Father left the traveling party whence a steward of the Red Keep called him for a meeting of the small council. Jon had left even earlier on, taking both his wagon and his Stane bannerman with him through the streets of Kings Landing after passing through the bronze wrought doors of the Old Gate, though he'd left his Valyrian steel in one of Father's heavy iron-bound chests to be safe. Sansa was gone too, called by Princess Myrcella to see the gardens. Through it all, Bran could hardly contain his excitement. Now, he could not contain it at all.

"We're here!" He said, almost shrilly. Normally he would care for the tone he let out more dearly, but he was too excited. "We're really, finally here!"

Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard looked down on him in amusement, his gleaming armor of white scales gilded in Lannister gold shining a bright thing against the pale red stone they walked. "That we are, my lord."

"You don't need to be so excited." Arya said, a dull tone in her voice. Castle servants were going through their still approaching wagons, taking chest after chest into their soon-to-be quarters in the Tower of the Hand. Ser Arys had not been with the royal entourage that went North, tasked with guarding Renly Baratheon instead, the king's youngest brother and Master of Laws, and so chose to act as their guide through the Red Keep, showing them the important and interesting places in the castle. "A needed change of pace," he had said with a smile. He'd struck a quick companionship with Jory, who father had ordered to keep with Arya and him.

"Why aren't you excited?" Bran asked his sister. It made no sense to him. Summer whinnied at his side seemingly in agreement.

"I was nearly knifed at the Crossroads. From what Mycah told me, that sort of thing is common in Kings Landing. Why would I want to be here, little brother?"

Bran wanted to refute her, to say that she was being silly, but could not. She'd nearly been killed, and he and Sansa might have been next had Jon not been there. But Jon had been there, and Arya had not been killed, meaning she should have been over it all by now. It was already two weeks since that had happened! And she'd gotten to keep the knife!

The reaction of the catspaw had been a weighty one. Father had been ready to leave then and there, to pack their bags and return to Winterfell, and only the genuine pleading of the king and the honest confusion of the royal party kept him from doing so. Bran was glad for it; this was everything he'd ever wanted. But the Lord of Winterfell did not meekly allow the party to continue their path south. He demanded an investigation, and they ended up spending an extra week in Darry while it went underway.

From what Bran could discern, nothing really came from the search. Nobody knew who gave the knife to the catspaw, though there was a bag of silver found stashed inside the hole of a dead tree. One person thought Jon to be the culprit since he'd Valyrian steel to spare, but father had cursed that man a fool for such words. The queen had even agreed, though she sounded mad for having to do so.

Bran knew nothing else, truly. He wanted to know more, but they would not allow him such. You're a boy of nine, they had said. Too young to worry on these things. He was ten now though, having celebrated his name-day five days prior. Still, they said he was too young.

But at the end of it all, Bran did not mind- not really. That week spent in Darry was a great one in his mind, especially when Ser Jaime Lannister presided over a training with him and Tommen. The second prince may have been a little younger than Bran was and shy besides, but he was fun when he wanted to be and loved to be around the direwolves more than anybody that was not named Stark. He especially liked Lady, Sansa's pup, often comparing her docile nature to his pet cats.

As if sensing his thoughts on her, Lady sidled up to Arya and butted a nose into the crook of her wrist. Sansa had felt it inappropriate to bring Lady along for her walk with the princess, and asked Jory to look after her for the day. Arya softened slightly, and pet at her sisters' wolf companion. Nymeria then did the same on the other wrist, and Summer started to fuss at Bran for attention.

They walked a long trek. The Red Keep was truly massive, its seven drum-towers crowning amongst the clouds overhead. Everywhere they went, massive curtain walls of red and gold and black surrounded the ramparts. Bran could even see nests of crenelations for archers in the spires of the Great Hall, where the Iron Throne sat its imposing vigil on a raised dais of high and narrow steps. Father had once said that the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, but Bran thought him mistaken. Winterfell felt perhaps a third of the size of this castle, mayhap even smaller. Though the stonework that made up Winterfell was of higher quality, and it was built to withstand a siege, unlike the Red Keep.

From the Great Hall, to Maegor's Holdfast, to the White Sword Tower and even the Maidenvault did they go. Along the way, lords and ladies and knights and servants greeted them warmly. And when day began to fall, they ate a dinner of pigeon pie and steamed carrots in the kitchens and were then brought to where they were meant to stay to tuck in for the night.

