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Chapter Eleven: King's Landing
At noon, almost five months after leaving Winterfell, Jon rode through the gates of King's Landing and caught his first glimpse of the Red Keep. Unable to steer his palfrey away from the main procession, he slid down from the saddle and used his own two feet to explore the city for the first time. And from the perimeter walls to the foot of the castle itself, all he could see was a maze of houses, shops, markets and businesses. Over it all, the Red Keep rose from the top of Aegon's high hill, casting its long shadow over the city and its populace.
Cautious, at first, he glanced back at the procession to see where his mother and father were. Both were greeting people, ordinary citizens who'd come out to see the return of the royal family. After that, he was soon swallowed by the crowded, narrow streets of his new home. It seemed that everywhere he turned he got in someone else's way. He dodged a washerwoman only to be pressed flat against a dirty wall by a passing oxcart. He slipped behind the cart only to career into a drayman hauling kegs on his shoulders and sidestepped him into the path of a group of hollering, barefoot children all chasing a wooden hoop.
The noise and the density of the population made him feel oddly dislocated, like there was nothing about this place or these people that he recognised as 'human'. Even the air felt different, it smelled different. So close to the sea, the breeze was salty. Salt, mixed with sweat, blood, open latrines and the spices sold at the open markets. Disorientated, he tried to find his way back to the procession, only for the procession to find him.
"Jon!"
Sansa's shrill cry sounded over the noise of drunks singing out of tune in a nearby tavern. Jon spotted her as she edged her way through a crowd, a leering loiterer openly looking down her bodice as she went. Oblivious to the lecher, she approached him with Jeyne Poole and Arya close behind her. The wolves followed and the crowds gave them no more trouble.
"Father's given us all some coin," she said, breathlessly. "Here's yours."
He caught the small leather purse she tossed to him, thanking her. Meanwhile, Arya was already getting into everything around them. While doing their own thing, the four of them loosely stuck together as they inspected market stalls and sampled the street food on sale,
Meanwhile, back at the procession, the Queen and Lord Stark had already been hauled off to a meeting of the Small Council. The servants would be unpacking their belongings, hauling it up the stairs of the Tower of the Hand. They had been given instructions to stay out of the way.
"Why are they in meetings already?" Arya asked. "It's not fair. Father only just got here."
"The last Hand died almost a year ago, silly," Sansa replied, sharply. "Father has a lot of catching up to do.
"Oh, don't squabble you two," Jon chided. "We only just got here."
Even Jeyne looked grateful for the intervention.
Sansa wanted to buy fabrics, while Arya was in search of a jeweller to set her ruby in a necklace for her – courtesy of the Queen. Jon found himself in an unlikely conversation with Jeyne Poole, the steward's daughter.
"I heard about the tourney," she said as they made their way into an open plaza. "Aren you going to compete?"
"Of course," he replied, claiming a vacant bench. "Melee or jousting, I don't know which. Perhaps duelling, if they have it."
"You'll win," she assured him. As if settling the matter once and for all, she added: "Sansa says so, too."
He had no reply to that, not one that he could speak aloud at any rate. However, they'd bought themselves some marchpane confectionary from a baker's shop. Jon focused on that, rather than trying to pick stiff conversation with a girl he barely knew.
"Do you like the Lannisters?" she asked, after a long pause.
"I have no opinion of the Lannisters," he answered, sucking the almond paste from his fingers. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh, you haven't heard? Sansa might be betrothed to Lady Lannister's eldest son soon."
She was watching him carefully, as if his reaction to this might be important. But, once more, he found himself at a loss.
"I'll be sure to buy a new hat," he replied, at length.
Come dusk, they made their way home through streets that were finally thinning out. For the first time since his arrival, Jon could look up and see not just Aegon's Hill, but Visenya's, where the Sept of Baelor's bells chimed the hour. Opposite that, Rhaenys' hill, topped by the derelict dragonpit, stood silent and dark against the dusky sky. The dragons were long gone now and it stood to reason that their home had fallen into disrepair.
