wanted to come, at first. But even Crayg the tanner had smiled at
him through his toothless gums and closed up shop for the day. They had all
pressed towards Fishmonger’s square, lining the Muddy Way, eager for the
spectacle, eager for excitement, the rush of the masses.
 
And though he could have returned to his cot at Madam Rivers’, Jon followed
them.
 
“Hey, hey, Jon!” Lyan, the youngest of the Madam’s boy whores, wriggled through
the jostle of bodies. He was barely three-and-ten, a skinny little thing with
big doe’s eyes and a fall of ash-blonde flaxen hair. Jon liked him well enough,
though he had been careful to befriend anyone at all.
When the time came for him to go north, it would be painful enough to leave
Tanae.
 
“The wolves, the wolves are next!” Lyan grinned wide, showing the slight gap
between his front teeth. The frenzy of the crowd, the loud voices and the food
peddlers with their baskets of fried sweet bread, it all visibly excited the
boy. “Lord Robb’s there, y’know, you must go to the front, Jon!”
 
He did not want to. Something quietly, yet burningly ashamed had gripped his
insides with deft hands, and he retreated a few steps, immediately bumping into
a fishwife hailing her clams and mussels. There was scarce anything he could
imagine that would be worse than seeing Robb, and having Robb gaze upon him.
 
Him astride a mighty charger, sword at his hip.
 
While Jon stood in the murky puddles of salt water, grimy and undiscernible
from the rest of the writhing mass. A sea of stained faces and missing teeth,
of skin ruined by pox and noses broken and mended.   
 
Lyan tucked at his sleeve, and though an unnatural cold sweat had broken out
across his brow, Jon raised his eyes for a fast upward glance.
 
Robb was directly before him, just a few paces away, between them merely
bobbing heads of strangers. He rode before his sisters, a pair of young maidens
as contrasting in appearance as night and day, though they wore matching garb,
light grey gowns trimmed with cloth-of-silver.
 
Jon avoided looking upon Robb’s face; instead his eyes darted this way and
that, registering his syrupy warm colour of his surcoat, the fine workmanship
of his saddle and harness.
 
Beside him was the heir to the Iron Islands, a youth dark and comely, fostered
into loyalty. He had been named the sole and rightful heir to the Seastone
chair, recognized by King Robert, first of his name, King of the Andals and the
Rhoynar and the First Men. Upon the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor they had
read the announcement, and ravens were sent out, to Dorne in the south and
Castle Black at the Wall, covering every holdfast in between.
 
Euron Crow’s Eye was a usurper, a menace to the realm, and the King would not
stand for a succession so unjust.
 
Theon Greyjoy was clad in a jet black doublet with the golden kraken of his
House embroidered upon his chest. He had a smirk that spoke of the commonplace
arrogance noblemen of import often held, eyes passing over the masses
unseeingly. He turned to Robb, however, speaking familiarly.
 
Jon caught his own stare, and forced himself to look away.
 
Then he saw the Hand of the King, face solemn and long. While with the Tyrell
host the procession had seemed a festive parade, Eddard Stark seemed to be cast
in stone. Only his eyes were searching, gazing upon the faces of his smallfolk
with urgency.
 
Without another moment of hesitation Jon turned, forcing his way through the
crowd, stomach lurching, hands clammy with fear, his head a roil of thoughts.
 
---
 
The dreams of Ghost returned, night after night.
 
During the days his mind reeled with images of Robb, of Edric, of the Wall and
of some tower in the Red Mountains. At times he could smell a scent utterly
foreign to him, green and cold. Before his eyes he then saw trees, pines and
firs and weirwoods. Trees tall and gnarled, ancient and decayed, yet strangely
alive. Trees he could not name.
 
He was going quite mad, it seemed.
 
Robb had not come for almost a moon now. Jon counted the dragons in his rough
leather pouch, again and again, but a voice inside him whispered that it was
not yet enough. Not for a road so long, for a passage so dangerous and costly.
 
He kept telling himself to make his way down to the harbor. There, merchant
cogs were mingling with swan ships of the Summer Isles again, now that the King
and his host had sailed for Lannisport. He would ask the price for passage and
with some haggling and offers of working the oar, surely some ship or other
might take him.
 
Yet he did not go.
 
Edric might be dead now, for all he knew. Mayhaps he had contracted the bloody
flux, or he could have fallen asleep at his post, frozen to death in the black
of the night. The thoughts weighed heavy on his chest and made breathing
difficult.
 
He never allowed himself to think of Lord Stark.
 
The memories mostly befell him during his lowly travail, when the rhythmic
bating of hides and skins numbed him into a stupor. Then his mind would conjure
the Hand of the King, crouching before him, eyes grey and somber, asking him
where Mother had birthed him, again and again.
 
The confusion had agitated him at first, and he had asked Tanae the meaning of
the encounter, asked her what interest the Lord of Winterfell might have in a
common market boy, a lowly whore.
 
When she, too, failed to answer him, he had simply pushed the matter aside.
 
The questions returned, however. In the early morning hours before dawn, when
he rose with a mind muddled and soft with sleep, the white direwolf still a
specter resting at his feet. Some tower in the Red Mountains, near Starfall,
where Mother had once served as a young girl, a life time past.
 
It had astounded Lord Stark so.
 
When he did not think himself going mad with the wolfdreams or puzzling
questions left unanswered, he thought of Robb. It was much like a persistent,
underlying buzz that accompanied him through the days. Every morn he woke with
a flicker of dimmed hope that at evenfall the young lord might come, his wolves
bounding before him, his smile bright and honest. 
 
Every night he went to bed with lead in his stomach and a bitter taste on his
tongue, for Robb did not return.
 
He scolded himself harshly. He should be more than grateful for his pouch of
gold, a fortune he had never before even thought of. It was very common for
noble patrons to lose interest after some time, when the novelty had worn off.
King Robert himself had jumped between countless women, whore and ladies,
maidens and mothers alike.
 
He stayed mute and listened for gossip, should the heir to the North decide to
grace another brothel with his presence, to lie with another whore and bring
her gifts, laugh at her tales.
 
But all remained quiet.
 
He then forbade himself to think of Robb as well.
 
---
 
“Jon? Jon!”
 
Tanae’s face, lined with concern, appeared before his own. Jon jumped where he
sat, dropping the scrolls he had been reading.
Archmaester Harmune had a way with his words, and in his mind he had been
thousands of leagues away, walking the ruins of the Nightfort, footsteps
echoing in the maze of tunnels and stone vaults. There, the seventy-nine
sentinels still stood their guard over the realm of men, horns and spears
frozen in hand.  
 
Lady Arya Stark had a broad scribble, her letters were fitful and sharp, as if
she could not have waited to lay down her readings and head for newer
adventures. Robb had spoken of her often, how she never quite fit in, the only
child to inherit the Stark looks, a little Lady that longed for swords and
fights and open skies.
 
“Readin’ again, are you?” Tanae laid a hand on his back and came to sit with
him. She smelled of old grease and freshly baked bread, of tansy and chamomile.
“It’s the same story, isn’t it?”
 
Jon nodded, though he did not find in him the strength to answer. The day had
been lengthy, and his back ached from the strain of his work. Though he had
washed himself as good as possible, a layer of dirt still settled on the
surface of his skin. 
 
Dusk fell over King’s Landing, painting the city a bruised purple, with hues of
rust and peach mingling to usher in the inky blue of night.
 
“He might yet return, y’know.” Tanae said, voice gentle and sad. “These Lords
and Ladies, they’re all awful busy, aren’t they?”
 
Jon squeezed her hand, letting the foolish comfort wash over him. He felt so
fatigued: The ever present tension that hunched his shoulders, the anticipation
crawling up his neck, flushing his cheeks. That this night may be the night
where Robb came to him again, apologizing sheepishly for his absence, as if a
patron ever needed to hold himself accountable to his whores. As if Jon was a
friend, a lover whom he had missed and longed for.
 
Though he had expressly forbidden himself the thoughts, they occurred time and
again. Robb’s nose bumping against his temple, the scratch of his beard as he
sought another kiss, the tales he told of the North.
 
A raven flew overhead, and they both craned back their necks to follow the soar
of its dark wings. Then Tanae tucked at his arm, this time quite firmly.
 
“Come, we’ll have supper soon.”
 
Jon never made it to the kitchens. Little Lyan, dressed in whisps of silk, with
coal already smudging the rim of his brown eyes, bumped into him with haste,
voice hushed yet still betraying his excitement: “There’s a man to see you,
Jon. He’s out front, quick!”
 
His first thoughts were of Robb, and his heart halted its rhythm for the flash
of a moment, a delicious fraction of oblivion that allowed him to imagine the
young Lord coming towards him, eyes bright with mirth, reaching out to hold him
close. Then his senses returned, and he noted that Lyan would have surely
recognized Robb and named him as such.
 
The man waiting for him by the door was fairly nondescript. Jon paused a few
paces from him, fists tight at his sides. He had seen him before, tall and
bearded, dark of hair and eyes.
 
The last time he had carried the sigil of House Stark for all to see, a
direwolf on a field of white. Now he wore plain, rough garb, with not even a
sword at his side.
 
“The Hand of the King wishes to speak with you. Privily.” His voice was quiet,
but his eyes, too, gazed at Jon relentlessly, raking up and down his face. The
statement had been an order, for all that it was phrased as a wish.
 
Jon cast a quick look to Tanae, who stood speechless, with Lyan at her side and
the old maid peeking out the kitchen doors. He gave them a jerky nod, as if to
reassure them of his uncertain safety, and followed the guard of the Hand
without further words spoken.
 
His heart pounded a painful rhythm while they walked the streets together,
mingling with the smallfolk going about their business. If anyone cared to
look, they might have seen a patron and his early choice for the evening, or
simply two men out wenching.
 
The Street of Silk had grown so familiar now, almost as if the years in Oldtown
had never passed. He knew each brothel from the other with just a quick look,
knew the whores from their laughter and the children that tugged at their
skirts.
 
Tanae had befriended quite a few of Chataya’s girls, and Jon had run errands
between the two houses every so often. It almost felt natural when the guard
led him through a side entrance, disregarding the front door with its swinging
ornate lamp, an intricate globe of scarlet glass.
 
A dreadful calm overtook Jon when he trudged up two flights of stairs,
mirroring the guard’s light, silent footsteps. Before his mind’s eye he saw
Tanae and Mother, seated close and whispering to each other. Could it be that
she had not told him all she knew? Were there secrets she kept close? Was there
something much bigger which they all knew of? Tanae, the guard, Lord Stark.
 
Before he could think of turning and running, or anything else, they arrived.
 
A great canopied bed, empty save the cushions and silken drapes, was the first
sight that greeted him. For a fleeting moment his rambling mind cleared and he
saw himself pushed upon it, the bearded guard ripping away his breeches.
 
But he was much too plain for such a rape to be worthwhile.
 
Then he turned to find the Hand of the King standing by a leaded window, a
presence so unassuming that he seemed to retreat into the shadowed corners. The
guard mumbled a few words, his low tone and flat, northern accent blurring them
to Jon’s ears. Then he stepped out the room and closed the door with a curt
click.
 
There they stood, the Hand and the whore.
 
Jon thought he might snap with the tension. His every muscle was hardened,
clenched, ready to act and flee. Somehow he still managed to speak with
courtesy: “M’lord Stark.”
 
The Hand cleared the ground between them alarmingly fast. His face seemed much
the same as on the day of King Robert’s departure, solemn and unmoving. Yet
again, his eyes flickered this way and that, agitated with only the Gods knew
what. Then, finally, they settled upon Jon’s face, and stayed.
 
“Jon Sand. I’d like to… offer you a position in my household.”
 
Jon blinked a few times. He could not process the words the Lord had just
spoken. He could not even look into the eyes that gazed at him so urgently.
Why?
 
“Why, m’lord?”
 
They both remained silent for some time. The feeling of dread washed over him
again, and for a moment he wished. For what? To be at the Wall, with Edric? Or
to be an acolyte of the Citadel, far away in Oldtown, far from all this
madness? Mayhaps he even wished for Robb, for him to appear and make the world
simple and sweet with only a kiss.
 
Most of all, in that very moment, he wished to understand.
 
“You… remind me, very much. Of a person I had once known.” Lord Stark had
dropped his gaze, and a line appeared between his brows. He did not speak
anymore, only stood with his hands placed behind his back, the stance of a
great Lord deep in thought.
 
Time passed while they shared the silence of the room, only ever so slightly
breached by the noises of nightfall, brothels waking into life, busy chatter
and laughter, screams and cries. Jon never dared to move, and though his mind
was ripe to burst, he could not find the words to string together a sentence.  
 
He almost jumped when Lord Stark spoke again.
 
“You do not have to accept. But consider my offer. It shall stand from this day
on.” His voice, quiet and deep, was hoarse with emotion. Jon stared at him,
uncomprehending.
 
A purse, velvety and fine to the touch, was placed into his hands. Inside it he
could feel the weight of coins, cold and heavy.
 
“This letter should be… of use. If any misfortune should occur.” Lord Stark
retrieved a folded parchment from his cloak, sealed with grey wax showing a
direwolf.
 
A direwolf, great and fearsome, readying itself for a leap.
 
---
 
Jon could barely recall how he found his way back.
 
He felt dazed, as if he had stood in the sun for hours on end. The purse of
gold he could feel tucked away at his belt, a weight that kept him grounded,
kept him from turning and making for Chataya’s again, to heave up the knots of
tangled questions gagging him.
 
It was the hour of the bat, and the streets were filled with flickering lights
seeping through stained glass windows. Whores unfamiliar were calling out to
him, recognizing the broad of his shoulders and the shade of stubble that he
had let grow ever since the young Lord stopped visiting.
 
The letter with the grey seal he wore beneath his tunic, tucked into layers of
cloth, just above the spot where his heart beat out an unsteady rhythm. The
thick parchment felt smooth against his skin, the hardness of the dollop of wax
chafing ever so slightly.
 
What could be written in it? Had the Hand meant for him to read it? Or did he
presume that Jon, like the vast majority of low-born folk, was not lettered? 
 
Jon turned to enter Madam Rivers’ from the back doors, hands fumbling with a
sudden rush of adrenaline. He could barely wait, barely wait to go to his cot,
to be left alone. The moon was bright enough tonight, and he had keen eyes.
 
A letter to answer his questions, to still the countless worries that had been
accosting him since the day Lord Eddard Stark had crouched down to gaze upon
his face with wonder.
 
“Jon!”
 
Imperious and tall, with a braided up-do that made her seem even larger, stood
Madam Rivers. She was dressed in the fashion of up-jumped merchants that
strived for courtly elegance, with cloth not half as fine and powder that
streaked chalky white. Her nose was long and thin, as the beak of a mean, large
bird might have been.
 
“Where have you been gone to, heh? The young Lord has been waiting for hours!”
Jon chanced an upwards look, and for sure, the madam was livid. It was rare to
find her visiting her own establishment at all, and when she did come, all had
to be in its best order.
 
“You ungrateful little chit!” she shoved him towards the stairs, run-down and
pitiful compared to those at Chataya’s. “See that he issatisfied.” 
 
Jon hurried on dismally, leaping up the stairs as fast as he could. With half
his mind jumbled and confused, the purse of gold still heavy against his side,
he did not realize the meaning of the madam’s words until he had stumbled into
their best chamber.
 
A white blur lunged at him, and yelping he went down.
 
He felt like leather stretched too thin, unable to encompass all that had
occurred these past few hours. And now, like the nightly visions that found
him, Ghost stood above him, front paws large and powerful against his chest,
silent but obviously pleased with his presence. Grey Wind had risen as well,
though as always, he did not come to greet Jon.
 
And on the bed, sitting up with a large grin, was Robb. For a moment Jon
considered whacking his own head, just to be sure the vivid dreams hadn’t taken
over during his time awake. Then he simply closed his eyes and tried to think
of Edric, his brother, the only kin he had left in the world.
 
But his face would not appear.
 
He had long hair, dark and straight. This he knew. He was very tall – so tall
he seemed a giant. But that was not correct, Jon had outgrown him even at
three-and-ten. What colour were his eyes? How could he not know?
 
“Jon?”
 
Ghost moved above him, and a gentle hand had come to cradle his cheek.
 
“Jon, is everything alright?”
 
Robb appeared in his mind, kind and beautiful. Jon opened his eyes, to find the
same-self face gazing at him, though the brows beneath the auburn curls had
furrowed with worry and uncertainty.
 
“Should I not have come? Is it not a good time? Only, Father kept me so close,
I never had the chance… Tonight he was away, and I thought...”
 
Eddard Stark had been away to meet him, Jon, at an upscale brothel just down
the road. How close in distance father and son were, unknowing that they both
came to see the same person. A boy-whore, a tanner’s apprentice, if you would.
 
What did they want of him? Why did they seek him out?
 
“Why’d you come, Robb?”
 
It burst out of Jon, just one of the countless things that crowded his very
being. Though it was a questions he had been musing upon ever since the first
night Ghost had come to lie at his feet.
 
“Why…?” Robb seemed speechless, dumbfounded. “I wanted to see you.”
 
“There are much more desirable options, even in this very brothel. I know I’m
hardly pretty. We’ve looking glasses.” He felt astounded, for the words simply
came. And though his cheeks felt heated, and there was still a tremor in his
hands, he spoke on: “I never understood, though I’m very glad for your favour.
M’lord.”
 
Robb’s eyes were almost unnaturally blue, earnest and crinkled, when he stepped
closer. “I find you very pretty.” He gave a short laugh, before closing the
distance and pulling Jon into a kiss, and another, and another. “My wolf is
most unhappy when he doesn’t see you.”
 
It was as if someone had snapped all his tendons. Jon sank against Robb, the
young Lord he had been thinking of night and day, as they deepened the kiss
into a backwards stumble, a motion that felt practiced and utterly right.
How pitiful he was, how very foolish, to take comfort from the words of a
patron, to yearn for his affection.
 
He had had gold enough before. Now he was mayhaps the richest whore in all of
King’s Landing. But the notion of leaving, of stepping onto a ship and sailing
to East-Watch-by-the-Sea, as he had planned all this time, twisted his insides
awfully.
 
“Shall I prepare you again?” Robb was quite breathless, and there was a flush
of pink on the bridge of his nose. “Only if you want to. We may also just
talk.”
 
Jon gazed up at him, and for a moment he hated Robb Stark again, for his
decency and grace, for his thick eyelashes that brushed against Jon’s chin in
feathery tickles. “I’ll take no coin tonight.”
 
The meaning of these words settled between them, weighed down with Jon’s choked
voice.
 
“Then I shall give none.”
 
---
 
They fucked like starving animals, trying to pace themselves with a feast set
out. Lying beneath Robb, with his legs spread and the tight coils of pain and
pleasure twisting through his body, Jon forgot about the folded parchment in
his discarded tunic, or the velvet purse holding a fortune.
 
All that filled him, filled his mind, was Robb.
 
They fell asleep, only to begin anew, bodies attuned to one another. And for
the first time since his brother had been taken, Jon allowed himself useless,
fanciful dreams. Dreams where he was Robb’s equal, or at least respectable
enough to be his companion. They would laugh and joke, without worries of any
kind, with no eyes to judge their heated glances and shared smiles.
 
It was nearly dawn when Jon rose for a drink of water, his body aching with a
strange numbness that came before pain started setting in. The rushes
underneath his bare feet felt dry and pleasant, while the eastern sky was a
vision of black and blue, with the stars guttering out one by one.
 
He had not felt so content for a very long time.
 
