Chapter 16: Embers

Jon

"The bastards barricaded themselves further inside after my men came here looking for Rossart. They keep flinging firepots at us now when we try to storm the place," Myles Mooton said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. It was morning now, and fatigue had begun to set in. Jon looked up the filthy street. The Guildhall of the Alchemists stood at the foot of Visenya's Hill in the center of the aptly-named Fire Square, the buildings at the edge seeming to cower away from the imposing edifice of black marble. A ring of soldiers was stationed in their shadows, out of arrow shot. Jon laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, steadying him.

"You have done enough," he said. "Storming the Red Keep in the dark with a limp like yours, after a day's ride and a mere few hours' sleep… It is no small feat." Myles looked him in the eye, then reluctantly nodded.

"You deserve rest after last night. Find yourself a guest room in the keep. I think you will have tired of the fleas in the City Watch barracks." Jon forced himself to smile, wrestling his eyes open. "I know I am."

Myles chuckled grimly. "All right then. I will see you by noon." After he'd returned to his horse, he looked back. "You still intend to crown Rhaegar's daughter, so soon?"

Jon crossed his arms, frowning at the cobbles at his feet. The sight of Rhaegar's infant son pinned to his mother by a Lannister quarrel… "The King forfeited all rights to the throne the moment he ordered his grandson killed."

"I will see you then!"

Jon waved, then looked back at the Guildhall. The green flames of wildfire gleamed here and there in the morning sun, marking where pots had been flung down from the windows. The doors themselves lay in splinters on the ground, the hall beyond them dark. He walked down the street, gesturing his guards to follow. They were all tired.

The men in the square were beginning to doze on their cloaks when he reached them. The air was hot, even fifty paces from the broken doors. Some city dwellers brought water from the wells, doling it into helms held out like begging bowls, in return for coin. Jon drank from his wineskin as he watched. It tasted bitter, as it should. He would need to remain alert.

"Do any of you have some white cloth on you?" Jon said. The guards shook their heads, and the soldiers also. "No? Never mind. I'll make do with a horn." He grabbed his horn from his belt and drew his sword. "Take this." He handed his weapons to one of his guards, a young fellow named Ken. "Get crossbowmen together. If they do something strange, shoot them." Jon looked nervously at the doorway. He blew the horn thrice in signal of parley, and, tightening his helm, stepped alone towards what remained of the door.

"I, Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, am here to parley, in the name of Queen Rhaenys!" At the threshold he stopped, peering into the dark. The hallway was lit here and there by flecks of burning wildfire, searing through the black marble. Nobody was to be seen. Then, something moved in the window above him. An acolyte with a wildfire pot? Jon blew his horn thrice once more, just in time to make the robed man leaning out the window cover his ears.

"Name your terms, but I do believe Good King Aerys is still on the throne, is he not?" the pyromancer said. A grey beard flowed down from his chin, blowing lightly in the breeze. "I speak for Wisdom Garigus."

Jon squinted up at him, blinking the sun's reflection out of his tired eyes. "Will your master not come and speak himself, if he is not craven?"

"Your men killed Wisdom Belis last night when he answered the door to ask why they were hammering at the hinges."

Jon frowned. He had forgotten in the horror and confusion of the night that he'd given orders to capture the guildhouse. Where is Rossart? "It was an unfortunate mistake. We believed you the King's most loyal servants."

"Guessed rightly there you did. Pray, tell me, what made you decide attacking the King's men was a wise decision?"

Because Aegon was the rightful heir, and Aerys spurned him. "Enough. We ask that you surrender yourselves, your wildfire stocks, and your guildhouse to us. In return, we will grant you safe passage from the city."

"What have you done with the King?"

"He is in our custody for murdering his heir and attempting to murder his good-daughter and granddaughter."

The pyromancer nodded slowly. "I am truly sorry," he said remorsefully. "But we cannot accept your terms. Centuries of lore are kept in these halls, and to leave it all behind, I am afraid to say, is asking too much."

"We will let you leave with your rotten tomes, if that is what you desire. You will have safe passage. I give you my word. Where is Rossart?"

"We haven't got a clue. I will ask Garigus about your terms." The pyromancer ducked his head back into the window. Jon closed his eyes. Rossart. Rossart had provided the wildfire to burn Hoster Tully and his hapless fellow traitors. Where had he gone? If not here, where had he fled? The searches of the Red Keep had turned up empty, but King's Landing was too large and populous to allow a man to be found if he was clever enough. Evidently in the confusion, everyone had forgotten to ask the King if his late court favorite had left the city with Rhaella, Viserys, and that traitor, Willem Darry. Liar. That his mentor had so readily betrayed his trust, still galled him. He would pay one day. And his nephew Raymun, as well. In hindsight it seemed obvious that the young knight would betray them, but it had never crossed his mind that night, not until he'd sat on Rhaegar's bed, staring at the small red stains where Aegon's blood had fallen. His prince.