Jory Cassel was at the gates to show them to their chambers, all of them lodged in the Tower of the Hand and up its endless stairs. His mother and Lord Stark were still at the meeting of the small council, leaving them to find their own feet. Servants none of them knew served their supper in their father's new common hall. The food was good, but he wished his father was there, too. It was odd, just the three of them and Septa Mordane.
However, after they'd finished, Arya ran to her new chambers and returned minutes later with Needle wrapped in her cloak, hiding it from the Septa. Jon led her to their father's chambers, using the only room they could find that had been left unlocked. There were boxes stacked by a wall and their father's coat had been draped over a chair that was pushed against an ornate weirwood table. Other than that, there was nothing in there. For now, it would serve their purposes.
He used a wooden tourney sword himself, one he found among his father's possessions.
"Ready then?" he asked.
Arya nodded. "Always."
This had become their habit. Everything Ser Barristan taught him, he later taught Arya while no one was looking. Although he had not had a lesson that day, with Ser Barristan also being on the small council, he still wanted to put her through her paces again.
"Then remember the stance and attack."
He did not raise his sword to her, even it was only a wooden sparring sword. Instead, he let her attack him and showed her how to block those attacks, showing her new ways of performing the same moves. Soon, they were dancing around each other, her trying to land thrusts and cuts of her small, slender blade. She was quick, agile and switched position faster than he could blink. But still he blocked her and defended himself easily. In reality, he did not think the knight's fighting style would suit her. But, for now, it made her happy.
"Here, like this," he would say, before showing her some new move. "And don't leave your belly exposed, and don't ever present a large target."
She learned quickly, but still had accidents. As if in slow motion, he saw her quickly flick Needle to land a thrust, he leapt aside only for Arya to stab their father's coat draped over the back of the chair and leave a tear a good few inches. Arya gasped sharply, her eyes wide and sorrowful as she realised the damage she had caused. Although he heard the tear, he had rather hoped it wouldn't be as bad as all that. However, the white linen lining showed through the tear, a good few inches long, making it particularly eye-catching.
"He's going to kill me!" she said, looking up at him as if he could help.
Inwardly, Jon agreed while outwardly he cast around for a solution. "Look, it's not that bad. If you own up and explain-"
"He'll kill me," she repeated. "And he'll take Needle off me, and I'll never be allowed to learn sword fighting again!"
She looked crestfallen, her front teeth worrying at her lower lip. Needle now hung at her side, limp and useless. Meanwhile, Jon ruffled her hair in an effort to cheer her and moved the cloak. It was heavy and the tear was right down the seam down the back. Better yet, Needle had gone right through it and scratched the table, too. While he surveyed the damage, only the sound of Sansa singing sweetly filled the air.
"That's it," he said. "I know what to do."
Arya looked puzzled. "What?"
Jon said nothing as he carried the torn cloak outside, to where Sansa sat in the ante-chamber brushing Lady's coat to a shine. She glanced up at their approach, frowning in suspicion as he smiled at her in what he hoped was a winning fashion.
"Sweet sister," he said, kneeling at her side. With one hand he scratched Lady's ears, mussing up the fur that had just been brushed.
"What have you two been up to?" she asked.
"Who? Us?" he replied, exchanging a look with Arya, finding her still distraught.
"Why are you calling me 'sweet sister' and grinning at me like a lackwit, unless you want something?" she asked.
"So cynical," he sighed. "Well, listen, Arya had an accident with her needlework. And because you care about her so deeply, I thought you could use your own needlework to put it right."
"Please, Sansa, please!" Arya cried out, fighting for her final lifeline. "I'll never be mean to you again, I promise. Please, please!"
Sansa's eyes widened in shock. "This is serious, isn't it?" she asked, monotone. "Jon, what's happened? What's going on? Is someone dead?"
She looked between them both, fearful.
"This," he said, showing her the tear. "Can you fix it?"
Sansa drew a deep breath, letting it go in a disapproving sigh. "You're playing at swords, aren't you? Well, as long as you promise not to do it indoors again, I'll fix it for you."
They may squabble and fight, but Jon knew they loved each other really. Proving the point, Arya flung her arms around her sister's neck, thanking her profusely and making all the promises she could. And Sansa hugged her right back.
"And you won't say anything to father?" Arya asked, pulling away.