Robb was snoring softly, red hair tousled with sweat. In the dim light of
morning he looked unearthly, a man so far away and gorgeous Jon could scarcely
believe he had touched him with his own hands just moments back.
 
Then, as if he had always planned it, Jon crouched to fumble Lord Stark’s
letter from the seams of his tunic.
 
Slowly, cautiously, he tucked open the seal, and read.
***** Of Feasts and Funerals *****
The Queen’s Ballroom,TheRed Keep, King’s Landing, 299 AC 
 
It was a humble feast, altogether.  
 
Prepared haphazardly, with the raven bearing the news of victory only having
arrived two days prior. They had succeeded in hunting down a boar from the
Kingswood, though a rather small one. It now sat at the centre of the table,
roasted and cracked, bedecked in herbs, with a shiny, red Fossoway apple placed
between its jaws.  
 
Mace Tyrell sat at the high table, the choicest cuts from the boar upon his
golden plate. The light of the burning candles reflected brightly in the silver
mirrors, and though the guests counted only at one-hundred, Lords and Ladies of
great importance had deigned to arrive within short notice. 
 
A quick gaze showed him many of his own bannermen, the ones that had not left
to war against the Crow’s Eye. Horace and Hobber were seated apart, as Paxter
had expressedly instructed him. Moribald Chester was wedged between them, as
was his Lady wife. He had sent his son to command the fleet of Greenshield, a
considerable contingent of King Robert’s war fleet. Leyton, of course, had not
left the Hightower in over a decade. In his stead Ser Baelor Brightsmile had
arrived ten days past, an heir as formidable as any. 
 
Well, Mace had never wanted for sons. Willas had been his first and brightest,
a promising knight until the Red Viper crushed him during a joust. Garlan was
at Lannisport, leading the Tyrell host, a true commander and warrior. Loras…
well, Loras was famed already, a sigh on every maiden’s lips at seven-and-ten,
and closest confidante to the King’s own brother.  
 
Too close, much too close.   
 
Yet what did it matter, with two sons ahead. Mace took a bite of the honeyed
chicken, soaked in boar’s fat, and hummed pleasurably. Alerie was speaking to
Mother, filling her cup with Arbor gold while the old woman nattered on. Next
to them, Margaery smiled sweetly at Robb Stark, as she had been instructed to
do for the last few moons.  
 
She had whispered with little Lady Sansa all evening, exchanging secretive
smiles over matters unimportant, as only young girls could. Even towards the
youngest of Stark’s daughters, an unfortunate, plain child, she was very kind.
Ah, she knew what favours a youthful friendship might bring in years to come…  
 
What a lovely girl, his Margaery, what a vision to behold. She would be his
true prize, the first step for a great alliance while the boys stayed back and
held the Reach.  
 
Though at times the brokered marriage did not seem so grand, with the Lord of
Winterfell and his frozen visage.  
 
Ned Stark, mute as ever, took the middle seat of the high table, as befitted
the Hand of the King. As stingy as his lands were barren, he had at first
opposed the spontaneous feasting. Mace had spoken at length of the high spirits
of battles won, and how very opportune it would be if the betrothal was
announced at such a fine moment.   
 
His agreement, after much persuasion, had been merely a finishing touch, while
Mace had instructed his own household to commence with the hasty preparations.
Were they at Highgarden, the feast would have surely been much grander.  
 
“I may congratulate you already, my Lord.” Petyr Baelish had leaned over the
back of his seat, eyes agleam with a wide smile. “It may come as little a
surprise, the young love birds have been at their courting game for quite some
time now.” 
 
“Ah yes, Margaery is quite taken with the boy. Very well, very well, we thought
– why ever not? He is of good breeding, a fine swordsman – though not yet a
knight.”  
 
“He will be acting Warden of the North in a year’s time, there is no need for
such silly things as knighthood. No all of the men have to kneel for a shiny
stick before going to yet another war.” Mother, of course, had spoken out loud
again. She was picking at her turnips, nibbling at a platter of cheese
especially brought out for her.  
 
Mace felt irritation rise in his chest, and he turned to Lord Baelish, finding
him ever so amused. They spoke briefly on fiscal matters, the ongoing autumn
harvests and, of course, the war against the Crow’s Eye.  
 
A few seats away, Queen Cersei murmured to her son in low tones, a sour
expression upon her face. She would have liked Margaery for her second son,
plump little Tommen, of that he was sure. Or mayhaps even Joffrey, the golden
heir apparent – though Mother had battered those suggestion away quickly
enough.  
 
Oh, she always did succeed in turning his visions and ideas into mockery.
Unrelenting and hard she was, had always been. As a young boy he had once asked
her whether he had her love at all, tearful and dejected.  
“Who else in this world should I love, hmm? Pushing you out was tedious
business, oh, don’t ask. The ripping and tearing, and that awful stench, my,
my.”  
 
It pained him at times, though her sharp presence gave him as much comfort as
it did embarrassment. Mother had Highgarden’s best interest at heart, this she
had sworn, though sardonically. She would see her grandchildren married and
hold her great-grandchildren close, knowing they were heirs to much and more. 
 
Margaery she had raised at her own breast. “I won’t see her married to a vile
little spoilt prince, or his dull, fat child-brother. Nor will I allow the King
to bed her as a common whore for your ambitions, Mace.” 
 
She had suggested Robb Stark herself, and with time, Mace had come to see the
gainful aspects of such a match.  
“The Riverlands, Mace, they are bound to follow suit. Look at the boy, lest you
forget his Tully mother! Think further, son, and tell me Lysa Arryn’s maiden
name.” Lady Olenna had snorted, “The King loves no one better than Ned Stark,
the Gods bless the frozen muscles of his face. And now tell me how many of the
Seven Kingdoms will be ours to haggle with.”  
 
They had been back in Highgarden then, with the roses in full bloom. Sweetcakes
were being served, the ones Mace had always loved best. Mother had patted his
hand in a rare gesture of affection, satisfied with his attentive manner:
“There is no need for us to marry Margaery to any of the royal family’s
depraved men, old or young. Robb will be brother to the queen in years to come,
and that shall be enough. Sometimes it is wise to remain close at a distance,
Mace.” 
 
Margaery and the Stark heir conversed pleasantly: She was laughing, genuinely
laughing at a jest he had made, eyes playful. The boy was making quick
gestures, the tips of his ears flushed red. Mace could not help himself but to
agree with his mother. A much better match, indeed. 
 
Looking towards Ned Stark, he hesitated briefly, before clearing his throat
pointedly a few times. “My Lord, mayhaps it is time…?”  
 
Stark gave him a curt nod, sipping sparingly from his goblet before rising. Oh,
Mace desperately wished to be the one making this announcement. But as Hand of
the King, it was Stark’s place.  
“Our most esteemed guests.” A pause, while the chatter died down and gradually,
the entirety of the Queen’s Ballroom turned towards the Lord of Winterfell,
plain and unassuming in his drab grey garb, even at such a joyful occasion.
“King Robert has defeated the invading ironmen at Fair Isle. For his victory we
shall feast!”   
 
Shouts rang out, while the men who had remained rose and bellowed their
approval. “His is the fury!” They cried, led by those most loyal to the
stormlords, gathered around Renly. For a moment, it seemed almost as if the
passion Robert had once inspired lived, the passion that had won him the realm
sixteen years back.  
 
Mace called with them, though he knew that it had been Redwyne bannermen who
had defended Fair Isle and captured three ships of the Iron Fleet.  
 
“Soon the realm shall have peace again. At this time I, Lord Eddard of House
Stark, would announce the betrothal between my heir and eldest, Robb, and the
Lady Margaery of House Tyrell.”  
 
How short, and how very disappointingly lackluster.  
 
Mace glanced up at Lord Stark, then he rose himself, and the calls of
congratulations from his bannermen echoed like thunder. He would chase away the
somber cloud Ned Stark and his northern ways left hanging, he would show all of
the realm what southron prosperity meant.  
 
Queen Cersei now stood, the sour look never leaving her face, though she was
attempting a stiff smile. Next to her, the imp had a bemused look upon his ugly
little face. I too would be sour if my kin was so wretched, he thought, looking
towards Loras, who was seated next to Renly and smiling broadly, handsome and
tall, the true vision of a knight.  
The Kingslayer, standing guard at the other end of the hall, looked tired and
old in comparison, even with the pristine sheen of his white cloak.  
 
“The joining of great Houses shall further bind us together. May I offer you my
felicitations as a wife and mother,” the Queen turned towards Margaery, who
immediately sank into a curtsy, “I wish you much joy, may the Mother bless you
with the laughter of children.”  
 
With the Lannister Queen finished, Mace gestured towards his servants, and
through the grand door they wheeled in a towering cake, decorated in sugared
roses, sweet cream and a thousand forget-me-nots drizzled with honey.  
 
It was a much smaller cake than he had envisioned, but enough to send the room
into awed exclamations and thunderous clapping. Even Ned Stark seemed passably
impressed.  
 
Robb and Margaery were now at the centre of attention. She, of course, was the
vision of grace and beauty, while the boy seemed a little dazed at the display.
They exchanged the troth rings, hers a plain silver band, his bold and golden,
thick as a finger and set with the most precious gems the Reach could offer.  
 
A serving maid started cutting out slices of cake with deft hands, and Mace
announced that all should have a taste, even the squires and servants. Calls
rang out, hailing the bounty of the Reach and the perseverance of the North.  
 
He chanced a quick look to Mother, and found her with a small, satisfied
smile.  
 
 
 
 
 
Flea Bottom, King’sLanding, 299 AC 
 
She was quiet as a shadow, her footsteps soft against the wet stones. 
 
Swift and sure, no one had seen her vanish, not Septa Mordane with the stupid
new gown, not Sansa and Jeyne who had laughed at her with such disdain, none of
their handmaidens. Quick as a snake.  
 
They would all be scared in this pitch-black darkness, even Robb, of that Arya
was certain. She had treaded this secret passage of the Red Keep a handful of
times now, going just a bit further, a little bit deeper into the echoing
shadows each time. Often she would hear people speak, voices muddled with
distance, footsteps far off and dulled by thick layers of red brick, stone and
dirt.  
 
The monstrous beasts of days past, their black skulls large and small, they had
all become a reassuring presence upon her venture, dead, empty eyes that
followed her downward climb.  
 
This time, she was going to see what lay at the other side.  
 
She carried with her needle, a reassuring weight against her side. I am strong,
she told herself, fierce as a wolverine. Sansa and Jeyne, they were stupid, and
they would never learn how to hold a sword, or catch cats bristled and angry,
let alone how to be a water dancer.  
 
Robb had promised her – he would take her back home, to Winterfell, once stupid
Sansa finally wed her prince. Arya had made him promise to take Syrio as well,
and the dapple grey mare she had grown so fond of. One of the stable boys, Tomo
Two-pennies, had told her she was called Daisy.  
Arya promised herself she would give Daisy a better name, and braver name, once
they were headed north. She would train at swords every day, teach little
Rickon how to string a bow and to run in the Wolfswood without making a sound.
She would even climb the walls of Winterfell and describe the colours of the
sky to Bran, if he so wished.  
 
In the moist darkness of the stunted tunnel miles beneath the Red Keep, beneath
King's Landing, Arya could smell the sharp coldness of autumn air, the crisp
wooden tang on her palate. She felt beneath her paws the muddied ground between
trees, elms and tall soldier-pines, shrubs wet with downpour and orange with
the change of seasons after many long years of summer.  
 
She had tried to tell Robb of the wolf dreams, the way Nymeria flitted in and
out of her consciousness, the raw, metallic taste of blood that woke her in the
early morning hours. He had listened with a troubled look upon his face, but he
had not called her a liar or a fool. Too often did he himself go to sit with
Grey Wind and Ghost in the kennels for hours on end. But of course, he was now
betrothed to Lady Margaery and busy with matters of the realm.  
 
She only ever saw him at dinner these days, and with Theon gone to war he
rarely lounged about their rooms anymore.  
 
Something slipped beneath her boot, and for a moment her heart stopped. Then
she caught her footing again, hands reaching out to steady herself on the
stones surrounding her. She breathed, in and out, in and out, and for a moment,
it was the only sound she could hear.  
 
Fear cuts deeper than swords.  
 
Fear cuts deeper than swords.  
 
Fear cuts deeper than swords.  
 
And on she went, eyes keen in the dark, her shoulder perched tight while her
toes made to find the next secure step, and the next, and the next. Time seemed
to pass at the blinded blink of her eyes, or mayhaps not at all. Arya felt the
blood pound through her chest, her own heartbeat a steady rhythm, pushed on
with a strange tingling sensation of unbridled excitement.  
 
She saw the light coming, but was ill prepared for it all the same.  
 
The Blackwater was blinding in the faded orange of an early sundown. The wind
whipped through her hair and raised goosebumps on her bared arms. Arya gazed
out towards the glittering ocean and let out a resounding whoop, voice shrill
and strange out in the open.   
 
It took her ages to realize how steep the cliffs were, but even when faced with
the void of height, she could feel nothing besides a rejoicing force streaming
through her fingers and toes. She would never return to the Red Keep again, a
place so hideous and mean, filled with grace, beauty and spiteful women. Young
Ladies that pitied her for her plain, long face and found her lacking, just as
mother always had.   
 
Sansa, she would have balked with going down the damp secret passage, squeamish
in her lacy gowns and dainty trinkets. But mayhaps she would have enjoyed the
sea as well. As wide as Arya’s eyes could take in, so wide that she spread her
arms and pretended for a moment to engulf it all.  
 
--- 
 
She was enraptured with a fist fight when the deafening roar started.  
 
It was a common tavern brawl between sailors foreign to the city and a few
drunkards. The flurry of movement had taken to the narrow alleys of Flea
Bottom, and shouts of merriment could be heard. The men sputtered and cursed,
some in foreign tongues, queer-sounding to Arya’s ears. The local ones verbally
debased everything that a man might own, fists flying, elbows cocked.  
 
Arya stood between other onlookers, invisible and dirty with her crawl through
the tunnels. She laughed when they did, listening to their excited chatter.  
 
Her stomach grumbled, but it was drowned with the noise.  
 
She was feeling quite lightheaded, with the hunger and the newness of the
crowded surroundings. In the back of her head lurked a small, scolding voice
that told her she had been gone for almost all of the day now. The narrow strip
of sky she could see between the crooked, shanty constructions that squeezed
along the dirt roads of Flea Bottom was already tinted in rose, indicating a
clear sundown.  
 
Septa Mordane had probably by now set half of Father's household guards to
combing through the Keep, and Sansa, well. She would probably gloat over her
absence, happy to have dinner to herself and Robb and Jayne, without any
shouting or smudging. Before bed time she would then sit with Princess
Myrcella, pretending to like Cyvasse, smiling and gentle and full of grace.  
 
Oh, but she was glad to be rid of those stupid things, to be rid of stupid
Sansa. 
 
The brawl was broken apart, and the shouts and laughter rang out against the
clank of ale tankards and the wet smacking of lips. Then the bells of the seven
crystal towers, high above them on Visenya's Hill, rang out in a deafening
silence. It swallowed all noises, the burping sounds of men satisfied, the
crackle of cooking fires, even Arya's thump-thumping heart.  
 
The sound echoed over the entire city, leaving not one crevice untouched.
Baelor the Blessed stared down onto the rabble and the filth, the whorehouses
and smithies. Arya did not notice herself covering her ears, but she was ducked
against a wall stinking sourly of piss,  eyes clenched tight while the inside
of her skull rang with the force.  
 
She thought of Nymeria then, and of Father and Robb and Sansa, suddenly afraid.
The adventure of daytime seemed to have gone fleetingly, and disorientation
took over, crowding her senses. How she wished to be in Winterfell, in the
quietness of evening, laughter muffled by summer snowfall. The blue air, cold
and crisp, with not a man in sight.  
 
She saw the wet ground beneath her feet, her paws barely touching the ground as
she ran before her pack. A few paces up front was a scent that reeked of panic,
of men, of prey. They circled him, closing in one by one, smelling the soil on
his breeches, his eyes wide open with terror. She was the one to make the lunge
– she always was.  
 
" - But he can't be -"  
 
" - only announced his victory - " 
 
" - war against Euron Crow's Eye -" 
 
"The King is dead!"  
 
Arya straightened herself, palms heavy and hot against her cheeks. The bells of
the Great Sept had ceased to ring, and chatter had broken out again, swelling
until the smallfolk of King's Landing were shouting over one another. Laughter
could be heard. Excitement lit the darkening sky as torches flared to life.  
 
Arya turned and made to run. She darted this way and that, eyes set on the
Guildhall of the Alchemists that loomed above her.  
 
Mother had always scolded her for her recklessness, her unladylike manner. If
only she could see her now, dirtied and alone, scurrying her way through the
crowded alleys of Flea's Bottom, brushing by beggars and lowly whores and half-
naked children playing in shit and mud. Something small inside her preened with
satisfaction, with anticipation of Sansa's look of shock.  
 
And Syrio, what would he say when Arya confided in him her adventures, the
secret passages beneath the Red Keep? 
 
All the same, she would now return. The hunger was gnawing away at her stomach,
and she felt itchy beneath her matted hair. It had been pulled into a twisted
braid this morning, but come loose with her activity. Septa Mordane would have
a maid draw her a hot bath, and they would bring her treats from the
kitchen... 
 
Thoughts of food filled her mind while she climbed uphill, the Keep still a
dried blood red in the fading light of day. The cake, she thought, the cake
Lord Mace had presented at Robb's betrothal. It had been twice as tall as she
was, and honey-sweet, melting on her tongue with a hint of spices, mixed in a
fashion quite foreign to her.  
 
Margaery would come back to Winterfell with them, once she had wed Robb.
Mayhaps she would bring her handmaidens, and cooks and servants. It was a happy
thought, for Margaery was kind to her, mostly. She did not expect her to be
like Sansa and thought her amusing, this Arya knew.  
 
Once they had children, and it would be very soon, according to what the
serving maids whispered, Arya could teach them how to water dance as well. Of
course, Syrio would help, but she was sure Robb would find a more fitting
position for him once Arya had learned all there was to teach.  
 
She did not hesitate even one bit, approaching the guards standing by one of
the smaller gates. She could catch a whiff of honeyed chicken, or was it pulled
pork? Her mouth watered, the aching emptiness of her stomach a rumbling
protest.  
 
They were talking to one another, and when Arya stepped closer into their line
of sight, the taller one only flicked a finger at her, as if batting away a
fly. 
 
"Let me in!" She demanded, raising her voice.  
 
They finally halted their conversation and eyed her critically. "Aye, an' what
sorta business is it that you have?" 
 
"I am late for dinner." She told them, which only prompted some snorting
laughter. Frustration rose as she stepped closer and the taller one with a
beak-like nose pulling on his sword, threatening. Arya suddenly realized they
were both wearing red cloaks, Lannister red.  
 
"I am Arya Stark, my Father is the Hand of the King!" She announced, but they
had already turned back to their conversation, low and urgent.  
 
Arya stayed near for a moment, disbelieving but all the same knowing that is
was no use to argue. The sky had turned a deep blue when she next thought to
look, and the hunger, so sharp and painful, was gone.  
 
 
 
 
Winterfell, 300 AC 
 
The white raven and the black arrived on the same day.  
 
Bran had left bed early in the morning, eager to be seated into the wicker
basket on Hodor's back. The sky was a slate grey, and overnight heavy snowfall
had turned Winterfell into the lone bastion within a sea of pure white.  
 
