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Chapter Twenty-Six: Bad Company

How many days had it been? Jon found himself wondering, as time seemed to blend, the days merged and he soon lost track. Four, maybe five, days since Sansa was taken and still no one knew anything. No one saw anything. No one even heard anything. Sometimes, he questioned whether she had been taken at all, as it seemed more and more likely she simply dematerialised and vanished in a puff of smoke.

Ser Barristan was spending whole days cooped up in meetings of the small council, discussing the rising tensions between two of the realms largest noble houses. A demand on the old knight's time that saw Jon deprived of his valuable training sessions and cast into a listless torpor of inactivity. Doing nothing overwhelmed him. Worse, he was doing nothing in plain sight of Catelyn Stark under whose eyes his inactivity seemed to magnify.

But this is still a bad idea, he told himself as he let himself into Maegor's Holdfast. A bad idea it may have been, but it was better than doing nothing. While Stannis Baratheon had returned to King's Landing to take up his seat on the Small Council, Lady Melisandre's function was less defined. Had she demanded a place on the council, or even just a formal role at court, both Robert and Lyanna would have laughed her all the way back to Asshai. Therefore, much like himself, she was one of the Red Keep's loose ends, left blowing in the wind.

Yet he remembered what Sansa said to him, that she had brought Lady back from the dead. He couldn't deny what he saw with his own two eyes: Lady was dying, until the priestess did something and then the wolf was as good as new. He didn't particularly wish to knock on the Baratheon door, but he did anyway. He stated his business to the guard on duty, who showed him inside where he was greeted by Lady Shireen, who asked the same questions about Sansa everyone else who saw him asked: Any news? Any clues? After the no to both, the Priestess appeared and didn't bother to ask.

"You're here about your sister," she said. A statement, not a question. "Come."

She led him out of the back, leaving Shireen in the care of the Florent guards that Stannis had brought with him. Up a flight of back stairs and into the Queen's ballroom. Not much of a one for balls and ballroom events, Lyanna neglected the place. It was wide and open, their footsteps echoing on the oak floorboards as they made their way inside. The shutters were closed, blocking most of the light and the air was thick with dust. It felt almost derelict, lending the place a strange kind of decaying beauty.

"Shall I open the windows?" he asked.

But a light flared in the middle of the room, flames rising and taking hold. He didn't see her strike a flint, but there the fire was.

"No need," she assured him.

"No," he concurred. "How did you do that?"

"I didn't," she answered. "R'hllor did."

A brazier had been moved to the middle of the room, one she was clearly using on a regular basis. The metal work frame was all blackened from heat and soot, now being made darker against the orange flames lapping through the lattice work. He had to admit, it was a hypnotic dance the flames played out.

"When you look into the flames, will you see Sansa?" he asked, walking a slow circle around the brazier.

She looked back at him, her features up-lit in orange and red, the ruby pulsing at her throat. The look on her face suggested she was about to disappoint him. "It doesn't work like that. The Lord of Light doesn't give easy answers, only signs that the reader must interpret."

He had set out from the Tower of the Hand knowing this was a longshot. Like consulting soothsayers, or clairvoyants or listening to fairground woodwitches who swore they could foretell the future. He had come to Melisandre with the same scepticism with which he would approach those charlatans. Somehow, he still had a feeling of being let down.

"When you look in there," he said, gesturing to the lapping flames. "How do you know it's not like children looking at the sky and seeing faces in the cloud formations? How do you know its not just an illusion?"

Before answering, Melisandre reached up the dagged sleeve of her gown and withdrew a vial of powder, which she upended into the flames. Jon flinched from the hiss and crackle of the burning substance that made the flames grow whiter, more incandescent. Watching his reaction, the priestess seemed almost amused.

"Again, it's not like that," she said. "Come and see for yourself." She beckoned him over, taking him by the arm. "Look now, and tell me what you see."