"Nothing," Sansa assured her. "And I'll even get it back in father's closet as soon as I am finished."
Grateful, Jon grinned and mussed up both their hair. "Thank you, Sansa."
"You're my favourite sister," Arya declared.
Sansa laughed, but good naturedly this time. "I am your only sister!"
"I come bearing wine." Lyanna held up the bottle of dry Dornish wine, hoping it would put a smile back on her brother's troubled face. "I know you must be exhausted, but I won't stay long."
Ned had already stepped aside to grant her entry to his new apartments. There were still boxes stacked by the wall, but order was at last largely restored. His cloak was gone from where she had left it draped over the back of the chair, and a deep scratch had appeared on the table leg. A scar from one of Sweet Robin's shaking tantrums, no doubt. They all said the boy was sickly, but he could pack a punch when the mood took him. And it took him often, from what she could recall.
"I cannot sleep anyway, sister," he answered, setting down two glasses. "And the drink would be most welcome."
"That's almost decadent of you," she teased him gently as she decanted the wine. "How are you, anyway? Now that we're here, I thought homesickness might be setting in."
He shrugged shoulders that had been draped in a heavy cloak, under which he still wore his day shirt and breeches. It left her with the distinct impression that he hadn't even tried to sleep. They soon repaired to the inner chamber, where she left the wine on the scratched table and set off toward the solar. A fire had been lit inside the connecting solar, chasing away the chills of the night.
"It's strange to be back after so long," he answered. "When we rode through the city gates this morning, all I could remember was the Sack. Every street we passed, I could recall something that happened there. A woman raped, or a child put to the sword. Ashara…"
"You saved her life, Eddard," she said, using his full name to emphasise her point. "It matters not that she chose to end it not long after. It takes nothing from the honour of your actions that night."
"There was no honour in it." His tone was sharper, he couldn't meet her gaze. When he did look back at her he was sheepish. "I dishonoured Catelyn and the gods-"
"Don't talk like that," she cut over him. "So, you loved Ashara while still married to Cat? You can't help your feelings and if it was a dishonour to the gods, why did they give humans emotions?"
For the life of her, she couldn't think why he was beating himself up so badly. Even now, all these years later, he seemed to shrink against the shame of how he felt about that sad-eyed dead girl.
"The gods didn't make me act on those feelings though, did they?"
It took a second for her to realise what he meant by that, then the penny dropped resoundingly.
"Oh!" she replied, trying not to sound shocked. "You mean, you…"
"Afterwards," he confessed. "I'd found Aerys dead, Jaime Lannister sitting on the damn throne. It was all over. I found her by the quayside and … well, you can guess the rest. It was a moment of weakness."
Lyanna considered it for a long moment, sipping her wine while she gathered her thoughts. "A moment of weakness, but at a time of chaos and madness. Gods, Ned, no one can blame either of you for seeking solace in each other."
They moved away from the fireside and sat at opposite sides of the desk. Already, his books and papers had been stacked at one side. A candelabra was lit in the corner of the room, the candles guttering on a draught seeping through the window frame. Meanwhile, Ned had wrapped his cloak more snugly around his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair.
"Was her body ever found?" he asked, squinting at her through the poor light.
Lyanna shook her head. "No. Not a trace. I often wonder what became of her."
"Washed out to the Summer Sea, I suppose," he answered, voice low. After a deep sigh, he added: "And it's not just her. Father and Brandon, and all those others who went south and never returned. Ethan Glover we found in the cells, only for him to die in Dorne."
Jaime Lannister once delivered to her a detailed account of how her father and brother had died. As if she wasn't already wary enough of the throne room, she relived it every time she set foot in there for months after Lannister's graphic retelling. The horror had worn away over the years, but the guilt stayed with her always.
"Aerys was mad," she said, as though Ned didn't already know. "I thought he would kill us all. But Ned, as for your … indiscretion… just forget it. It's long over and there's no use in berating yourself."
He smiled crookedly. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
She didn't know, actually. "It's supposed to make you feel human. Flawed, but ultimately human. Brandon had a woman in every town between Winterfell and the Neck, and that was long before any war."
Ned laughed, but only weakly. "Brandon was a good man, really."