Mother and Maester Luwin had been absentminded, busy with the dire news from
only a few days past. Raiding boats of the Ironborn had been spotted, ravens
from Mormont's Keep and Deepwood Motte and Flint's Finger carried word of
pillage and death.  
The Lannister Fleet had retreated immediately after King Robert's passing,
whilst Paxter Redwyne prepared for his own ships to return south upon news of
raids up and along the Mander. Baelor Brightsmile had already made to return to
Oldtown, for there the sightings of longships bearing a disquieting banner,
with a red eye and a black iron crown, were twice as frequent.  
 
Theon Greyjoy, at the King's side before his untimely demise, was nowhere to be
found. 
 
Bran had only listened, seated on the middle seat of the high table with Father
and Robb both gone. It had sent his heart beating violently, and he had
forgotten the meats and bread on his plate. Euron Crow's Eye, oh, the things
they whispered about him. He had sailed the Smoking Sea and set foot on
Valyria. His ship, the Silence, was manned by muted men, monstrous and
grotesque.  
 
It sent a shiver up his spine, and lodged misery low in his throat.  
 
For he would never encounter the Crow's Eye, a cripple as he was. All he could
do was trudge along the great outer walls of Winterfell on Hodor's back, or sit
in bed with Old Nan muttering her stories.  
 
He wrote letters to Father, telling him of household matters and his own
readings, as Mother had bid him to do. He also wrote to Robb, Sansa and Arya,
telling them of stories he had found in thick tomes, going through the pages
after his lessons with Maester Luwin, stiff and unmovable.  
 
Hodor was huffing and puffing, his breath a cloud before them. The snow reached
almost to his thighs, and he hummed happily, going "Hodor, Hodor, Hodor", while
Bran stretched his arms high to touch branches and disturb the smooth layer of
snow.  
 
"Can you imagine King Robert dead?" Bran asked Hodor, who only kept on with his
hodoring, making his way around the castle grounds. "He was so large." He half
told himself, thinking back on the time when the King had come North to bring
Father back to King's Landing as his Hand.  
 
Mother had turned white as parchment, clutching the letter to her chest. She
had immediately sat down with Maester Luwin to write to Father, and even
Rickon's blubbering and wailing had not taken her from the task until it was
completed.  
 
The Godswood was still, not a ruffle to be heard. The ponds were frozen, clear
and smooth. Hodor set him down beneath the heart tree, and went on to walk
around a bit more, wandering and speaking to himself. Bran looked up into the
gnarled, ancient eyes full of fury, and forced himself to count until ten. Then
he rested against the bark, covered with hoarfrost, and watched his own breath
fog out before his eyes.  
 
Robb would soon marry, Mother had said. Father had secured the betrothal with
Mace Tyrell. His daughter, the Lady Margaery would head north with him once
Sansa was wed. They would then stand beneath this very tree, and be declared
man and wife in front of the Old Gods of the North.  
 
"She will feel very scared and alone, I imagine. The Gods know I was when I
first arrived. We must make her feel at home, otherwise she will miss the
southron pleasantries and the flowers of Highgarden." Mother had said to him,
fond and glad.
 
Bran wanted to see Highgarden, more than anything else. Well, that was not
true. He wanted to sail on ships that his namesake, Brandon Stark, the
Shipwright, had once burned. He wanted to sail into the width of the sea, until
Braavos or Mereen, until he met the Crow's Eye in combat, smashing him into the
roaring waves, where his Drowned God sat and feasted.  
 
He wanted many things, none of them more than a whisp of a dream, lodged
beneath his stiff, unmoving legs. 
 
They returned once Bran felt hunger prick at his stomach. The kitchens were
bustling and loud with noise, and he managed to sneak a loaf of bread warm and
fresh, along with dry, hard sausages that made his mouth water with salt and
garlic. He shared the food with Hodor once they were back in his chamber and
had fumbled him out of the basket.  
 
When he woke next, it was dark.  
 
Someone had lit a fire not too long ago, the flames still licking at dry wood
hesitantly. His back ached, and he desperately tried to remember the dream that
had sent him soaring, soaring in the sky, high as an eagle, but much swifter,
as if he was carried by the wings of a raven, or the wind itself.  
 
Rickon pounded in, followed by Hodor once again. They took him down to dinner,
where Mother and Maester Luwin had already taken their places. A deer had been
shot in the Wolfswood, and good cheer had spread through the castle walls when
everyone was allowed a strip of meat, still tender with a late autumn birth.  
 
Bran noticed that Mother was not eating. Hodor set him down gingerly, soft and
gentle as only a giant as him could be.  
 
Once properly seated, Bran noticed that Mother's face was pale, drawn as the
howling wind outside. There were tear tracks wet on her cheeks where she hadn't
bothered to wipe them away.  
Something inside him twister with fear, just briefly. Then he tried to suppress
the questions bubbling inside him, sitting up as straight as he could. He ate
the meat before him with measured bites, letting his eyes scan the hall, as
befitted a young Lord at the high table.  
 
Mother remained silent, but Bran could hear her laboured breathing, the way she
swallowed, as if tasting something bitter. 
 
"They have betrayed your Lord Father," Mother had finally turned towards him,
her eyes eerily quiet despite her obvious distress. "At the first moment – he
is now imprisoned, and I've no word of my children."  
 
Bran felt the air rush from his lungs, and the questions, so very many and so
very naïve, flitted away uncaringly. "But Robb?" He heard himself choke, "The
Lannisters, Mother, surely it must be - " 
 
Rickon was sitting very still for a babe so young, eyes large in his smudged
face. Bran patted him on the shorn auburn curls atop his head, awaiting
Mother's answer. The hall had grown eerily quiet, save for the clatter of pots
and plates, as if every single person could sense the waves of anxiety rolling
off their Lady.  
 
"I have no word. Save that your Lord Father has spread lies and infamy
regarding the righteous son and heir of Robert, and he is now rotting in the
black cells..." Mother caught herself and stilled into a measured silence heavy
with rage. A few seats away, Ser Rodrik gave a loud sigh, a tight, miserable
look etched onto his face. 
 
Bran thought of Jory, of Fat Tom and Hullen. Septa Mordane and Jeyne. He wanted
to ask, to know what had happened to them all, these face he could recall
before his mind's eye, clear as reflections in a still pond.  
 
He knew better than to ask.  
 
 
***** Rain and Rivers *****
The rain started driving down upon them mercilessly once they passed Harrenhal.
 
Soaked and miserable, with splashes of mud that dirtied their faces, they were
at least remotely inconspicuous. Jory was the only one still armed, the blade
of his sword concealed beneath his soggy woollen cape. He took the rear, while
Alyn and Harwin both scouted ahead, passing along the short knife that was left
to them.
 
Robb never cared to argue.
 
The cut along his ribcage had been deep, aiming for his heart. The makeshift
bandages they had torn out of a sleeve of his linen shift were soaked through
and dirtied, a nauseating rusted colour. Jory had taken a blow to his knee, and
though he never said a word and insisted on keeping up their pace, the grimace
upon his face come nightfall told Robb all he had to know.
 
They were slow. Slower still with the squelching, muddy ground beneath their
feet, the rain blurring the scenery around them with a soft veil. They never
dared to use the Kingsroad, trudging through the lighter undergrowth of the
forest, squinting to find the bleak sun for direction.
 
At night, wolves howled. That concerned him the least, for Grey Wind and Ghost
were always close. Near invisible to their human eyes, discernible only through
the slight rustling before they emerged to walk alongside him.
Besides the rage and fear that warred within him, Robb could sense their wild
joy of running free, slaver dripping at the scent of prey.
 
They barely spoke, though Alyn had burst with tears once, only a few days north
of King's Landing, sleeping between rocks, pillowing their heads on moss. He
had sworn to avenge all those dead at Lannister hands, to free Lord Eddard and
take back Arya and Sansa.
Jory had merely shushed him, eyes weary in the dark.
 
Robb could not fault them, any of them. At one moment he could feel the anger
creep through his innards, red and heated despite his concaved, empty stomach.
The next all he could feel was bone-deep exhaustion, coupled with a gnawing
fear and images of his father, limp and lifeless in the bowels of the Red Keep.
Sometimes he felt as if the world had been reduced to the endless rain and the
next excruciating step he had to take.
 
His sleep, though short, was feverish and ridden with horrors. The dead bodies
of his guards, the Northmen that followed Father to the south, loyal until
their last breath. He dreamed of the sword that inflicted his wound slicing
through him, cutting him clean in half. Ser Jaime Lannister, beautiful and
golden, smiling sardonically while chaining him to the darkest, foulest of the
black cells.
 
The Red Fork had flooded much of the surrounding areas, the ships all pulled
ashore while the smallfolk took to drier lands. They chewed on acorns and
looked for smaller game, to no avail. The beasts of the Riverlands vanished
before them, driven away by their graceless stumble.
 
And yet onwards they went.
 
Harwin made to keep up their morale. He mumbled reassuring words of plans to be
made, banners to be called, letters he had yet to write. Hoster Tully, his own
blood, his grandfather, would secure the borders against the Westerlands, he
would call his own banners in aid. His aunt Lysa ruled the Eyrie in her son's
stead. Robb was betrothed to the sole daughter of the Warden of the South. The
Lannisters would be forced to kneel under their joint wrath.
 
It calmed him at times. Yet he had never felt more alone, traveling by foot,
hiding away in the forest with the three remaining guards of the large host
that had come south with him more than a year past.
 
There were moments, far from lucidity, drenched with rain and cold, when he
allowed himself to think of Jon.
 
---
 
Riverrun loomed before them, clear to see from many leagues away.
 
The rain had softened to a cool drizzle, almost pleasant. Ghost and Grey Wind
flanked him, their presence reassuring in mind and body. Jory's laboured
breaths seemed to grow shallow and quick as the sandstone walls of the
triangular castle drew nearer.
Robb felt a dull ache inside his head, and for a moment he dared to consider
sitting down, having Alyn run forth to announce him, while he sat and rested,
for merely a moment...
 
 Thoughts of Father jerked him out of his reverie, and he felt shame burn his
cheeks already hot with fever. He would never let his men walk alone, the good
men of the North that had brought him this far, who would stand with him in the
wars to come.
 
He straightened his back despite the shot of pain at his side, and made to take
wider steps. The drawbridge ahead was raised, though he could spot guards on
top of the battlements. He could now make out the leaping Tully trout on a
field of blue and mud red.
 
The water had risen high, a swollen, brackish, living thing that surrounded the
castle and roared with the added force of its volume, the Red Fork and the
Tumblestone joining together in a deadly rush. Robb took a step ahead as Harwin
fell behind him to stand with Jory and Alyn.
 
"Who goes there?" The voice that called out was laced with apprehension. Robb
placed his hands on the backs of his direwolves, feeling the heat beneath their
damp pelts, grey and white. They had grown so large, almost bigger than the
ponies Arya and Bran used to ride, and their eyes were trained on him, blood
red and the bright yellow of autumn leaves.
 
"Robb of House Stark, son of Eddard Stark, heir to the North.”
 
He was startled by his own voice, clear and deep, unwavering. The ache behind
his forehead throbbed viciously, matching the pulsating pain of his wound. His
hands were fisted in the heavy fur at his wolve’s napes, and for a moment he
thought of sitting again.
 
Then the drawbridge creaked, and Harwin let out a cry of triumph, or mayhaps
relief.
 
He did not remember much of the occurrences after that.
 
A steward named Wayn, servants, smallfolk, his uncle Edmure. A maester, thank
the Old Gods and the new. A maester.
 
When he woke again the day was dawning.
 
The wide window showed him a clouded, dull sky, thanklessly void of rain. He
barked a laugh, and a jolt of pain went up his spine, stilling his movements
beneath the furs. His wound was properly dressed, and he could feel the
ointment on his skin, tacky and burning, no doubt ridding the cut of its
festering elements.
 
His mind jumped to his men, Jory’s knee, but he knew they would be treated
well. Then he closed his eyes and thought of Ghost and Grey Wind, resting
together in the kennels, the whimper and scuffle of the hounds surrounding
them.
 
His wolves.
 
They had saved them, fearsome and savage, tearing through the line of Lannister
guards that had come for Robb. How they had lept, jaws loose and stained red
with warm blood.
 
Robb had run with them, followed them without even a thought, his legs
straining. A few of his men had kept up, but most had taken on the attackers in
a righteous battle. Harwin and Alyn had always been the fastest, and they were
young. Jory had simply never let Robb out of his sight, racing behind him,
fiercely determined.
 
And there they were.
 
Four men of Winterfell, all that was left. The rest they had killed, of that
Robb was certain. Their heads rotting on spikes in the unnatural southron heat.
 
He then thought of Arya, and panic spiked through his chest, adding to the
chaotic addled mess within his head. They had searched for her all through the
night, Fat Tom leading a group of four, combing through the Hand's Tower, the
Keep altogether. Come morning father had left to speak with Queen Cersei, and
then it had all gone to the Seven Hells and back.
 
Mayhaps she had hidden herself away, scurrying amongst the smallfolk and the
servants as she always did.
 
Sansa, Sansa had been in her chambers the whole time, of that he was sure. Oh,
how she adored the Queen and her betrothed, the twisted little golden Joffrey.
Robb tried to sit, groaning when his muscles disobeyed, weak with the long
journey and his festering wound. He cursed himself inwardly, then loudly,
because Gods, he was so weak , and Father, Father was in a cell and Arya was
gone and everyone else was dead.
 
He wiped at his face, noticing the hot tears that had found their way down his
cheeks somehow. The shock coursed through him and for a moment he struggled for
air, throat constricted with rage and fear. He choked, fists tight in the
bedding, yanking at the fine linen until it subsided.
 
He blinked a few times, breathing deep before pushing himself to a sitting
position, calling for a maid, once again surprised with the calmness of his own
voice.
 
---
 
Hoster Tully did not recognize him, not the first time he sat at his bedside,
not the second time and not the third.
 
Edmure, for all his boyish nonchalance and high-handed talk, was fast to act:
He had written to Winterfell at once, and called on his own bannermen to
assemble. Robb sat with him for hours on end, flesh still tender and bruised,
head pounding with a dull ache that did not recede even as the sky cleared.
 
They received word of raids along the Mander, the western coast and the North.
On the second day after his arrival, a total of three ravens came at first
dawn. One of Wayfarer's Rest, the other from Dragonstone, a third from
Highgarden.
 
Maester Vyman, lined and wrinkled with age, trudged upon them with the letters
clutched in his shaking hands during a bland breakfast of oat and fried meats.
They reconvened in the triangular solar, Lord Hoster's nonsensical, elusive
muttering vaguely audible in the background.
 
"Lord Vance has written. His land was burned and pillaged, babes and womenfolk
alike put to the sword. They speak of a fearsome rider, taller than any man,
rabid as a wild hound."
 
Robb felt shoulders tensing around him, and the pain felt close to splitting
his skull: "Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that rides."
 
"Of course, who else? I shall take up arms and call the banners! If the
Lannisters mean to go to war then they shall have it!" Edmure had flushed an
unbecoming red that matched his kempt, auburn locks as the Tully men crowded
together to read through Karyl Vance's hurried script.
 
Robb stopped reading half-way through, but forced himself to go on. The
holdfast of Sherrer had been all but decimated, burned to the ground. The
fields, carrying the last of the autumn harvest, trampled and put to the torch.
Wayn, the steward, gave a breathless curse. A long summer brought a long
winter, any Lord could ill-afford losses such as these.
 
The second letter, filled with straight, unforgiving writing, came from none
other than Stannis Baratheon himself. He had declared himself the rightful King
to sit the Iron Throne, pronouncing Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen the spawn of
incestuous relations between the Queen and her brother Ser Jaime.
 
"He has sent a letter to every holdfast near and far, from Dorne to Castle
Black." The Maester looked old and anxious, but spoke on in a quavering voice:
"He has voiced his support for your Lord Father, Eddard, as he claimed the same
allegations against the Queen and her children."
 
They stood in silence while Lord Hoster spoke confusedly of tansy and blood.
 
A flurry broke out when the third parchment was spread open, grand and hefty as
all things from Highgarden seemed to be. Robb seized it in astonishment, the
many voices a rumble in his head as he read.
 
Renly Baratheon. Declared King. Joyous wedding to Margaery of House Tyrell.
 
His eyes flitted back and forth as he struggled to collect his thoughts. The
men had fallen silent again, eyes fixed on him. Uncle Edmure made to open his
mouth a few times, stopping himself before the words could tumble out.
 
The South was gone, the swift victory he had hoped for. Instead of a crushing
blow delivered jointly to the Westerlands, to the vicious Cersei Lannister
holding Father and Sansa prisoner, to her preening cock of a brother and their
cold-eyed sire Tywin, he was now stranded in Riverrun, waiting on word from the
North.
 
Margaery, sweet and supple and gentle as a briar rose, laughing in his ear as
she tucked him into a corner of the Maidenvault, whispering of inconsequential
things, eyes bright with mirth.
 
It took him a moment to realize that what rose in his throat was neither regret
nor sadness, but a choking humiliation mingled with contempt. How naïve he had
been, a green boy in the grasps of niceties and sweet words, easily charmed
with cake and a maiden's flush.
 
"We shall declare for none." Robb heard himself say, placing the fragrant
parchment on the handsome oaken table for all to see. "I will neither mourn a
gone betrothal with a House of oath breakers, nor meddle in the petty affairs
of Baratheons. Let them fight one another, no Rivermen, no men of the North
shall take part."
 
A chorus of approving murmurs followed his words. Edmure clapped a heavy hand
on his shoulder, while the captain of the guard, Robin Ryger, nodded with eyes
solemn. Robb steeled himself under the laden gazes of Tully men and found Jory,
Harwin and Alyn at the back if the room, standing guard despite their position
as guests.
 
As much as Highgarden had disheartened him, it was irrelevant when he looked to
his wounded men.
 
He would take back Father and his sisters. He would avenge the deaths as it
befitted vile Lannister treachery. Then a new bride would be found, a daughter
of the North, mayhaps a Lady of the Riverlands. It mattered naught.
 
"I shall wait for my Lady Mother's word.”
 
–
 
The first few nights the dreams plagued him despite drinks of dreamwine
sweetend with honey and clove.
 
He woke with startled thoughts of Arya and Sansa, of Bran, pale and unmoving in
his bed, of Mother’s pained cries. At times he thought of Margaery, and the
towering southron cake, bedecked in buds of flowers and sugary crystals. How
very pleased his sisters had been on the day of his betrothal – Sansa openly,
Arya begruding and slow.
 
Confusedly, he thought of Bran and Rickon, how they might have liked the cakes
and sweets and pretty baubles.
 
The pleasantries, the innocent childhood smiles, they were all beyond him now.
During the sleepless haze that provided him with images of his sisters and
brothers, of a future that could have been, he knew all that awaited him now
was war.
 
A war fought to retrieve his sisters and free his Father.
 
And while something inside him itched to spring into action, to charge into
King’s Landing and burn the wretched castle with its nauseating red walls to
the ground, another part froze with fear and grief and apprehension.
 
I am yet no leader, no Lord, he whispered to himself in the hour of the bat,
Gods willing Father will live a long life.
 
The dead of night gave way to another gust of drizzling rain, and the waters
surrounding Riverrun seemed to roar, a soft background noise to the voices in
his sleepless, addled mind.
 
The first few times he pleasured himself thinking of Jon, guilt almost
threatened to strangle him. For it was a reprieve in a corner of his mind,
where he was heir to none, and no one’s eldest, with no duty and no burden.
There he was merely in a simple chamber, with a boy that left trails of kisses
down his shoulders that burned to his very core.
 