Ser Arys opened the door to a stair, and Bran and Arya and the rest of the Stark party piled in after him.

"The Tower of the Hand," said the knight of the Kingsguard. "You'll be quartered here for most of your time in Kings Landing, I suspect."

Though it was only the main room, it was still great and large. A high-vaulted ceiling with a divot of glass that allowed sunlight to streak down were the first things Bran saw. Myrish rugs, more wall hangings, and a golden-tinted round window were the next.

"It's…" Bran didn't know the words to say. It was grand and beautiful and awesome and-

"Excessive." Arya said. Bran shot her a look.

Ser Arys laughed. "Ah, I'll give you that one, little lady. If there's one word to describe the Red Keep, that'd be it. The Targaryen's of old wanted to show the world that they were the true power of Westeros and built their castle's and cities with grandiose. When their dragons died off, that was all they had left to cling to being truthful, so they made it even grander."

Arya scowled at her title, but Bran gave his full attention to the knight guiding them. "Is it true what the books say? About the hidden passages?"

"Depends on the book," Ser Arys said slyly. "Some say that there are none and some say there are thousands. We know there are plenty, but don't know how many. There're more hidden passages than here than sense, I would say. The secrets of the Red Keep were told only amongst the royal family, for only they were meant to know their castle in truth, just as it was with Dragonstone and Summerhall. But when King Aegon, the Third, that is, ascended to the throne as a boy king, many of the secrets of the Red Keep were lost along with their dragon mounts. Passages included."

Bran and Arya shared a look, the spark of want shimmering in their eyes. A silent agreement took between them. They would explore the castle together and find whatever passageways and hidden things they could.

Jory then lightly cuffed Bran against his neck. "I know your thoughts, Lord Squirrel. Wait until everybody's settled 'fore you start with your mischief."

"Tis fine, Jory." Father wearily voiced from behind. His meeting must have just finished recently, and he looked haggard. Those faint lines of age atop his brow somehow seemed stricter than they had been this morn, and a thin scowl was plastered over his muzzle.

"M'lord?"

"Better he run around some dusty halls than climb these walls. Winterfell was one thing; the Red Keep is another."

"No climbing?" Bran puckered. Father had been the one to give him his nickname, the first to call him squirrel. He'd not been happy that his son would disobey his mother and maester so often, but found it laughable and easy enough to ignore.

"No climbing." Father repeated. "You'll be too busy to climb besides."

"With exploring?"

Father's scowl opened into a small, honest smile; mirth apparent. "With your duties."

He walked fully into the room then, and Bran took notice another man he'd not seen enter. Just like Ser Arys, he was a member of the Kingsguard, white cloaked and scaled armor wrought with gold quite distinguishable. But it was polished to shine like a fresh mirror. And he was old, with a flash of white hair and a wrinkled visage. But he was sharp, brown eyes piercing without the idleness of age, sharing a genial nod with Ser Arys. Bran could feel his excitement return fourfold, for he knew who this man was. He'd read story after story and had been regaled by bards about his deeds over the course of his youth.

"My duties?" Bran queried, looking between his father and the man by his side. His throat felt tight; his hands clammy with nervous tension, sweat starting to drip from all over. Did this mean...?

"Hm," hummed Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He approached and grabbed at Brans arm with a gentle sort of forcefulness, squeezing and pulling at random. "Decent muscles for his age. You said he knows his dues?"

"He does." Father said. "Cat taught him what was expected of him when he brought up his interest, and Ser Rodrik allowed the boy to play page a year or so before he'd started to train."

"Rare does the North teach such things, especially its Warden." Ser Barristan said, letting out a short chortle.

"Rare does the Warden of the North marry a southern lady."

"Ah! So this was to keep a peace between you and your wife? An easy enough trade, I would think."

Father shook his head, looking both amused and disapproving. "Nothing of the sort. Bran had a want and I'd the ability to let it happen. Nothing else. So long as it is within reason, I would do anything for my children. And I felt this reasonable enough after Pyke."

Ser Barristan nodded bodily, his armor clinking lightly with the movement. "True, plenty enough Northerners were distinguished with their spurs then." He looked to Bran, pleased yet serious. "I've duties to attend to for the night. You'll meet me at the White Sword Tower after breaking your fast come the morrow."

