Jon
"Put me somewhere cold and let me die." Myles Mooton trembled on his cot, flecks of his garb remaining as mere ash fused to his skin. They'd had to cut off his ringmail to even get to that. Jon wiped sweat off his brow. The tavern air was hot as summer, and though the inkeep did his best to bring in the air, the smell of smoke persisted. They would have moved Myles to his chamber in the Red Keep, but Maester Edwyn feared the journey would kill him. Jon leaned over his friend.
"You know we will do no such thing," Jon said.
Myles groaned, and shivered as if he was trying to move. Nearly every inch of his skin was covered in burns and blisters, and beneath it all his flesh was bruised in ashen hues of blue and purple. Only his eyes were unscathed, and they lolled around aimlessly. "Give me something to ease the pain and let me die," Myles said, his breath a rattle. Edwyn pulled a bottle of poppy milk out of his sleeve, swilling the white liquid with measured flicks of his wrist.
Jon put a hand on Edwyn's arm, ignoring the twangs of pain going up his own. The maester already had his hand on the cork. "Give him as much as he needs. Can you keep him alive?"
Edwyn cocked his head, lifting the cork. "Maybe. For a time. But not for long. Some of my colleagues at the Citadel should have the skill to save him, but not me." He pried Myles's lips open and poured, the whole bottle. The burned knight coughed, splattering it over Edwyn's robes.
"Maester Pycelle," Jon muttered, staring at Myles's wounds. "Would that be Maester Pycelle?"
"He was appointed Grand Maester for a reason," Edwyn mused, tucking the empty glass away. "But do you trust him?"
Jon patted the hilt of the sword at his belt. "He is not a brave man. Suppose I offered him a deal. If Myles dies, he dies. If he lives, he goes free."
"Perhaps." Edwyn looked at the door, which shook on its hinges. Then it burst open, and men pushed and shoved through, bearing countless groaning wounded, laying them on the other tables or on the stools or on the earthen floor. Food and drink clattered to the ground as the smoky air filled with voices. "I must see to them as well," Edwyn said, scratching his neck. So many. Curse Aerys.
"I will speak with Pycelle," Jon said and made for the door, wincing with every step.
"You should have me look at those wounds of yours!" Edwyn shouted after him over the din.
"Later!" Jon shot back. "The people here need you more than I do." He stepped over a body, then another, then passed out the door, past the people hustling through.
Jon stopped in the middle of Fishmonger Square and took a deep breath as he looked at the ruins, surrounded by a roiling crowd of townsfolk and soldiers bearing buckets, bodies, wounded, all in haste. The air tasted bitter with every breath in the hot morning breeze, punctuated by vestiges of the smell of burning flesh. Only morning brought an end to the bonfires atop Visenya's Hill and Rhaenys's Hill, and only the desperation of thousands was enough to smother the flames before they consumed the other half of the city. Though their success was comforting, no sane man would call it a victory.
Jon set off alone to the Red Keep. His guards were busy elsewhere with his horse, someplace the need was greater. The curving street known as the Hook had survived unscathed, but the scorching wind had carried a thick rain of black slag. Now the dust blanketed it all, stirring at every gust. Jon passed house after house, earning glances from windows and from the black-encrusted smallfolk huddled under any outcropping that could divulge some shelter.
Accursed Aerys, Jon thought. It must've been him who'd ordered it. Him and his scheming Hand, Tywin Lannister, who thought being the richest man in Westeros gave him the right to murder three of the Royal Family.
Many had suffered for their pride. Myles Mooton was only one. It was the Dornish who'd found him, when they were digging through the rubble for Oberyn. When they followed the sound of cries they found but a handful, but the Prince of Dorne not among them. Dead, most like.
Halfway up Aegon's Hill, he looked back. A thick column of black smoke still rose from the city, even where the fires had long cooled. A funeral pyre for unwilling thousands, the High Septon himself among them. The only pyre Rhaegar and his son would ever have.
Jon continued up in silence, passing yet more refugees until at last he came through the open gate. The courtyard was filled to bursting, blankets thrown upon the ground and exhausted, grieving people splayed on top, crying for water, for parent or sibling or child. There were only a handful of soldiers standing watch, and they could do little but watch.