Jon would quirk the corner of his mouth in a half-smile, and call him “M’lord”,
then he would speak of his travails and his readings, of the other boy whores.
He would listen raptly while Robb prattled on about things bygone and
irrelevant, and laugh when he found matters amusing.
 
He realized it slowly, waking up from his fitfull night. He would most likely
not see him again. Jon, like all the simple, sweet things he once had, was now
of the past. Miles upon miles stretched between them, and Robb would only ever
see King’s Landing again astride a destrier, leading his host in a charge or a
siege.
 
It did not stop him from working his fist up and down the shaft of his cock,
frustration and arousal heavy at the back of his throat, whilst images of Jon
flitted by, his arms and calloused hands, the tip of his nose buried against
the flat of Robb’s stomach, his shoulders and the dip at the bottom of his
spine.
 
–
 
Hoster Tully passed on the sixth day after their arrival.
 
The Gods took him quietly, dozing in his bed, propped up with cushions and
furs, muttering on matters only he himself understood.
 
Edmure cried all throughout the day, eyes redrimmed and glassy, while busying
himself with preperation for the final passage. It was almost a relief as the
castle sprung into frenzied action, tense with the perpetual waiting and the
driving Autumn rain.
 
Robb stepped out of their way, confined himself to his chambers, with only
parchment and ink as company. The letters he wrote felt stifled and boyish, yet
every morn Maester Vyman sent out a flock of his ravens, to announce to the
realm the passing of a great Lord, a man that upheld the words of his House,
that brought peace and prosperity to his lands.
 
A man who unequivocally supported Robb Stark’s cause.
 
The evening after the funeral, after seeing the burning body torn down the
river in a frenzied current, he sat and wrote to Jon. Not as a token of
affection, or in the hopes of ever seeing him again – no, it was for himself,
for his own mind that knew not how to let go.
 
 
***** Bread and Blood *****
The riots started once the last caskets of ale dried out in the taverns. 
 
Jon woke to the sickly wail of hungry babes and the desperate pleadings of thin
mothers, young and old, that lined the Street of Silk fom dawn to dusk. They
would spread their legs eagerly for a wedge of stale bread, for something their
children could suckle on. 
 
The price for whores had never been lower. 
 
Yet none came, for without nourishment, without at least a mouthful of sludge,
a man is no man at all. Tanae made Madam Rivers’ boy whores watery broth cooked
from bones thrice-used and sucked of its marrow. 
 
The wealthy firmly shut their doors, and whispers started travelling in the
night – how Queen Cersei, the brotherfucker, the vile bitch, feasted on roasted
suckling pig and young turnips, on fresh trout and creamed soup. She would let
her golden little bastards indulge until the smallfolk of the city had starved
before the gates of the Red Keep. 
 
It had been more than a moon’s turn now. Jon could scarcely believe how the
time had flown, as every minute seemed to stretch on with the dull pang of his
empty stomach. Renly Baratheon and his Tyrell host had closed off the South,
and with it the Rose Road. Rumours had circulated, as they always did,
overblown, with added tidbits, but this stood true: Renly had wed the sweet
Lady Margaery, and declared himself King. 
 
On the battlements of the Red Keep, another Boy-King had speared the blackened,
rotten heads of fifty Northmen and a Septa. 
 
– 
 
Lyan was the first one that did not wake from slumber. 
 
Jon carried him from his cot, hands cold and clammy despite the unrelenting sun
beating down upon their misery. They had all known that the younger ones would
go first, yet it made something inside him deaden into a heavy tangle of dread,
a screaming feeling that would not leave him despite all the air he sucked in. 
 
Little Lyan, thin as a bird, with eyes so large and laughter so joyous. 
 
I wanted to leave, Jon told the Gods afterwards, I never wanted to know him. I
should be at the wall, with Edric. I should be on the bottom of the Narrow Sea,
with Mother. Whyever am I still here? Why? 
 
The darkness failed to answer. 
 
– 
 
The city was at a stand still, the bustle and noise gone from the
crooked alleys and squares. The dogs and cats had been eaten, and pidgeons were
scarce to be had. Without his daily work, and with no strength in his arms and
back, Jon stayed curled beneath the narrow window above his cot and gazed at
the sky, an uncaring, striking autumn blue. 
 
He allowed himself the distraction of the heavy parchment once a day. Only
once. 
 
Making sure that no one was near, he would sneak a hand into the makeshift
pouch around his neck and glide his dirt-caked, rough fingers over the dollop
of hardened wax. Then he would shield the letter with his back, and fold it
open gently, eyes darting over the sharp, elegant script as fast as he could
without missing a word. 
 
Every time he looked upon it, the gnawing hunger settling in his
concaved stomach would still, his heartbeat would still, and the world, the
wretched city of King’s Landing would cease to exist. 
 
“The year is 299 AC under his Grace Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name,”
he would mumble the words, just for himself to hear, to grasp. “I hereby make
it known to the Seven Kingdoms that Jon Sand is mine own natural born son.” 
 
His eyes would skip over the signature of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell,
Warden of the North. Then, with barely a tremor to his hands, he would refold
the parchment and slide it back into the secret confines beneath his tunic. 
 
The disbelieve, the blankess of shock left him reeling every single time.
Somewhere in the bowels of the Red Keep, chained in a black cell, lay his
father. 
 
While Jon curled in on himself in the darkest corner the brothel he called home
could offer. 
 
– 
 
Jon saw her the first time whilst raiding the empty market stalls for waste and
refuse. 
 
He had plucked a few salvagable roots from the destruction riots inevitably led
to, the rotten smell barely tickling his nostrils, when she darted from her
hiding place behind a pile of crates, a lump clutched in her skinny arms. 
 
He would not have recognized her if his dreams weren’t so full of Robb,
handsome, rosy-cheeked and smiling. She was stickly thing, caked with a solid
layer of grime, eyes huge in her gaunt little face. 
 
He knew her in an instant. 
 
Lady Arya Stark, reported missing at first, then supposedly recaptured and
brought to captivity with her older sister in the Hand’s Tower. What a pair
they had been, riding fine mares, dressed in cloth-of-silver with
the direwolf leaping on their gowns. 
 
His sisters. 
 
The mangled street urchin he now faced shied back once she spotted him, hands
clutching her bundle even tighter. 
 
A pidgeon, Jon realized in awe – how ever did she manage to capture a pidgeon? 
 
“M’lady Arya,” he heard his own voice croak out, rough with disuse. A part of
him that longed to read the letter again froze in anticipation, that she might
recognize him, might look to him and somehow see the shared blood that flowed
through both their veins, albeit sluggishly with hunger and dehydration. 
 
He managed to blink once, in his exhaustion, and she was gone. 
 
- 
 
The anger swept over the streets and crooked little lanes like wildfire, the
crowd that gathered outside the gates of the Red Keep swelled in numbers.
Starvation forced out the ugly side of men. Like rabid street dogs, they were
felled down by righteously honed, gleaming swords. Queen Cersei, the vile
bitch, the one that had brought all of this upon them, did not stir within the
walls of her fort.   
 
The dead littered the streets, with none to claim the bodies. 
 
Blackwater Bay was devoid of fish after so many moon’s turns, yet miraculously,
a bony little boy whore managed to catch one, a glibbery, sorry little thing
which they cooked in a pot full of water with a handful of salt. Jon ate his
portion, nose filled with the waft of hot soup, savouring the tendrils of meat
on his tongue. 
 
It was mayhaps the best thing he had tasted in all his life. 
 
Later on, he would think back on the watery fish stew, and thank the Gods for
granting him nourishment, for he would not have had the strength, otherwise. 
 
Gold cloaks streamed out of the Keep under the glaring sun at noon, clearing
away a path to the Great Sept of Baelor, blocking off the gathering crowd,
mangled and foul, hungry for bread and for blood. Jon crept closer, standing
towards the back, eyes darting to and fro, a jittery feeling sending shudders
up and down the bony knobs of his spine. 
 
It started as a low hum, rising until it was a deafening roar – the gates of
the Red Keep, so keenly visible upon its high seat, had opened, and a
procession, glittering and dignified, started down street. 
 
A woman next to him was screeching, voice hoarse with overuse, mouth torn wide
open, so much so that her cracked lips were bleeding, fresh, scarlet drops of
life. Jon backed away from her, bumping into another fellow, yelling
profanities, foaming with his desperation, with his anger. 
 
“Let us starve! Let us starve! I’ll kill you and cut you open for my
children!” 
 
Jon felt numb, swept up in the wave of fury, while his eyes focussed on the
oncoming procession, the grotesque parade, with Queen Cersei, her children, her
twisted little dwarf brother, the shining white cloaks of the Kingsguard.
Raised high on a wagon, with his hand and feet bound, slumping to the side, was
Lord Eddard Stark. 
 
Jon felt the air leave his lungs, he felt the need to lunge forward, to stop
the wagon and cradle Ned Stark’s head, to call him Father! Father, why ever did
you leave me? Leave me to rot and to starve? Leave me a whore and a nameless
bastard? Why ever did you not take me with you? So I could grow alongside Robb,
and never know the shame of fucking my brother, so I could hold my head high,
and love him as it befitted my station. 
 
He squeezed through the crowd, his elbows sharp when someone would not budge.
The grand marble steps before the Great Sept had to be forcefully cleared,
again and again. Many of the smallfolk had been sleeping before the gates, and
their filth, the ragged bundles had to be swept away under the threat of
death. 
 
Jon could see the Queen now, Cersei, so golden, beautiful as the sun, shielding
her lower face in disgust against the stench of poverty. Joffrey, the boy King,
the supposed bastard, stood straight, face raised towards the cloudless sky,
barely taller than his mother. He had the Lannister beauty, that much was true.
His eyes were bright in his young face, as he surveyed the masses that had come
at his behest. 
 
Eddard Stark was half carried to the top of the stairs, where he kneeled,
boneless and gaunt with exhaustion. His left thigh was held awkwardly, injured
and ill-treated, that seemed obvious to Jon, even from this distance. The black
cells had almost sufficed in killing the Warden of the North. 
 
Father! He called out, in his head, tears stinging his eyes, the noise
suffocating, pressing down on him. He forced himself to lower his head as a
booming voice read out something or other. Vertigo was swirling the thoughts in
his head, until they were a solid tangle, a dreaded ball of lead. 
 
He then looked to his right, and saw her, at once. 
 
She was not paying much attention to her surroundings, nor was she aiming to
remain inconspicuous – Lady Arya Stark had her neck craned, standing on the
tips of her toes, eyes wide in her dirtied, pale face. 
 
Jon watched her, watched the tension in her body coil, before he sprang
forwards, grasping her arms in a forced, shuddering hug while she trashed and
screamed. 
 
“No! Father! Father! No! Let go of me, stupid! Let go! Father!” 
 
Jon held on, squeezing his eyes shut, while a brief silence settled itself, and
then a sharp, wet sound rang out, followed by the hollow thunk of administered
death. In his arms, Arya Stark struggled, howling her agony. 
 
After a few moments, he managed to gather his wits about him, and dragged her
backwards, away from the stairs that led to nothing but a corpse. Around them,
the heavy silence was torn apart with a rupturing scream, and a commotion broke
out as people surged towards the Queen, her ladies-in-waiting, her guards,
grabbing thin air with claw-like, crusted hands. 
 
Jon ignored the bloodshed and the commotion. He ignored the wails of womenfolk
and the ringing of swords hastily drawn. He spoke into Arya Stark’s ear, urgent
and low, words tumbling from his mouth: “You must stop, my Lady, you must stop
screaming, the Queen will find you, she will put you in a black cell, I beg
you, I beg you, you must – “ 
 
- 
 
Thinking back, Jon realized that they had been barely at all visible,
struggling in a sea of tumult, appearing as two bedraggled children of Flea
Bottom. 
 
It had scarcely mattered to him then, so fearful of discovery, of another
severed head, of another family tie taken away from him. Another fantasy of
home he had harbored ever since he had been handed the letter.
 
He knew not how they made their way back to the Street of Silk, nor how
he settled Arya Stark upon his cot. He knew, however, that she shook like a
leaf, crying desperate tears which mingled with globs of snot, coating the
lower part of her face. He also knew that dusk and dawn both passed them by
while he sat with her, listening to the pained noises of her sleep. 
 
Tanae came to him with a flask of water, some hours after the sun had risen to
another scorching autumn day. She whispered of the dead, knights torn from
their destriers, Ladies raped and hung naked for all to see, mountains of
mangled bodies,  all that was left from the brief insurgence. 
 
Eddard Stark’s head had not been the only one that rolled. 
 
She woke at sundown, after nearly two days of exhausted slumber. Jon offered
her slow drinks of water and spoke in hushed tones. He repeated what he had
heard on the streets, news that had travelled from mouth to mouth: Stannis
Baratheon would set sail soon enough, he too had declared himself the rightful
heir to the Iron Throne. Or mayhaps Euron Crow’s Eye would pillage the city,
set it on fire. A blessing, Jon mused angrily, a true blessing if it ended this
siege, the useless death and starvation. 
 
“Your brother, Robb. Word is that he is at Riverrun, calling his banners. He
may come for you, very soon.” 
 
The words were spoken before he realized that hot tears had leaked from his
eyes. Deep down, in a selfish, petty corner of his frazzled mind, he wanted
Robb to come for him, as well. To stride into the city, with bread and dried
meats, and cradle Jon to his chest. 
 
Arya Stark, with her eyes half-opened and her lips dry and chapped, looked at
him, sluggish, slow. Then she nodded, as if grateful for his foolish words of
hope, and drifted to her fatigue. 
 
She did not wake for another day. 
 
- 
 
She sat herself upright at the break of dawn, sharp and whip-thin. Jon rose to
his feet, mind still sleep-addled and weak with horrific dreams, grasping hands
and the skeleton that Lian had been at his death, the
skeleton Edric mayhaps had already become, far away at the Wall. 
 
“You’re Robb’s whore-friend.” She said in a quiet, clear voice, accepting
the water skin with small, steady hands. Her eyes were stormy, dark, almost
black in the muted light, but Jon knew they were grey, same as his own. 
 
“I am.” he croaked out after a few moments of silence, for it was the truth. 
 
She regarded him with furrowed brows, before inclining her head in a gesture
solely reserved for the highborn. As unconventional as she was, Arya was a Lady
still, the daughter of a great Lord that once was. “He likes you, I think.” 
 
Jon barked a laugh, his chest constricting with guilt and pleasure, a painful
mixture that had him gasping for air quietly. 
 
“What’s your name?” she demanded, resting her back against the wall, her
fingers nibbling at the waterskin, a nervous gesture, he thought, cataloguing
it in a far corner of his mind. 
 
“Jon.” 
 
“I’m Arya Stark.” 
 
“Yes, m’lady, I’m aware.” 
 
She snorted softly, eyes darting to see if any of the other boy-whores had
woken: “Don’t call me that, stupid.” 
 
She took a bleak meal of dried roots with them once the sun had properly risen,
and disappeared for most of the day before returning with a pidgeon, dirt
caking her face, her brown hair a wild, filthy tangle atop her head. It was
such a simple pleasure, the mouthful of meat, cooked once again in the pot with
the lid barely raised, in order to avoid unwanted attentions. 
 
The younger whores crowded around her; Suspiciously at first, fascinated once
she produced a slim, light blade from beneath her tunic. It was castle-forged,
a good sword, a foreign sword, as far as Jon could tell. She told them to call
her Arry, a boy’s name, and recounted the tale of her thievery regarding the
blade. 
 
He watched her from afar, going after what little business he had left,
ignoring the tender ache inside his chest that convulsed and bled whenever she
grinned. She did not grin very often. 
It was like gazing upon a looking-glass, her face, long and somber, like his
own. Her dark hair, the slope of her nose.   
 
- 
 
On the fifth day after her arrival at Madam Rivers’, Arya Stark sought him out
while he was attempting to wash, out back on his own. 
 
Her tunic was stiff with sweat and dirt, yet her eyes were large and alert,
gazing at him without wavering: “I must go to Riverrun. Mother will be there.
She might bring Bran and Rickon.” 
 
Jon held his breath while they looked at each other, faces so similar,
mirroring one another, related in blood but seperated by all else. 
 
“Of course.” 
 
- 
 
It was not well planned, yet they were not keen to speak on strategies, anxious
with the possibility of failure. Arya argued with him, and strangely enough, he
found himself talking back, their voices heated with frustration. In the end,
they decided to rely on their ragged appearances, their quickness, and the
vicious jabs of Needle which Arya repeatedly promised. 
 
Jon kept his pouch of gold a secret, a last chance lest they were captured. 
 
They had been speaking about their route north-bound for two nights before he
realized that he had not once thought to question the decision of leave, to
follow his half-sister, to act as her protector. To serve her.
 
He would have to part with Tanae, gentle, good Tanae, his remaining mother. He
would leave the other boy whores, who he all knew by name, their faces dear and
familiar. 
 
He would leave his life in King’s Landing, a life he had come to loath with all
his might, and take comfort in, all the same. 
 
Yet what beckoned him was more, it was something he had never truly posessed:
brothers, sisters, a House, a lineage to trace, though a lowly bastard he still
remained. I should be a Snow, he thought to himself, again and again, I
should’ve been Jon Snow. 
 
The scenes played out before his mind’s eye, how he would’ve grown to be of
age, wearing fine clothing, playing with his half-brothers in the unknown place
that was the North, ruffling through Arya’s hair with confidence of securely-
held love. Eddard Stark had been a man of honour, he would not have treated him
poorly – he would have raised Jon as one of his own. 
 
Then he thought again of Tanae, of Edric, of his mother, dead and gone, and he
knew that it was a lost cause. He would always remain a child of Dorne, a child
of his mother. A Sand. 
 
Then, of course, there was Robb. But he was by now very much accustomed to
thinking of Robb, his brother, the man that ghosted through his mind
incessantly. 
 
- 
 
The walls of King’s Landing had been fortified hastily, with whatever material
there was to be had. The news of Renly’s challenge to his nephew’s throne had
come as a shock, and the Queen, in her paranoia, had ordered all the gates
barred, lest a spy of Highgarden might find their way in.
 
“I can swim, if we must.” She told him on the eve of their departure, hand
balled beneath her tunic, no doubt holding her Needle where no one could see.
“If none of the gates work – we’ll sneak out as smugglers.”
 
“Yes,” Jon said, his throat parched and dry. “If we must.”
***** Of Maidens Fair and Bold *****
Chapter Summary
     Roslin, Sansa, Margaery.
The Twins, 300 A.C.
 
Roslin woke to teetering and screeching, a busy rumble, a multitude of voices,
yelling, chattering, complaining. Outside the window, the sun was a pale, wan
thing, and next to her Arwyn was still deep in slumber, snoring with her mouth
open.
 
The door to their little chamber shook with sudden impact, and Bee stuck her
head in, grinning gap-toothed with excitement: “Ros, they’ve spotted the first
riders!”
 
Arwyn groaned and pulled the duvet higher to cover her face, muffling her
curses from the little one. Roslin stood, hands reaching up to tie away her
long, brown tresses, flattened with sleep. She would have to wash, again, if
they were to be presented to the King in the North by noon.
 
“Sister, you must get up, or the septas will come and drag you to prayer.”
 
Arwyn pushed away the furs, eyes squinted in her anger. Blessedly, she had
inherited none of the famed weaselly Frey features – her hair was a mess of
black curls, her skin tepid but clear of blemishes. She had the Farring nose,
sharp and pointed, though rumors spoke much less forgivingly of her dark
colouring.
“I care not if it is Black Walder or Old Walder that sired me,” she had once
told Roslin in the dead of the night, with their beds pushed together, trading
whispers and giggles. “I’m of no consequence here, either way.”
 