With that, he left, leaving Bran quiet in a confusing state of befuddled hope.

"You should get some rest, Bran." Father said, leading his son by the shoulder. The moon shone lightly through a red tinted window as they walked. "I hear Ser Barristan is quite harsh with his training. And though I was never one myself, I've heard tell he's especially harsh with his squires."

And with that, Bran felt this to be the perfect day.

"Look at her," said Rickon Stane, holding one of Jon's wagon-toting unicorns steady by the jaw. A male named Moler. It stared blankly at him and made to bite his thumb. He hastily moved his hand away and instead began to pat at her flank. "A magnificent beast, isn't she?"

"Aye…" said a merchant. One of many, who were huddled around the wagon and the unicorns that were burdened by it, suitably in a curious state of awe. "From beyond the Wall, you said?"

"Of course! All the way from the Lands of Always Winter, where few men dare tread!" Rickon said gravely. He shared a sly look with Jon from the side, brown eyes meeting grey. Then he winked as a washerwoman might and returned to his crowd. "And I speak to you all now because of the thing that makes them so special: their horns!"

Jon had to walk away to muffle his laughter. Rickon had been of the belief that the peoples of King's Landing were entirely idiotic in their superstitions, a mindset that was often reversed towards the North, and wanted to take advantage to overcharge Skagosi wares. Jon had thought him foolish at first. Now though, based on the interest there seemed to be on his unicorn horns, for the various reasons of medicine, spiritualism, aphrodisiacs and luck, Jon found that his bannerman was not entirely wrong. Southerners were indeed silly.

This did not mean he needed to watch the man bandy about with wildly flailing arms and a preening voice on the topic of oversized goats with one horn.

Jon shook his head and looked about. King's Landing was a strange city, he felt. Squished and spread, smelling of shit masked poorly masked with meaty perfumes, he did not know what it was meant to be seen as. But the people here seemed to love their home, nasty stench though it held, and were quite content.

Or at least those I've seen so far are, Jon thought, taking an idle glance towards a back alley. That way smelled especially bad, shit and piss and decay lining the space between two buildings. And there were a band of children openly playing with shivs, meaning to look menacing. Pickpockets and cutthroats before ten. It was a disturbing sight; one Jon happily ignored.

Instead, Jon followed a stone paved path past Rickon and his merchants, uncaring for whatever he stepped in. His boots were thick things, made of boiled auroch leather, and were dark besides. A quick scrub would take any the filth from them.

Indeed, the very reason Jon hadn't followed his family in through the Red Keep was to be in this spot. Stone pavements gave way to metal linings along the ground, and the fabled Street of Steel opened widely.

Alongside the road, stalls of armorers and weaponmakers lined the way, hammering heavy beats onto swords and axes. They called out to him as he walked, offering to sharpen his sword and make him some armor and do him better. Jon believed none of them could claim better than he could. Most of those stalls were held together with wood and cloth coverings, and they were the loudest. When walls began to thicken and cloth was replaced with stone, the loudness began to ebb away.

And at the end of the street stood a towering house of three stories, built of stone and timber and plaster, with iron castings along the corners. A trio of chimneys stretched over its roof, blaring white smoke. Double doors of ebony and weirwood were cracked open only slightly, held by a pair of stone knights armored in crimson platemail in the shapes of a griffin and a unicorn.

It was singularly the most impressive building Jon had seen so far in King's Landing, save for the Red Keep. That it was located in the Street of Steel told tale that it had well earned its finery.

He entered, taking in the smell of burning coals and hard work. A group of five men worked a circular forge; one heated a blade, one beat the anvil, one quenched steel with water, one ran an edge over a grindstone, and the last offered praise and critique to the group.

That last worker moved around constantly. A stout man, with a bald head and white beard and yellow, heavy eyes. His body was hard through his wrinkles, strong and taught and ready. He met Jon's stare, and approached, grabbing a skin and a cup along.

"Needing a sword? No, you've two on your waist. Their scabbards are poor though, furs were never meant to hold blades, I say. Could have you settled with some proper leathers over them. The metal will rust if not properly cared for. Tobho Mott."

"…Jon Skruul. And there is no issue with my scabbards, for my blades cannot rust."

Mott snorted. "Valyrian steel then? Only stuff that won't give way to age. You think me fool enough to believe any man owns two blades of the make?"

