Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Westeros and its world belongs to George R R Martin; I'm just using it as a whetstone while I create my own.
And back to usual length chapters. They did go the dragonpit, and I definitely remember typing the word dragon a few times in this chapter too!
A couple of like-minded reviewers out there I see (not that I'll say which, of course) but you'll know who you are in a few chapters!
Enjoy... (I hope)
Jon
'My lord hand, my lord hand,' another lord called, and his father gave an almost inaudible groan as he turned. They'd only managed a handful of steps since the last such incident.
Jon took a deep breath, missing the company of Ghost more than ever this week, and leant against the wall just out of earshot again.
How I regret taking Arya to the Dragonpit now, he thought dryly.
The dragonpit had been a looming, dirty ruin, more ash pit than monument, but Jon suspected that was how the king liked it. When the men in the street around had sneered and said the king preferred to waste his gold on wine rather than rebuilding, Jon had said nothing, but he disagreed.
The ruin that still loomed over the skyline of the capital was a bleak reminder of what came after blood and fire, and the king Jon has glimpsed in the crypts of Winterfell seemed every bit as much ash and ruin as the dragonpit was.
Arya, of course, had not been troubled by such ideas in the slightest. The dark history, the barriers, the dirt nor even Jon's best attempts to stop her had managed to keep her from wriggling through a gap in the boards and exploring the forbidden inside as well as the outside while Jon dragged himself in through a hole high up on the wall to catch before someone else did.
His little sister had certainly liked the old ruin for she had scrambled all through it searching for dragon eggs that Jon sincerely hoped she didn't find. Arya and Nymeria were bad enough, Arya and a dragon would be a catastrophe that didn't bear thinking about.
She'd been covered in dirt when he had finally found her, streaked in ash and mud and dust from her tangled hair to grubby feet, and grinning like someone had stolen Santa's lemon cakes again. Jon had only the knowledge that there were at least no heart trees she could climb here in the south as comfort. The old gods were distant here, and though Jon had grown used to their absence he still missed the quiet of the weirwood's grove. The Red Keep did have one, tucked away somewhere quiet, but he was too busy to find time to visit.
Their father on the other hand had been very displeased when they returned. Mostly with Jon, because he somehow seemed to know that Arya was lying when she said she'd run off, and that Jon had actually let her go.
While his little sister had been reluctantly dragged through several baths by the septa he had shifted awkwardly in his father's solar, trying to explain it was better to take Arya, than wait for her to escape and go on her own.
His father, remarkably, had accepted that explanation without batting an eyelash, and simply extracted a promise to inform him the next time he felt it prudent to chaperone Arya somewhere outside the Red Keep. Jon had given his word readily, then suggested Jory come too, just in case.
His father's very slight smile as he agreed spoke volumes as to how much he really knew about his household, as did his small frown a moment later when he condemned Jon to following him around the Red Keep and the city for the rest of the week. Jon had trailed him all over the Red Keep, from the Grand Maester's chambers to the Master of Coin's, and even stood outside the door of his solar for his meetings with a man who he was sure had been the Spider, whom the other guards mentioned of as a master of spies. That meeting had been far preferable to his visit to the Grand Maester, from whose chambers he'd had to carry a weighty tome on the lineages of lords all the way back to the Tower of the Hand. The book sat on his father's desk still, and Jon had often seen him poring over House Baratheon in the evenings.
'Thank you, my lord,' the man was saying, bobbing his head up and down so rapidly Jon wondered if it were about to come off.
'I need to see the king,' his father said, excusing himself, and motioned that Jon should continue to drift along behind him this time.
The last few times his father had solemnly apologised and sent him back to Jory, his little sister, and Sansa rather than have him around the small council.
Apparently this time is different. Jon wasn't sure he liked that, because he knew his father would not have changed his mine alone, and that whoever had managed to convince him to risk his wife's wrath even further must have had considerable sway over him.
'Robert - the king - insisted that I not send you back to the keep on his account,' his father explained bluntly.
That explains that, Jon realised, flexing his fingers uncomfortably.
He didn't really like the interest the king was taking in his family. First Sansa - though he did feel that she and Joffrey deserved it each other at times - then Arya and he.
At least Arya reminds him of our aunt, he thought grimly. The king had no reason to hold such an interest in Jon, for even if he did resemble his father the king had his father here himself.
'You'll wait outside,' his father decided. 'I don't yet know if the Queen is going to be there.'
'Yes, father,' Jon agreed absently, quietly praying to the Old Gods that the meeting be brief. He was beginning to fear they had no influence down south though, for they had yet to grant this prayer after several days of trying.