"My Lord, Wisdom Garigus rejects your terms." The pyromancer returned to the window above him. "Our reasons are our own, but suffice to say, we will not yield, not when a Lannister host almost twice your number waits just outside the castle walls."

"Then you will be destroyed."

"We will be rewarded for our loyalty."

"Wait in your accursed house then," Jon shouted. "When this is all over you will regret this."

"To the contrary. We regret nothing," the old man said, and slammed shut the window shutters.

"Fools!" Jon shouted up at him, but received no answer. Cursing, he walked away, looking over his shoulder every few steps to be sure there was no trick, no crossbow at his back. There was nothing.

When he returned to the City Watch barracks after a long walk back, the place was full of men, sleeping, wounded, or otherwise. The night's action was surprisingly easy but the search of the city was not. The goldcloaks had to be disarmed and confined to the inner chambers, where Lewyn Martell's Dornishmen could keep an eye on them. And the seven gates to the city and the walls also had to be under guard now, as a small Lannister host waited outside their walls, too small to invest King's Landing, but large enough to pose a threat to the army inside. Jon gave it no more thought as he collapsed into bed, and immediately his thoughts gave way to dreams of fire and blood.

"Milord," someone said. "Milord!" Jon opened his eyes. Ken stood over him, leaning on his spear. "Prince Lewyn Martell has called a war council. He requests your presence."

"All right all right," Jon muttered, sitting up. His eyelids drooped, until he pushed them up with his fingers. "Is it noon yet?"

The sun was beginning its arc downwards when Ken led Jon over the drawbridge to Maegor's holdfast where they'd stormed across hours before. Only to find the Crown Prince murdered. The corridors were still covered with blood here and there, as the servants had all vanished and there were few willing to bring rags and water to clean them. Lewyn had chosen the Small Council Chamber, a dim room lit more by candles than the milky glass windows looking out over the Blackwater Bay. He'd already taken the chair where Lord Lannister used to sit, where Jon had attended council once before he'd gone to war. Myles Mooton sat opposite him, drinking wine in Varys's old chair, but otherwise grim. Evidently he too had not received enough sleep. Manly Stokeworth lounged in the chair where Pycelle had often brooded as he listened to the daily workings of the Realm. Clutched in both hands was a silver goblet, Arbor red dribbled down one hand from some spill.

Oberyn Martell stood behind his sister Elia, who had taken the King's seat at the head. Rhaegar's wife's right arm over the elbow was wrapped in linen dressings, marking where the crossbow had passed to kill her son. She bore no circlet but with the maddened mix of grief and fury in her eyes she could pass almost for Aerys. Jon bowed his head when he came in, gesturing Ken to close the door at his back. "… Elia."

"Sit." She was looking away. Feeling shame welling up in his chest, Jon took the empty chair Qarlton Chelsted had occupied as Master of Coin. A fitting choice. He tapped the table, looking at his fingers.

"What is our military situation?" he asked. "Varys seems to have fled with the rest. There is no sign of him. I have spoken with the Alchemist's Guild, after Myles," he nodded his head at the knight across from him, "Led several assaults on their guildhouse. They claim Rossart is not with them. They have refused—"

"If he is in King's Landing, we will find them," Oberyn said.

Jon glared at him. Odds were the King's favorite spider and pyromancer were long gone, presumably waiting outside with Tygett Lannister. "Continuing," he said, "They have refused to surrender. Wisdom... Garigus's envoy, if he could be called that, refused to divulge why his master refused my offer of safe passage. But I was told they believed the Lannister host outside our walls will overcome us any day now." The wind whistled outside, as the fiery hearth behind Elia hissed and crackled. Jon looked around. "Is there truth to it?"

Manly Stokeworth clacked his tongue, setting his wine cup on the table with a clink. "I am beginning to think this was all a trap."

"We are well in the trap now," Lewyn said grimly. "All we can do now is strive to break free. And take our vengeance." Rhaegar's wife and Oberyn nodded together.

"How manned are the defenses?" Jon asked. "Can we repel Tygett's men if he chooses to attack?"

"It is... questionable if we could hold the walls against a determined assault. Especially if he has reinforcements on the way," Lewyn said.

"Surely we can summon reinforcements of our own? We know Tywin Lannister and the King plotted the murder of Rhaegar's wife and children," Jon said. "My cousin and castellan, Ronald, could raise more troops if I ask it of him. And you, Myles, you have your lord father at Maidenpool. He is closer. Can we not contact him?

"We can try sending out messengers, to be sure," Lewyn said.