The Traitor's Walk wound off to the left, and here too the ground was not spared occupation. Jon looked left and right, cursing mad Aerys with every breath. A fat, unkempt, and unshaven man in a halfhelm sat at a stool before the dungeon door with an axe and keys at his belt.
"Milord?" he said, looking up. "The name's Rugen, undergaoler of the black cells.
Jon nodded. "I must speak with Pycelle."
"Mind your step," Rugen said, snatching the keys off his belt, and thrusting them into the black iron lock at the door. The door fell open. An old man with white hair waited inside, drowsing at a table in candlelight. "Chief! Lord Connington here wants to see the maester."
The chief undergaoler twitched awake, and hurried to his feet, bowing and scraping. "Milord."
Jon rolled his eyes. "Just bring me to Pycelle."
The man nodded. "Rugen, wait here."
So down the dimly-lit stairway they went, bearing fresh-lit torches. Some of the prisoners dared knock and call through their cell doors.
"What's up with the smoke down here! Let me out!" It was Qarlton Chelsted, the man who'd replaced him as Hand. Lickspittle. The voices of Symond Staunton and Alliser Thorne joined in the chorus.
"Shut up!" Jon said, knocking at the doors. "I'm not here for you." They stopped just short of the black cells, at a stout oak door. "You should have put them a level lower," Jon said, as the chief keyed the lock.
"Black cells are full," he said, wrestling the door open.
"A pity." Jon followed him in.
Something lying in the reeking straw reeled back from the light, crying, "Put it out!" It was Pycelle all right. His left foot was chained to the wall by the ankle, a chamber pot by his right arm, rimmed with filth.
Jon prodded him with his foot. "You wouldn't know anything about the fire?"
"What fire?" The maester whimpered. "What… is it?" Had he played a part?
"Your king set a fire," Jon said. "Burned a lot of people. Does that say anything to you?"
"Some ash on you… You want me to treat someone." Pycell yawned and stretched out his arms. "Surprising. Aerys isn't the sort to leave a burned man alive."
"A friend of mine was gravely wounded in one of his bonfires, and we don't have someone with the skill to save him. Except you. Do I have your ear?" Pycelle looked up. Jon continued. "I have a bargain for you. If he lives, you go free. If he dies, you die. Whether you try to save him or not is up to you."
"Just let me out." Pycelle's voice was weak. "I will do what you ask. Just get me out."
Jon smiled. "I am glad we could come to an understanding. Gaol, let him out."
The chief undergaoler knelt and unlocked Pycelle's bonds. The maester climbed to his feet, breathing heavily. "Thank you, thank you!"
"Calm yourself," Jon said. "You are not yet beyond the woods."
"I am not some street maester," Pycelle said. "I know my craft."
"Then come with me," Jon said, and went back to the stairs. Pycelle tried to keep pace on the way up, but he was not young by any measure, and his beard had long gone white from life at the Mad King's court.
"Good day," Jon said when he stepped out into the sunlight, holding Pycelle's forearm fast. "Do try to be awake when I return, chief." He didn't wait for an answer, letting the door fall shut as they made their way down Traitor's Walk. The smallfolk to their sides gave the grand maester strange looks. Pycelle was almost as dirty as they were, but he was one of the few among them who was not covered in black ash.
"Gods," he muttered, staring at those around him, lagging behind a little. "What happened?"
Jon yanked him forward. "Victims of your masters. You will see soon enough."
"You seem rather burned yourself. What are they cooking?" Pycelle asked, as the smell of cooked meat brushed past their noses.
Jon stopped for a moment. "Human flesh." Then he set off again, pulling Pycelle out of his ponderances. Just out the castle gate, he decided to give the old man a break. "Here. Have a look."
Pycelle stared, jaws agape. "Gods above… What did Aerys do…?"
"He plotted with Tywin Lannister to murder Rhaegar's wife and children," Jon said. So Pycelle had not been involved. Now, if he could turn Tywin's servant against him… "When they succeeded in killing Aegon but failed to kill Elia and Rhaenys, they had their pyromancer lackeys light a fuse beneath the Great Sept of Baelor and the Dragonpit, when we crowned Rhaenys Queen."
