It happens suddenly. One moment King Robert is a laughing, roaring mountain of flesh, and the next his heart gives out and all that flesh had gone slack. All the court but for his lady wife mourns him. If Cersei feels any sorrow in her lord husband's passing it never reaches her face, but Jon cannot bring himself to blame her for it. He has never forgotten what Robert let happen on the Kingsroad and Jon has been too many years at court to think the fat man any but a poor sort of king. Still a chill shivers through him when he hears the news.

"He'll dismiss you as Hand," Jon says without preamble when he finds his father in the tower of the Hand. "The moment he's crowned Joffrey will send us back north."

"It is his right." Ned says wearily, the chain of interlocking hands hanging from his neck clinking softly. His few years in King's Landing have aged him more than all those in Winterfell, beard streaked with grey. "The king chooses the hand."

Somehow, Jon thought his father would resist the loss of Handship. It makes him pause. "You won't fight it?"

Ned shakes his head. "Joffrey is our rightful king now, no matter what we think of him, Jon. And truth be told I am tired unto death of being Hand. I would see Winterfell again."

Winterfell. And for a moment it is all Jon can think of: the scent of weirwood and pine, the crunch of snow beneath feet and cold wind on his skin, the warmth of Winterfell's hearth and the sight of Robb and Bran and Rickon striding forward to greet him. But he knows too what returning north would mean, and before his eyes flits again the sharp, fragile line of Sansa's clenched jaw, the way her fingers had fisted in his sleeve on her wedding night. "Arya and Sansa cannot come with us. One is betrothed and the other married."

"They are good matches. Sansa will be queen."

"To Joffrey." The name is sour on Jon's tongue. "You know what he is, father."

"He is the rightful heir," Ned says sharply, and Jon frowns at the sudden change in his voice. "And it is too late to change that, not without seeing the realm bleed. No, when his grace Joffrey demands it we will go north again and Arya and Sansa will stay in Kingslanding."

"Let me stay too." And suddenly Jon knows what he must do, the answer to why Ned brought him south with him all those years ago even if his father had not known it then. "Name me a knight of the Kingsguard. Bastards have served before, and you have the power as Hand. No one will question your right to name a brother of the queen's own blood."

Ned frowns. "It is no small thing to become a knight of the kingsguard, Jon. Till death you will serve, and for whoever holds the Iron Throne, no matter how little you may love him. It is not a decision to be made lightly or on a whim."

"You kept me from taking the oath of the Night's Watch once, but for what?" Jon draws himself up. "I will never inherit lands or hold titles. Not in the north, and not here. But there is honor in serving in the Kingsguard, even for a bastard."

"Even for a bastard." Ned studies his face. "You're sure?"

Till death you will serve. But Jon knows the answer, has always known it. I will never be a Stark but I can still do the duty of one, father. He nods, once and sharp. "You must do it now, before he is crowned, while you still hold the power of Hand. Joffrey will never name me himself."

Ned nods, something tired in his eyes. "I will speak to Selmy."

Tyrion answers his door with a scowl, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. He blinks when he sees Jon standing in the dark of the hallway outside his chamber. "Snow? I must admit if this is a dream I'd prefer if you were rather more woman and rather less dressed."

"Your whores." The word grates Jon's tongue, but it is the one that fits. There is no hiding your shame with pretty words, Snow. Half a hundred times he'd tossed and turned in his bed unable to find sleep, a shameful and restless energy grating his nerves until he'd thrown himself to his feet and dressed in the dark. Tall and forbidding the walls of the Red Keep had stared down as he slipped from his chamber, like he was a thief caught stealing through them. "Where do you find them?"

The little man shrugs. "Here and there. When you're a lord's son, even one grotesque as I, they find you." His mismatched eyes peer at Jon, a shrewd look in them. "Why trouble yourself with it now?"

"I-" Tyrion is no more friend to Joffrey than Jon. The knowledge of his knighting is safe with him, but still Jon hesitates. This is the path you've chosen. "Tomorrow I join the kingsguard."

Tyrion studies Jon's face with his mismatched eyes, then abruptly grins. "Well Snow, it seems I must introduce you to Chataya then."

It is not so late that Kingslanding is yet sleeping. Lanterns seethe like embers under the skin of the city as Jon and Tyrion ride through winding streets that lead them to an elegant two storied house. Its windows shine a deep purple and blue and crimson like a many faceted jewel peeking out from among the drab walls of the behind it. Its door is inlaid with writhing vines of bronze that flash in the lantern light as a tall woman with skin black as teak opens it before them. "Lord of Lannister," she says to Tyrion with a bow of her head. "And your squire?"

"Oh no," Tyrion claps a hand on Jon's back, "this is Lord Snow, soon to be Ser Snow of the kingsguard. I've brought him to taste what he'll be forswearing for a white cloak."

"A noble cause." If the knowledge surprises the woman she does not show it. She raises a hand to invite them inside, and Jon follows Tyrion into a common room lit by bronze lamps twisted and teased into ornate shapes. In their flicking light are scattered a half dozen girls more lovely than any Jon has ever seen, slender and curved forms reclining in cushioned alcoves. A knife of shame stabs Jon's gut at the way lust rises in him like an ocean swell, and he jerks his gaze away.