"But ravens are another thing entirely," Myles said. "My men rushed to the rookery as fast as they could, but they failed to stop Pycelle from releasing a veritable flock of them before they could capture him and send him into the cells with Qarlton and the others. We were fortunate though that the moon lit the sky well, and we shot down a good many of the ravens as they came flying out the window. They all carried the same message. Rhaegar's supporters have conspired and rebelled against the King. With all haste, muster your men and march for King's Landing to put down this revolt."

"He must have spent hours writing them all," Elia said. "I do not doubt this was all planned. Their murder of my son, and now this."

"The Darry's betrayed us," Jon said. "They will be punished for it... in time."

"As Jonothor was. More importantly," Lewyn said, "This puts us in a difficult position. Are there any ravens left that we can use ourselves?"

Myles cleared his throat. "My maester carried a few cages worth of ravens, but we have sent nearly all of them away already. Same with the rookery here. I looked at the marks themselves. There are only a few ravens left. My maester has a spare raven for Maidenpool, so I will write a letter to my father tonight. Apart from that, we have one for Castle Darry, which is useless since they've betrayed us, and another to Riverrun, which is also useless. Pycelle's rookery has ravens for Seagard, the Twins, Riverrun, Winterfell, Raventree Hall, Moat Cailin, the Wall, and that big white raven from the Citadel they sent to tell us winter has ended, which will, if I am correct, return to the Citadel if released. Apart from that, and some minor holdings that are not worth even mentioning, the rookery is truly bare."

"It is almost as if Tywin wants us to write to the rebels," Jon mused. "It would make us look like traitors, to be sure."

"Then we will not take the bait," Oberyn said. He stepped forward, until both his hands were splayed on the table beside his sister. "So, until we can get messengers to our friends, we are truly alone."

"There are always our prisoners in the Black Cells, the ones we did not capture last night..." Lewyn sighed. "We may need to make use of them. They have as much cause to hate King Aerys as we do."

"They committed treason!" Myles slammed his fist on the table.

"That is unacceptable," Jon said, nodding.

"They are skilled fighters, most of them. They would be a boon to the defense, but I agree," Manly Stokeworth said. He looked around. "Would you not prefer the aid of the City Watch?"

"That rabble?" Myles laughed. "But you do make a point there. We need more men. Half-trained goldcloaks are better than the alternative, which is to hold this city against Tygett and his reinforcements with a mere two thousand. I believe we all can agree that is not feasible."

"Perhaps it would be wiser to leave this city, until we can rally more men to our side?" Elia said. "My brother Doran would not deny aid to his own blood."

Lewyn scowled. "The harbor is in the hands of the enemy. Tygett Lannister posted most of his men there, and they look to be taking the boats, rowing them over the bay, and beaching them on the southern shore out of our reach. If we are to flee by ship, we will have to retake the harbor, and fast. Today, by my reckoning, is the day we will have to choose. We must hurry. I would not discount the possibility that the Royal Fleet is on its way as we speak."

Gods, Jon thought. It was this bad? "Have you made any preparations?"

Myles Mooton stood up, pushing his chair back. "I will see to it. We will be ready to sally in a few hours."

Lewyn grabbed his wrist. "Our men need rest. Give them till evening, so the enemy's guard is down. You may leave, but first we must discuss the coronation of Rhaenys, and how we would win the hearts and minds of the smallfolk. If they turn on us, we are doomed. So far, they do not quite know what has happened, but that will not last long."

"Show Aegon's body to them when we bring it to the Sept of Baelor to lie in state with his father tomorrow," Myles said, sitting back down restlessly. "That will rile them up for sure."

Elia looked down, no reaction to her husband's mention. "I suppose that might… be necessary."

Oberyn nodded. "It would be worth a try... Perhaps we should bring the King along as well?"

Jon shook his head. "As much as we hate him, it would be too risky. Odds are as good as not that the smallfolk would try to kill him. He is too valuable a hostage to risk like that. We should keep him in his chamber for now."

"If he is killed, good riddance," Elia muttered. "But I agree. I am more worried of the food situation. The commoners may turn on us soon if the siege continues for much longer."

"There is little we can do of it now," Jon said. "We must first think of matters we can deal with in the moment."

"What of Rhaenys's coronation, then?" Lewyn said. " There will be no feast to celebrate her ascension, to be sure, as that would anger the commons. We are not ready to coronate her today, but it will have to be soon, to make clear that we are not rebels, and that we have legitimacy when we ask the lords of the Realm to swear fealty to her and not Viserys."

"Tomorrow, then," Elia said. "Someone will have to speak with the High Septon and the Most Devout, so it can proceed with their blessing."

"I will do that," Jon said, "Moving on, who will sit on the Small Council? I should like to become the Hand again."

"I believe you would make a fine Master of Laws," Lewyn said. "Your defeat at Stoney Sept and the King's scorn are on your name. If you were made Hand, it would appear this was all a ploy for you to regain your old position." Jon glared, knowing Lewyn was right. "So, no, I think you Ser Myles would be better suited, at least until we find men more qualified. If I or Doran were made hand, it too would appear that this is a power play, which it is not."

