PART III: A City This Darkness Can't Hide
"I am the King-Beyond-The-Wall! I challenge the Lord of Winterfell to a duel for the North!"
Little six-year-old Jon held up his own wooden blade in defense as he stood across from his father. "I will not allow the Wildlings to take the North! Go back whence you came or face the true might of House Stark!"
Their blades clicked sharply against one another as they continued their epic battle in the Godswood in Winterfell.
Jon had fought his father back towards the pond, when his father picked up a handful of snow and compressed it into a small ball, throwing it at Jon.
He'd not been ready for a mouthful of snow. The flurry of cold snowflakes impacted his nose and forehead. But Jon laughed all the way through it, wiping the snow off his face and continuing his charge. "That's cheating!"
"I'm King-Beyond-The-Wall!" His father had grinned almost evilly, in a sort of hysterical fashion. "I'm allowed to cheat in duels!"
Jon remembered that. He pressed his next attack, and using a technique he'd seen Uncle Arthur use, he feinted to the right and kicked his father's shin hard.
"Aah!" His father's shout was both in pain and partly in laughter. He leaped on one foot, while Jon followed up and hit him in the side, tackling him to the ground.
His father was laughing all the way to the ground. He dropped his stick and got his arm around Jon's shoulders.
Jon dropped his own stick as he felt his father tickling him. "I've got the Lord of Winterfell!" He said with a smile on his face. "And now he is at the mercy of the great tickle dragon!"
Jon giggled as his armpits had been attacked, along with his sides. Soon it became too much to bear. "I yield! I yield!"
"Don't you want to kill the King-Beyond-The-Wall?" His father asked.
Jon shook his head as he hugged his father. "I don't want to kill anyone, father."
As he felt his father's arms wrap around him, his voice took on a grim note. "Well…"
"Sometimes heads just roll, Jon."
Maegor's Holdfast
300 AC
Jon Stark awoke in a cold sweat.
He sat upright on his bed, his pulse beating quickly along with his heart, and with a sharp ringing in his ears. Almost the same as when the Great Sept of Baelor crumbled into ruins around him.
And no sooner had he realized: the bad dream was still going on.
He was back in his bed in Maegor's Holdfast, he realized. And resting by his feet was the great white mound of fur. Ghost. And by the door-
Lya.
His father's direwolf had been sitting by the tall doors to his chambers like a sentinel in the night. Watching. Waiting for even the slightest sign of trouble.
Why was she here? She shouldn't be here. Not by his side. She should be with his father.
And yet, Jon's memory soon caught up with him.
It seemed as if it had only been hours ago that he held his father's corpse in his arms, weeping himself into a quiet slumber next to the dead man who had raised him, who had cared for him as one last promise to his dying sister.
"I promise, Lyanna."
And now, Eddard Stark was dead. Jon's father was dead. His fever dream had only served to antagonize him, it was a sign of the guilt he felt deep inside his being. For all the things he'd remembered his father saying, but didn't pay attention to. For all the lessons Jon let slip by because he was too busy acting a fool and playing around as a child would.
He knew he couldn't go back to sleep. Not when his mind was clearly distraught, not when he had so many thoughts to sort and file through. He remembered now that his throat was still dry. He looked around his room and quickly saw the pitcher of water laying next to a clay mug.
Jon swept himself out of bed. With the sole of his foot touching the cold marble floor, he fell over, easily catching himself by posting his hands onto the floor in front of him.
How long have I been out? He wondered to himself as he slowly found his footing again. His fall from within the Great Sept must've been far worse than he'd initially thought. His ankle felt sprained as it pulsated rather painfully for what felt like hours.
He hobbled over to the pitcher of water and poured himself his first cup. He swallowed down the cold fluid in one swift gulp and then poured another. He repeated this until, finally, his thirst was quenched. Then, he set the mug down and retreated back to his bed.
Now that he'd been properly hydrated, his mind was clear. He began to analyze the entire plot behind the explosion in the Great Sept of Baelor.
It had to have been Varys. Jaime mentioned that there were very few others who knew about Aerys' mad wildfire plot. But Varys had to have known about it. It was his job as Master of Whispers.
Jon could only take in Gerold's fleeting voice. He'd warned us about him, and I was seriously considering Baelish to be the prime suspect…
"You have no idea how delighted I am to hear of your safe voyage from White Harbor." Oh, how the Spider must've enjoyed saying that to Jon's father when they first arrived in King's Landing.