His father, Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, pushed open the doors to the council room with the same air often adopted by the unfortunate man who had to tell Arya the septa had deemed it needlework time. Jon deftly sidestepped to the left as the doors moved, remaining out of sight of those within the room. When they shut he leant his shoulder against the column of the door frame and sighed softly.
Someone chuckled loudly, and he instantly stiffened and swivelled to face them.
'Your grace,' he said politely, bowing to the blond woman whose emerald eyes roved over him so sharply. Ser Jaime, who accompanied her with Ser Barristan Selmy, was still smiling widely. The other knight of the Kingsguard was also looking at him, and for the fleeting moment before Jon heard the man's breath stop, he had the feeling he was being very intently studied.
Jaime Lannister likes causing trouble for me, Jon thought sourly.
Now that he was so close to her he could see Catelyn Stark in her stiff, formal manner. He could also see just how beautiful Queen Cersei was, and that she was quickly searching for a response now he had actually addressed her.
You should have stayed quiet, he told himself furiously. His father was going to be angry again.
'Jon Snow,' she said softly. 'I see the king has managed to drag out from where Lord Stark has been hiding you.'
'Yes, your grace,' Jon said, and though he'd tried not to sound it there was definitely some accord with the Lannister Queen's statement.
Jaime laughed again, tilting his head back, and Cersei smiled, a single flash of warmth and humour that made Jon's stomach drop. Cersei Lannister was beautiful all the time, but as cold and distant as winter stars. When she smiled she was the summer sun's heat on Jon's cheeks.
He was still standing there when the doors closed and the queen was gone.
'My sister is very beautiful then, Jon?' Jaime Lannister said sharply.
Jon swallowed. 'She is, ser,' he admitted bravely, then glared at the knight when he realised he was smiling.
'The only man who seems not to have noticed is the king,' Jaime said. Ser Barristan, who stood silently on the other side of Jaime coughed pointedly, and the Lannister knight rolled his eyes and feel quiet.
The silence lingered a few moments, but only until the King's voice boomed from the room within. 'If it's so important do it yourself, Ned!' he yelled thickly. 'You're the hand, rule the realm!'
'Counting coppers,' Jaime Lannister deduced darkly. 'The king loathes it so very much.' Barristan Selmy shifted slightly. 'Aerys left a treasury full to the brim, but Robert owes my father millions of dragons alone.'
'How so, ser?' Jon asked curiously when Ser Barristan still said nothing.
'Tourneys, feasts, extravagances, and no interest in the keeping of accounts,' Ser Jaime said quietly, as the yelling intensified within. 'Now, Jon, how did you find the tourney?'
'It was good, Ser Jaime,' Jon replied cautiously.
'More than good,' Ser Jaime said wryly. 'Lord Beric seems convinced you are the finest swordsman of your age he has ever seen.' Jon stiffened at the praise, remembering the genuine desire he'd glimpsed in the Kingslayer's eyes before, and hoping it had faded. 'Did you get on well with his young squire?'
'You overstep yourself, Ser Jaime,' Barristan Selmy rumbled disapprovingly. 'Leave the lad be.'
'Come now, ser,' Jaime replied, smiling brightly, so bright his sharp spread of teeth seemed whiter even than the milk coloured steel of his armour, and the wool of his cloak. 'I'm sure Jon is grateful.'
'I am, ser' Jon admitted warily.
'You won't be, lad,' Ser Barristan said grimly. 'Ser Jaime is not helping you.'
Is he not? Jon wondered. The Lannisters and Starks were not fond of each other, but he was not Stark, and Jaime wasn't really a Lannister anymore, not since he'd put on that white cloak.
'Jon wants to stand where we are, Ser Barristan,' Jaime explained, without caring to ask if Jon actually did. It didn't seem Jaime Lannister cared about much if he was honest.
Barristan Selmy was quiet for a short while, and when he spoke his tone had changed completely. 'Perhaps you are helping him after all,' he conceded. 'A white cloak may be the perfect place for you, Jon -' he paused, then closed his jaw loudly enough for Jon to hear before he said the word snow.
Does he not like bastards? Jon wondered. The knight hadn't seemed to care before.
There was another bout of shouting from within the chamber, but it was muffled, and Jon couldn't make out anything of what had been said.
The door swept open, and his father strode out. He looked weary, worn, even, so far from the man Jon knew in Winterfell. Jon shot a brief glance through the door. So did both Jaime Lannister and Barristan Selmy.