"I would be honored," Myles said. "It seems to me that we do not yet require a Master of Ships, or a Master of Whispers, and it will take time for the Citadel to appoint a new Grand Maester to replace that lackey, Pycelle."

"It would be best to hold those posts open for now, so we can offer them as a reward to those who join our cause," Lewyn said. "I mislike giving away titles like bribes, but these are trying circumstances, and although I have young knights with me who could fill those roles, we truly do require all the leverage we can get."

"When I return from my meeting with the High Septon and the Most Devout, I will inform you when the coronation of Rhaegar's daughter will take place," Jon said, standing up. "In the meantime, I suggest you prepare your men for battle."

"We should attack in the evening." Lewyn scratched his chin. "When our men are ready and the enemy will be less prepared. I have gathered my Dornish soldiers in the taverns by the Mud Gate. I suggest you lodge your men at the King's Gate. They are more well-armored and better suited for our purposes there. If we can threaten to push Tytos's men into the Blackwater, he will likely choose to retreat. Position your archers on the walls, as well… If only we had wildfire… The King's private stock in the Maidenvault was almost emptied for those rebel prisoners he executed yesterday. There are only a handful of pots that remain to us, but I would prefer to have more on hand."

"You are beginning to sound like Aerys," Manly chuckled. The front of his tunic was lightly bloodied with Arbor red. "But by all means, use that fire well."

"If you can bring the pyromancers to heel, by the Father, do it," Jon said, going to the door. Myles followed. "I do not believe anything short of victory will convince them."

Myles went with him until they reached Fire Square, where he split off to collect most of the men there gathered around the guildhall. "I am sorry that the council did not choose you to be Hand," he said. Jon did not answer. "I will leave only as many as necessary to keep those burning rats holed up, and no more," he said. "Good luck up there, he added, as he walked away.

"Thank you." Jon waved back hesitantly, then continued up Visenya's hill, still feeling a little spurned. The street was better kept here, begging brothers brushing filth aside with brooms here and there for coin and bread in the morning and evening. Others tended the gardens of the Faith, sowing seeds and trimming the vines which were only just beginning to bloom. Some who had come to recognize him over the years, looked up from their work and waved as he passed, but most just shook their heads and continued at their tasks.

Septons and their fellow worshippers conversed on the plaza and the steps footing the Great Sept of Baelor and gave him queer looks, but he ignored them. Baelor the Blessed looked down at them all with a kind visage of marble. Jon spared him a prayer for a second, before continuing on his way.

The doors of the sept were tall and ornate, as he well remembered, and they yielded to the touch more easily than their size would suggest. Jon pushed them open and let them fall closed behind him as he entered the Hall of Lamps. Globes and baubles of leaded glass hung over his head, gleaming with the light of candles within. By the doors to the sept-proper, a lone septa stooped over a pile of them with a burning wick in hand, which with which he lit the candles before hooking the glass spheres to the iron chains suspended from the arches above.

"Good sister, do you know where I may speak with His High Holiness?" Jon asked, when he had come closer. The crone looked up, laying the wick on an iron tray.

"Welcome, brother," she said. "He is in the Stranger's Transept, at the altar."

"Thank you," Jon said, and left her to her work. He let the door fall shut behind him as he looked at the inner chamber of the Great Sept of Baelor. The sept-proper never failed to impress him, ever since he'd started coming here as a young boy. Sunlight flooded through the great glass dome overhead, making the candles at the seven altars a mere formality. The marble floor squeaked lightly beneath his feet as he made his way to the door beside the statue of the Stranger. He lingered briefly when he passed the altar between the Father and the Mother, where a septon seemed to be carrying out a marriage ceremony, a humble one. It seemed so long ago that Rhaegar and Elia had sworn their vows there themselves. What had gone wrong, that Rhaegar ran away with Lyanna? Had he thought Elia, as Jon had once thought, unworthy? His silver prince had never said, his life cut short soon after they'd met before that fateful battle, where the war had been decided.

The iron door to the Stranger's transept was heavy, and he had to push hard to get it open. No windows graced the ceiling here. Flickering candles set in alcoves gave the room a dim, foreboding light. The air was cold and heavy, oppressive to breath. Of all the transepts, this one alone refused the burning of incense.

At the plain black altar by the end, an old, dried twig of a man knelt in prayer, bent beneath a crystal crown upon his head. His head turned at the sound of Jon's coming.

"Who are you, Brother?" he asked. He shifted, and gestured at the cold floor at his side. "Let us meditate together."

Jon knelt. "Father, I am Lord Jon Connington. You anointed me a knight, remember?"

The High Septon frowned at the first word, but then he nodded. "I remember that day well. It was the day before the Prince Rhaegar was wed, was it not?"