"Marei will be ready for you shortly, my lord," the tall woman says to Tyrion. She pours wine into a pair of copper goblets and passes them to Tyrion and Jon as she nods her head to one of the girls half hidden behind a Myrish screen. "Might I suggest Dancy for Lord Snow?"

"She does have a wicked tongue," Tyrion muses aloud, mismatched eyes sliding to Jon beside him. Jon flushes. The girl is beautiful, freckled and lushly curved, with long red hair brushed to a copper sheen that reaches to her hip. As if she can feel his eyes on her the girl glances up at him, a slow, wicked smile turning the corners of her lips. There is nothing of her but for the red of her hair that is like Sansa, yet her smile coils something sick in Jon's gut, and for a moment he can again feel Sansa's fingers tangling in his sleeve, the fragile weight of her in his arms, the way her eyes had pled with him.

Jon wrenches his gaze away. I am no Joffrey. He downs the goblet in a single swallow, tongue barely recognizing the smooth ripple that marks it as Arbor Gold. "Not her."

"Alayaya then?" The tall woman beckons forward a girl teak black and near as tall as herself. The girl rises gracefully and crosses to them, dark eyes regarding Jon calmly for a moment before bending and kissing Tyrion on the cheek. "Thank you again for the history you lent me, Lord Tyrion. A strange line the Durrandon kings."

"Are they not?" Tywin smiles crookedly at her. "But for now your thought should be to Lord Snow here. He's come to make himself a man."

The young woman meets Jon's eyes. She takes his cup and gently pulls him towards a stair off the common room. "Come my lord, I will refill your cup."

Jon lets himself be pulled away, the Arbor Gold warm in his chest as Alayaya leads him up the stairs and to a modest room with a silk veiled bed and a mural on the wall of a pair of women caught in the throes of release. Her fingers slip from his palm as she moves to the sideboard and refills his cup.

"I'm no lord," Jon says abruptly. He meets Alayaya's gaze as she finishes refilling his cup. "That's only Tyrion's jape. I'm bastard born."

"I am bastard too counted your Westorosi way." Alayaya tilts her head to the side as she returns to where he stands. She hands him his cup. "My father was a summer islander like my mother, a sailor passing through Kingslanding on his way to Braavos. But among my people there is no shame in bastard birth, for the gods made not only us but our desires too, and in that way we bastards are a gift of the gods."

"I've never felt a gift." Jon laughs, the sound more hollow than he expected, and takes a long swallow. A fine vintage, but just as before his tongue catches little of it. He looks up to find Alayaya stepping closer. He swallows, finds his tongue thick. "I mean not to father a bastard tonight."

"And I not to make one." Alayaya smiles faintly, soft and lovely, and splays a hand on his chest. Her height makes it so all she must do is tilt her head to the side and then her lips are parting his, splayed fingers tangling in his shirt as she draws him beneath the canopy of the bed.

Jon does not last long. Alayaya stretches beside him after, lithe and dark in the lantern light as she traces faint circles across his chest and stomach, fingertips a whisper. And when those fingertips have again begun to coil a heat she slides down and takes him into her mouth, makes him as achingly hard as though he'd never spent his seed.

The second time Jon lasts longer. She sways above him, lantern light flickering along the curves of her arms and throat and dark tips of her breasts, hips grinding slow circles against him. She leans over him, arches against him, skin fever-hot, and then he can hold the growing pressure in him no longer. Alayaya seems to know without words, teeth nipping the hollow of his collarbone as she reaches down and pulls him from her, fingers milking his length as he spends into her hand.

"You may stay, my lord," she tells him after, as he gathers his breeches and shirt. She rolls onto her stomach, dark eyes shining up at him. "We will speak or sleep and perhaps after a time lie together again."

Jon shakes his head. Shame he expects the stab of, but instead all he feels is a marrow-deep calm. This is the path you've chosen. This is what you will forsake. He pulls his shirt over his head. "Tomorrow I am knighted."

"Ser Snow," Alayaya sing-songs, tilting her head. "A good name. Come back to us when you have it and I or Dancy or Marei will moan it in your ear."

"Tomorrow too I take the oath of the kingsguard."

"And?" Alayaya rolls to her side, stretches like some great languid cat, the curves of her sweet against the mattress in a way that even though he is twice spent makes Jon's groin ache. "Come all the same. You will not be the first of your white brothers to visit our house."

All men are weak. Even his father had succumb to temptation once, but what worth is a knight who cannot keep his vows? For some reason again Sansa's face floats before his eyes, and Jon shakes his head. "I mean to keep my vows. But… thank you. For this."

Alayaya accepts with a dip of her head and a faint smile. "Fare well, ser knight."

AN: Just as a heads up, though she is one of my favorite side characters, this isn't going to be a Jon/Alayaya fic. As always I've just posted a preview of the next chapter up on my tumblr at TacitWhisky.