"And so are you," she pointed out. "And so was father, although I know you did not like him."
"I respected him," said Ned, thoughtfully. "But I always wanted more than just 'respect' between me and my own sons…and daughters. He would have thought that vain of me."
"Nonsense," Lyanna laughed. "There's nothing vain about wanting your children to love you. And well I know it. I pray every day in the godswood that Jon will grow to love me."
"He does already," he assured her. "He may not say it, but just knowing you has been enough. Even more now that you've given your permission for him to take part in this tourney."
Lyanna finally allowed herself an easy smile. "I know you disapprove of them, Ned. But I honestly think it will give Jon a chance to shine now that he's in the capital. It's horrible, I know, but he most prove himself if he wants to be accepted."
Ned shrugged again, but did not look upset. "It's not that I don't approve. I worry that tourneys make a game of war. You and I both know the bitter realities behind that little myth. Anyway, all the same, Jon's had training with lance and running at rings. Robb, too. He could do well."
"Why don't we bring Robb down for it?" she asked, suddenly seized by the idea. "He could take ship from White Harbour to make good time and Jon would love to see him again."
However, Ned was hesitant. "I don't know, Lya. I'd rather he knuckle-down at Winterfell and learn to rule."
"Fair enough," she replied with a shrug.
"Rhaegar was skilled at tourneys," he added. "I'm inclined to think that might be something passed down to Jon."
A little too skilled, she thought to herself while remembering the day he 'crowned' her. It embarrassed her still to think of that day.
Satisfied with her work, Sansa snipped the thread and studied her stitching carefully. It was neat, the tear in her father's cloak was no longer visible, but she wanted to make doubly sure and it wasn't as if she could show Septa Mordane. Trusting in her own work, she put away her sewing kit and checked the time. Gone midnight, the grounds of the Red Keep were in darkness and the halls inside the Tower of the Hand were silent. Everyone was exhausted from their long journey south and had retired early to bed and sunk into their soft feather mattresses. She would have done the same, but for Arya's own 'needlework'.
She supposed her father would be asleep by now, too. He wasn't just tired from his journey, but from the small council meeting he was dragged off to as soon as they arrived. At least, that was what she banked on she folded his cloak over her arms and set off into the silent tower. Jon had been allocated the chambers on the level above her own. She could hear Ghost sniffing at the other side of the door. Above him was Arya, whose chambers were silent. Finally, above her, were the chambers of the Hand.
Jory Cassel was on guard duty, she could hear him pacing along the corridor that opened up at the top of the stairs. Playing it safe, she ducked into the first door she came to and found herself in a garderobe. Although the windows had no glass and just opened into the starry night, she wrinkled her nose all the same. Once Jory had passed the door and begun descending to the lower floors, she slipped out of the garderobe and into her father's chambers.
The outer-chamber was empty and dark. She took off her shoes so she would make no noise as she stole across the polished oak floor. Through a small gallery, she came to the common hall large enough to seat hundreds. Through a door at the back, she would reach Lord Stark's living quarters. She peeked nervously around the door before entering, but became emboldened by the ashes in the fire and the darkness within.
There was a closet in the inner-chamber, so she headed for that. All she had to do was slip the cloak in there and get back out, and he would be none-the-wiser. Given the warmer climate of King's Landing, father probably wouldn't even need his cloak until he returned to Winterfell to collect Bran.
However, it was there that things got complicated. To reach the closet she had to pass the door of the solar, which was ajar and a soft firelight filtered through the aperture. In the room she was in now, she could see an open bottle of wine that had been half-emptied. Better still, she could hear her aunt talking inside. Sansa froze, still with the cloak clutched in her arms. She could just dump the cloak on the table and hope that her father wouldn't notice that it wasn't there before. But the indecision had her rooted to the spot.
Meanwhile, Lyanna kept talking. Her voice a soft natter drifting through the solar door.
"The more time I spend with Jon the more I see his father in him…"
The breath caught in Sansa's throat, her gaze snapping to the door. If that wasn't her father in there, then who? She didn't want the King to catch her sneaking around the castle on her first night! But, then…
"How? I've only ever seen the Stark in him. He looks like you, Lya."