"It was." Jon took a deep breath. "I have a request to make of you."

The old man raised his eyebrows. "Is there something you wish to confess?"

"We all have something, but no, that is not the matter at hand."

The High Septon swayed his hand. "Go on."

"We need you to crown the new Queen."

The old man's jaw opened. "King Aerys was young and hale last time I heard. I was old when he was born. Has some illness taken him? And is his heir not Prince Aegon? I must admit I am not well acquainted with the politics of King's Landing. Rhaegar's body is in the care of the Silent Sisters beneath the sept, until he can be given a proper funeral and cremated, may the Father judge him justly."

"Let me explain," Jon said. He took a deep breath. He could not speak the whole truth. "The King disinherited Prince Aegon, when he did not have the authority to do so. When I and my companions returned, we decided to force him to see reason. When we came to visit him in the Red Keep, Tytos Lannister's men opposed us. When we pushed past them, we came across more redcloaks with crossbows in Rhaegar's bedchamber, who wounded Princess Elia and Rhaegar's daughter. They murdered his son Aegon with a crossbow through the chest. We have chosen to depose the King, since he all but confessed to ordering the deed when we captured him soon after."

The High Septon's face paled. "Not even Maegor sunk so low... It cannot be..." he muttered. "Do you swear by it? Is it all true?"

"We will bring the body here tomorrow for a funeral," Jon said, hoping he had evaded the need to swear false. "The Most Devout can examine it themselves, if they do not believe me. You can send someone you trust to the Red Keep today."

The High Septon backed away from him, before steadying himself. "Give me... time to think," he implored. "I will send a septon to verify your claim. I must meditate on this with the gods and with the Most Devout."

"I understand," Jon said, climbing to his feet. "My men will grant your septon passage into the Red Keep. I will return in the evening to hear your decision."

The square behind the King's Gate was filled with men in gleaming armor, their helms like torches gleaming bright. The sun was setting, casting long shadows east. Jon, shield strapped to his arm, looked back to the harbor outside, where what appeared to be some two thousand Westermen waited behind makeshift barricades amongst the shacks and stalls lining the riverbank just within arrow shot of the bowmen bristling the city wall.

"Lewyn Martell will have that horn blown any moment now," Myles Mooton said, climbing the stairs to join him atop the rampart. Jon nodded. The signal.

"Let the archers loose some arrows while we wait," he said. "It will stagger the enemy ranks." Ken nodded, and passed the word to runners.

"Will it not give the enemy warning?" Myles said, frowning.

"A man cowering behind his shield is not bracing himself to fight."

"Ah." Myles nodded thoughtfully.

"Go back down to the men. You will be needed there." Jon squinted at the ships still moored down in the docks. A black cog was among them, with sails of black cloth. The Night's Watch. What were they doing here? Then he remembered. To gather recruits from the war. By luck, it seemed, they had come here, where their prospects would be greatest. If the battle here was lost, perhaps it would be Jon's only way past the chopping block. If it was won, they would still receive what they came for.

Jon shook his head. He had more important things to think of than an order guarding a wall that was more a prison than a defense. If he squinted, he could see Lewyn at the Mud Gate, waiting in Fishmonger's Square with eight hundred Dornish spears, and It was with a twinge of regret that he recalled when most of the Dornish who had survived Pinkmaiden had departed south, after it became clear how decisive the victory was. They were sorely needed here. The Goldcloaks thinly manned most of the city walls elsewhere, interspersed with more trustworthy men to hold the gates in case of treachery. If Tygett Lannister tried something there, he would hopefully be delayed until the harbor was securely in their hands.

A horn blew as arrows began to fall upon the enemy. After the doors of the Mud Gate were thrown open, Dornish spearmen began surging out into the clearer grounds, clambering over crates, barrels, and broken market stalls. Lewyn was at the center of it all in the distance, guiding his enraged men to engage the Westermen, who wavered behind their barricades under a torrent of arrows from the wall. With satisfaction Jon noted the sickly green light of wildfire in their ranks. The little they'd possessed, had been put to good use.

Moments later, Myles Mooton left through the King's Gate with a shout, followed by eight hundred men-at-arms armed with glistening steel and fire in their hearts. The Westermen were better ordered here, and managed to stop their attackers in their tracks, due in part to the thick debris that littered the field, slowing the approach. Their comrades further east were thrown back from their makeshift defenses in disorder by the whistling rain and thunderstrokes of wildfire and Dornish fury. Within minutes lone bodies of men were throwing their weapons aside and running for the ships, or reining in their fear, grimly retreated towards the setting sun, where their fellows still held open their path to freedom.

"Look!" An archer pointed at the sun. Or rather, below it, where hundreds of horsemen thundered across the tourney ground, armored in golden steel beneath crimson banners. Tygett Lannister had finally discerned their purpose, and he was coming with a vengeance.

