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Chapter Forty-Six: One Thing Led to Another

"And now his watch is ended." Countless men's voices echoed around the courtyard of Castle Black, Theon Greyjoy's among them as he held aloft the lit torch. His brother's parted, making room for him to approach old Maester Aemon's pyre, where he touched the flames to the kindling. And now his watch his ended, he echoed to himself and watched as the flames took hold. He was such a kind and gentle old man, even Theon felt his eye dampen at the sight of his flimsy remains going up in smoke.

He regretted not being there when it happened. But he had gone beyond the wall to treat with the vast Wildling host led by Mance Rayder, staving off the inevitable battle that was brewing up between them. From there, he had ranged farther north into the Skirling Pass and the Frostfangs. Every Wildling village he encountered had been abandoned, with not even a cook fire left smouldering in the places where hearths had once been. It was three months into the ranging that he had seen what drove them all south. Dead things, but still sentient. Strange and beautiful, with eyes like cut sapphires they were. They ice come alive. The Others. At the time, he had found himself drawn to them as much as he was repelled by them. Old Nan used to call them White Walkers. Theon had called them fictional.

They weren't the same as the wights. Wights were the corpses of the dead, reanimated seemingly at the behest of the Others. He had watched from a ridge on the Frostfangs, transfixed with the sheer horror of it. Now, several months later, the shock had worn off but had taken the details with it. He could no longer recall what exactly happened. Then the darkness fell. That was two months ago, and the darkness had not yet lifted once. Mercifully, there were other witnesses backing him up, as well as the testimony of numerous Wildlings. Now, as he watched the old maester burn, he felt as if the last voice of reason in this glorified penal colony had been silenced.

Allowing himself one more moment to watch the smoke billowing into the darkness, he turned away from the pyre. Their ranks had been swollen recently. Mostly soldiers who fought on the wrong side of the war. Lannister deserters, Baratheons who had banked on the wrong Baratheon claimant kindly donated by Lady Shireen and a smattering of men injured and with no other option but the black. Just then, the horns sounded again, heralded more new arrivals.

"Open the gate!" he called out, to no one in particular.

As quick as that, their period of mourning was over. Through the darkness, he could make out the outlines of his brothers rushing for the gates with torches held aloft. Moments later, he was watching as Jaime Lannister himself led a batch of new recruits into their yard. Even here, he still wore his golden armour, something he'd soon be stripped of if he was here to enlist. Theon suppressed a laugh as he approached the man. To his surprise, Lannister did not look particularly put out by his new surroundings. Behind him, a fat young man rode a horse. Already dressed head to toe in black, he seemed to know where he was going and did not linger long. With him, a middle aged man who, to Theon, looked fit only for death.

"We meet again, Greyjoy," said Lannister, dismounting his destrier. Only when he was on his feet again did he wrinkle his nose as he glanced around the dilapidated grounds. "I can see I'm going to fit right in here."

Theon shrugged. "You might surprise yourself, my lord. I know I did."

That evening, they gathered in the common hall for supper. A quiet and subdued affair as the death of Maester Aemon continued to linger over the brothers. By virtue of having had one conversation together a number of years ago, Theon found Jaime Lannister gravitating towards him. He had lost the armour and now wore a simple tunic of linen and a satin surcoat that he had clearly brought from court.

"Greyjoy, you're a sensible man," he said, keeping his voice low. "Well, sensible in that you're not a superstitious peasant."

"High praise from you, my lord," replied Theon, drily.

"Shut up and listen," Lannister cut in. "I haven't seen daylight since passing the Neck, and even that was by sea. Tell me, what in seven hells is happening here?"

Theon shrugged. "I was ranging in the Frost Fangs when it began. Lost three of my six men on the homeward journey and I saw things I thought only existed in a nursemaid's stories. Now we have thousands of Free Folk camping on our grounds, waiting for safe passage south and nowhere to send them. I've seen the things they flee, my lord."

Jaime frowned at him. "What things?"

Theon suppressed a laugh. "You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you."

"Greyjoy, seven months ago, my sister was eaten alive by a real dragon," he pointed out, calmly. "Seven months and one day ago, I'd have called that impossible. So why don't you try me?"