Still thoroughly unconvinced, he did as she asked and looked into the heart of the flames. At first, he was aware of only the heat on his face, making his eyes scratchy and dry. It wasn't pleasant. But the powder she had burned was giving off a sharp but soothing scent. It was just enough to let him ignore the unpleasant heat and focus on the images taking shape. It was no flame formation, no face in the clouds. It was a girl with a long, flowing mane of silver hair and striking lilac eyes. She was looking into a burning brazier just as he was, a large black egg in her hands. Just for a second, her gaze met his and he felt like a voyeur.

Startled, he leapt back. "Who was that?"

Melisandre looked up at him, smiling in the knowledge that he had at least seen something. "We won't see the same things. Look again, and ask R'hllor to show you Sansa."

"What? You mean out loud-"

"In your mind will do," she cut in. "Fix her in your mind and look again."

As with before, the images flickered and wavered with the movement of the flames. It was distracting, at first, until he grew used to it. Smoke made the things he was seeing distort and ripple, but he could still make it out.

"A cloth dragon on poles," he said. "The ones you see in Mummer's acts. Black hands. Rotten, I think, like decay. They're manipulating the poles on the cloth dragon-"

"I've seen that, too," she said, almost to herself rather than Jon. "Anything else?"

Jon let the images form of their own volition, narrating them to the priestess as they flickered into life before being snuffed out by the next. A fallen stag collapsed on the ground, blood leaking from its throat. A golden rose was bound in chains, left wilting in the dark. A dying wolf howled in fury, raging against the onset of death. Jon's heartbeat raced in alarm as dragons exploded from stone prisons, their leathern wings beating at the billowing smoke. Then the girl with the silver hair and lilac eyes was back, the now familiar face soothing him back into a state of placidity.

"That's enough," he said, stepping away from the flames. "It's intriguing, I'll grant you. But that stuff had little and less to do with Sansa."

"How do you know?" she asked. "She could be anywhere, with anyone."

Jon didn't need the painful reminder. "Those things I saw… they aren't even connected to each other, never mind my sister."

"Sometimes, the visions can only be understood in retrospect," she explained. "It's only over time that you learn to read them and interpret R'hllor's will before it comes to be."

"Right," he answered, not really considering what she'd sad. "Well, I don't have time to become a disciple of R'hllor. Sansa needs me now. She needed me a week ago, when she was taken."

"I only wanted you to see how it works. Otherwise you wouldn't have believed me. You would have left here thinking I was making faces in the clouds," she pointed out. "And that would have been wasting both our time."

Suddenly abashed, Jon piped down. "Forgive me. Our situation grows desperate. Families fighting and chaos threatening at every turn…"

He had feeling she already understood and let himself trail off.

"I will consult the fires properly overnight," she assured him.

"Overnight. You mean, it takes that long?" If that was the case, he wondered what he'd just seen and why.

"The longer the better," she replied. "Tell me about the dragons you saw hatching."

There was something about her tone, the way she looked at him now, that suggested she was a lot more interested than she was letting on.

Jon shrugged. "One second they were stone, the next they were living creatures. I didn't see how they hatched or who did it. But that girl with the silver hair, I don't know who she is."

He could guess, but he wasn't going to guess in front of Melisandre. At least, not until he grew to know her better and he'd figured out if she was friend or foe.

"To see what you need to see," she explained. "You need to concentrate on what you need to see. Otherwise, you'll see only fragments of a myriad sights the Lord of Light thinks you need to see. The girl you saw, she's relevant to you. You'll meet her one day and it will all become clear."

"Is she definitely alive, then?"

"You wouldn't see her if she was dead."

"Is that why I didn't see Sansa? Because she's already dead-"

"I did not mean to imply that," the priestess cut in. Her tone was patient, like she knew she was, in essence, teaching a cat to dance. "You came to me as a last resort, did you not? You've exhausted your options."

"Perhaps," he replied. "You have to admit, from where I'm standing all this looks unconventional. I've never seen such things before."

Melisandre smiled. "I'll grant you that, my lord."

"Why did you come here?" he asked, finding a seat in one of Lyanna's fancy ballroom chairs. "Pardon me if I am being too familiar, but I'm curious. Why Westeros? They worship the seven here, and the old gods in the North. Both will think you a heretic."