He saw only the king, and once again he was not the drunken, whoring, hunting man who lived on past glories, but the man of bitter shadows and ashes, his eyes dark and angry and dangerous.
'Come, Jon,' his father said.
Jaime Lannister waved goodbye at him as he trailed away, and Jon scowled at the man's smile all the way back to the Tower of the Hand.
'We are heading into the city,' his father said grimly. 'Jory and you will accompany me, nobody else.'
'Why?' Jon asked, confused. 'What's in the city?'
'The street of armourers,' his father explained, in a voice that implied Jon would learn nothing more than that. He stifled a bitter reply to the familiar tone. 'We will be leaving King's Landing soon,' he added quietly.
Jon's head snapped up. I haven't spoken to Ned, or anyone. I need to become a squire.
'I don't want to leave,' he said quietly. 'I hoped I might be able to become a squire here.'
His father looked at him stiffly. 'By speaking with Jaime Lannister, and Beric Dondarrion,' he said. 'I've heard. Sansa told me. You won't learn much about honour from the Kingslayer, nor anything but reckless chivalry from Beric Dondarrion.' Jon swallowed, and said nothing, but his father sighed, and relented. 'Trust me, Jon, the last place you should be is here. Starks are not meant for the south.'
'I'm not a Stark, father,' Jon reminded him softly.
'You are my son,' his father said. 'And we are going back to Winterfell, where we belong.'
Except I don't, do I, father?
'My lord?' His father's steward, the father of Sansa's vapid friend Jeyne, knocked on the open door of his solar, his face grim. 'A letter.'
'It can wait. I was just about to leave-' Jon's father stopped when he saw his steward's face, and took the proffered letter without another word.
He read it once, then again as his jaw clenched, and Jon watched anxiously as his father crushed the letter into a ball in his fist.
'I'm sorry, my lord,' Vayon Poole said solemnly.
'Thank you, Poole,' his father said quietly. 'Send word to Winterfell, Moat Cailin must be reinforced, Whiteharbour too, and Theon Greyjoy must be kept close and safe. Prepare everyone to leave, they're riding home tomorrow.'
The steward left, and his father turned back to him. 'Bran is dead,' he said quietly. 'Some hired footpad killed him with a knife of valyrian steel for a bag of silver stags. My lady begs that I bring your sisters back to Winterfell.'
But not me, Jon noted hollowly, as the news sank slowly in. Never me.
'Jon?' his father asked, shaking him by the shoulder. 'Jon?' And he realised he had been standing there for a short while.
'Who?' Jon demanded, eyes burning. His fingers longed to creep for the hilt of his sword, to cut down whomever had dared to hurt his younger brother.
'There's no proof,' his father said grimly. 'I'm sorry, Jon,' he said, 'but you will have a chance to prove yourself soon enough anyway I fear.'
'I can't go back,' Jon said, brave and bitter. 'I do not belong there, nothing I find in Winterfell can ever end well, and I do not wish to spend the rest of my days enduring Lady Stark's wishes that my place and Bran's had been exchanged.'
'My lady would never do something so cruel,' his father remonstrated, and Jon gave up to stand in silence, his stomach churning at the idea of what he now had to go back to.
How can he not see? Jon thought angrily. Or does he just not care?
'Go find your sisters,' he ordered. 'Tell them we are leaving.' His face fell. 'Tell them about Bran. Jory will come find you before we head out into King's Landing.'
Gods help me, Jon thought, swallowing down the lump in his throat.
Never had the corridor to his little sister's and Sansa's chambers seemed so long or so dark.
'Jon!' Arya, discarded her embroidery into the corner and leapt up to hug him, and Jon instinctively wrapped his arms around her. Septa Mordane sucked her cheeks in, and rose up to snatch up Arya's work before it was ruined.
'Arya, sit down, your half-brother has not come to sneak you away from your lessons,' the septa said sternly.
'He's our brother,' Arya insisted hotly, scrunching her face up rudely at Sansa when her sister sighed.
'I'm here to speak to my sister, and Sansa,' Jon said quietly and seriously. 'Please step outside, septa, and you as well, Jeyne.'
Arya leant her head back off his chest to look up at him as the rest of the room fell still. 'Is everything ok, Jon?'
'No,' he answered simply. 'Septa. Jeyne.'
The septa drew herself up, then exited calmly. Jeyne shot a timid look at Sansa, then scuttled out after her.
'You can't order the septa around,' Sansa told him.
Jon ignored her. 'Bran is dead,' he said bluntly, and both girls fell silent. 'He was murdered in his bed.'