That was unmistakably her father. Bewildered, Sansa almost forgot the cloak and forgot that she wasn't supposed to be there. However, she retained enough common sense to step farther into the deep shadows of her father's room.
"It's the shape of his face," Lyanna answered. "Sometimes, the look he gets in his eyes. Rhaegar had indigo eyes, of course. But it's in the expressions. Jon has eyes every bit as expressive as Rhaegar's."
Sansa felt her jaw hit her collarbone.
"What about the nose?" her father asked. "I don't think that's a Stark nose."
"Really? I think he has my nose," Lyanna answered. "He didn't get my wolfblood, thank the gods. No, his temperament is pure Rhaegar. Quiet to the point of taciturn, but he's not like that when you get to know him."
"I tried to encourage Jon to be more outgoing, truth be told," Lord Stark replied. "Robb and Arya were always good with him, they brought him out of himself. Sansa … not so much; she's never made much effort with him, but I think she just wanted to please her mother."
Sansa blushed, but she was still too shocked to fully process what she was hearing. She tried not to hear it, she tried to render herself deaf for long enough to put the damn coat in the closet and get straight back out of those apartments.
"It's easy to be angry with Cat," Lyanna was saying. "But she was ignorant of the facts and that was our fault. Had she known Jon was a trueborn Targaryen, how would she have reacted? I think that is far too much to place on the shoulders of a woman outside the family, who didn't really know us and had no say in whether to get involved or not. It was dangerous; it still is."
"I suppose you are right," replied Lord Stark. "She's a good woman and I love her dearly. And our children… those children I would not give up for anything in the world."
Finally, Sansa pulled herself together and gave herself a rough shakedown. Trembling, with her head still in a whirl, she crept to the closet with her heart beating in her throat. She was amazed her aunt and father couldn't hear the beating from where they were, and that was much too close for comfort.
Lyanna and Eddard were still talking about Jon, but now they were talking about her brothers as well, to her relief. Very slowly, very carefully, she opened the closet door and found it empty. No longer caring whether her father found it out of place, she dumped it on the floor.
"Do you want some more wine, Lya? I'm getting a top-up now."
With a flash of horror, Sansa remembered the wine bottle on the table. Even as her father spoke, his voice grew louder as he walked into the main room. Just in time, she stepped into the closet and closed the door behind her.
"I don't mind if I do, brother." Lyanna had followed her brother into the main room. "As I was saying, you may think Robb has the Tully look, but I see a lot of you in him. Sansa's a rare beauty though, and a sweet girl with it. I hope she doesn't get eaten alive in this viper's pit."
Inside, she was cringing. Any minute now, she thought her father might decide to do a little late night unpacking and wrench open the closet door, to find her cowering inside like a thief in the night. Ashamed of what she had done, she wished she could unhear all of what was said.
Mercifully, as if the gods had heard her silent prayers, she heard the sloshing of wine into glasses and retreating footsteps. This time, her father was even kind enough to close the solar door fully after they'd returned inside. Breathing a sigh of relief, Sansa allowed herself a moment to compose herself before beating a hasty retreat.
Outside, she grabbed her shoes and slipped out of the door and straight into Jory Cassel. Their eyes met, his looking wide and startled. She couldn't begin to imagine the look on her own face.
"M'Lady, I didn't see you go in," he said.
"No, no you didn't," she replied, breathlessly. "I was looking for the garderobe, actually. I got the wrong room, I got lost. I'm sorry to have troubled you, Jory. I'll go back to my chambers now, if it please you."
Jory looked concerned. "It'll please me more to escort you, you look like you've seen a ghost. In fact, do you want me to get your father-"
"No!" she cut in. "Please, don't disturb my father. I just want to lie down."
He escorted her as he said he would, leaving her at the door. But, even once in her bed, she could not sleep. She lay awake in the darkness, looking up at the ceiling and going over what she heard repeatedly. Did Jon know? He had a right to know, but she knew she had no right to tell him. The arguments and counter-arguments tied her in knots, to the point where she groaned aloud and buried her head under her goose-down pillow. Still the thoughts split her head too much for sleep.
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Next Update: Sunday, 10th September.