"Will they be still calling me a heretic even when it is me and my god who defeats the Great Other, the enemy of all mankind?"

Jon couldn't help but laugh. "Probably. Besides, I didn't realise the Great Other was in Westeros. It's not Lord Stannis, is it?"

"Now you are mocking me," Melisandre gently chided him. "I came in search of the Prince that was Promised, the visions led me to Stannis."

"Interesting choice," he said.

"It's not a choice, Lord Stark, it is destiny," she said, curtly. "I didn't see Stannis in the fires, only Dragonstone. Inside Dragonstone, I found only Stannis."

Jon looked over at her again, where she continued to consult the fires. Briefly, he wondered what she was seeing. "I think R'hllor is playing tricks on you."

Rather than making her snippy, she smiled and stifled a laugh. "On that we agree, Lord Stark."

"I mean it," said Jon. "Did R'hllor tell you about the regime change? It was Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, who uncovered the Prince that was Promised prophecy. It was nought to do with Stannis Baratheon, my lady."

The smile froze on her face, her expression hardening. At first, Jon thought she might be getting prickly, believing him to be teasing her again. But when she spoke, she sounded distant but intense, like she was genuinely realising something for the first time.

"Rhaegar Targaryen," she said, stepping closer to Jon. "He is a relative of the last king?"

"Was," Jon corrected her. "You didn't know, did you? Fourteen years ago, there was a war. Robert overthrew the Targaryens and gave Dragonstone to his brother-"

"Of course, I know that," she cut in. "If Rhaegar had lived, who would be in Dragonstone now."

Jon realised it would be himself, Aegon and Rhaenys. A thought that still made him a little sad. "Rhaegar would be King by now, so his eldest living son would be living at Dragonstone. Aegon. If Aegon is the Prince you're looking for, you're out of luck: he's dead, too. They're all dead. So forget them. I'm sure Stannis is the next best thing."

He got up to leave, ready to make his excuses before the conversation could make him feel even more uncomfortable. But she was thinking aloud, now. At least, that's how it seemed."

"The Lord of Light showed me Dragonstone," she was saying, quietly. "Was he showing me the place the Prince was supposed to be?"

The knock on the door took them both by surprise. Jon's heart almost leapt out of his throat. Then the fire swayed on the gust of air as the double doors were pushed open, Ser Barristan Selmy giving Melisandre the most suspicious look. See, Jon thought to himself, he thinks she's a heretic.

Finally, the old knight's eyes fell on him. "I've been searching for you everywhere. Come now."

"But I-"

"Come on!" he snapped.

Giving Melisandre an apologetic shrug, he ran out after Ser Barristan. After the gloom indoors, the broad afternoon sunlight made him wince.

"Ser Barristan, what's wrong? Have I displeased you?"

Ser Barristan paused, looking back at him and smiling crookedly. "Nothing like it. You just looked in need of an immediate rescue."

"She was quite interesting, to tell it true," he said. "Strange. But interesting."

They were exiting via the front stairs, negating the need to leave through Stannis' apartments. But, once they left Maegor's, they didn't approach the training yard, as Jon thought they would. They headed toward the White Sword Tower, where all the Kingsguard had their lodgings. Ser Barristan motioned for him to follow inside, where he was led up the endless steps that left him dizzy and breathless.

Jon had only been up here once before, when he first got back from Dragonstone. Only vaguely aware of where everything was, he let Barristan lead him into the Lord Commander's study.

"Sit," he commanded. "And close the door behind you."

Jon did as asked. It was a wide and spacious room, all white-washed to reflect the sunlight. But it was sparsely furnished, with plenty of hanging baskets out over the terrace. A pleasant place and quiet with it, giving it an advantage over the Tower of the Hand.

"Your mother wants me guarding you morning, noon and night," said Ser Barristan. "I told her you won't like it, but you can imagine how she reacted to that. What with your sister and all."

"She knows I can look after myself," he stated, irritably. "I have no need of an armoured nursemaid, Ser Barristan."