Jon held back the instinct to prove this man wrong. It mattered not if this Tobho Mott believed him. He did not come here to brag on his conquest, only to have a question answered.

"It matters not," Jon said. "I come here to know if you've ever seen this. Or know of one that might have."

From his waist, he pulled out the catspaw's dagger and held it out. The blade was no fresh forged like Light Brother, but it did look newer that Dark Sister. Mott took the knife and unsheathed it, whistling softly. "Boys! Keep away from your tasks and come here a moment!"

The four other workers did as bade. They lined up next to Mott, youngest to oldest. The youngest had been quenching the steel and looked about seven. The oldest had been hammering away and looked near twenty. But one of the boys in the middle stood out greatly to Jon, with his short black hair and deep blue eyes, standing only a few inches shorter than his own great frame. And he looked young, perhaps five or six and ten.

"Look at this, lads. Valyrian steel." Mott said, passing the knife around. All of them looked interested, but the big lad seemed especially so. "Here's a question lads; how many lordlings claim they wield Valyrian steel? Roren!"

The oldest boy spoke. "Many."

"And how many do? Mathis!"

"Few." Said the youngest.

"I know the Westerosi houses that wield Valyrian steel like the back of my hand, Jon Skruul." Mott stated. "Their names, their lineage, their history. I came to King's Landing from Qohor in hopes of finding or reworking such. A sword, an axe, a dagger; hells, I would have settled for some cutlery. I found none."

"The only Westerosi house that is known for a Valyrian steel dagger is from the North, owned by House Quagg." Mott explained, taking the knife back from his apprentices. He scanned it with a critical eye, twisting it in hand. "A nameless thing passed down to heirs, meant to rend the thick hides of the lizard-lions they breed. It is not used in combat. But look at the hilt, do you see? The marking along the dragonbone, small but different from the others."

Jon bent down and found Mott was telling truths. Along the daggers pommel, between a pair of dragonbone cracks, sat a circular swirl of three lines, barely distinguishable. He'd thought it just a discoloration of the bone upon his first inspection of the weapon.

"It's a makers mark." He determined.

"Qolbin Sarr's, yes. I recognize it only because of my old age." Mott said. "When I had just moved to King's Landing, he was the greatest smith in the city, and was well known for being the armorer of King Maekar. He too was Qohori. Helped me get started, and we became brothers later on when my daughter wed his youngest son, though the lad was still seven years her elder. Mayhap it was made under that kings request?"

"Mayhap…" Jon said, mind awhirl.

Mott was gruff, but honest. A relatively common personality found in smiths and laborers. And he'd no reason to lie. If this was a dagger crafted by a Targaryen king, then it could have only been found within either the Red Keep, Summerhall, or Dragonstone. And Summerhall had been a ruin for the better part of thirty years, leaving it out of the question.

He did not know which of the two remaining castles it came from. Did not know who sent the dagger, but his search felt narrowed. From the whole of Westeros, now only two castles remained, and he was to live in one of them for the remainder of his time here. Soon, he felt. Soon he would find the one that meant to hurt his family, and justice would be met.

"I thank you for your time." Jon said, taking the dagger back.

"I run a store, not a charity. Want to thank me? Pay me."

Laughing, Jon did. Three gold dragons were passed to the man, and they shook on a well struck agreement.

"Anything else you need? Armor? My work is costly, I'll admit that, but you'll find none better in the Seven Kingdom's. Look throughout King's Landing and compare, and you'll find my words true. Any village smith can hammer out a shirt of mail; my work is art."

"I do not think it will be needed," Jon said.

"Ah, but you do not know our King Robert then! He's a new Hand, and the Crowned Stag loves his tourney's. There's no doubt in any of the merchant's that one will crop up within the month. You're a large man and look able with your swords. There's the melee to enter, and the tilt."

"Never been in a tourney," Jon mused. Like Sansa, he shared an interest in them, though hers were for their finery's and his for their freedoms. To be able to fight freely for coin without the stain of mercenary work was indeed grand.

"I could fashion you armor in the shape and colors of your sigil or outfit your horse for the lists. Nothing but the best for my customers."

"I've no horse, it should be known."

"Then how have you come here? By ship? By foot?"

As if to answer that question, Rickon entered the shop with Jon's unicorn in tow, smiling widely.