"Ken!" Jon said.

"Yes milord!" The guard beside him turned and knelt.

"Gather the archers on the wall and send them west to deal with that cavalry!" Jon shouted over the din of battle. Ken nodded, and ran east, passing on the word. Jon rushed down the stairs to his cavalry reserve, which was waiting in the square after the infantry had vacated it. They were men of the Stormlands and a handful from the Riverlands. Not all knights, but every last one of them a loyal man and true, who'd served with him well for more than a year since the war had begun. "Ride with me!" He shouted, mounting the horse he'd tied by the gate. "The lion has stirred itself at last. A thousand golden dragons to the man who captures Ser Tygett Lannister!"

The men cheered at that, and followed him eagerly through the archway and into the field. Jon had not the time to pick up a lance, so he drew his sword instead. The horsemen fanned out to his right and left then advanced at a slow trot. The ground was soggy, and noticeably slowed their movements, which at which Jon smiled grimly when he noticed. As vexing as it was to weave through the mud and obstacles, it would be only more troublesome to the much larger cavalry force coming their way to threaten Myles Mooton's right flank. Jon signaled them to increase their pace as the Lannister heavy horse closed, and in the last moments before the two sides met, they all broke into a gallop. Bows and crossbows twanged from the walls above, loosing a black hail of projectiles that sent men before them reeling. In a narrow space between two fish stalls, he exchanged blows with one knight, before throwing him from his saddle with a shove from his shield.

Men in Crakehall livery rushed to rescue him and take his place, and with that they succeeded. Jon's sense of the battle devolved into a numbing fight for his life. He was dimly aware that the sky was turning purple, like a bruise, and that they were being pushed back. They grudgingly gave ground. A couched lance pierced his right thigh, then another one his shield and his elbow behind, though not deep. Mercifully, the cloth padding underneath seemed to stem the worst of the bleeding, but soon Jon found himself requiring his men's aid to defend himself, as his sword grew heavier and heavier. He vaguely realized he was more a hindrance than a help at this point, but leaving the fight to find a healer would be even worse. The enemy pressed their advantage as the evening light slowly waned into darkness. They nearly reached the King's Gate itself, then in the next moment their push gave out, and Tygett Lannister's men turned tail and withdrew, followed by Dornish light horsemen who rushed past Jon and his men to harry the foe. Jon's cavalrymen could only pull back themselves, and soon began dismounting, drifting with their steeds and the wounded back into the city. Jon sheathed his sword.

"Where is Lewyn Martell?" he shouted at the King's Gate, as Dornish foot soldiers marched west in front of him, bearing torches. A few heard him, and silently pointed behind them, where the Kingsguard was riding in his direction. Jon thanked them, and rode up to meet him.

"You should get that wound of yours looked at," Lewyn said, as they shook hands. It seemed he had emerged from the battle unscathed "It could get infected."

"I will find a healer later." Jon touched his thigh wound, noting the blood had dried.

"You should hurry up about that."

"How did the battle go on your side?" Jon asked.

Lewyn grinned. "We are still counting the prisoners. As for the ships, there are still enough of them for our purposes." He looked out over the Blackwater. On the southern bank fires marked where Tygett's ship-movers had set camp. "Losses were light for us. Less so for Myles Mooton. What about your men?"

"I do not yet know. We were pressed hard, for sure. It is fortunate that your men arrive now to hold the line if another attack is made."

Lewyn shook his head. "It would be madness to attack here, where our archers can let loose with impunity. I am more concerned about the rest of the walls, which is where most of my men are headed. But rest assured, we will be fortifying the gap between the waterfront and the wall here tonight."

Jon found himself nodding. "A wise precaution," he managed. "How is your nephew? And what of Ser Myles?"

"My nephew is only lightly wounded. And Ser Myles has been gravely wounded again, but he will live. His maester took him to some tavern to rest."

"Do you know where I can find him?" Jon asked. "I should like to speak with him."

"You told me the High Septon was expecting you tonight," Lewyn reminded him. "I would go to meet him. Anyway, I have seen your friend. I would let him recover in peace and quiet for now. He needs rest."

"I understand." Pain shot up his thigh, but he did his best to hide it. "I will speak with the High Septon and find someone to bind my wounds."

"I will see you on the morrow, then," Lewyn said, and waving, spurred his horse to join his men. Jon waved back, and set off.

It took him so long to pass through the throngs around the King's Gate that he considered finding himself a healer in one of the taverns to make the most of it. But that would delay him even more, and in the growing dim, it would be harder and harder for him to find his way through the streets. Ken found him by the gate and insisted on coming with him. Knives crept the streets at night, and a wounded man would seem excellent quarry.