"Precisely," he agreed, to Jon's relief. "But I have a suggestion. One that might appease your poor mother, as well as reduce the sting of humiliation for you. Squire for me. You'll have to move into the antechamber, in the rooms below mine. You'll have to groom my horse, see to my armour and swords, clean my mail shirts and a myriad other menial tasks-"

"Yes!" Jon cut in without a second's thought. "Yes, I'll do it. When can I start?"

"As soon as you have your father's permission."

A minor problem, Jon thought. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he was up off his arse and back down the stairs in search of his father.

The knock on the door drew Eddard's attention away from the despatches he was reading. All of them pilfered and intercepted by Varys, the court's spymaster, in hopes they contained information about Sansa. A name day greeting from Lord Bothwell of the Storm Lands to his eldest and seemingly favourite daughter. An enquiry about the ownership of a herd of cows grazing common land in the Reach from Lord Redwyne to his wife. A clarification of hunting rights in the Wolfswood from Lord Glover to Lady Dustin … Ned paused there. He didn't know Varys had northerners in his pay.

But first, the knock.

"Enter."

"Lady Arya, my lord."

"Show her in, Jory."

But she was already in, peering out from behind the other man's legs. The sight of her brought a rare smile to his face. She came over to him after Jory closed the door behind her, bringing with her a grey, roughspun sack embroidered with the royal coat of arms. It looked like the winner's purse she had gotten for running at rings.

Ned reached out to her and pulled her onto his lap. "What have you got there?"

"Gold," she said. "That I won."

He had guessed correctly, it seemed. "Do you want me to look after it for you?"

"No, it's to get Sansa back," she answered. "Jon said, she won't get hurt because whoever's got her will be looking for a ransom. To pay a ransom you need gold. I have gold."

She dropped the bag on his desk, just as Eddard wrapped his arms tight around her. For a moment, he was speechless. "Oh, sweet child. No, you keep your prize money. The crown will pay the ransom and have no fear of it."

"But if you have more gold, the sooner Sansa will be released," she reasoned.

"That's not how it works, I'm afraid," he said, gently. She was looking at the world through her child's eyes, rationalising it all with her child's logic. "I'm afraid the captors set the price themselves and there's bound to be … other conditions. We cannot make an opening offer, as if Sansa is an object we wish to purchase. I know it leaves us helpless, but that's how it is."

Arya sagged in dismay, crestfallen and pale. "But that's not fair."

It made his heart ache to know he had no answers to give her. More speculation would only confuse her, encouragement would only bring false hope. For all they knew, Sansa was already dead, or dying, or about to be killed. Every and all possibilities worked to together to keep him sick with worry and wide awake of a night. Nor was it like other problems, healed by time and patience. The longer this went on, the worse it got.

And, that evening after supper, it seemed to get a little worse again.

"There's something Sansa knows," said Jon. He eased himself into the chair opposite Eddard's desk as carefully as if it might jump up and bite him on the arse at any second.

Eddard felt the cold shadow of dread close over him once more. "Knows?" he repeated.

"She knows, father. She knows about me," Jon continued. "She overheard you and Lyanna talking about it. It was why she was so quiet when we first got here. Don't you remember? I didn't realise she knew until we left for Dragonstone and she couldn't keep it in any longer."

Ned buried his face in his hands, sighing heavily. "And you didn't think to mention this until now?"

Jon looked down at his lap. "No."

"Does the Queen know?"

"No."

"Well, I will inform her," he said, rising to his feet. "And you're taking your new position as Ser Barristan's squire, are you not?"

"As soon as I get my things to the White Sword Tower," answered Jon.

"You better get a move on, then," Eddard informed him. "If you remember anything else, do inform me right away."

Angry with himself for being so lax, angry with Lyanna for opening her mouth, angry with Jon for not saying anything. He was mostly angry with himself and himself alone. He got up and went to the door, turning his back on Jon's apologies and explanations.

"My Lady, the men who took you also brought this." Lord Connington's hands shook as he proffered one of Sansa's dresses. "I think he just grabbed the first one that came to hand. I-I don't know if it's one you particularly like."