Theon looked him in the eye, trying to gage how serious he was being. He knew that Jon was king now, and that Robb had returned North. He had even heard rumours about a Targaryen princess and her dragons. This was the first eye-witness he had heard. So, he decided to give Jaime a chance. Topping up both their goblets with the Watch's foul ale, he began explaining about Craster and his wives. The sacrifice of the boys to the Others, as he had heard Dolorous Edd explain it. Then the wights and the white walkers. All of it, as he had witnessed it on his rangings. Some of the other watchmen overheard their discussion, then chipped in with their own anecdotes of what really lay beyond the wall. Hours had passed by the time everyone had had their say. Still, Theon expected Lannister to mock them.

"Have you written to the King about this?" he asked. "Or at least the King in the North. He's at Winterfell now and the Starks have always been kind to the Watch."

"Of course I have," Theon rejoined.

"Fine then, tomorrow we ride out and I'll see for myself what's out there," he stated, matter of factly.

"But your training- "one of the younger recruits said.

Jaime merely laughed. "Fuck the training. I've been Kingsguard since every man in this room was swinging between his father's legs."

"Ser Alliser won't like that," another opined.

"Then fuck Ser Alliser too, whoever he is." He drained his goblet and rose to his feet, looking all around the room. "What this place needs is a little military organisation and I intend to deliver it. Besides, I find myself curious about your so-called armies of the dead."

Theon fell silent, watching as Lannister strode out of the room. He realised then, that he had not come to take the black. He had come to take over. What he lacked in experience he made up for in arrogance. Arrogance that not even Alliser Thorne could dent, Theon reckoned.

Jon watched from the iron throne as Tyrion led the new prisoners down the aisle of the throne room. They were neither bound nor shackled, but the armed men forming a protective semi-circle around them left them under no illusions about their status in King's Landing. Although too far away to make out their features, he could guess at which was which. The woman in the Septa's robes could only have been Ashara Dayne, the young man at her side Aegon Sand. Varys, it seemed, had slipped the net again. There was nobody else there, to witness the humiliating end of their attempt at usurpation. Just those two, Tyrion and the guards, with Jon Connington waiting in the wings and Ser Loras Tyrell acting as his guard.

All three of their faces looked up at him now, taking in their first sight of the king crowned and anointed. A piece of theatre he had not been keen on, but that Mace Tyrell had insisted. Leave them under no doubt as to who ruled now. Soon Jon gave it up, as the two prisoners knelt in submission. That was enough for him, seeing as they posed no threat now.

"Your Grace," Tyrion said, raising his voice to be heard. "Septa Lemore and Aegon Sand request an audience."

Jon dismounted the steps to the throne, with Loras following. "Very well, my lord. Bid them rise."

When he reached the foot of the throne, he got his first proper look at them. Aegon with his hair still dyed blue; Ashara or Lemore still handsome for her age. She was looking at him curiously now, as everyone who had known his real father did. If they were all looking for traces of Rhaegar Targaryen, he knew they looked away disappointed. As for the young man, he had those Dornish lilac eyes. They met Jon's grey ones with a look of mute appeal.

"Did he know any of this?" he asked, looking to the mother.

"Nothing. He- "

"Very well," Jon cut her off. "My lady, I would speak with you in private."

Tyrion stepped forward, making his presence known. "Would you like us to leave?"

Jon shook his head. "No, I would like to take the air anyway."

He glanced over to the Septa who, in turn, nodded her ascent. He could see that her eyes were drawn and red from weeping, dark circles betrayed her lack of sleep and she seemed thin and pinched. Hardly surprising, given all she had been through since the ruse was discovered. Judging her to be no threat, Jon even motioned for Ser Loras to stay put in the throne room. Meanwhile, he led her out into the gardens beyond, surrounding the Maidenvault. It was dusk, despite the youth of the hour, but beacons burned on the walls around the vault and they could still see well enough.

"I thought I would be angry, but I'm not," he said, slowing his pace so she could keep up. "All the same, I ask only the truth from you."

Her expression turned from serious to weary. "I don't think many of us involved in all this even remember what the truth is, your grace."

"I'd thank you to try for me," he said, sitting down on a bench overlooking rose beds. "Why did you do it? Why did you agree to give up your own child and raise him as someone else's son?"

"I'd have thought that was obvious," she replied, sitting beside him. "Princess Elia was my friend. I served her. I comforted her when she was ill after having the children. I tried my best to cheer her after her husband set her aside for another woman."