'I don't believe you,' Arya said in small voice, burying her face back into his chest. Sansa was clutching tightly at the folds of her dress, trying her utmost not to cry, but her eyes were full of tears.
'We're going back to Winterfell tomorrow,' Jon told them both.
Sansa gasped. 'But we can't! I have to marry Joffrey!'
Arya said nothing, just scowled at the floor between Jon's feet.
'You'd miss your brother's funeral for that brat?' Jon asked her sharply. 'Some sister you are.'
Sansa drew herself up, then burst into tears and ran out of the room.
'Good riddance!' Arya spat, pulling free of Jon's arms. 'Bran's - Bran's dead, and all she can think about is Joffrey. I hope father never lets her leave Winterfell.'
'I don't think he will,' Jon said carefully.
'I hate them,' Arya said angrily, and suddenly the dagger the king had given her was in her hands. 'I'll kill them. Whomever killed Bran. I'll get them!'
'Hey,' Jon said softly, deftly removing the knife from her hands before she hurt herself. 'Father will find who is responsible, and he'll bring them to justice, just like the men who get taken to the fist.'
'But I want - I want,' Arya said weakly.
'I know,' Jon said, pulling her back into a tight hug. 'I know.'
'I won't ever see him again, will I?' his little sister realised.
'The gods will take care of him,' Jon told her gently. 'He's with our aunt, our uncle and our grandfather now.'
Arya made no noise, and it was only the wetness that touched his chest through his mail and shirt that let Jon know she was crying.
He held until she had cried herself out, then when she was exhausted from it, guided her back to her chambers. Sansa refused to look at him, but Jon was more than happy to ignore her while he helped his little sister to her bedchamber.
He found Jory waiting for him in the corridor outside.
'I'm sorry,' the captain of the guard said.
'Thank you,' Jon said. His sorrow was knife sharp in his breast, but it burnt helplessly, because his father hadn't told him who had done it.
He never tells anyone anything.
'Lord Stark is ready to head out,' Jory told him. 'Your horse is ready.'
Jon nodded solemnly, and adjusted the sheath of his sword as he hurried after Jory along the corridor.
'Don't worry,' Jory said firmly. 'Nobody will harm your father while I am there.'
Jon said nothing, because Bran had been in Winterfell, in the North, and surrounded by far more loyal swords than his father would be here in King's Landing. Something was beginning to smell foul in the city here, and it wasn't the waste strewn streets and alleys. The king took an unhealthy interest in he and his siblings, Jaime Lannister too, and the Queen whom he'd been set aside for in Winterfell had smiled at him so beautifully he had felt his face catch alight. Meanwhile his father hurried all about the Red Keep, speaking to men at all hours, and jumping at shadows.
Nothing is how it was supposed to be, Jon thought, as he swung himself into the saddle of his rather modest looking mare. The hilt of his sword poked him hard in the side, and he growled softly in annoyance. Jory chuckled, but not for so long as he would have any other day.
The city was hot. The maesters may be claiming summer was passing, but it didn't feel like in King's Landing. The sun filled the roads and markets with heat, and the other northman sweltered in it, even his father found it almost unbearable, and he was not so armoured as Jon, nor even Jory, who'd forgone mail for boiled leather after their first bout in the sun. The captain of the guard still looked like he'd taken a dip in the pools of Winterfell's Godswood he was so slick with sweat, and Jon's father was only a little less afflicted.
Are we there yet? he wanted to ask the back of his father, who led then stoically down street after street as the ringing of hammers grew louder.
'Here,' Jory called, tossing the wineskin he seemed to keep stashed somewhere on his person at all times towards Jon.
He fumbled it, and caught it only after it had bounced of his thigh. It was almost empty. 'Thanks,' Jon said dryly. He drank the last inch or so, grimacing at the sour taste, then spurred his horse forward to pass it back.
His father had dismounted, and passed his reigns to a tall, broad boy a year or son younger than he with black hair, and a strong jaw. 'Milord,' the boy said, as Jory and Jon dismounted too. 'My master is inside.'
'Wait out here,' his father said, turning to he and Jory. 'I won't be too long.'
'Not again,' Jon muttered, as his father led the lad inside.
'Again?' Jory asked, amused.
'Every time I go anywhere I have to wait outside,' Jon said sourly. 'Father seems to think all of King's Landing will take offense to me.'
'Perhaps he's trying to keep you safe,' Jory suggested evenly.
'From Maester Pycelle?' Jon queried incredulously. 'What's he going to do? Fall asleep on me?'
Jory snorted. 'At least it wasn't Littlefinger, that man makes my skin crawl.'