"It's fine," she assured him. "Thank you."

Her courtesies seemed to upset him, as if he'd rather she raked his eyes out and screamed bloody murder. However, she had already resolved that, not matter what they did to her, she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears or her fear. She would conduct herself as she always had: with courtesy and dignity as befitting a lady of her rank.

He left her to dress in privacy. It was a pale blue silk dress, trimmed with cloth of gold, that she had made with the help of her mother. It reminded her of home, of Winterfell and endless hours spent embroidering by the fire and watching her creation take shape, while she dreamed of making her court debut. When she lifted the fabric to her nose, she believed she could still smell the Northern summer snows and the piney scent of the logs burning in the hearths. With all her heart, she wished she was back there now, dreaming of what life was like at court and not stuck on ship that had dropped anchor off some foreign shore called Pentos.

She donned the dress as best she could, but it was hopeless. She needed someone to lace her up at the back. Now free to leave her cabin, she held the bodice in place to cover herself and tried to get Lord Connington's attention. When he realised her predicament, he went to get help. To Sansa's immense relief, it was a woman. A septa, no less.

"Septa Lemore," she introduced herself while lacing the dress. "Are you Eddard's daughter?"

Sansa hesitated, as if it might be a trick question. "Yes."

"Silly question really, given Ben joined the Watch and Bran got himself killed by the mad king," she continued. "And Lyanna's proved to be no great matriarch. That leaves Ned."

Sansa didn't know whether she ought to feel affronted with this total stranger addressing her family in such familiar terms. But, more than anything, she was curious. "Do you know them?"

"Oh, not really," answered Septa Lemore. "A friend of a friend knew them, shall we say. Your father's a good man who insists on keeping bad company. And I think I'll leave it at that."

Her dress laced and in place, Sansa followed the Septa back on deck. Under different circumstances, Pentos would have been exciting and beautiful. The great harbour was full of ships bound for all over the known world. Braavos was just north of here, Westeros was just across the Narrow Sea. She even saw the Blackbird with its black sails, bound for the Night's Watch. Other ships she saw were Lysene and Myrish. Hitherto places she had only seen in ink on a map. It was almost enough to kindle a sense of adventure inside her.

"Why have we come here?" she asked the septa. "Is this where Aegon lives?"

"Oh no, child," she laughed. "Aegon has no home but Westeros. He's lived his whole life on the run, fleeing from place to place."

"Whatever for?" she asked. "Everyone thinks he's dead. It's not like anyone's looking for him."

"There's always a risk of discovery, which is why we call him Young Griff," said the Septa. "Anyway, we're here so you can stay with Magister Ilyrio for a week or so. Just while we get everything ready."

"Who is he?"

"A fat cheesemonger," she laughed. "Don't worry about him, child. He keeps his dead wife's hands on a cushion in his bedchamber. Dead, blackened and rotten things they are. But, the odd eccentricity aside, he's a sound fellow. On Serra's hands, I swear he'll treat you well!"

With that highly disturbing image in Sansa's head, Septa Lemore went her own way down the deck of the galley. Sansa went the other way, where she could continue to look out over the Pentos harbour. High up a hill, a manse was partially concealed by high walls. Bright white, it stuck out like a swollen thumb against the greenery of the surrounding hills.

The boy who would be king was close by, coiling a rope around the railing of the gunwale. She watched him for a second, taking a long look at his face. While it was true Jon took after the Starks, he must have had some features in common with his real half-brother. But it was impossible to tell from a distance. To remedy that, she marched up to him and said the first thing that came into her head.

"So, you're sailing back to Westeros to reclaim your throne."

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. "Of course."

His eyes weren't lilac. They were dark blue. Or was that just because of his silly blue hair? Sansa found herself squinting at him, quite unashamedly. "What? Just you, Lord Connington and a Septa. You're going to take on the armies of the seven kingdoms?"