If he'd been onto Varys far sooner, then perhaps-
No. It wouldn't do to think of what might've been. That was an endless vortex of guilt and self-loathing just waiting to happen.
But why destroy the Sept? Why kill hundreds of innocents? And for what purpose?
It was then that there were several hard knocks at the doors. Jon glanced up sharply to the twin doors of his room and then at Lya, so as to see her reaction at their new visitor.
Lya went up to the door and began pawing at it. She was… whining.
Jon got out of bed once more and slipped on some trousers. Then he looked among his belongings and found his sword. He drew it and carefully stepped over to the twin doors, gently sliding open the lock and opening the left door.
"I can hear you fumbling with your sword from the other side, you know."
He let out a sigh of relief and opened the door fully. Starag was on the other side, holding a platter filled with meat, cheese, and fish. Tucked carefully between his arm and his side were a small pot of coffee and an accompanying jar of honey. He looked outstandingly relieved upon seeing Jon standing in front of him, which he then carefully masked with disciplined calm. "Thought you could use some food."
Jon suddenly felt the empty void within his stomach. It yawned at him to devour something. "Thanks," He nodded, taking the offered plate of food. Yet before he could pick up the first piece of smoked salmon, he paused.
"Father is-"
"I know," Starag said. He looked down at Lya, who was pawing at his waist so as to get attention from him. "Can I come in?"
Jon nodded blankly and held open the door for his uncle. Starag stepped inside while Jon closed the door behind him. His uncle soon took up one of the oak chairs sitting around the large circular table in his room and brought it closer while Jon resumed his spot on the bed.
"You've been out for a couple of days." His uncle answered. "You had a nasty hit on the back of your head. Probably got it during your fall when the Sept collapsed. Marwyn closed up the wound, though. You'll recover well enough, given a few weeks." Starag said as he poured himself a mug of fresh coffee. "I'm afraid you were one of the lucky ones."
Jon knew what his uncle meant when he said: "recover." More training. Training was the best antidote to injury, or so Arthur always claimed. Jon didn't doubt it. His mind, however, was focused on other things.
Had anyone else made it out alive? Or, to his potential shock and horror, had he and Jaime been the only survivors? If he was one of the lucky few… then…
"Who else made it out?"
Starag shook his head. "They're still looking among the ruins. Oberyn's leading the search teams as we speak." He paused briefly, sharing a pained look, as he'd seen the shambles of the Great Sept of Baelor himself. "It was… difficult to tell who was who. The wildfire didn't help in that regard."
"Oberyn?"
"I found him at the Inn by the Crossroads. He… told me what was going on."
Jon set down the platter of food. "What is going on?" Why had his father died? Who was responsible for so many needless deaths?
Starag handed him the mug of coffee first. Jon accepted it while his uncle began pouring another.
His uncle began. "Let's start at the beginning. This is what I've more or less pieced together," he said as he sat back in his chair. "Just about six moons ago, Doran and his family received a strange visitor: Jon Connington. You know him?"
Jon nodded. "I do. He was one of Aerys' hands during the rebellion, was he not?"
"Indeed." Starag agreed. "I thought he was long dead, but supposedly he's alive and well. Connington arrived with someone else. Someone who had us all playing fools and chasing shadows this whole bloody time. It was them who silenced the Dornish and cut off all communication from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Who are they?" Jon asked again.
"Aegon Targaryen." His uncle answered, spitting on the floor soon after mentioning the name.
Aegon? Jon felt his heart race faster. "No… That's not possible. He's supposed to be dead."
"Oberyn and I thought the same." His uncle set aside his coffee and pulled out his pipe. "Aegon supposedly knew about Rhaenys still being alive, probably was told by Varys. He came to Dorne to find her and take her as one of his wives and forcibly solidify an alliance with the Dornish. Naturally, she wasn't there. So, instead, he decided to put Doran and his family on house arrest under the threat of dragonfire-"
"Dragonfire!" Jon nearly spat out his coffee. "This pretender has dragons?"
Starag pursed his lips. "It's not just Aegon. It's Daenerys as well. They've been planning this for gods knows how long. She's somehow got dragons and Aegon is a rider to one of them."