'Never met him,' Jon said, with a shrug. 'Surely he can't be that bad.'
'Yes he can,' Jory told darkly. 'He's a little fellow, thin as Renly, and dressed just as well, but he's got a smug face I really want to hit, and he always talks like he knows something you don't.'
'The Master of Coin?' Jon remembered him being well dressed, and annoyingly smug too.
'If you can recognise a man by that, you know he's prick,' Jory said sagely.
His father came out of the armourer's forge looking troubled, but Jon knew better than to ask, and simply saddled up to return to the Red Keep. Jory followed suit, sagging in disgust the moment they were bag in the sun. Jon let the heat wash over him and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth wrap itself all around him like a thick cloak.
'Didn't even have a chance to buy any wine,' Jory muttered tetchily as they approached the gate to the Red Keep. 'It's going to be a long watch.' Jon groaned quietly, remembering that it was his turn to guard the Tower of the Hand, when really he'd quite like to be blissfully asleep as soon as he could.
Jon's father passed through the gate, and into the stables, but Jon was stuck behind Jory, who'd stopped to talk to Fat Tom in the middle of the way.
'There's a man here who wants to speak with you,' Jory said, as he tied his horse up. 'He wouldn't take off his hood, nor set up his sword, so the others wouldn't let him come in. He's outside in the street waiting for you.'
Jon tied his horse up too, then headed back towards the gate, trying to figure out who would have come to see him.
Ned, maybe, he supposed.
He was wrong, and so was Jory.
There were two men. One at the gate, and one in the shadows.
'Jon,' the first greeted him cheerfully, and with the familiar voice came a flash of red hair under his hood. 'Ned sends his greetings.'
Beric Dondarrion.
'My lord,' Jon greeted cautiously. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'
'I was hesitant to help you when I met you, actually,' Dondarrion admitted. 'Not your fault, of course, I like you well enough, but for Ned's sake I had Thoros look into the flames for the first time in a decade, just in case you had some other motive in approaching him.' The Lightning Lord grinned easily, and mouthed a name that Jon knew his father would be furious to hear. 'Thoros won't tell me what he saw, and insists on speaking to you himself, so I invited myself along to introduce you.'
The second man came out of the shadows. He had a round head, shaved clean, with dark eyes, and he was tall, an inch taller than Jon, and Jon was taller than all his brothers and his father. Despite the looseness of his robes Jon could tell he was portly, almost fat, but not quite. His size spoke of strength more than excess, and now he was in the torchlight Jon could see his garb was a faded red.
Jon knew him immediately. It was hard to forget a man who fought with a sword that burnt with wildfire. 'Jon Snow,' the man said, amicably. 'Beric asked me to see what R'hllor would show me of you.' He shot his friend a long look. 'The Lord of Light has not spoken to me in a long time, if he ever did at all, but I looked for Beric's sake.'
Beric Dondarrion dipped his head to his friend, and then to Jon, and retreated down the street from the keep, back, Jon suspected, to the inn he was staying at.
'R'hllor?' Jon inquired.
'The Red God, the one true god, or so my order would tell you-' Thoros sighed '-in truth I do not know, I've seen nothing in the fires in a decade, and not for want of looking. Or I hadn't until now.'
Oh joy, Jon thought dryly. Red priests, lannisters, kings, perhaps next it will be the high septon.
'I saw a man in white so bright it shone; he glowed like a star where other men were just dull beasts,' Thoros continued softly. 'A white wolf roamed beneath dancing dragons with masked, wooden men, but the skies caught alight with dragonfire, the men burnt, and the wolf was gone.' The red-robed priest's face was shaded in the torchlight, and his voice deep, together they made his words hard to ignore. 'You will see blood, Jon Snow, blood and fire. There is power to be found in those.'
'That doesn't sound like me,' Jon said as lightly as he could manage after hearing that. 'I don't glow at all.'
'Perhaps it is not,' Thoros replied jovially. 'The Lord of Light shows only whatever he deems I need to see, if he shows me anything at all.'
The red priest turned away with that, and Jon was left alone by the gate to tell himself, over and over, that he didn't believe in red gods and flames, and that whatever Thoros had seen in there was nothing but his imagination.
AN: Please read, and review!
P.S. A lot of you really wanted Jon to find something in that Dragonpit didn't you! As interesting as it might be, you'll know - if you've read my other fic - that there are no quick power ups for my protagonists, so alas, there was be no dragon egg lurking in the ruins. And it's probably a good thing they didn't go digging anyway, because I think that was one of the places Aerys stashed wildfire.