Roslin agreed, though she kept her tongue. At times when Mother still lived she
had made sure to seat her children near the high table, to have them presented
just after Stevron and his lot. Now she just stood amongst the women, between
Arwyn, Shirei and Fat Walda.
 
“Is it not ludicrous? You can rest assured that I’m not to be chosen. By
anyone! Why must I rise to greet the bloody Stark King?” Arwyn swung her legs
off the bed and trudged over to the door in her nightgown, pale shoulders
raised defensively.
 
They broke their fast in the kitchens, as usual, with servants milling about
and children underfoot. A feast was being prepared for evenfall, when the
betrothal of a lucky Frey girl to the King in the North would be announced.
Fair Walda nibbled at her bread next to her mother, Deana, who shared her
pretty features and disdainful smile. She was hiding her anxiety very badly,
for her cheeks were splotchy with colour.
 
Beautiful as she was, everyone agreed that she would be made Queen.
 
Fat Walda did not concern herself with such matters. She was chewing away at
her fried meat, her tray of porridge already gone. She smiled kindly at the
little ones, and giggled with Roslin when Fair Walda dropped her spoon and
stained her gown.
 
“He’ll offer us both – mayhaps grandfather has a plan!” Serra and Sarra were
arguing with Marissa, who had stuck up her pug nose and claimed that she was
more likely to be chosen than either of them. “Passage for an army, two Queens
for the King!”
 
Arwyn snorted, mopping up the fat on her plate with a crust of bread: “Listen
to them, yapping on and on, like chickens, truly. Though much less useful,
couldn’t even slather them with butter and roast them for the feast.”
 
Roslin tapped her thigh beneath the table, biting her lip to hide the laughter.
Little Emberlei slid off her mother’s lap, crawling on all fours before
reaching their end of the table, big blue eyes widened: “Will you marry the
king, Rossy?”
 
“Of course not, silly babe.” Roslin carded her hands through the limp, mousy
brown hair atop her head. She already had her Lord grandfather’s weak chin and
long nose, but her eyes were wide, long-lashed and the clear, dark Lefford blue
of her Lady mother Leonella. She crawled back towards her sisters, bickering
quietly amongst themselves, while the youngest, Leana, cooed at a nursemaid’s
tit.
 
At times Roslin found a vague amazement in the numbers of her sisters, nieces
and great-nieces. Yet she could not ever picture another life, void of busy
banter and laughter, with only a husband and servants for company.
 
It seemed such a cold, listless existence.
 
-
 
Olyvar found her in her chambers after she had washed and dressed herself,
sticking his head in the door with a jest on his lips that died as soon as he
set eyes upon her: “Sister, I thought you quite lacking in ambition – it seems
I’ve been wrong.”
 
Roslin frowned at him, eyes dropping to regard her plain blue gown, her simple,
braided hair and the matching slippers on her feet. She wore a necklace that
Mother had once brought with her from Rosby in her trousseau, a fine, dainty
bauble of silver and bright moonstones. “Is it too much, do you reckon?”
 
Olyvar stepped closer, mouth pressed into an unforgiving line. He had a
handsome face, Roslin thought. The most comely of Old Walder’s sons, with a
straight nose and their mother’s full-lipped smile. He was now nine-and-ten,
and King Robb had promised to take him as his squire in the wars to come – a
great honour, indeed.
 
“You are most beautiful, Roslin.” He smoothed a hand down her side while she
shook her head tersely, leaning against his bony shoulder in a gesture familiar
and soothing.
 
“You are wrong, brother, Fair Walda will be Queen, and I shall remain here as
you head for the Westerlands. I’ll pray for you, of course. If the Gods grant
it, you will return to me unscathed.”
 
They stood for a moment, immobile with the impending departure.
 
They had sought solace in one another often after Mother’s passing. He had
always loved her best, closest in age and ready for mischief. Roslin shuddered
with the thought of him leaving, to fight against such men as the Mountain who
could tear him clean in half with just a swing of their blades.
 
She huddled closer, lacing her arms around him, eyes wide as he bent to place a
kiss against her forehead, then her cheek, finally her lips. Oh, she would give
him her maidenhead, any time he wanted. Better than Old Walder, her Lord father
taking a fancy to her, or mayhaps Black Walder, or any other half-sibling. The
Targaryens had been the only ones to wed brother and sister before Gods and
men, but they were not the only ones that practiced it with regularity and
fervour.
 
What is so wrong in loving Olyvar, when he has only ever been kind to me?, she
asked herself, as she often did. May the Seven forgive me, but what is so
wrongwith love, true and faithful?
 
-
 
The King in the North looked tired at best, utterly lacking in interest at
worst.
 
He had the auburn Tully looks, broad, stocky shoulders and a bronze band that
adorned his head, no wider than three of a man’s fingers, plain and somber. He
had greeted them with the utmost courtesy, bowing his head as deep as a King
could, answering Lord Father’s smug inquiries with poise. Next to him stood his
mother, Lady Catelyn, white as a sheet from the exertions of swift travel, with
a down turned mouth and taxing eyes, but just as graceful.
 
North of the Twins, an army of twelve-thousand waited for their passage south.
 
Roslin stood with ten of her kin, made pretty with powders and rouge at the
last minute, the youngest but two-and-ten, the eldest nearing her thirtieth
nameday.
 
“I’ve something for every man’s taste here, heh, won’t you agree, your Grace?
Let me, let me do the honour of introducing them, here, who do we have? Arwyn,
yes, very nice, her mother was a pretty Farring wench, heh, now, these are –
Sarra and Serra, or something along those lines, yes, yes. Walda, you’ve seen,
heh, another Walda, now this is, this is Roslin, yes, Rosby mother, healthy as
can be, you see...”
 
King Robb inclined his head while Father went through the possible brides,
watery eyes leering with contentment. He looked at each of them without pausing
or lingering very long at all. Roslin kept her eyes trained on the far wall,
though occasionally she darted glances at Catelyn Stark and the worried crease
betwixt her eyes.
 
How stoic she seemed, with her head held high, her hair worn in plain braids,
the Northern style. How she must fear for her daughters in King’s Landing, both
held by Queen Cersei. The city was besieged, cut off from the fruitful soil of
the Reach. No farmer’s wagon passed the gates of the city, or so they were
told.
 
Fat Walda gave a nervous giggle, bundled in the large, pink confection of her
gown. Roslin jerked out of her reverie and squeezed her warm, sweaty hand
discreetly, sharing a brief look of miserable understanding. Fair Walda
twitched nervously, hands clapped before her demurely – the spots of red were
on her cheeks still.
 
“They are all very beautiful, my Lord.” the King said after a moment of silence
had passed and his northern Lords, burly and rough-looking, regarded the line
of women with appraising eyes.
 
In the back of the hall, Roslin could make out Olyvar’s tuft of hair.
 
“Nonsense, your Grace, heh, do you not spy the fat one?” Old Walder waved his
hand impatiently, almost smacking his young wife Joyeuse across her pale face.
“Choose one, I urge you, a man must make up his mind swiftly, heh. But mark my
word, a Frey of the Crossing comes from fertile stock – you must never again
fear for heirs.”
 
King Robb stood quite still. He dearly wants more time, Roslin thought to
herself, he’s not eager to bed one of us many weasels. She felt an itch at the
base of her spine, and stood up straighter in order to avoid the sensation. She
had lost sight of Olyvar, as the crowds that lined the walls seemed to have
grown in numbers.
 
And true enough, the King excused himself briefly and spoke to the Lady Catelyn
in low, urging tones. The hall was stifled with uncomfortable glances and loud
whispers.
 
After what seemed an eternity, the King in the North nodded towards his Lady
Mother and turned back to Old Walder, speaking in a sure, deep voice: “The Lady
Roslin has very much caught my attentions, my Lord.”
 
She then saw him, her beloved brother, face an unreadable, stony mask. Beside
her, Fair Walda gave an undignified screech.
 
 
 
 
 
 
The Red Keep, King’s Landing, 300 AC
 
The King summoned Sansa after five days of blessed silence.
 
Joffrey was seated on a pompous chair, lined with red velvet and studded with
golden ornaments. Behind him loomed the Iron Throne, twisted and hideous,
utterly empty as neither Joffrey nor his Queen Mother would sit upon it.
 
“There goes the Northern bitch!” Joffrey declared once Ser Boros had escorted
her to stand before him. Sansa lowered her head and slouched her shoulders, as
befitted the daughter and sister of traitors. “We’ve news for you.”
 
Sansa closed her eyes for but a moment, nausea threatening to spill the meager
meal she had taken at noon. Robb will come, he’ll run you through with his
sword. Ghost and Grey Wind, they’ll savage you, she whispered in her mind. Just
you wait, Joffrey.
 
“Yes, your Grace.”
 
The great hall was quite empty, though Ser Dontos lurked about in the
background, wearing an ill-fitting jester’s suit, with a checkered hat and
tingling bells. The guards with their Lannister red cloaks stood at their
assigned places, eyes passive, with no inkling of interest in the going-ons
unless called upon by their Lord and King.
They hadn’t stepped in to stop any of her beatings, they might as well had been
statues.
 
The Hound was positioned to the left of Joffrey’s fine seat, a scowl adorning
his frightful visage. Sansa looked to him, appreciating his scarred, awful face
for a few moments before turning her gaze to her betrothed.
A servant hurried ahead with a plate of sugared dates, which Joffrey waved away
after a taste. Fresh fruits had become difficult to come by, though the
kitchens were trying their best to serve the usual meals still.
 
“Ser Boros, Ser Meryn, if you’d please. It is rude to keep my Lady waiting, is
it not?”
 
Sansa remained still, dreading the first blows. She became numb, after some
time, yet the first hits always pained her the most. Would it be a mailed fist?
Or mayhaps the broad side of a fine, knight’s sword? They were no true knights,
they were impostors, vile impostors.
 
She tried to school her face into something demure, placid or even loving, but
the hatred threatened to boil out of her. She would charge towards him, the
hateful Joffrey, and tear out his eyes with her own nails. Robb will kill him,
she thought, breathing through her nose, Robb will cut him limb-from-limb, for
what he did to Father, and Lady, and I.
 
“You wolf brother, he has taken my Uncle Jaime prisoner at the Whispering
Woods.” Joffrey had stood from his golden chair, eyes squinted in his pale
face, the crown overly large and glittering atop his head.
 
Sansa made no sound, but her heart stilled for a moment of overwhelming joy,
tears shooting to her eyes in gratitude. The Old Gods, they had heard her
prayers! Robb was victorious, he would come for her soon. He had taken the
Kingslayer!
 
Ser Dontos made an effort of distracting the King, earning a sharp blow to his
brow from the Hound. Sansa looked to him, and she wanted to kiss him there and
then, because she would not need him any longer, the blubbering, lovely fool.
Robb would come for her!
 
Then, in her moment of elation, she was punched in the gut, doubling over with
the force and falling to her knees. You cannot hurt me, she thought, half
delirious with joy, Robb will mount your heads on spikes, he’ll come for
me,he’ll take me home to Mother, and Rickon, and Bran, and Arya.
 
The tears came, then, as the blows rained down on her. How she missed them, how
very dearly, Jeyne, her truest friend. Arya, little Arya Underfoot. Father,
Gods, she missed Father the most.
 
-
 
Later, battered and bruised, she lay in bed all alone and smiled to herself.
 
It might have been morning or evening, sunrise or sundown, she did not know,
neither did she care. In the twilight, a maid appeared with a meal and a basin
of water, to wash away the soil and cleanse her bruises.
 
Sansa ate her fill, disregarding the presence of the maid, standing by the
door, a guard as much as a servant. She was Cersei’s creature, that was for
sure – waiting to dart back and report to her mistress once Sansa allowed a
misstep to occur.
 
“Please, give my sincerest gratitude to his Grace and the Queen Mother.” Sansa
smiled, though her jaw was aching and a cheekbone was swollen and purple. “They
have shown me nothing but kindness, and I am merely the daughter of a traitor.”
 
The maid regarded her with squinted eyes. Then she mumbled something or other,
and cleared away the meal with a brief curtsy.
 
Sansa leaned back and watched her go, feeling an uncontrollable laughter bubble
inside her. The South was securely in the hands of Renly, and his Lady wife
Margaery, who had forsaken Robb. To the East was Stannis Baratheon, cutting off
the water ways for all trading galleys headed for King’s Landing. In the North
was her kin, Robb and Uncle Edmure.
 
And now the Kingslayer had been captured.
 
Before her mind’s eye a map of the realm appeared, and her aching smiled
widened a fraction more. She had been a dutiful student, she knew all the
Houses and their words. Joffrey might have thought her a stupid, silly girl –
he had scarcely any allies left in this Kingdom he claimed to rule.
 
In her dreams she ran with Lady, beautiful and wholesome, in the Wolfwoods
outside Winterfell.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Bitterbridge, 300 A.C.
 
The yellow centaur was mocking her.
 
Intricately woven, the fine tapestry adorned the far wall of her guest’s
chamber. House Caswell’s proud sigil was captured in mid-prance, virile with
strength, showcasing the bow against a field of snowy white. Margaery folded
her hands in her lap demurely, canting her head to the side when voices burst
into brute shouting.
 
A glance out the window showed her miles upon miles of tents, men at arms
hurrying to and fro, camp followers, common whores washing away their refuse in
the Mander, glittering and calm beneath the midday sun of late Autumn. She
could make out the sounds of horses in distress, undoubtedly prompted by the
fighting that had broken out following the trickle of news that turned into a
storm. A storm, despite the nigh cloudless sky stretching above them.
 
The helpless anger bubbled inside her stomach, and she swore to the Seven there
was acid upon her tongue when she swallowed.
 
Renly, dead. Gorgeous, charming Renly, slaughtered in his own tent, amongst the
men that had hailed him King and sworn him fealty. They had seized Brienne,
foolish, large girl that she was, crying and wringing her hands. She was now
sobbing out her lovely blue eyes in the dungeons of Bitterbridge.
 
“Loras, brother. Sit, have some Arbor Gold. I beg you.”
 
Beside her, Loras barely stirred. His face was hidden beneath a thick tumble of
hair, and his chainmail, gleaming in the finest silver, was still splattered
with the blood of Renly's royal guards. Margaery closed her eyes for but a
moment, hands clenching in her lap while beyond the doors voices rose in heated
argument. She could hear Mathis Rowan, voice pitched high with anxiety. Randyll
Tarly, the cold, unpleasant man and his rough, deep timbre.
 
She poured them both wine, some of the finest from her Lady Grandmother’s
casket.
 
“Brother, who shall they marry me to, next? I am a fine broodmare, am I not?”
Her voice was light, pleasant, save for the barb of hate that poured out: “You
mourn your love, Loras, but what shall become of me?”
 
He did not give even the slightest inclination of having heard her. Her
brother, beautiful beyond all doubt, chivalrous and passionate and haughty, the
closest friend of her early childhood. He gave too much, Margaery thought, he
gave Renly all and now he is but a spent pail of bones, comely or not.
 
“Brother, will you go to the Lords and speak for me? At sundown they will have
decided. They will give me to Joffrey, Loras, do you hear?” She gulped down a
bitter mouthful of wine and bent closer to him. “If only Grandmother was here.”
 
-
 
Margaery could recall the day of her first moon blood, the surety with which
she had accepted her fate. At two-and-ten, she had cleansed herself and gone to
the Lady Olenna in her white muslin sleep gown, weaving down the twisted stairs
of Highgarden with familiarity and ease.
 
“Oh, my dear, my lovely rose,” Grandmother had said, wrapping her in a fast
embrace: “You will now bear the burden of all womenfolk, peasant wench and
Queen alike. Men, they shall be your world, you must bear their children and
tidy away their stupidity. Peace, my dear, we shall find you a worthy husband.
He will most probably be an oaf – alas, all the better for us. I taught you
well enough, did I not?”
 
Mother hadn’t known until much later in the day, when Margaery’s chambermaid
had gone and spread the gossip.
 
Years later, when the long summer was coming to an end and she was to be wed as
a Baratheon Queen, Mother had held her close and cried salty-sweet tears
against the pearls in her hair: “I feel that I’ve birthed you for your Lady
Grandmother alone – the Gods have let her borrow my womb. The Mother granted me
the boys, but you, my sweet, you are Olenna’s flesh and bone.”
 
But I am not her, Margaery had thought. She knew better than anyone what part
she played, Renly’s smiling, blushing bride, a maiden at her wedding night and
a maiden the next day still.
 
-
 
All eyes turned to her when she entered the grand solar without a servant’s
announcement.
 
Tall men, stout men, thin ones, small ones, Stormlords and Lords of the Reach,
her father’s own bannermen whom she had known since she was a little girl. They
were crowded around a large, oaken table, faces tight with fury and grief in
some cases, worry and fear in others. In some visages she found naught but cold
cunning.
 
“My Lords,” he curtsied before them, smoothing back the black of her gown,
appropriate for a young wife in mourning. Dark colours washed out her fair
features, she knew. But it was for the better, to appear as if in grief. “I
have come to hear your council, as I am only a girl, and I am fearful of what
may come.”
 
Paxter Redwyne was the first to come forward and take her hand with his head
inclined: “Your Grace, I pray to the Seven in these dire times.”
 
Don’t pray! Margaery shrieked in her head, do something useful! Instead, she
cast her eyes down and lowered her voice: “I have watched from the windows and
prayed to the Mother that she may protect us all from this vile sorcery.” Some
of the faces darkened in anger at her words. Tarly even gave a light snort – he
had been the first to call for Brienne’s head, utterly unbelieving of the
shadow stories she told. Margaery, though, had seen both the love and the fear
in her eyes. The Maid of Tarth would not have been able to hurt her King.
 
“My Lords, the levies, they are slowly taking their leave. At this moment, the
Florent cavalry has saddled their destriers in haste.”
 
She had spoken frankly, as she had intended to. Some of the Lords gave her
shocked looks, some now appeared angered by her intrusion. A woman had no
business with war, the concealed snarls in their faces told her. She had to
speak quick, and speak true, appeal to the gentleness of their hearts.
 
“I grieve for my king and husband still, yet before I was made Queen by the
grace of the Seven, I was betrothed to another. I know him to be righteous and
brave, a man of his word.”
 
Glances were exchanged, and she could spot Lord Rowan nodding along to her
words. It sparked hope inside the tightness of her chest – if they had
seriously considered a Stark alliance before her entrance, her endeavour would
be easier by far.
 
“I also had the misfortune of knowing the Lannister bastard, borne of incest,
as my late husband knew and told. He is most irate and cruel, as is his Mother
Cersei. I beg you, my Lords, consider my sorrow.” Margaery dropped her face
into her hands, and the tears came without further prompting.
 
They were tears of anger, welling from the depths of her.  She would go to Robb
Stark with her head held high, as befitted the sole daughter of Highgarden. But
still she would now go as a beggar, a woman spoiled, a daughter of
oathbreakers. Robb Stark had been kind to her during their courting game in
King’s Landing. He would still take her, for her father’s army and the  late
Autumn  harvest of the Reach, of that Margaery was certain.
 
In her head, her Lady Grandmother chided her softly: “Now, now, child, he is
comely enough, is he not? Walk out that door now, my sweet, and leave the men
to their bickering. You’ve done your part.”
 
She turned, and behind her the solar erupted into the confused, indignant
shouts of men.
 