"That," Jon pointed at the city below. "is the result."
Pycelle fell to his knees. "I… I don't understand… How could they have done this?" Jon felt a sharp pang of satisfaction at seeing Tywin's devoted servant lose faith. If only Jonothor Darry was still alive, then he would do the same with him… Pycelle looked up at him over his shoulder.
"You know the answer," Jon said after some moments had passed. "Now, do you know what you might need to save a gravely-burned man's life?"
Pycelle nodded.
"Then come with me, and take as much of it as you can carry." Jon pulled Pycelle up and dragged him back through the gate, making his way to the rookery.
Pycelle with difficulty raised a trembling finger. "I doubt I have enough. I never expected to treat more than perhaps an arm..."
Jon's breathing halted for a moment, as he reached for the door. "Tell me what you need!" No ravens stirred when it opened, for the cages were empty.
"Honey… would be useful…" Pycelle huffed as they clambered down the stairs. "Bran as well… and wine and myyrh."
"Take what is here first." Jon opened a cabinet on whim, sweeping his gaze over the dark glass vessels within. Pycelle brushed him aside, grabbing a bottle of honey and a flask of what looked like blood. Jon grabbed Edwyn's wineskin from the table, weighing and uncorking it for a whiff. That was definitely wine. He closed it and tucked it under his belt, when Pycelle came over to him, tucking another glass into his sleeve.
"That is all," Pycelle said.
"That is all?" Surely the Grand Maester would have more to work with? Unless he wanted to fail. Jon brushed the thought away. Pycelle was not a brave man, and not fool enough to kill himself for Aerys. Pycelle nodded.
"Then we have no time to waste," Jon said, hastening to the stairs.
"You could use some treatment yourself," Pycelle huffed, hauling himself up behind him.
"There are many others whose need is greater." Jon shut the door behind them. "Count your life on the line as well. I think you will agree."
"I can keep him alive, but his wounds will take a long time to heal." Pycelle looked up from Myles's body, his brow wrinkled. Jon shared a glance with Edwyn. They let themselves breath freely. For the first time since Pycelle had arrived. The old man's eyes stiffened. "But how long that will take is for the gods to decide. Scalds, burns of this sort never mend quickly." He smiled grimly. "It is good you brought me here."
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Jon said. Myles lay asleep, his breath heavy.
Edwyn nudged Jon aside. "Let me see to it. You have other things to attend to."
"Like what?"
Edwyn pursed his lips. "Lewyn Martell is still looking for his nephew." Futilely. But Edwyn was not wrong. The aging knight would need solace.
"I will speak with him, then." Jon went to the door, which a chair held wide open. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. "Expect me before nightfall." The maesters nodded and waved him off.
What was left of the Street of Steel was covered with ash, just like everything else. Embers smoldered amongst the ruins to his left and to his right here and there, marked by wafts of smoke wherein from time to time charred human remains drew the eye. Victims of Aerys's madness.
Perhaps the rebels were not so different. Did they see the villainy of Rhaegar's father than Jon himself? Near half Westeros rose over two burnings … and more than a few unjust executions. Now the city had come ablaze and uncounted thousands lay dead, the High Septon among them. Baelor's masterpiece was reduced to ruins. How many would rally to the Mad King's side after this?
The sailors of the Royal Fleet had thought nothing of it, by the looks of it. The ships still held a tight blockade in the sound, sails furled high beneath colorful flags. But it all had a black look about it, strewn with ash.
The same that could be said of Tygett Lannister's camp to the west, swollen, ringed with ditches. Another camp had sprung up further south, almost as large as its brother. Did Tygett have his fingers in the fire? He'd failed to exploit the opportunity to take the city when its defenders were busy fighting the blaze. Jon made out faintly columns of men coming into the camp from the Kingsroad. More reinforcements, he thought bitterly. Did nobody care that Aerys had burned half the capital to the ground?