Jon inwardly chafed. "My mother."

"Your mother," she confirmed. "But that is none of your doing. We didn't know she was pregnant, so when Elia and the children were dead, we though the dynasty was dead too. No one expected the exiled Prince or Princess to flourish, so we needed an alternative. Aegon. This way, I didn't actually give him up. I raised him; I've been with him every step of the way. He just didn't know I was his mother, that was all."

She said it like it was such a small thing. As one who had really been brought up without parents, Jon was keen to set her right on that. Only his need for the truth kept him from straying off the subject.

"My uncle," he prompted her.

"Brandon?" she asked, rhetorically. "We met at the tourney of Harrenhal. He only spoke to me because your other uncle, Eddard, was too shy to ask me to dance." She trailed off, a distant smile playing across her lips. Her lilac eyes really were haunting now. Haunted, it seemed, by her own history. After a long pause, she continued: "Ned was such a sweet thing. Shy and timid. Not the best dancer, but so endearing with it. When the dance was over, he was so dizzy from it all he ran straight back into his corner as if he couldn't believe what had happened."

Although quite enjoying the reminiscences, there was just one thing troubling Jon. "Forgive my impertinence, my lady, but how did you end with Brandon? If you, er, catch my meaning?"

She smiled. "You mean; how did we end up having sex? You're as timid as Ned was."

Jon found himself grateful for the darkness as he blushed. "That's roughly what I meant."

"After the dance Eddard retreated back into his shell and wouldn't even look at me," she continued. "At the time I took it badly. I thought I had done something, or that he had only asked as some sort of foolish joke among boys. Now I know better of course. Anyway, Brandon came back up to me to apologise for Eddard's behaviour. Then one thing led to another."

"That one thing led to Aegon," he filled in the blank. "What happened next?"

"When I realised I was pregnant I wrote to him," she explained. "Not for one minute did I think he would break his union with Catelyn Tully, but I still thought he ought to know. Not long after that, I saw him again not far from here. He was waiting in the outer-gallery of the audience chamber and he promised me we would be able to talk privately once he had finished his business with King Aerys. And you don't need me to tell you what happened after that."

Jon almost groaned. His mother had eloped with Rhaegar; Brandon came to demand her return which resulted in his arrest. Jon had found a record of his lodgings in one of the black cells deep beneath the Red Keep. There was no way the lady could have reached him down there.

"Did you see what happened?"

She nodded. "I did. I watched that deranged lunatic burn him and his father. Then, later when he realised he was losing the war, Aerys made Elia and the children remain in the capital as surety for Dorne's cooperation. We were all prepared to flee. The children's things were all packed up and ready to go. But mad old Aerys got wind of it and put a stop to it. I was gone by then. I had given birth to Aegon in an inn nearby."

"It wasn't on Pisswater Bend, was it?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes," she replied. "By the time I recovered from the birth, I could not get back into the Red Keep. Aerys had sealed the place, but I managed to get out again. Varys helped me. By the time I made it back to Starfall, Elia and her children were dead."

Jon remembered that Daenerys was supposed to die, then realised why she had done all this.

"You didn't care about saving the Targaryens, did you? On the contrary, you wanted revenge against them, for Elia's sake. For the real Aegon and Rhaenys' sake. I couldn't understand why you didn't try to save Dany and Viserys, but this explains it. You were only interested in planting your fake Targaryen on the throne for the sake of Dornish pride."

"Don't forget, Aerys killed the father of my child. Few in Dorne have reason to love the Targaryens, and I have less reason than most."

"And Varys? Mopatis?"

"Mopatis seemed to think Aegon was a Blackfyre. A lie spun to him by Varys so he would get the Golden Company involved. At least, that's what I think," she explained. "But, as for Varys, if his hat knew what was in his head, he would cast it into the flames. The same with any person, for that matter."

The actions of the last generation made Jon's head hurt. The fact that he had been left to clean up the mess made him angry. But there was one more thing he desperately needed to know.

"My uncle, Eddard," he began. "I heard he came to you after your brother was killed."

Her eyes dulled at the mention of her brother, Ser Arthur Dayne. Had the circumstances been any different, had he still been a boy, he would have been beside himself to meet a relative of that man. Even if his father had killed him.