My aunt… Jon let out a deep breath and controlled himself. It hurt inside to know that his family, his own flesh and blood was responsible for all of what transpired in the last three moons. He was even angry at the fact that his adopted Dornish side of the family was still under threat of execution if they didn't comply with Aegon. Threatened again, by more Targaryens…
And the fact alone that this Aegon could ride a dragon meant that at the very least, he had dragonlord blood flowing through his veins. Even if Jon doubted he was the supposed son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen.
"So," His uncle continued. "Doran managed to get a letter off to Oberyn. Told him what was going on and who was responsible. Oberyn was in Tyrosh when it happened. He got the letter and smuggled himself on a ship to Gulltown. From there, he made contact with the Manderlys, who got his message to me." He began crushing up the tobacco leaves in the bowl of his pipe. "Meanwhile, Aegon and Daenerys had already landed in Dragonstone and captured Stannis along with his wife and daughter. Whether or not they're still alive is unclear. From there, they were able to slowly convert most of the houses in the Crownlands, all of which are staunchly Targaryen loyalists to begin with." Finally, Starag stuck the pipe in his mouth and lit it with a single match. "Aegon now has an army over fifty thousand strong, and a capable fleet to boot since he's relieved it from Stannis."
Jon Stark could only set aside the mug of coffee and look long and hard at the floor.
How long had this been planned? By the Old Gods, it must've taken moons, damn near years of planning all for this one big moment to fire off.
He should've seen it earlier. No wonder the Crownlands houses were being difficult with him. They didn't want the soldiers in King's Landing properly fed. They wanted to stir up more resentment and chaos between the smallfolk and the nobility. If Jon and his father were busy dealing with a food crisis, then they would've been far too preoccupied to prepare for a siege or to set up proper defenses.
Defenses? No, Jon corrected himself as he found the prospect laughable. There wasn't meant to be a siege. This was a takeover, a changing of the guard in the blink of an eye.
"Don't worry about those crazy Baratheons and Lannisters. And those dour Starks ought to go back to the North anyways. The Targaryens have returned! And so too shall a stable kingdom full of peace and prosperity." That was more or less the message the invaders wanted to get across to the commonfolk, and to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.
And what better way to ingrain it into the people's minds, than to set off an explosion in the heart of King's Landing?
What better way to eliminate all of those who would stand in their way… Jon clenched his fists angrily. The bastard!
Everyone who could properly oppose Aegon was inside the Great Sept of Baelor. Eddard Stark. Tywin Lannister. Even Renly Baratheon or Lysa Tully could've gathered a suitable host. It didn't matter if Aegon had dragons, he wasn't about to take chances with the best commanders in all the Seven Kingdoms.
The heads of each great house would've been snuffed out simultaneously. All in one swift and fiery blow.
And it would all have been pinned on the feud between Tywin Lannister and Lysa Tully.
"You're beginning to see it," Starag growled as he let out a sharp whistle of tobacco smoke from his mouth. "It's bloody clever. Damn near brilliant. Pin it on the Tullys and Lannisters, then swoop in and dominate the rest of the Seven Kingdoms with their amassed army and dragons." He let out a harsh and bitter laugh. "Peace in our time." He spat again on the floor.
Jon was at a loss for words. He'd been played. Expertly, by another capable player of the Great Game. By multiple of them, at that.
And yet…
How can we retaliate? How can we turn the tables on him? And quickly?
"Nobody else knows it was Aegon." He asked, looking at his uncle. "Right?"
Starag stopped and stared at him. For a few moments, he was silent. And then, slowly, surely, the knowing grin began to spread across his lips. "That's right."
"So if, by chance, word got out that it was not in fact the Lannisters or the Tullys that caused the explosion, but Aegon…" Jon said.
"And if this information came from a reliable source. Say, the exact same city where the explosion took place. And from a Great House with a sterling reputation…" Starag continued.
Jon smiled, with almost delighted satisfaction. "Then Aegon would, by all accounts, look a foreign conqueror. Nobody would trust him."
"And he'd have a much harder time securing the Seven Kingdoms. House Targaryen's name, or at least Aegon's name would be sullied." Starag grinned with him. "We could field armies much larger than his own. And he's not the only one who has dragons."
This was it. The counterattack was beginning to form in Jon's mind. The cunning play on the chessboard. Taking his Rook.