"Made fifty-three dragons, Jon. For horn shedding's!"

"And you'll lose those numbers soon enough." Jon retorted, patting at Moler's neck. The unicorn rustled about, clearly uncomfortable to be partially inside the store.

Jon turned to Tobho Mott, who stared at the unicorn incredulously. His apprentices did so as well, though the larger boy had a sort of calculative look on his face. "This is how I got here."

"Well…" hummed the smith. He walked towards Moler's flank and began to inspect the beast. "Never seen one of these before. Not too big, but not small either. Can it carry you?"

"Somewhat."

"Then I might make to have some art made indeed! A change of pace, outfitting a unicorn for a tilt. Who else can say they have done so? None, that's who! Ah, my name would go down in song."

Rickon and Jon shared an amused look. But amusement gave way to thoughts on Mott's proposal, and Jon found himself curious. Unicorns were not particularly large animals, larger than pony's and palfreys, but smaller than destriers and their like. A fair animal to work with. And for many, a fair animal to ride with.

Though not a fair animal to fight atop.

"You should do it," Rickon said, snickering.

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you'd be fighting horses with a unicorn? Because you'd show Westeros what Skagos can really do?"

"The real reason, Stane."

"… It'd be funny."

And Jon could not deny that.

Ned looked up from his ledger upon his solar door opening. Jon entered, looking wary and amused all the same. That alone made Ned feel his own sense of wariness.

"Any luck?"

"The dagger was forged during the reign of Maekar Targaryen," Jon said, taking a seat. "Had to have been found in the royal treasury, or Dragonstone's own vaults. Those are my thoughts, at least."

"Still doesn't help us," Ned grunted. Maekar Targaryen was the father to Aegon the Unlikely, and held the throne over sixty years ago. Anybody of high birth could have taken the dagger within then and now, and the search for his family's would-be killer remained a lost venture.

"But we know more than we do now, at least. Well done, Jon."

He nodded and took a form from the desk. Peering at it, Jon's eyebrows rose steadily. "Brothel receipts?"

"Robert's forced a tourney onto me," Ned groused. "And the treasury is in debt. I mean to tax these establishments while it is happening, and am looking through their percentages. I've been warned by Ser Barristan that Petyr Baelish owns most of these brothels, and he would not give more than a smidgen back to the crown were he to settle the matter. Leaving it up to me."

"Hm, well… I wish you luck with that."

Rolling his eyes, Ned pointed towards the door with an ink dyed quill. "Go be with your sisters, else I'll strap you to a chair and have you do the sums in my stead."

The Lord of Winterfell held back his amusement when his son hastily departed. Jon was many things, but if there was one thing he disliked, it was sums. Robb and Bran had both learned their sums well. Jon though, when Luwin meant to teach him, the boy had spirited Sansa away to go camping on the far side of the godswood.

The man could do his maths decently enough, but never would he have the interest or inclination towards them. Ned did not have that either, but as Warden of the North, he'd had little choice but to master the meticulous study. Jon's bastardry aided him in this, for he did not need to be forced to master his numbers.

But he was no longer a Snow, and as Lord Skruul, Lord of Skagos… It might do to have him taught his numbers once again.

"Oh, I forgot to mention." Jon said, poking his head from the door. "Your tourney. I'll be joining it."

"Why would you waste your time with that?"

"King Robert declared me your bannerman. It's only right that I represent my esteemed father in combat."

"And the real reason?"

"…It'd be funny."

Ned barely withheld a groan.

He should have never come south.

Apologies for the delay. Life takes precedence and I've been having a time of it so far. Los Angeles has been a treat! I've gotten some fun opportunities and built myself some decent connections. And I've finalized a publishing contract, so I've got a little over a year to write a young adults novel. Things are going well for me.

Due to the novel now being a guaranteed thing, I'll warn y'all right now. This story? It's going on the backburner once again. If I update it, it'll be like this chapter, months down the line. It's not abandoned by any stretch of the word, but I now have the opportunity to get paid for writing and build my brand, and you're damned right I'm gonna take it.

Anywho.

So! Bran's now been given that squiring he's always wanted, and Jon is gonna join the Tourney of the Hand. The plot is progressing at a steady pace, and we're soon to be heading into the fun parts of Game of Thrones. Stick around for when it happens, and hopefully I won't disappoint.

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