The lamps atop the seven towers of the Baelor's great sept gleamed atop Visenya's Hill, not far away. Cutting straight up the hill would mean riding through the narrower streets and alleys, most of which would be dark and crawling with whores and cutpurses. Not necessarily the most honest of people. So Jon and Ken rode down River Row instead, which ran along the southern wall, and would lead them to Fishmonger Square where they could count on the Street of Steel to lead them to their destination. Soldiers walked here in the hundreds in hopes of sating the hungers the battle had awoken, but there was more than enough room to spare. Drunks stood around outside the busy inns, pushing and shoving at each other, as goldcloaks did their best to keep the peace between them. Watching a scuffle raging near Fishmonger Square, Jon noted that they did not always succeed.

After squeezing past the throngs again by the Mud Gate, the Street of Steel was a welcome change, snaking up Visenya's Hill in the dark like a golden dragon. Many forges lining the street were still lit here, their metalworkers beckoning to any man they saw with damaged steel. Jon and his companion passed a fair few knights who had come here for this reason, and a good many lowborn soldiery as well, those who could afford it.

The road was even clearer here though, and for that Jon was grateful. His leg still pained him, and his arm as well, though he tried to hide it. They made good time now, since they did not have to weave around so many people, so it was not long before King Baelor looked down at them before the Great Sept of Baelor.

"Wait here with the horses," Jon told Ken, dismounting with a grimace and handing him the reins. "You have something to eat with you?"

"Yes, Milord." Ken sat down on the steps, after tying the steeds to a steel post at arms' length.

"It will not take long," Jon promised, and climbed to the doors, pain shooting up his leg with every step. I will have to find a healer soon, he thought, as he walked through the Hall of Lamps. Perhaps half of the globes above were still lit. There was no one here to tend them now, and there was little reason to bother anyway.

There were a good deal more septons and septas in the sept-proper when Jon limped in, making their evening prayers to each of the Seven before they went to sleep on the floor, wrapped in their threadbare blankets. The candlelight from the altars gave way to shadows amongst the pillars and in the great dome in the center, but there was enough to make out the groups kneeling at the seven shrines, and the statues towering above.

Jon's first thought was to look at the Stranger's transept, and he began to go there when two men marched out of the dark beside him. He took a step back, hand reaching for his sword, before he recognized the glint of their silver vestments and white crystal circlets. They were of the Most Devout, though the dark hid their faces.

"You come here to speak with the Father of the Faithful?" An old woman's voice whispered. Grey hair ran down to her shoulders, thinned with age.

Jon bowed. "I have returned, sister. Where may I meet him?"

"Come with us," the other one said, holding out his hand. Jon accepted it, and let them lead him on.

It turned out the Stranger's transept was where they were going anyway. The Most Devout deftly wove through their fellow godsworn who were knelt deep in prayer at the Stranger's feet. Jon followed as best he could, doing his best to not disturb anyone, though he the sound of his coming caused some to turn, and he once stumbled and accidentally nudged another with his foot, though he quickly whispered an apology and moved on.

Perhaps it was a deliberate choice on the High Septon's part to receive him here again, Jon thought, as the Most Devout wrestled the door open and let him pass. Is he trying to tell me something? The door, well-oiled, fell shut behind him, silently. Like before, the air was cold and the path to the altar lined with candles. Newer ones; they had probably been replaced recently.

For a moment, Jon stood there, feeling alone. Then he walked to the altar. The High Septon was still there, knelt in prayer. Not knowing what else to do, Jon knelt beside him once more, silently cursing the man who'd speared his leg. They were alone. For a while there was silence.

"You should pray for the dead as well, brother," the High Septon said at last. Jon stared at him. "Especially after you take a life."

Jon did not know what to say. Was he going to refuse to crown Rhaegar's daughter? Was he denouncing the battle Jon had just fought in? "Father?"

"I never liked being called Father," the High Septon muttered. "It always felt like I was usurping the name and place of the Father Above. But I am old enough to be the father of any godsworn here, so they insist on it." He turned his head to Jon, his white eyes looking at him without seeing. "I have heard you have fought a battle with Tygett Lannister's men, and that you emerged victorious."

Jon nodded, though inside he felt stupid, since there was no point in making the gesture to someone who could not see it. "Whoever told you, spoke true. We have recaptured the harbor."

"Septon Luceon always had keen eyes," the High Septon said. But it seems not for wives, Jon thought. "Inherited it from his father at the Twins, he likes to say," the old man continued.

"Will you crown Rhaegar's daughter?" Jon asked abruptly.

The High Septon looked away. "If what you say is true, a crown could kill her."

"You know I would give my life to protect her from Aerys's cutthroats," Jon said. After I failed to save Aegon.

"Why does Rhaenys need to be crowned so soon?"

"It would grant us the legitimacy we need to protect her claim and convince wavering lords to join our cause," Jon said. "The Iron Throne would protect her better than any sword a man has ever wielded." Except Dawn, perhaps.