Besides himself, Starag, and Oberyn, not a single soul in King's Landing or in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms knew about Aegon's wildfire plot. And if the three of them weren't there, then Aegon simply would've put the blame on the Lannisters and the Tullys, probably using falsified evidence and a good deal of force.
Yet if they informed the other kingdoms, even if they only managed to sow seeds of doubt in their minds, Aegon's name would be tarnished even before he began ruling the Seven Kingdoms. His rule wouldn't last a decade. Robert's Rebellion would eventually repeat itself in some form or another. Even if Aegon had dragons.
"It seems we'll be making liberal use of the rookery in the coming days," Starag said. "Aegon's likely thought ahead. Soon enough he'll reveal himself to the Seven Kingdoms. It's better if we pull back the curtain first and steal his thunder, for a lack of a better term." He said as he made to stand up.
Jon went to stand up with him, yet soon fell back in his bed after feeling the excruciating pain inside his ankle. It felt as if the bones were colliding against one another.
Jon's uncle put the coffee pot and food platter on the table beside his bed. "I'll make sure everything's ready. In the meantime, you get some rest. When you wake up, we'll train and get those letters sent out. Understand?"
"But-"
"Jon." Starag cut him off. "You can't have these people see you hobbling around like a cripple. An image like that never leaves their minds. They'll need someone to look up to in the coming weeks, someone dependable and strong. You need to be in top shape."
Jon Stark shook his head. They'll all look to you. "What about you, uncle?"
"Please," His uncle waved his hand aside. "A despicable, no-good smoking womanizing drunk like me?" He laughed. "Not exactly the picture of heroics," Starag said. "I'll handle the rookery and I'll see if there are any other survivors. But you need to rest. Marwyn's orders. Understand?"
Jon had uneasily nodded his head. "Yes, uncle."
"Good," Starag said as he made his way towards the doors. He gave Lya one last rub on the head and scratched her ears before he pulled the left door open.
Starag stopped briefly before exiting. Then he looked around his shoulder and back at Jon.
"And… you shouldn't blame yourself for Ned's death. You didn't let him down. You could never let him down. He thought the world of you." Starag said grimly. "The fault is on me. I should've been here for you two. If I hadn't been dallying in the Vale, I would've been here sooner. And perhaps then," He paused, looking away. "Ned might still be alive."
Just before he could shut the door, Jon spoke up again.
"How did you know?"
His uncle didn't even look at him as he said it. "Because that's what I was thinking when Arthur died."
With that, Jon watched as Starag Mormont walked out of his room and closed the door behind him. The twin oak doors snapped shut softly, and gently.
They sent out a flock of ravens the next day. Directly for each of the Great Houses.
Starag had stressed the importance of sending a letter to Dorne so that Oberyn's cover would not be blown. Jon agreed with him. Aegon would wish to know who informed on him, and if Sunspear did not receive a letter, then it would be all too obvious that House Martell had spilled the beans.
Each raven had flown from King's Landing without issue. Which only proved to Jon that the opposition had certainly not been expecting a move such as this.
He's not omniscient. Jon decided about his opponent as he dressed for training that same morning. He had the advantage of surprise. But he's revealed himself now. And now, it seemed, that Aegon had made a mistake.
A mistake that Jon would take full advantage of.
It was just about the only thing Jon could do in the meantime. Besides that, he was left managing the chaos that was the Red Keep, and the security of King's Landing.
His father had kept a tight rein on just about everything. Yet now, the situation was clearly different. The stress was overwhelming, especially with the destruction of Baelor's Sept.
Thankfully, the Street of Steel had been kept mostly intact. And most of the damage, ironically enough, was done to the Alchemists' Guildhall at the base of Visenya's Hill. Otherwise, Tobho Mott, along with his lesser competitors and his own associates, was completely fine.
Plenty of corpses had been found in the ruins, though. And the number of survivors was rather low. Fortunately, Myrcella and Tommen seemed to have survived, albeit just barely. They were badly injured and Jaime and Starag had them placed inside Maegor's Holdfast while Jon was out.
Lysa Tully had also survived, yet she faired far worse than the Lannister children had. She suffered from terrible burns all across her body. Her hair had been completely burnt away, along with most of her skin. Jon had last seen her screaming and howling like a madwoman as Marwyn tended to her. Those coarse, dry screams just wouldn't go away. She was found cradling the blackened corpse of Petyr Baelish, weeping despite her lack of tear ducts in her eyes.