Probably Tygett let them alone that night merely to spare his men the trouble of dealing with the flames themselves. Perhaps the King had ordered him not to intervene. What had convinced Aerys that the city should burn? Madness, only madness could explain it, for what was a king who destroyed his own seat? The street grew thicker with shards of marble the further up he climbed, courtesy of the explosion that reduced the Great Sept of Baelor to rubble. A Dornish knight passed him by, telling him Lewyn was waiting.
Jon found him sitting beneath the pedestal where Baelor's likeness once stood. All that was left of the holy king was a foot, the great stone block beneath laced with soot and cracks. The Kingsguard's face was smeared with ash, and his garb also, and he didn't move at all to greet him.
Jon stopped before him. "I am sorry," he said.
Lewyn stared into the distance. Finally, without shifting his gaze, he spoke. "My niece needs a new Hand." Anguish gnawed under his skin but the eyes were dry.
"Myles will live."
The kingsguard looked away. "Nothing is ever certain."
Jon sat down next to him, trying not to wince at a sharp pain in his leg. He laid a hand on the elder knight's shoulder. "I cannot tell you I know what it is like to lose two nephews and a brother-in-arms, but I've felt grief before. Still feel it, sometimes."
The look Lewyn gave him was enough to tell he didn't want to talk about it. "How is Rhaenys?" he asked, looking at the Red Keep.
Jon thought back to the time he'd spent in Pycelle's chamber as the maester set about on her wounds. The ravens soaring away, bearing letters of truth and lies. "She is well," Jon said at last. "Maester Edwyn assured me she is on the mend."
"She will be on the mend from this for the rest of her life."
"Without a doubt." Jon pointed to the enemy camp. "Do you think they did it?"
Lewyn took a deep breath. "One can't be sure."
Jon raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"It just… doesn't feel right. What went on between Tywin Lannister and King Aerys I do not know, but I do not believe Tygett ordered the fire. We never told him Jaime was dead." His voice grew bitter. "For all he knew, we might have held him as a hostage."
"Perhaps Jaime was right," Jon said. "Perhaps his father really didn't care about him."
Lewyn nodded solemnly. "Perhaps."
"Someone must pay for what has happened," Jon said after a while had passed. "The smallfolk will demand such for sure."
"What will you have me do, string Aerys up on a gibbet?" Lewyn scowled.
"A crow cage would suit him well," Jon said, "As long as he remains fed and watered as a hostage must. But there are others who come to mind."
"The Mad King's lackeys?" It was still strange to hear Lewyn call Aerys that, even after all Jon had seen to prove the epithet correct.
Jon nodded. "Correct."
Lewyn shook his head firmly. "I will not see men hang for blind obedience."
"You know as well as I do that Aerys's influence must be purged from the Realm, whether our rebellion succeeds or not. Men like Qarlton Chelsted must take the black. We already put them in the dungeons, excepting Rossart and his fellows. Now is the time to take it further and get rid of them entirely. The Mad King has shown what he can do when he has willing servants; now is the time to remove his willing servants from King's Landing. Nothing less will suffice."
"It troubles me that we were among them but a month ago," Lewyn said.
"It was always Rhaegar I serve, not the King," Jon said. "Most of our small number were the same. Remember, it was blind loyalty to the King that got your nephews killed."
"I do not need to be reminded why they were murdered!" Lewyn hissed. "It is Rossart I want dead, he and his entire order."
"The others who serve Aerys would serve the Realm best at the Wall," Jon said. "Kept further south, they will do only harm."
"If we are defeated, it would be for the best if he did not have a court ready to follow his every whim," Lewyn agreed.
"You would leave the Mad King alive if we lose?" Jon was incredulous. "Tell you what. If I see Lannisters knocking at the Red Keep, I will hang the bastard myself."
"There is still a war to be fought if King's Landing falls. Kill the King and unite the weak-willed against us?" Lewyn sighed. "Do you not understand?"
"What?" Jon demanded.
"If Tywin Lannister sees fit to execute the King for what has happened, he will undermine his authority. If he allows the King to live, the King's enemies will flock to our side. There will be many to be sure, after the fire last night. I do not know how many will suffer the Mad King's late outrages to go unpunished, but I doubt they will be few in number. Whatever you do, leave the King alive, and leave him here."