"A throne of swords." The High Septon smiled a little at the jape. "But I worry for her."

"The men who wish to see Rhaenys killed will not be convinced by a crown on her head," Jon said. "But those who wish to serve their rightful ruler, can yet be swayed. Only a crown would suffice. Nothing less."

"Do you care more for her claim than for her safety?" The High Septon looked at him, blind, but in that moment seeming to see deep inside his mind, too deep.

Jon swallowed. Biting down his doubts, he said, "Rhaegar's daughter—Rhaenys—She is my silver prince's daughter... I would do anything to protect her."

"I see." The High Septon sighed, as if disappointed by something. "But would the Iron Throne protect her? Ask yourself that."

"I have spoken with her mother, and her uncle as well," Jon pleaded. "They agree that she must be crowned for what she is, and soon, or those who might defend her will falter for sure."

The High Septon bowed his head. His eyes were shut tight. "Perhaps they are right."

"If the old king gets his way, Rhaenys will die. Your man saw her wounds, her brother's body, her mother's grief."

"I know." The old man took a deep breath, seeming to gather himself. "She will be Queen, then. Tomorrow, at noon, after her father and brothers' funeral which I have already arranged with the Most Devout."

Jon nodded, not knowing what else to do. "I will tell her family, then. I must go now. I have a friend waiting outside, and it grows dark."

The High Septon waved his hand. "Then go, Son. But I ask that you pray before you sleep. It is not well to go into the night without a word to the gods, not least after a battle."

"I would see how the Silent Sisters have prepared Rhaegar's body for the funeral tomorrow," Jon said. "He was dear to me."

"I know that well." The High Septon gestured over his shoulder. "Let Septa Cyrelle lead you into the catacombs. She knows the way, and she is waiting at the door to escort you out."

"You should thank the Silent Sisters for their efforts when you leave," Cyrelle said, and began lighting the candles. "It was with the labor of days and nights that the Prince's body was cleansed for the funeral."

The air was cold and dry. Rhaegar lay on a bier in the center of the small chamber, dressed in soft black velvet embroidered with rubies and white silver rivets in the Targaryen sigil. Slivers of his silver hair had been laid over his shoulders with clear intent, and his face was every inch that of a king, and looked more alive than it had when Jon had last seen it on the road to the capital. It was mercifully unscathed from its last battle. The singing lips, the supple cheeks only subtly hollowed after their owner's death. Rhaegar's eyes had been replaced with glass though, well-worked so that they almost saw. Jon turned around. "They indeed did their work well. Did you play a part?"

"Heh." The septa chuckled. "Do I look like a silent sister to you?" She blew out the candle she'd carried. "I did wonder at the care they put into him, just to see it all burn on the morrow."

"It will all be worth it when the people see him for what he was," Jon said. "A good man who was killed before his time. Like his son."

"Like the son of the woman he abandoned for that Stark girl?"

Jon scowled. "If you would impugn his name, now is not the time."

"Ah. I understand." Cyrelle made for the door. "You know the way out, then?"

Jon nodded, waving her to be off. She shut the door behind her and the sound of her footsteps soon dwindled into silence. Jon ran his fingers over his friend's chest, feeling for the cavity where Robert's hammer had crushed the bone, where no heart would ever beat again. He raised his eyebrows, finding none, no sign of it. They had indeed done well.

He recalled when the wound had been made, when Robert's hammer and ironshod boot had crushed the chestplate and ribs beneath. While his men were setting about killing the rebel who'd done it, all but forgotten to him, he held Rhaegar in his arms, weeping over the body. Rhaegar had died bravely, asking with his final, rasping breath that the Starks be granted mercy, "For Lyanna."

Jon did not feel merciful that day. He had slain Lyanna's brother Eddard once before, when he came upon the real one, and defeated him in single combat, but true to his word, he forced himself to spare the boy. Until the rebel ringleader forced it, and received such a wound in turn that death became a mercy. Jon spat on the mangled corpse of Robert Baratheon when he found it in the mud nearby, but the sight could not fill the hole Rhaegar's death had left. Everything thereafter, it all had happened so fast Jon could never find the time to dwell on Rhaegar's death but in quiet moments of grief in his tent at night. He rubbed his eyes. No, it was not the candle smoke, it was tears.

"Curse you, Robert. Aerys. Tywin," he whispered. "To Hells with you." He fell to his knees, ignoring the pain shooting through his leg, and for the first time since Pinkmaiden, let himself truly weep. "Rhaegar, it was my fault," he sobbed. "I let you fight Robert alone. I lost him at Stoney Sept, I killed Eddard after you asked that he be spare, your father and the Lannisters murdered your son on my watch..."

He looked at Rhaegar's false eyes of glass, which stared into the dark above without warmth, without life. "What can I do to atone for what I've done?"

But there was no answer, for the dead speak only in stories.