***** Wars to Come *****
Chapter Summary
     They reunite, because what else is the point of Jon/Robb? :D
The hills rose before him, a rolling mass of frightful green, dotted with
smaller holdfasts and humble lodgings of the smallfolk. Beyond it was the sharp
coast line, jutting out as if in defiance of the ancient chase of waves. The
Crag was more ruin than castle, once a grand structure with numerous towers,
its foundation carved into the cliffs and utterly unmoving.
The Sunset Sea roared in his ears, even with its surface smoothed and calmed by
the Gods, dark in the onset of nighttime.
Robb bid his bannermen to go forward, hanging back to survey the line of his
men, moving but sluggishly with fatigue, but orderly nonetheless. His back
ached with a dull, throbbing pain, whilst the healed wound upon his ribs felt
hot and taut. Yet he sat up straight, nodding to the men at arms that caught
his eye, reclining his head in greeting when one of them mumbled something or
other.
Some were wounded still, sporting disfiguring cuts on their faces, while others
limped, or held their crude swords awkwardly. A young man, with the looks of a
peasant, was missing a few digits on his right hand, the gnarled wounds still
pink and fresh, mayhaps a few moons old.
It still filled him with abject horror, and a terrifying guilt.
Lying on his cot at twilight, listening to the guards shuffle outside his
simple but spacious tent, he allowed himself to wallow. Who was he, asking men
to die for him? Someplace north, a woman, a babe might wait for the safe return
of their loved one, for years to come. And it would all be in vain. Mayhaps
here, too, a mother was shedding bitter tears over the bones of her son, a
stable boy of the Westerlands, a page, someone who was beholden to their Lord,
with nary a choice but to obey.
The King in the North, young and righteous and filled with anger, cut through
the men, and they fell, blood warm. He had made it thus far, a path of war
littered with mountains of pale, colourless bodies, piss and shit and fear.
Lord Rickard has ridden up to join him, his horse shying away from Grey Wind
and Ghost, standing guard beside Robb’s destrier as they always did. His face
was a mask of hatred and grief, the Karstark guards following him an ill
replacement for his sons, dead at the Whispering Woods, buried far from the
North with not a single heart tree for prayer near.
“Your Grace,” they nodded at each other, eyes weary. “I’ve news from Riverrun.”
Galbart Glover was closing the distance towards them, the blazon of his house
appearing as the men trodded the rolling path towards them. A mailed fist on a
field of scarlet, triumphant in the gentle breeze. “Your Grace, Lord Karstark –
we mustn’t speak of these things openly, let us reconvene privily once the
Westerlings have opened their gates.”
The look he as throwing Karstark was full of warning. Robb sighed inwardly and
motioned his Lords to ride on, eyes glancing over the foreign landscape dipped
in twilight, his men, famished and tired, yet victorious all the same.
It did not at all feel like a victory, to him.

-

He should have been glad, really.
Maege Mormont had sent fast riders a few days prior, reporting on the thousands
of lifestock she had captured. The Greatjon and his fearless men had taken the
mines of Castamere, Nun’s Deep and Pendric Hills.
The war was bloody and gruesome, and it pained him to sleep and to wake, each
single day. Yet he was victorious, the decisions coming to him easily. All the
villages, holdfasts and castles, in his mind they were abstract places void of
living beings, Cyvasse pieces to be moved back and forth, to be taken and
scoured, burned and pillaged.
Until he rode past, heavily guarded, seeing the carnage with his own eyes.
Of course, diplomacy did nothing at all. They took the Crag in the dead of the
night, breaking through the main gate with a ram, shields raised against the
onslaught of arrows raining down from the battlement. Grey Wind was ferocious
at his side, while Robb charged through the chaos, sword raised in an arm that
was not his, screaming in a strange voice, calling his men, calling his Lords,
calling upon the Old Gods of the North.
Maybe they had listened to his pleas, after all, sending an arrow to pierce
through his shoulder, granting him the weighty nothingness of sleep.

-

He dreamed of a faceless wife bearing his children, showing him all his
trueborn sons, Starks of Winterfell, little blank eyes with nothing at all
familiar. He desperately tried to recall her name, the colour of her eyes, the
wife he had so carelessly chosen for an army’s passage.
His chest felt constricted with panic, breathing became a task neigh
impossible.
Grey Wind, Ghost, were they near? Or were they herded into the kennels? He
could not tell, his mind a whirl of vertigo. He tried to move his fingers, to
open his eyes, make but a single sound, yet he was frozen, a lifeless, slouched
statue that had never once moved and would never live.
Father, Father – he was now but a statue to be carved, in the crypts of
Winterfell, where his remains would be placed. A rotting head, one amongst
many, a rotting head on the battlement of the Red Keep.
Could it be that he screamed? Screamed his hopeless agony for all to hear?

-

When he woke, it was akin to resurfacing from the depths of the ponds near the
Godswood.
Tired eyes greeted him, Rickard Karstark and Galbart Glover, men lined with
grief and exhaustion. His heart swelled with gratitude, and he made to sit up,
only to be jolted with searing pain: “My Lords, I – has it been –“
“Your Grace,” Glover’s face was young still, but weary and ashen in the glow of
the fire light. “It has been two days, and we have woken you, as matters of
grave import are yet to be decided.”
Robb coughed, his throat burning. He nodded, sinking back into the furs,
accepting the goblet of wine, quenching his thrist with small, careful sips. He
could make out the rush of waves, an everlasting sound that receded into the
background, lulling his aching head to sleep. He forced himself to remain
conscious with gritted teeth: “You may proceed.”
The Lords exchanged looks, their eyes quickly lowering again.
“Your Grace,” Karstark was visibly shaking, with fury or with fear Robb could
not tell. His insides knotted as the gaunt, wizened man retrieved a roll of
parchment from his greatcloak, the seal broken, the edges worn.
Silently, he read the letter, the room shrouded in sudden silence. Mayhaps a
grief so grand could smooth even the sea, for the waves ceased their relentless
song. Robb lay where he was, useless and limp, while his Lords fixed him with
stares of pity and exhaustion. There were no words to be had.
“What else is there?” he heard himself say, voice placid and cool.
Galbart Glover nodded briefly, his lips bloodles. He produced another letter,
this one hefty and scented. He folded it open, and started to read aloud: “To
the King in the North, King of the Trident and Lord of Winterfell, I, Lord Mace
Tyrell, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the
South, do propose an alliance of our great Houses through marriage. The war has
torn the realm apart, and winter is upon us...”
Robb could not have said when he stopped listening. The stone walls blurred
before his eyes, and his pounding heart seemed to swell in size. In his mind
flickered images he could not reconcile, of times so joyous and free he could
scarcely believe that only two years past they had all been whole and naive,
full of stupidity and laughter.
“Your Grace? Your Grace?”
Karstark was gently shaking him, and Robb sat up straighter again. In the foggy
recesses of his mind, he knew what to do, but in that very moment it seemed
very much impossible to voice.
He croaked, coughing once, twice, tears wetting his cheeks.
“We must accept, of course. Write to my Mother, she must ride for the Twins at
once, with a suitable – a replacement that would not insult Walder Frey
further.” he grasped for words, breathing in and out, in and out. “We must
arrange for the Lady Margaery to – a safe place, a stronghold. The alliance
must be forged while the iron is hot still.”
Karstark let loose a breath, and Glover’s shoulders visibly sagged. They both
rose, promising to act according to his words. Glover put a hand to his chest
before leaving: “You should rest, your Grace. The Westerling girl, she has been
taking good care of you, I trust.”
“My wolves,” he managed, his head growing heavier by the moment. He spied
Glover nodding his understanding before letting go and falling back into the
lands of sleep, where dreams horrific beyond understanding waited to be lived.

-

The next time he woke, a cry of grief broke loose, and he convulsed in his bed,
tearing the wound of his shoulder until blood leaked beyond the bindings. Bran,
Rickon, children, babes, Theon, Theon, how? His brothers, his Father, he had
lost them all.
A young girl was in the room, clutching a cloth to her chest, a basin of water
toppled over on the ground, wetting the rushes that had been laid out. “Your
Grace? King Robb?” her whispers were barely audible.
Robb sat up, reveling in the pain his torn flesh provided. Almost sadistically
it reflected upon his thoughts, the swelling of panic inside him. He stared at
her, unable to comprehend her presence, the fear upon her visage. Had he
finally become the wolf people hailed him to be? Did she fear his merciless
fangs, the yellow of his eyes?
“Your Grace, I am Jeyne Westerling. My mother, the Lady Sybell has sent me to
cleanse your wounds.” he voice was quiet, thin and high.
He could not speak, could not deliver the courteous answer he owed her. They
remained still, with only the crackling of firewood between them. Then she
started inching nearer to him, little bird’s steps, timid yet full of
direction. He blinked once, and she was seated on the edge of his bed, reaching
out to touch his face.

-

He had not the capacity left to hate himself, afterwards.
She slipped out of his room in the early morning hours, draped haphazardly in
her robes, flushed and smiling despite all else. He could scarcely move with
the exhaustion, the taxing process of fucking, even with her sat on top of him,
moving with purpose.
All of a sudden, Jon walked in.
He was dressed in a simple tunic and loose breeches, hair still wet and
glinting in the sunlight. What sunlight? Yet there he was, smoothly gliding
into bed with him, folding Robb into his arms, smiling his lopsided smile, gray
eyes watchful under the mop of his curls.
“Gods, I missed you,” Robb heard himself say, and Jon’s smile turned into a
grin, something wicked and full of promise. He trailed kisses up and down the
length of his arm, murmuring of the dreams he’d had of Archmaester Harmune’s
tales. Dreams he’d had of the Wall.
Later on, much later, when he once again woke to the gentle rustle of the
Sunset sea, Jon, too, was gone.

-

Lady Jeyne was hastily married to Lord Glover, widowed Master of Deepwood
Motte, in a simple ceremony. Servants whispered that she had cried all through
it, silent tears that stained her handsome gown and the collar of her maiden’s
cloak. The Lady Sybell screamed and raged until every last person of the Crag
had felt her embittered anger.
Robb lived through the day as if in a deep slumber, barely registering anything
at all.
He left Galbart Glover and his men-at-arm’s with his new wife and good-parents,
making haste, riding towards Riverrun and his bride-to-be, a woman once wedded
and bedded, said to be in deep mourning of her Stormlord husband, another King
in his own right stabbed to death by shadows unknown.
He kept his lips tight and his intentions hidden, lest the one-thousand-strong
Frey cavalry that dutifully journeyed with him should hear of their disgrace.
At Golden Tooth he was reached by a raven of King’s Landing, proclaiming the
victory of King Joffrey over Stannis Baratheon in the Battle of the Blackwater.
A second raven came along the Riverroad, carrying the news of marriage between
Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister.
He wrote his will in the hour of the bat, with his eyes squinted and tired, a
single bee’s wax candle lighting the parchment laid before him. A King without
heirs, without family, a King who could not hold his own castle, stranded in
foreign lands fighting an endless war.

-

Riverrun was transformed.
A light dusting of snow had fallen, replacing the driving, sluggish rain Robb
remembered. The rivers had calmed, both the Tumblestone and the Red Fork cold,
grey streams that flowed like thickened blood in a man’s vein.
The Riverlords had done well defending their lands. Edmure, now Lord of
Riverrun, had allowed some of his frightened smallfolk into the holdfast, and
they arrived into a jovial tumble of cooking fires, clucking chickens and
children underfoot. All seemed deceptively peaceful, as Tywin Lannister had
amassed two-thirds of his forces to rescue his children from Stannis’ warships.
The remaining men, peasants barely trained and dragged away from their harvest,
were left to defend Casterly Rock from Robb’s own army.
They were greeted in the Great Hall, a procession of guards and Tully men,
while his Uncle Edmure stood at the front, face somewhat blotchy with
excitement. Mother stood next to him, pale and wan, the rims of her eyes
blackened with fatigue and sorrow. She looked as a mourning mother would, a
devastated wife.
“Mother,” he went forward to embrace her, heartbeat picking up, cold sweat
dappling the nape of his neck. Seeing her made everything real, her apparent
grief the best proof one could offer. For a moment, he feared he would burst
out into tears before his bannermen, as a little boy might.
Yet she turned her face away, eyes downcast.
“Your Grace,” Edmure had stepped closer, eyes narrowed with concern, “Nephew,
we must speak upon matters.”
“Yes, of course we must,” he replied evenly, bristling inside. He was always
speaking to someone or other. Even for his own Lady Mother he did not have a
few word's time – after all they had lost.
He was escorted to the Lord’s solar, where Edmure, Karstark, as well as several
Riverlords informed him on his Mother’s trespasses. They had lost Jaime
Lannister, as she had set him free in the foolish hopes of winning back her
daughters.
“She has gone quite mad, it seems. A woman’s madness, sure enough, yet such an
act is a crime against your crown. Lannister was your prisoner, and you must
choose the penance Lady Catelyn should bear,” Ser Robin Ryger explained to him,
voice tight with anger. He had pursued the Kingslayer for several days, to no
avail.
“I shall speak with her privily,” he promised them. There was some grumbling, a
few angered words, especially Karstark had flushed with his fury. The slayer of
his sons, gone, set free by the King’s Mother herself.
They day passed in a flurry, with Mother confined to her rooms and preparations
for a double wedding ongoing. First on, the Lady Roslin Frey would ride from
the Twins with an honour guard of a hundred men, including her Lord Father, who
vowed to witness the day a daughter of his became wife to the Lord Paramount of
the Trident. A rider had arrived a few days prior to Robb himself, announcing
that a small party accompanying the Lady Margaery and her ladies-in-waiting had
arrived at Acorn Hall, where Lady Smallwoods had received them with grace.
Robb spoke with his men, he spoke to Maester Vyman, he spoke upon matters large
and small. It was dusk when he sat for a meal of bread and roast pheasant, the
best he had eaten in a while. He tasted close to nothing of it.
The stars had risen beyond a cloudy nightsky when he finally made his way to
his Mother’s rooms. She was sitting upon her bed, still dressed, her hair done
up in a severe braid in the Northern style, this he recognized.
“Have you come to me, at last?”
She looked hollow-cheeked in the dim light, aged by years with her loss. Robb
stood a few feet away from her, looking down to the ground, where lush carpets
were spread out, soft beneath the soles his boots.
“Mother, I feel it’s best,” he started speaking, his voice cracking, “that you
remain secluded. Lord Mallister has promised me your safety at Seagard.”
They stared at one another, and a thousand things of little import darted
through his mind. The little boy he had once been longed to crawl upon her lap
and bury his face in her bosom, searching for warmth and reassurance, gentle
words and soothing pats upon his back. Yet the woman before him had no love to
give, not anymore.

-

They arrived a fortnight later, all at once.
Walder Frey, Lady Roslin and their men rode through the gates just after dawn
broke, the young girl covered in a thick, woolen cape that obscured her face
against scrutiny. The men all had sour looks upon their faces, especially the
guards manning the wheelhouse carrying the ailing head of their House.
Around noon time, with the thickening fall of powdery snow, came Lady Margeary.
All the Tyrell pomp and fanfare had been removed, with the members of the
riding party dressed in drab greys and browns, the womenfolk on horseback with
their glossy curls hidden away beneath simple cloth.
Robb stood to welcome them, back aching with his rigid posture. Walder Frey had
opted to stand with him, crooked old man that he was, leaning heavily on an
ornate staff, ordering his servants to and fro: “Now, there, heh, let’s have a
look at the Tyrell beauty that has trumped mine own blood, eh? Your Grace, of
course I understand your concerns, tactics are what make and break wars, every
man knows, but a fresh young flower, like my Roslin, heh, she should be
appreciated, do you not think so?”
“Of course, my Lord. I am most regretful of the turn of events,” Robb inclined
his head towards him, and prayed for Margeary to ride with Godspeed.
“My wife, Joyeuse, she is pregnant again, have you heard? A young thing,
fertile, of course, heh.”
Robb humoured him until the drawbridge was lowered and he stepped to the front,
eyes fixed on the woman that had once betrayed him, as he was now betraying
poor Roslin Frey, like he had dishonored and wronged the gentle, fair Lady
Jeyne. Somehow, his spite for the Tyrells had waned in his many moons at war.
There were worse things in life than a cunning woman, a family that hungered
for thrones.
She had not changed a bit, even in the plain clothing she wore, with the
chestnut curls tucked away. Margaery was lovely as ever, her eyes large and
alert, the strain of travel and the cold air tinting her cheeks a becoming
shade of pink.
“Your Grace,” she slid from her mare grasping his offered hand and sank to her
knees in one fluid motion. “I am glad to gaze upon your face, truly I am.”
“My Lady, please, rise,” Robb helped her up in a show of chivalry, eyes darting
towards his Mother, who stood unmoving with her head bowed low. “You have
ridden fast, I can only imagine the exhaustion –“
“You have been at war, your Grace. A swift ride is nothing at all.”
Robb made to speak, the words lost to him. He wanted to curl up beneath his
furs, and think of nothing at all, cry his hatred into the beddings and have
Jon comfort him, with kisses and with mindless, vigorous fucking. He did not at
all want to continue this ostentatious exchange of pleasantries.
Walder Frey opened with toothless mouth, clutching his staff and the elbow of a
large servant, but his first croaked words were distrurbed by a sudden
turbulence at the gates. Robb turned to look, and with wonder he saw a small
figure darting towards them, bundled up with layers, dirtied and wild-haired.
Before anyone could utter a single word, Mother had sprung forwards, an animal
cry tearing through her throat: “Arya! Arya!”
The child repsonded, falling into Mother’s arms hard, knocking her back so they
were a tumble upon the snowy ground. Robb walked towards them as if in a dream,
suddenly mortally afraid that he would wake up and find himself stranded at the
Crag once again, with Lady Jeyne’s unbearably hot body pressed against his.
His Mother was crying now. Open, ugly sobs that wracked her shoulders. Robb
crouched before the two of them, and the dirty child raised her face defiantly,
looking into his eyes. And there she was, his sister, the wildest wolf of
Stark, so brave and beautiful. He threw his arms around the whole bundle,
hiding away his face against Arya’s tangled, filthy hair, the tears coming hot,
burning his cheeks and soaking his beard.
“I’m hungry,” Arya said to him, voice clear as a bell, “We only had acorn paste
the last few days past.”
And all of a sudden Robb was laughing, falling back on his haunches, eyes
scanning the crowd and their shocked faces. He collected himself, and finally
stood unpright, tears still leaking down his face. Arya also stood, with their
Mother embracing her from behind, unable to let go.
“Robb, you must also let in Jon, he helped me escape,” Arya said to him, face
grave and sombre. How she had grown, gangly and whip-thin, her eyes bearing the
seriousness only death could bring. Robb stared at her, and it took him a long
moment to process her words.
Then she was darting away again, fast as a deer, past the guards and the gaping
crowd. A low murmur started up, and Robb could make out Lady Margaery’s gentle
laughter. Then, she returned, behind her a boy with a head of unruly black
hair, eyes the grey of his wolf’s pelt, a spectre of his dreams and fancies.
 
***** The Old Gods *****
Chapter Summary
     Two weddings and a letter.
The godswood of Riverrun appeared airy and light despite the heavy snowfall.
The weirwood, a gangly, gnarled tree with a saddened, twisted face and bloodied
eyes gazed onwards, attentive of the gathered crowd.
 
Jon stood towards the back, shivering in the cold, wiping away snowflakes that
stubbornly found their way into his squinted eyes. He had never seen a tree
such as this one before, both alive and dead, staring at him with imploring
eyes that knew his darkest thoughts and sins. The Old Gods Robb had always
spoken about, could be that they did exist, after all.
 