"You believe we survive defeat here?" Jon was incredulous. "We are invested by land and by sea, and escape will only become harder as reinforcements trickle in."
"I have thought things over with Elia," Lewyn said. "You sent the ravens to the rebels, with news you told me was sure to stiffen them. Good. But that is the only news we have sent outside the city after we dethroned Aerys. My niece and I decided it would be best if I depart King's Landing with our remaining cavalry and try to find allies. Under siege here, friends will be hard to find; they need to be sought out, and soon."
So their position here was indeed untenable. "Would it not be better if you remained," Jon said, "And I went?"
Lewyn tapped Jon's thigh, where his wound from the battle in the harbor. Jon winced. "This," Lewyn said, "is why I believe you should not go on a hard ride soon. It will take time to heal." He looked him in the eye with concern. "Did you get a healer to see it?"
"Yesterday," Jon lied. Why did the old man bother so much over it? There were others with greater need.
Lewyn nodded slowly as if suspicious, but did not press the point. "Riding on horseback for weeks will not help it at all. You are the face of our rebellion, the one who gathered us together. It would demoralize the men if you deserted them."
"All right," Jon said, resigned. "What will you have me do here in your absence?"
"I will depart on the morrow. I would have you recruit the rebel prisoners you brought from Pinkmaiden. You will need every man you can get to hold the walls while you prepare to set sail."
"You want us to abandon the city?" Jon asked. But in his heart he knew Lewyn was right. Unless he could persuade the lords gathering outside King's Landing to switch sides, remaining here long was untenable.
"Tygett is already receiving many reinforcements, this soon," Lewyn grumbled. "Tywin must have planned this, contacted nearby lords to gather their levies. He will have picked those he can buy, so I doubt you will be able to change their minds. It will take time for the men to prepare the ships for departure and in that time you can try your luck talking with the enemy, though I doubt much will come of that. Wait for a storm or something; that will force the blockade to shore and give you an opportunity to slip out."
"And what if there are no storms?" Jon asked. Was the prince of Dorne really going to entrust the fate of his niece to that chance?"
"It is spring. The weather gets harsh this time around, especially on the coast."
On second thought, Jon nodded. From his years in King's Landing with Rhaegar, he knew that to be true enough. "All right."
"Oh, and give Jaime Lannister's body to his kin, if I am gone before you get the chance. He deserves a good burial."
"It will grieve Tywin Lannister to know he killed his son," Jon mused. Not quite a smile crept up his mouth.
Lewyn did not look like he approved of that, but he nodded all the same. "I hope it will. My brother in arms deserves to be mourned."
Unlike Jonothor Darry, Jon thought. He wondered if Lewyn would bring him up. Perhaps it was well that he did not.
They sat there awhile, deep in thought. Jon found his eyes drifting to something moving up the street. Someone. Raymun Darry? Jon stood up in an instant.
"What are you doing here!" The traitor had seen fit to return? He jabbed a finger down at Lewyn. "Did you let him in?"
The kingsguard stood up and positioned himself before Raymun protectively. He swept Jon's arm aside. "I did. By sending every last man in our service to fight the flames."
"What do you mean by that?" Jon asked.
Raymun stepped around Lewyn, shedding flakes of ash, eyes set on the shards of marble at his feet. "I came with my men when I saw the fire. Tygett didn't know what to do, so he stayed behind to make council. I decided to come and help. There were no men on the walls to oppose us."
Lewyn set his hand on the knight's shoulder. "That he did, unasked. You would punish him for that?"
"I will punish him for betraying us!" Jon shouted. Raymun recoiled. "You abandoned us on the eve of the slaughter. To flee to safety after warning your Lannister masters no doubt, cur!"
"Enough!" Lewyn glared. "I thought the same as you. But I gave him a chance to explain himself. If he was an unrepentant traitor like we assumed, he would have unleashed his swords on us the moment he was over the wall."
"A repentant traitor, then," Jon snapped. "Perhaps he feels guilty for his part in Aegon's murder. I have heard enough. Regret is a long way from penance."