Pycelle's body was never recovered. But Jon was fairly certain the old man was dead. There was no way a man as old as he had made it out alive.
Varys was nowhere to be found. With what Jon knew about the opposition, he was fairly certain that the Spider had already crossed Blackwater Bay, and was now residing on Dragonstone with Aegon and Daenerys.
Cersei's body was found crushed underneath several marble pillars. She'd been holding Joffrey when she died. The boy himself had his head turned into a messy pulp of brains and ash.
Tywin Lannister himself was a different matter altogether. The same day Jon had woken up, the Old Lion had emerged from the ruins, crawling out into the Street of Steel half-alive. He'd been trapped on his own inside a small cavern, and the bones in his left leg had been shattered. He'd managed to dig himself out through sheer willpower alone, though he'd be a cripple for the rest of his days. He fell into a coma upon being recovered and had yet to wake.
As such, only Jon alone remained to set things right.
It was up to him to restore some semblance of order and security to the people, who were panicking about wildfire being in the sewers just waiting to be lit.
And right now, Jon Stark could barely swing his sword.
As he stood in the training yard with Starag, he felt the powerful ache in his muscles and bones. His right leg felt as if it were on fire. And he was sweating profusely as he mirrored the basic practice motions and circuits that Starag ran in front of him.
"Your leg will heal." Marwyn had told him in private earlier that morning. "You're young. It shouldn't take more than a few days. Right now, it's best that you exercise your strength. Aim for endurance. Running will only exhaust you."
Jon decided to listen to the Archmaester. He needed to be prepared in case a battle came their way.
It was only a matter of time. This whole mess with Aegon would come to a head, and it would eventually reach the bottom line.
When that time came, Jon would need to be capable.
He held up his middle guard stance as he now stood opposite of Starag in the wide training circle of pink stone within the courtyard of the Red Keep. The sun was rising higher into the sky above the both of them. And its glare was in his eyes.
Jon made to step forward. His leg jolted violently and pulsed painfully as if someone had taken a bell hammer to it.
All it took was a second for the older man to efficiently slap away his blade and put the point of his own training sword under Jon's neck.
Starag said nothing as he took the blade away from Jon's neck and took up his hanging left stance again. He hadn't even moved his feet.
Jon felt incredibly embarrassed. Now, it felt as if he were learning swordplay all over again. Even his own reflexes had seen Starag's move ages before it had occurred, and his mind had already landed on a more than sufficient parry and counter to the tight and efficient maneuver.
And yet, his body disagreed with his mind. It's only temporary. You'll get it back. He told himself. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and try again.
"Again." He said to Starag.
The older man nodded and pressed forward again. This time Jon shifted onto his left leg, taking some of the tension off his right leg, so he could deflect Mormont's practice blade and get inside the other man's guard. The few moments of blessed relief were cut off as Jon felt something sweep out from under him. He fell with his back to the cold floor of pink stone hard.
Starag had kicked out his left foot, tripping Jon over onto the floor.
"Agh…" Jon groaned as he rolled on the ground. The pain in his leg had shocked his spine and torso as well.
"Up," Starag said above him. "Your leg hurts? Tough. Up. Now."
Fighting through the intense pain he felt coursing throughout his body, Jon was back up on his feet within seconds. He resumed his middle stance once more, keeping his eyes squarely on the older man standing across from him.
"Again," said Jon.
Margaery,
I know you'll be hearing rumors of what's happened soon enough. So it's better that I tell you right now what is going on.
My father is dead. So is Robert. They were killed as a result of a plot created by Varys the Spider and Aegon Targaryen. Tywin Lannister is injured, and so is Lysa Tully. And King's Landing has been thrown into chaos. The people in the city are helpless without someone to guide them through winter and wartime.
Soon, I feel Aegon will come to King's Landing and finish his work. He has a large army at his back and three dragons.
I must face him.
Only I remain to set things right.
And vanquish this blight from the Seven Kingdoms forever.
If you do not see me again, know that I love you and I wish now that we married in White Harbor. So that I might call you my wife.
Our child will regardless bear the Stark name. Robb will grant me this wish.
Take care of our people in Queenscrown. Have that mining camp get set up across the Lake of Gales. I pray to the Old Gods that soon enough, I'll be joining you.
For now, it's time that I take up my responsibility. I'll handle the situation personally.
Your Wolf,
Jon