Besides him, the smallfolk of the Riverlands whispered among themselves in awe
– the fair Lady Margaery was dressed in a gown of ivory silk, topped by a
heavy, sage green maiden’s cloak embroidered with the sigil of House Tyrell.
Her beauty was only surpassed by the easy grace of her brother, Ser Loras, a
lithe youth with a head of bronzed curls who escorted her towards the front,
where Robb, his Northern Lords and his Lady Mother Catelyn stood.
 
Arya’s smaller form he could not make out, but he knew that she was somewhere
towards the front, clutched in the worried embrace of her mother.
 
Lord Edmure cleared his voice, and the murmurs died down, leaving Jon to crane
his neck: Robb’s back was turned towards him, his auburn hair striking against
the pale sky and gaunt trees. He felt cold and hollow, and somehow silly,
traveling all these days to see his kin, to see Robb, just to stand among the
washerwomen once again.
 
“Who comes? Who comes before the gods?”
 
“Margaery of House Tyrell comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered,
true-born and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to
claim her?” Ser Loras had a quiet voice, unbecoming of his pretty exterior. He
sounded resigned, sad. Jon recalled the whispers he’d heard whilst in King’s
Landing, moons and moons ago – of beautiful Renly, Master of Laws, Lord of
Storm’s End, beautiful Renly and his little rose.
 
“Who comes to claim her?”
 
“Me, Robb of House Stark, King in the North, King of the Trident and Lord of
Winterfell. I claim her. Who gives her?” Robb’s voice was calm and sure,
ringing across the clearing like a struck bell, as befitted a king. He had a
cloak at the ready, ice-white with a leaping direwolf sewn onto it, so finely
woven it almost looked alive.
 
“Loras of House Tyrell, brother of Margaery,” the Southron siblings turned to
one another, an edge of urgency leaking into Loras’ voice. “Margaery, will you
take this man?”
 
“I take this man,” Margaery said. Nay, she declared it, briefly turning her
head to gaze at the Northern Lords present, to her new good-mother. Her face
was gentle and meek, but the gesture boldly displayed her pride, clear for all
to see.
 
Robb and his new Tyrell bride sank to their knees before the heart tree, and
disappeared from Jon’s line of sight.
 
 
-
 
 
He felt dazed, as if walking through a gloomy dream, not quite a nightmare.
 
Never before had he seen snow so deep, trees capped in blinding white, empty
fields only just cleared of the last winter barley. He kept searching for the
ever-present horizon of the sea, thinking of King’s Landing, the familiar walls
of the brothel, of Tanae and her rough, gentle hands. He had barely bid her
farewell, stealing away in the dead of night with his newfound sister.
 
He had been at Riverrun for three days, clothed and fed and given a warm bed of
hay and linen. Yet he constantly felt short of breath, knowing no-one and
nothing, a stranger to this land. Robb had spoken to him before everyone,
lowering his head in gratitude, formal and distanced, thanking him for
delivering his sister to safety, promising him rewards, a permanent place in
his household.
 
Jon had not dared to look into his eyes, accepting the praise, teeth
chattering, afraid to speak even a sound.
 
It pained him to think of that moment.
 
Yet what did he expect, truly? For Robb to embrace him with joy, to cover him
in kisses and take him to bed. What a foolish boy he was, left with nothing but
a parchment pressed against his chest and the tentative friendship to a sharp
little girl of noble breeding.
 
 
-
 
 
Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey were married shortly thereafter, the wan midday
sun illuminating the procession as it made it’s way towards the sept, a
handsome seven sided sandstone building in the snowy gardens of Riverrun.
 
Jon watched from afar. The nattering old Lord Frey, a dozen of his sons and
grandsons, the Starks with Arya up front, war-hardened Northmen, Riverlords.
For a moment he imagined stopping them all with a yell, shoving Lord Eddard’s
letter into Robb’s hands, forcing him to read out the truth for all to hear,
the Old Gods and the new.
 
Yet he remained frozen into immobility, the fluttering snowflakes obscuring his
view.
 
 
-
 
 
He was allowed a place below the salt at the wedding feast.
 
It was yet another novelty to him: a great hall alight with fires and torches,
roasted suckling pig, loaves upon loaves of warm bread, onions crisped and
covered with herbs. There was trout drizzled with lemon and honey, smoked
perches as long as a man’s arm, and on the high table a grilled bass, stuffed
to the brim, its enormous eyes glassy and lifeless, larger than Jon was tall.
 
He ate until his stomach ached, sopping up the juices with chunks of bread,
gobbling down sour wine until his head spun and his cheeks felt doused in
warmth.
 
He was seated near the squires, young lads that joked among themselves and
threw him occasional looks of curiosity. Jon ate in silence, basking in the
utterly foreign feeling of being sated, listening to the boisterous cheering,
the chatter and the bouts of song.
 
Lord Edmure was already drunk, swaying in his seat next to Robb. They looked
not at all dissimilar from afar, both flushed and tousled under the red of
their hair. The Lady Margaery often laughed raucously, a dainty hand placed
upon Robb’s forearm, where all could see, leaning towards him and whispering at
times. Lady Roslin looked positively sour in comparison, though her Lord Father
seemed to be deep into his cups and jovial enough.
 
Arya appeared bored, already finished with her meal, picking apart a lemon cake
at the far end of the table. Her Lady Mother spoke to her in low tones, barely
eating, gazing at close to nothing else but her miraculously returned daughter.
She was dressed all in grey, a drab colour for a wedding, though fitting enough
for a widow in mourning.
 
 Jon stared at her openly, the beautiful hair she had passed on to Robb, her
stoic demeanor, and for but a brief moment he imagined her cradling him close,
as a loving mother might. If he had been raised in the North, if he had grown
alongside Robb and Arya…Then he thought again of his own mother, and Tanae,
guilt immediately flooding his veins.
 
When he looked up once more, she was staring back at him, eyes unreadable.
Quickly he turned towards his plate, nibbling at the bread left. When he looked
up again, Lady Catelyn was speaking to her brother, raised goblet hiding her
face.
 
Jon stood, gingerly making his way across the hall until he found the servant’s
entrance, stealing out into the darkness of early nightfall. A restlessness
made his skin itch, and his feet carried him to and fro without any true
direction. It was achingly cold, the tips of his ears and nose hurting with the
sudden lack of warmth.
 
How he wanted to leave, to be back in a simpler place, or mayhaps a simpler
time. Edric, and Mother, and Tanae. Lessons with Pylos, stories of lands far
away, the free cities, the Dothraki horse lords.
 
The next time he stopped, a pair of red eyes were before him, glowing in the
dark.
 
Without halting to think, he made his way towards the kennels, ignoring the
whimpering hounds, the cold utterly forgotten. Ghost and Grey Wind weren’t
chained, their enormous forms barely at all contained. The hounds looked
laughingly small crouched beside them, like newborn little pups.
 
“There you are,” he whispered, pushing the portal open. The white direwolf rose
immediately, his snout coming up to Jon’s shoulder. Grey Wind sat and watched
while he placed both arms around the animal and buried his face against the
soft, musky fur at his nape. Ghost made no sound, but he pushed into the
embrace, and they remained so for a few wondrous moments.
 
Then Grey Wind too stood, larger than his brother by a hand’s length. They
stepped over the wooden railing keeping in the dogs and headed out into the
night. Jon followed without hesitating, finding with awe that they leisurely
entered the inner castle, guards quickly stepping aside to let them pass, eying
him suspiciously.
 
“Where are you going, huh?” Jon asked Ghost as they snaked their way down a
darkened corridor, breath fogging before his eyes even indoors. Gods, it was so
cold, he could barely feel the separate fingers upon his hands.
 
Voices were drawing nearer, wild laughter and jeering sounds as a mob of men,
second sons and lesser Lords, rounded the corner carrying with them a naked
woman, dress half-torn upon her shoulders. The wolves stilled beside him, and
Jon held his breath as a shame-faced Lady Roslin was carried towards her
husband’s quarters. Jon inched closer, bile rising despite the rich meal he had
taken. The Lady had seemed mortified, close to tears.
 
They remained for some time, and sure enough, feminine laughter and breathy
jests could be heard – and there was Robb, tunic sliding off his chest, simple
crown askew, tugged along by a large group of playful women that guided him by
his hands. Some few paces away, the loud cheers for an undoubtedly unclothed
Lady Margaery could be heard.
 
Grey Wind waited until the noise had faded into the distance before continuing
on, long strides that Jon had trouble matching. Ghost remained at his side,
touching his wet nose against the nape of Jon’s neck occasionally.
 
The door that led towards the King’s rooms was oaken, tall and ancient, with a
brass handle in the form of a trout polished and gleaming. The raucous crowd
had dispersed, and the only thing audible were low voices beyond the doors.
Grey Wind rose to his hind legs, a powerful, sudden stretch that had Jon taking
a few steps back. The grey direwolf forced down the handle with a jolt and
disappeared through the gap.
 
“Who’s there?” Margaery’s voice was muted, and she let out a yell of surprise.
 
“It is merely my wolf – my Lady, I very much hope that you’re not opposed to
his presence…”
 
“Well, I believe it’s quite alright, as long as it does not join us in bed.”
 
Jon could listen no longer, for heavy footsteps were drawing near. He quickly
rounded another corner, hiding himself behind a studded column. The guards that
should have stood watch had only now arrived, taking their posts left and right
of the door. Behind them walked Loras Tyrell, recognizable even in the half-
light. He slipped through the doors as Grey Wind had done before, silent and
quick, letting it click shut behind him.
 
 
-
 
 
Jon spent the rest of the night curled up in the kennels, Ghost a warming
presence against his back.
 
The next day started but very slowly, what with the free-flowing ale and the
good cheer suddenly streaming through the castle walls. After so much mourning
and war, the smallfolk had undoubtedly seized the occasion to get thoroughly
drunk. Jon buried his face in the fine, thick fur that covered the belly of the
great direwolf, thoughts flying every which way.
 
Loras Tyrell. He had entered the chamber of the newly wedded King, slipping
past the guards who had clearly received orders, or mayhaps bribes, to ignore
his presence. What business had he with the bedding of his sister? She was by
rights now Robb’s Lady wife, no longer a Tyrell in name.
 
Jon could only think of one single reason, and it made his insides twist with a
sharp stab of pain. Slowly, he pulled open the many layers he had now taken to
wearing, feeling for the parchment with clumsy fingers. His eyes searched for
the familiar handwriting, picking out letter by letter, the words taking form
inside his head.
 
In some ways, he was torn between the longing he felt, both for a family to
call his own and for a lover that cherished him. Imagining Robb in bed with his
Lady Margaery and the beauty that was her brother, it pained him. It made him
feel dirty and insignificant, a whore that had foolishly fallen for the first
patron that showed even a smidgen of kindness.
Yet when he pictured Robb coming to him he felt like choking on bile and guilt.
How disappointed his Father would have been: weak of mind, weak of heart.
Longing for something that was never his, would not have been his to have, in
any of the worlds he could picture.
 
“Jon?”
 
He must have drifted asleep again, and someone was calling out for him. His
first thoughts were of Tanae, then of Edric. Mayhaps his sister Arya, shivering
next to him on the hardened, icy grounds, bravely clenching her teeth to keep
them from chattering. When he opened his eyes, Ghost had moved from his
position on the ground and snow was drifting through the opened door.
 
Robb towered over him, eyes serious.
 
Jon blinked a few times, wiping away the traces of sleep before sitting up. He
knew he wasn’t dreaming, but it still felt unreal. “M’lord – your Grace,” he
mumbled, unable to look away. Robb wasn’t dressed formally at all, with a cloak
draped over his shoulders and his ripped tunic sliding open beneath it. He
looked like death. Pale with fatigue, lips pressed into a thin line.
 
Jon wrecked his brain for words, but within the blink of his eye he was pressed
back to the ground, air punched out of his lungs with the force of it. He
opened his mouth to speak, cry out, but Robb’s lips were suddenly upon him,
sucking and biting, their noses bumping painfully.
 
Jon let out a strangled noise, flushing involuntarily: “Your Grace – you, you
mustn’t!” He did not know what Gods granted him the strength to push away the
grounding weight atop of him, but he was crawling away from Robb, feeling his
touches like burning coals on his skin. Some part of him begged silently for
him to turn back, to give into the surge of want that boiled within.
 
“Jon, you came.” Robb was covered in straw, with snow melting in his hair. He
moved closer again, hands reaching out to touch his cheek, neck and chest, the
smallest contacts that jolted Jon like the cracking of whips. “The Gods know I
wished for you – I never presumed for them to grant me my selfish desires.”
 
They remained seated on the ground, staring at one another, unable to look
away.
 
Then Robb moved, this time quite slowly, reaching out to cradle Jon’s face
between his palms. Their lips met gently, the rush of warmth and closeness so
sudden that breathing became a mighty task, all of a sudden. Jon tried to
ignore the scratching of parchment against his skin, heart thudding in his
chest. Being with Robb again, it surpassed all he had imagined, after all that
he had seen, after the hunger and the deaths, it seemed unreal, a dream.
 
For the King in the North to want him so, leaving his beautiful bride and her
brother asleep in their chambers, just to see Jon rolled up in the kennels,
clutching his great direwolf.
 
“I must go,” Robb whispered against his chin, breath hot, beard rough. “Come to
me at sundown, after dinner. The Godswood, beneath the heart tree, you know
where –“
 
“I do know,” Jon said, his voice croaking. “But, Robb, truly, we mustn’t.”
 
“Tosh,” Robb smiled, and it was a real smile, one that brought back some
youthful joy to his sharpened face. “Meet me there, we can speak to our heart’s
content. You must tell me everything – Arya – how you found her –“
 
Jon made to speak, but was silenced with a last kiss. Robb’s cloak flew in the
wind as he stood swiftly and walked back to his rooms with brisk steps, back
straight against the unrelenting cold.
 
 
-
 
Jon had made up his mind by evenfall.
 
He barely ate, chewing on a wedge of bread listlessly before making his way to
the Godswood, Lord Eddard’s letter clutched in his gloved hands. The trees
formed an almost unnaturally neat circle around the heart tree, and he crouched
against its roots, the gnarled, far reaching pale limbs digging into the hard
earth. The bark felt smooth against his back, reassuring almost.
 
Above him, bloody eyes tracked his movements, a snarling mouth opened in
accusation.
 
The snow had finally ceased, leaving the ground a field of smooth white, soft
to look upon but icy to the touch. Jon closed his eyes, shoulders sagging
despite the chill in his bones. The Old Gods, they were watching over him,
stranger that he was to this land, to the North. Mayhaps they recognized the
Stark blood in his veins, or felt the affection that rose in his chest whenever
he thought of the King in the North.
 
The trees, they knew what he was bound to do, and caressed him for it, leafless
branches rustling and creaking in the frozen air.
 
He opened his eyes again, stomach in tangles and knots when he heard Robb
approaching, sure footsteps striding through the ankle deep snow with haste.
His face, obscured behind furs, broke out into something warm and smiling,
something relieved.
 
“Your Grace,” Jon rose, fist trembling around the letter.
 
“Stop that nonsense, Jon,” Robb said, breath fogging before him, reaching out
to fit them into an easy embrace. “You’re shivering, is it so very cold to you
here?”
 
“I have never in my life seen so much snow and ice, your Grace,” Jon replied,
hands coming up to circle Robb’s waist tentatively. “I can’t feel my feet half
the time. Or my face, for that matter.”
 
They both let out startled laughter.
 
“In the North, the summer snows can fall until a man’s shoulder is buried, and
he must stand on the tip of his toes. My siblings and I, we would jumped from
the battlements of Winterfell just for the joy of it. There is nothing half so
beautiful as a field of snow beneath the morning’s sun.”
 
Jon sighed, taking in the words, aching for the embrace to tighten. As if
reading his mind, Robb pulled them closer together and kissed him gently on his
cheek, the bridge of his nose, then his mouth. His mind flitted back and forth,
going between the letter in his hand and the many nights they had spent
together. Robb’s head buried between his legs, fingers pushing into him
relentlessly.
 
How sweet that ache had been, the next day and even the day after that. Knowing
that the young Lord had taken his pleasure, again and again.
 
“Your Grace, Robb...” Jon did not know where he found the voice to speak. He
pushed away from the closeness, back hitting the bark of the heart tree, still
watching him, still full of judgment. He opened his mouth, closed it, dread
welling up inside his chest. Then he simply thrust the parchment piece forward.
 
Robb took it with furrowed brows, folding apart the creases with deft fingers.
He read very quickly, disbelief clouding his eyes. Or was it something else?
Disgust? He dared not look away, the man that held his fate in both hands, that
could chase him off or recognize their shared blood.
 
“It’s Father’s handwriting,” Robb simply said, voice stifled.
 
“Lord Eddard sent for me while in King’s Landing, he offered me a place in his
household and gave me a pouch of gold...” Jon could barely hear himself speak.
His limbs seizing with the cold, or the fear striking ice into his heart. “You
Grace, I meant for you to know, truly I did. Only you never came back.”
 
“My brother – my half-brother,” Robb whispered, eyes huge in the dying light.
“My Father was an honourable man, I swear upon it – if Mother hears of this,
how – how can it be?”
 
“Robb. I have not told even a word of lie, you must believe me.” Jon heard the
tremor in his words, trying to hold his fists still. “Please, your Grace, I
have always been a bastard of Dorne, my Mother would never say...”
 
“Dorne,” Robb whispered, eyes still scanning over the parchment repeatedly.
“This is his seal, no one else would’ve had it… no forgery could be so
precise.” He had gone frightfully pale again, red hair striking even in the
darkness. How handsome he was, Jon’s young Lord, his brother and King.
 
“If this proves true, you are my kin,” Robb said, and reached out with a
shaking hand that he quickly dropped again. “I – Mother, I must tell her, and
the Maester –“
 
There was now a distance between them that pushed away all the soft touches
they had traded, the heated kisses of only the same morning. The air between
them felt icy now. Jon stood as Robb took a few steps away, than a few more,
before he was walking swiftly towards the castle, letter in hand.
 
He looked back a few times, face a blank canvas of shock and disbelief.
 
Jon remained in the cold, the heart tree looking down upon him. In this very
moment, he missed the crowded heat of King’s Landing, he missed Edric, and most
of all, he missed his sweet, gentle Tanae. It now seemed hopelessly foolish to
have come, craving to be part of a family, a House as grand and ancient as the
Starks of Winterfell.
 
Craving Robb’s touch, a place by his side.
 
Aren’t I still a bastard? He thought to himself on his lonesome way back to the
kennels, to Ghost. Aren’t I truly alone now?
 
***** Of Darkness and Dreams *****
Chapter Summary
     Loras, Tyrion, Pia.
Riverrun, 300 A. C.  
 
He woke with a startled shout, hands grappling for hold in the engulfing
darkness. 
 
Before his mind’s eye, a patch of bloody red spread over a fine-woven tunic,
embroidered with golden thread, the Baratheon stag caught on the fabric in mid-
prance. He could feel the cold sweat upon his brow, the dread and fear choking
all air from his lungs. For an uncomprehending moment he was suspended in
ignorance, focused only on the mouthful of breath he struggled to swallow
down. 
 
“Loras? Brother?” 
 
Coldness bled into his limbs, and Loras turned to look at Margaery, tucked
beneath thick furs with her hair loose, eyes startled and alert in the twilight
of morning. To his left, Robb Stark was breathing evenly, back turned towards
them both, bare shoulder tensed in his sleep. The drab ring of iron that the
Northmen called a crown was still nestled atop his head, keeping the tousled
curls at bay. 
 
“You spoke in your sleep,” Margaery was inching closer, her breath ghosting
against the crook of his neck. “Beware, lest you wake Robb.” 
 