"And you," he pointed out. "Lord Stark wouldn't dare raise his banners against me if I have you. Same goes for Hoster Tully and your aunt Lysa in the Vale. Her husband's dead now, so she better tow the line."

Sansa thought it over in her head for a second. "All right then. You, Lord Connington, the Septa and me: we're all going to defeat the Reach, the Westerlands, the Storm Lands and the Dornish… Oh, I suppose you think the Dornish will come to your aid."

"I know they will. And the Tyrells, too."

"I am betrothed to Prince Trystane," she pointed out, curtly. "And the Tyrells are rising at Robert's court, now. I know Lady Margaery."

Aegon frowned, distracted himself with his rope again and muttered something under his breath. He was tall, for his age. Thin as well. His build was similar to Jon's, but that was as far as it went.

"I have the Golden Company as well, you know," he said. "We're not stupid. They're sailing to Westeros with us, and the usurper will get a pleasant shock when we land. Ten thousand men all on Ilyrio's coin."

"Ten thousand sellswords," she remarked, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smile.

"Whose word is gold."

"Yes, I know their words and what they're supposedly worth. I'll tell you what else I know. They were established by the great bastard, Bittersteel, to seat a Blackfyre on the throne-"

"What are you saying?" he cut in, dark blue eyes narrowing.

"I'm telling you the history of the Golden Company," she said. "Nothing more. But I tell you something else: I am a girl of not yet twelve, educated in the womanly arts of embroidery, dancing, dressmaking and high harp. If I make that connection, so will everyone else."

Aegon sighed heavily, looking out over the gunwale of the ship as if deciding the best way to throw her overboard. But Sansa was past caring. Her courtesies had made her forget her fear and now she was masking her anger. Anger at this silly boy being used as an excuse to tear her from her family for the sake of a war she wanted no part in.

"The Blackfyres are all dead," he huffed, indignantly.

"An unfortunate disposition they share with the Targaryens," she responded. "Every single person in Westeros thinks Prince Aegon died with Princess Elia and his sister. No one has ever disputed it. Do you think all those people are going to believe your story without question? They are not fools."

"They'll have no choice," he insisted. "I'll be on the iron throne-"

"And who will keep you there?" she cut in. "I know little and less of politics, but I know you need the support of the Lords Paramount if you're to keep your throne. It might have been different, if you had dragons. Any man would bend the knee rather than be burned to death-"

"You'd know all about that," Aegon interjected. "Your grandfather knelt to mine and you will kneel to me."

Sansa calmed, feeling almost sorry for the boy. "He knelt to the dragons, my lord. As did the whole realm. They all knelt to the dragons."

"There's dragon eggs under Dragonstone," he said, growing ever more defensive. "Everyone knows that. And no one will dispute my claim once I am king."

There were dragon eggs under Dragonstone, she inwardly corrected him. "But first you must prove you are king. You can't do that without proof. And if you think the Lords of Westeros will take the word of a cheesemonger, you're naïve."

"And Lord Varys?" he snapped. "What about him? He did the swap himself."

Varys, she thought, so that was who was behind the whole farce. She remembered when they met in the Dragonvault and he told her about a Lord waiting to come to court. If this was truly who he meant, she wished him well for he would need all the luck he could get.

Even if he got the iron throne, he would never rest easy on it. No one would ever stop questioning who he really was. The Lords may play along for a while. The smallfolk would be happy so long as the harvest comes in, winter is mild and the summers are long. But the slightest upset, the first piece of unpopular legislation he introduces, all the old questions would come up again and again, until he's cast out of the realm with nothing but his small clothes and a tub of blue hair dye.

Sansa wished she could articulate that. She wished she had it in her to tell them the Targaryen – Martell alliance was nullified along with Elia's marriage. But she pitied the boy too much for that. He was too blind to see.

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.

With Christmas and New Year coming up, there's a change to my posting schedule. This story will be returning on Sunday, 7th January, 2018 (three weeks from today).

Thank you, once again, for all your support, encouragement and con-crit over the year (on this story and the others). It all means a lot to me. So, however you celebrate it, have a great holiday season and a prosperous new year.