"Give him a chance," Lewyn said. "He allowed you one when he spared us his swords."
"I will give this repentant traitor a chance. To leave the city alive." Jon drew his sword by half, making sure Raymun caught the glint, before shoving it back into the scabbard.
Raymun for the first time met his gaze, a solemn look on his face. But his eyes were dry, and no great anguish there to see. Had he shed any tears for Aegon's death? Lewyn put an arm in front of him. "No, Lewyn" Raymun said, brushing it away. "I have heard enough. Lord Connington is crazed with grief. I would be remiss to expect reason from him. Perhaps from myself as well." He crossed his arms, looking Jon harshly in the eye. "I never learned fully of what transpired in the Red Keep until I spoke with Lewyn. All we knew outside the city is you put Queen Rhaella, her son, and their remaining guards to flight, with Jaime Lannister and Jonothor Darry remaining unaccounted for." He glared. "Now I know Tygett's men, or some of them, were put on an errand to murder Elia and her children, and Jaime Lannister was slain trying to defend them. Tygett will grieve when he learns of it. I also happen to know what you did to my uncle Jonothor."
Jon shrugged. "And I'd do it again, gladly. The bastard deserved what he got, aiding and abetting the King's vile plots."
"Did he?" Raymun's face flushed red. "He was an honorable man, bound by oath to a dishonorable king. He had no choice in the matter."
Jon jabbed a finger at Lewyn. "Did honor make him draw a dagger on you after you spared his worthless hide?"
"Aye," Lewyn said. "It served in the King's defense, to which he'd sworn his life." He narrowed his eyes. "Let me tell you something. I fought with you because I had family to defend. Were that not so, it might have been me you killed that night."
Jon scowled. What will this Dornishman stoop to in order to defend men like Jonothor Darry? "Just go. Raymun Darry, just go. You miscreant. You may have shielded the city from Aerys's flames, but do not think for a moment it absolves you. Will I honor an arsonist for snuffing out his own doing? No. I will not." He pointed west, at the Lion Gate. "Go. Take all your men and go."
Raymun nodded slowly. "So I intended." He turned his back and started to walk away, down the hill to Fire Square, where the Guildhall of the Alchemists stood alone amongst the ruins.
"Do pay a visit to your Pyromancer friends down there!" Jon shouted after him. "Especially Rossart!"
"No!" Lewyn ran in front of Raymun, barring the way. "You don't have to leave. Please, don't listen to Jon. He is bitter with grief and knows not what he says. We need men of conscience here, to ensure righteousness will prevail in the Realm."
Raymun paused, then pushed him aside and continued on his way, saying, "I have decided I will be of greater use for that outside these walls than within. Farewell."
Soon his sullen form disappeared around a bend in the road, leaving Lewyn despondent in the mist of ash his coming had left behind. Jon was not sorry to see him go.
He limped down to meet the Kingsguard. "You will be glad one day that he did not remain."
Lewyn took a deep breath and shook his head. "It will be you one day who will be regretful. Your bitterness will cost us dearly. I kept your secret, you know. What you wrote to those castles in the North and the Riverlands."
"Those letters will see to it that Tywin Lannister's crimes are avenged, in one way or another," Jon scoffed.
"If I am right, those letters will lose us the Darrys forever," Lewyn said. "Willem, Raymun… If they ever learn what you have cost them… Pray to the Seven you never cross paths with them again."
"Raymun and Willem should be the ones praying, after all they have done… The Stranger is the only mercy they shall ever get from me." Jon swung his good arm to the desolation around them. He could still taste the faint smell of burned human flesh. "I will not forget, nor forgive. Not after this."
"If it must be the gods themselves to give your soul some peace, Jon..." Lewyn took a deep breath. "I pray they will. If they do not… you may never find rest."
After checking on Myles, Jon returned to the Red Keep, cursing his wounds. For a time he spoke with Elia, reminiscing about the past and worrying about the future. Rhaenys was the only thing that made him smile that day. When he returned in the evening to the barracks of the City Watch, a messenger brought him word that something had turned up at the foot of the Lion Gate. Rossart's head.