Irritation rose inside his throat once again, as it so often did these days. He
swallowed it down and forced himself to pull her close, his sweet sister, the
little girl he had so loved during his brief childhood. They had been
inseparable, a pair of troublemakers that stirred up the peaceful calm of
Highgarden and brought laughter to their lady grandmother’s eyes. 
 
He had then left to squire at Storm’s End, at one-and-ten. 
 
“You’ll be leaving very soon, brother.” Margaery’s voice was light as a
feather, the urgency behind her words piercing as a lady’s stitching needles.
“Make him place a babe inside me, and we shall be safe.” 
 
Loras nodded his assent against the top of her head, breathing in the familiar
scents of rose water, sage and lemon balm. With Renly, it had been natural as
breathing, taking Margaery to bed, helping them grow accustomed to one another.
She would bear the King’s children and he would bear his heart, that had been
agreed upon without much hassle at all. 
 
Now, his presence in Stark’s kingly quarters was much more that of a mediator,
a comforting body holding no expectations but to buffer the clear unease
written across Robb Stark’s face whenever he performed his duty as Margaery’s
lord husband.  They had all readily agreed that an heir was needed, now more
than ever with the untimely demise of the younger Stark boys and the war
ongoing. 
 
“Do you not fear what might be said of us? That your children might be born of
incest? Much like the Lannisters and their brood?” He had said to her one night
or other, after he had coaxed Stark’s manhood to life with his mouth and hands
before pushing him towards Margaery, reclining in bed with her thighs apart and
mouth pursed. 
 
“Of course not, brother mine.” She had replied, mild as anything, purposefully
ignoring the vicious barbs he placed between his words. “Cersei Lannister is as
foolish as she is proud, and Robert was a drunkard. You have a reputation, as
does my lord husband – we’ve nothing to fear at all.”   
 
The memory made him smile – a wan, bitter thing. He could barely remember a
time when he’d felt content, or joyful with the details of daily life. He knew
he had once rejoiced even while cleaning Renly’s mail and shield, a tedious
task he had gladly performed for the wash of affection it granted. 
 
Margaery tapped a finger against his arm, and Loras jolted from his reverie. At
his side the King in the North had stirred, turning to lie on his back, pushing
away the furs to expose his nakedness, utterly unperturbed with the cold
morning air. 
 
They exchanged a look. 
 
Loras moved to kneel between Stark’s legs, eyes raking up and down the muscles
of his chest, the lean slide of his abdomen. Truly, the Stark king was one of
the finer specimen he had laid his eyes on north of King’s Landing. It was no
hardship at all to swallow him down, or guide his rough hands to cup the back
of his head. As a matter of fact, it numbed him pleasantly: the repetitive
task, licking and sucking, as if putting on a repeat performance for his sweet
sister to savour. 
 
Stark let out a low groan, making to sit up whilst gaining consciousness, half
a name tumbling from his lips. “Jo –“ 
 
Loras darted a look towards Margaery, who had draped her hair to cover the
tenderness of her breasts, eyes placid, one hand sneaking down to rub between
her folds. His brave, cunning sister. 
 
An upward glance, and he locked eyes with Stark, his cheeks flushed a bright
pink. It was glaringly obvious, how much more he enjoyed Loras’ touch, the feel
of stubble rubbing between his thighs, his cock instantly hard under the
briefest attentions granted. With Margaery he had been hesitant, halfhearted. 
 
“You must help me keep him in bed, brother, just like you did Renly,” Margaery
had told him, mere moments before the raucous bedding, eyes hard as flint. “He
might have his proclivities, but that is nothing we cannot work around. I must
fall pregnant before he leaves for the Westerlands, promise me.”   
 
It still sent tears to his eyes, his loves’ name so casually spoken. But Loras
had made good on his promise, loyal brother that he was. 
 
He crawled upwards with a graceful roll of his back, rubbing his own hardened
prick against Stark’s naked thigh. They tangled together in a frantic kiss,
lapping and biting, fingers reaching to tweak at nipples, cocks sliding and
bumping against one another lewdly. 
 
“Your Grace,” Loras whispered, and Margaery took it as her cue, crawling
between them with a coy, put-upon smile. She seated herself in his lap, so they
were both facing their King, who now looked disturbed, as if only just
realizing what this whole get-up meant. 
 
Swallowing down his frustration, Loras guided his cock forwards and stroked for
his sister to spread her legs further. Robb groaned as he sank into her heat,
undoubtedly wet and tight. Margaery shuddered in his arms, and Loras hurried to
reach forward with one hand and flick at her mound, making her mewl helplessly.
With the other one he tugged Stark, his damned good-brother, into a spit-
swapping kiss, clacking their teeth together violently. 
 
Pressed between them, Margaery moaned under the urgent thrusts of her lord
husband and endured the ministrations of her brother’s clever fingers. As
always, she reached her peak within moments of being breached. 
 
Tendons were visible at Stark’s clenched jaw, and momentarily Loras cupped his
pert behind, thumb slipping into the hot cleft of his arse. The thrusts grew
more urgent, and Stark guiltily leaned away from him, looking down to his lady
wife and placed kisses along the side of her face. 
 
Loras held her close to his chest until they had both come down from their
high, Margaery for a second time. 
 
She immediately tucked up her legs when he pulled out his softening manhood,
refusing to let any of his seed go to waste. Loras, too, prayed for it to
quicken, so his work in bed might be done.   
 
 
- 
 
 
They did not speak to each other beyond the necessary courtesies outside the
bedroom. A lifetime ago, Loras had remembered liking the easy, cheerful nature
of Robb Stark. Now, all he could conjure in his mind was the exact curve of his
angry, red cock and how it tasted in his mouth. Tangy, bitter and salty. 
 
He still dreamed of Renly’s death, even though he could scarcely remember a
thing that had happened. On behest of Margaery, he rode to accompany the King
in the North on his campaign to conquer Casterly Rock. It would mean less
hassle, and place less of a doubt on him should the new Starkling bear Tyrell
features. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Dragonstone, 300 A.C.  
 
They sailed for neigh a moon, though Tyrion could not truly be bothered to tell
the time. 
 
He stayed mostly in his dank, crowded cabin, immobile in his drunken stupor,
letting his mind wander while the waves gently pushed the trading galley to
and fro. Every now and then his little wife, Sansa Stark, would shake him by
his twisted, mishapped shoulders, and tell him of the realm’s news. 
 
“Littlefinger, Lord Baelish. He has been captured.” She told him while he
retched the sour contents of his stomach into a bucket. 
 
“My brother Robb, he has wed the lady Margaery at Riverrun.” She whispered into
his ear, voice urgent. “They say that Arya has found her way North. My lord, we
must go to them, at once.” 
 
“It is rumored that they are closing in on Casterly Rock – the Tyrell army, ten
thousand strong with my brother’s banners,” she said to him while laying out a
tray with biscuits and dried meats. “I beg you, tell the captain to sail for
the rock. It will be but a fortnight, no more.” 
 
She was right, of course. Wretched, malformed dwarf that he was, Tyrion had a
mind sharper than any sellsword’s best throwing knife. He had placed an arrow
into the bowels of his own lord father, he had escaped with his Stark wife and
was promptly declared traitor by his own sweet sister. Going to his own kin,
the King in the North so righteous and victorious, seemed a foregone
conclusion. 
 
Yet he did not budge, sunken in apathy. 
 
“The Captain has changed his course, we are to stay in Gulltown for some time,”
she said to him, mayhaps a few days later. Her voice had gone cold with anger,
no longer fretful and soft. “Word is out that cogs from Slaver’s Bay have
crossed the Narrow Sea, the Mad King’s own daughter, returning to claim
her birthright.” 
 
Tyrion could barely open his eyes, the words drifting through the air before
him like goose down. Tysha was kneeling before him, with flowers braided in her
hair, smiling absentmindedly – he tried to return the smile, only remembering
how grotesque he appeared, even in his joy. 
 
“Tyrion, it is said that she has dragons.” 
 
There were no dragons, he thought to himself. The last dragons had died long
before a foolish little dwarf boy had set his mind to flying. He fell into a
fitful sleep that lasted for an eternity. Mayhaps he had been dreaming with his
eyes wide open, for the light filtering through the porthole seemed to
change ever so often. 
 
His dreams were gentle, filled with soft touches and patient hands that guided
him towards soft beddings. Where did whores go? He asked himself in his sleep,
where ever did they go? He asked aloud. 
 
He was cold, desperately so, his shoulders aching while his head pounded with
agony. If surviving was so painful, he would’ve much rather been a head of a
pike on the battlements of the Red Keep. 
 
He was shivering, he realized. Before his eyes a dreary, gray sky pressed down
upon him, heavy with unshed rain. Slowly, ever so slowly, he sat up, noticing
absently that he was drenched in freezing water, carrying the salty stench of
the sea. Looking upwards once again, his eyes locked upon Sansa Stark, pale and
tight-lipped, the hem of her gown dragging through the brackish water
that sluished over the wooden deck. 
 
“My lord husband, you must need rise – I have requested an audience with
Queen Danaerys on your behalf.” 
 
His eyes drifted from her tired, pinched face to the jagged coast line, where
the Dragonmont rose, shrouded in thick fog. Below it, he took in the grim,
fanciful shapes of Dragonstone: gargoyles clinging to the crenellations, huge
basilisks twirled along the jutting towers. And of course – dragons, gigantic
stone beasts that remained suspended along the battlement, guarding the keep
with dead eyes. 
 
“Lord Tyrion,” Sansa knelt before him, clasping one of his hands in a firm,
unrelenting grasp. 
 
“My lady,” he croaked, “of course.” 
 
 
- 
 
 
Even dressed, fed and walking upright, Tyrion could barely comprehend what was
before him. They were taken on land by two of the Captain’s men, the sea
roughened by chilling winds of the north. Sansa barely spoke to him, face
hidden beneath a heavy woolen cloak, eyes turned upwards while the
men laboured to reach a sandy alcove so that they may dock. 
 
He spotted them, a straight, unmoving line, armed to the teeth. Next to the
Unsullied was a rider, proudly ahorse a coal black stallion. His leather vest
and oiled braid came into view while their little rowing boat ventured towards
the shallow waters that eventually petered out into a sandy bank.   
 
“M’lord,” the sailor mumbled under his breath, over the rush of waves and the
cry of seagulls above them. They disembarked into waist deep waters, the
captain’s men turning to row backwards as soon as they could, distrust and fear
etched into their weathered faces. 
 
Tyrion struggled, his head a dizzy spin, shocked with the bitter cold, the
relentless tug of the sea. Ahead of him, Sansa had lifted the ends of her
sodden gown and heaved herself to dry land, standing tall while the ranks of
the Unsullied took a step forward in unison. 
 
The Dothraki rider stilled his horse, dark brows etched into a deepening frown
while he regarded the pale faced girl and her dwarf of a husband, drenched and
shivering with the surf frothing at their ankles. 
 
Then, out of nowhere, a shadow fell over them all, engulfing the gaping sky
like the falling night. Tyrion felt like the breath was punched from his lungs,
and then he felt the hysteric urge to laugh out loud. To his left, Sansa let
out half a sob as she fell backwards into the wet sand and raised her face
towards the incomprehensible form above them. 
 
Wings, wider than the portal of the Red Keep, moving in powerful thrusts that
somehow stilled the air around them. Scales a vibrant green, a shining yellow
gold, shimmering even with the light so dreary. 
 
Tyrion caught sight of an eye, gleaming like a thousand stirred coals. Then he
saw nothing but darkness. 
 
 
 
_ 
 
 
 
The next time he awoke, night had fallen. 
 
He was nestled comfortably in a mound of down pillows, furs cradling his small
form. The room was lit with a roaring fireplace, and the bare walls spoke of
wall tapestry removed in haste. On a chaise by the side of his bed was his lady
wife, hands folded beneath borrowed garments, hair falling down her back in a
single braid in the Northern fashion. 
 
She turned towards him, eyes placid, cheeks tinted rose with the warmth of the
fire. “M’lord, you have woken at last.” 
 
Tyrion croaked, trying to answer her. His throat was parched and hurt like a
thousand blades had slid him open. Sansa quickly fetched him a silver cup of
wine – dreamwine, he noted to himself once the whole thing was downed. 
 
“We have enjoyed a warm welcome, I presume?” 
 
“Indeed we have,” Sansa answered, letting a drizzle of golden honey flow into a
bowl of oatmeal. “Queen Danaerys is most hospitable… towards her allies.” 
 
Tyrion studied her face. “I imagine she would be,” he finally answered, feeling
sluggish and tired. “I shall rest, my lady. You have been invaluable, truly.” 
 
She did not smile, but sat with him silently until he once again drifted to the
endless torment of his dreams.   
 
 
 
 
 
 
Harrenhal, 300 A.C.
 
Pia awoke in the blinding darkness of the hour of the wolf.
 
She felt disoriented, thirst stinging her throat. She moved her hands to wipe
at her eyes and found them bound, the rope strung tight, cutting into her skin.
All her jumbled thoughts rushed back at once, then. She raised her head off the
ground with some effort, gazing at her fettered feet.
 
Beside her, five other women were secured to the stocks, their skirts torn and
raised, the pale flesh of their thighs exposed to the biting cold. Turning her
head to the right, she could see Bolton’s men stationed at the gates leading to
Kingspyre, talking amongst themselves in the flickering light of the torches.
 
Attempting to breathe through her stuffed nose, Pia looked up towards the
greying sky, at the familiar shapes of Harrenhal, bent and burnt before her
time, but her home nonetheless.
 
“Have ye’ died yet, lassie?” Butcher Bryna’s eldest daughter Elrie was
struggling to pull down her garments, nose bloody and crooked from the last
Frey soldier that had mounted her, knocking her back with the broad side of his
sword. “Them’s all the same, I tell ya’.”
 
She attempted to spit out the bloody slaver, turning her face to the side.
 
“Hush,” Pia told her, pressing her bound hands to her chest when the Bolton
guards ceased their chatter. “Hush, do you want more of them to come?”
 
Elrie fell silent, though Pia could hear her breaths still, short and spiteful.
 
“Sleep,” she said to no one in particular. With her eyes closed, she might just
be in her narrow chamber, burrowed beneath layers of straw and old fur, warm
and content. Far away from prying eyes and bruising hands.
 
 
 
-
 
 
A man was fucking her.
 
She held still and endured it, but that merely served to make him angry. He was
a man of honour, and he did not like rut with corpses, he told her. His breath
was sour with cheap wine, the long, unkempt hair atop his head greasy with dirt
and dust. He reached to rub between her legs, and she sighed out a little moan
for him to hear.
 
That pleased him well enough. The next night, his men-at-arms all came to see
her. Pretty Pia, we heard you like to let good men between your knees. Pretty
Pia, aren’t you quite the slut? You would let anyone have you, is that not so?
 
She remembered each of them, though she would never admit it. All those men
between her legs, groping at her breasts, calling her a whore, fit to be tossed
in any beggar’s bed.
 
She learned to enjoy it. Some were not half so bad, she told herself. Some were
even gentle, peppering her cheeks with kisses, telling her about the horrors of
war and their loves at home, where the hearth burned bright and all was well.
 
 
-
 
 
Robb Stark freed her of the stocks after two endless days.
 
He arrived fresh from his wedding to gentle Margaery Tyrell, Pia was told by
the kitchen maids once she had washed and dressed herself. He had openly
disapproved of Roose Bolton’s methods and ordered him to keep his more
unsavoury habits to the Dreadfort.
 
“He was very gallant, and his men freed you at once, Pia, all of you.”
 
She caught a few glances at him, the Young Wolf, King in the North, with his
Tully looks and square jaw. He had come with his army, though simply from
looking Pia would’ve guessed that it was not all of his men. She counted only
few banners she recognized.
 
The stables were milling with horses and hounds, stable boys busying themselves
grooming and mucking. Northmen, Rivermen and a small Southron party of Tyrell
knights, distinguishable through their polished armour and the intricate roses
stitched upon their doublets.
 
She saw the Knight of Flowers, though very briefly, and in her heart she ached
to be with a man so handsome and gentle, so very beautiful. He kept to the
King’s side, she was told, and did not speak very often at all. 
 
Most of the time she hid herself in the buttery, amongst casks of wine and
crates full of beer, sweeping the floors and counting barrels, just as she had
always done. She found herself crying, at times, silent tears that came out of
the blue. Dennas the Dullard, the fletcher’s apprentice came to see her a few
times, and she let him have her without much resistance.
 
What was one familiar green boy compared to the hundreds of the past weeks?
 
 
-
 
 
She ran into him while hiding from some man or other.
 
He was crouched behind the row of casks in the far corner of the cellar, where
the last torch fluttered weakly, leaving much to the darkness. Pia had spent
all her girlhood in the buttery, helping her mother with the daily toil,
playing hide and seek with the other children, catching panicked spiders in the
shadows.
 
The man pursuing her was already deep in his cups, slobbering and swearing. The
busy chatter from the Great Hall was still audible, and she suppressed her sobs
while ducking behind the final row of casks. Hippocras from Highgarden was
always stored here, she remembered nonsensically.
 
And almost screamed when a hand touched her.
 
Turning, she saw the contours of a slender youth, dark eyes widened as he
placed a finger over his lips in a gesture of silence. They both sat and
waited, mere inches away from one another, as the blubbering fool stumbled
about searching for her. “Pretty Pia, here, they’ve told me that you are sweet
as summer, and loose as a crone.”
 
The man pissed against the far wall before finally giving up, cursing the Gods
as he trudged back to his unfinished evening meal.
 
Pia burst into a bewildering mixture of tears and laughter once the footsteps
had subsided. She turned to look at the man hiding with her, and for a moment
she feared that he might, too, try to take her. Yet fatigue was clawing at her
from all sides, and mayhaps this man here was better than the drunken fool she
had ran from.
 
She felt for his hands, and tugged them onto her breasts, edging closer to
smell the scent of wet fur and sweat. “M’lord…” she whispered, arching to
accommodate him.
 
“No, please. No,” the man said hastily, backing away from her.
 
Pia hesitated, and then she sat and glanced at the man with unease. He had a
long face, she could tell, dark hair and darker eyes. A Northman, it seemed.
His rejection burned inside her stomach, an acid mixture of shame and relief.
She knew not what to say, or to do.
 
“Ghost, here.”
 
Something was sniffing at her, and with dread in her stomach she turned to see
a giant beast, white as the driven snow, with blood red eyes that pierced
through her unwaveringly. The air rushed out of her lungs with a rush, and she
thought desperately that she might faint.
 
“It’s fine,” the youth told her, “as long as I am here.”
 
His speech sounded foreign, not the clipped Northern tongue, but something
rolling and melodic. The beast settled between them, bloody eyes placidly set
on her. Pia sat stiff as a board, hands balled into anxious fists.
 
“Who was the man?”
 
She held her silence, heart racing. The man had worn the sigil of a white
sunburst on his leather vest and sported chin length, lank hair in the Northern
style – but none of that was going to pass her lips.
 
The youth let out a breath, and he sounded angry, mayhaps impatient. When he
spoke again, his voice was low and urgent: “My mother was no lady, and I’ve
lived among whores my entire life. There is no dishonour to speaking your
mind.” Pia almost laughed again – she begged to differ. Nothing good had ever
come of opening her mouth.
 
They sat in silence for some time, enveloped in the dark, listening to the
raucous laughter of men drunk and jovial with the spoils of war and victory.
 
Slumber and exhaustion took her, and when she woke again the man was gone. The
beast, the giant white wolf, however, remained at her side. Impossibly, she
felt no fear of it, indulging herself in the rise and fall of its powerful
hide.
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