"He brought back the sword," she said. "Which he did not have to do. He was a great man, your grace."

"So I've heard," he replied. "When my son is born I know I'll be telling him all about Ser Arthur."

She laughed, but not unkindly. "I meant Eddard, but thank you all the same."

"Oh," he said, almost embarrassed. "Why do you call your brother's killer a great man?"

"You don't know?" she sounded surprised. "It was some little frog man with a poisoned dart that did for Arthur. Not your father. With just a little more brains between them, the Kingsguard could have struck a deal with Ned, given they were guarding a true born prince who also happened to be his nephew. I'll never know why they decided to fight him."

If she didn't know, no one would. "I knew it was Howland Reed who did for your brother. But my father didn't help."

"It's all ancient history," she pointed out. After a contemplative pause, she added: "If you take my advice, your grace, which you're under no obligation to do: forget the bitter past and concentrate on building something knew. Your Targaryen blood has won you the throne. But in your head and your heart, where it matters, you're no more a Targaryen than I am a Wildling. You have the looks and the honour of your Stark relations, but I don't think you were ever truly one of them either, were you?"

"I was a Snow for most of my life," he recalled.

"Well then," she said, as if that settled it. "Stark or Targaryen. You were never really one or the other and you should be glad of it. You're free to be something else. Something new that sweeps away all the bitterness of the past. You have the perfect bride for it. Soon, you'll have the perfect princes and princesses for it. Forget us old people, mired in the conflicts of the past. Concentrate on what comes next, for the sake of the realm. Then you might just build something special."

He looked up at her, realising there was a lot of truth in her words. That was what he ought to be doing, instead of scrabbling around to tie up history's loose-ends. Only these questions had plagued him for his entire life. In the end, he thanked her for her advice.

"There's one more thing," she said, as he rose to escort her back inside. "There's one more legacy of the past you can do without."

"Yes?" he replied, brow knitting into a frown.

"There's barrels and barrels of wildfire rigged up all over the city," she said. "Aerys put it there. The older it gets, the more volatile it is. I'd do something about that, if I were you."

Jaime mentioned it and he was meant to go down there to see if it was true. Now that the lady mentioned it, he found himself thinking of the north and the wights and the others and the gods know what else is out there.

"I might have an idea, actually," he said, but left it at that.

At dawn, the following day, he found himself being led underground to where the pyromancers lived their subterranean lives. Tyrion Lannister accompanied him, advising caution as they made their way into the long abandoned cellars. Water dripped down the damp arched roof, occasionally splashing his face and getting in his eyes. More than once, he slipped on the slick wet cobbles and had to grab the loose stones in the walls. All the while, they felt their way along in the darkness. Any light, whether a candle or an oil lantern, was far too risky.

"Wisdom Hallyne," he said. "Do you mean to tell me one lose spark could wipe out this entire city and everyone in it?"

"Mmmm…" he replied. Jon could just make out his bent back stooped against a sliver of natural daylight. "It's quite safe, your grace. Spells and sand and stone keep it quite calm."

Jon and Tyrion exchanged a sceptical glance. Meanwhile, Hallyne opened a locked vault revealing several shelves packed with clay jars.

"You yourself told me that what we used during Blackwater was just a small percentage of what still exists," Tyrion pointed out. "So where's the rest of it? I saw this last time."

"Patience, my lord, patience," Wisdom Hallyne advised.

The tour continued, taking several hours. The more Jon saw, the more uncomfortable he became. They were led to low vaulted rooms, cellars and ante-chambers all loaded to the maximum with deadly wildfire. All of it had been there since his grandfather commissioned it.

"Tyrion, we can't leave this here," said Jon, lowering himself to the other man's height. "It's too dangerous."

"I quite agree, your grace," he concurred. "But what can we do? Where would we put it?"

Jon was already inching toward an answer. "If it is safe enough in these clay jars, so long as they don't break, then we can transport it quite far away can't we?"

"So long as it's packed properly," Hallyne replied. "And depending on how far."

Both men were fixing him with calculating looks now, as if they had already sussed he was planning something as foolish as it was dangerous.

"Er, north of the wall."

Hallyne almost took a heart attack, clutching his chest as he staggered back.

"I think that's a no," Tyrion said, flatly.

"There must be a way," he insisted. "By ship? If we towed unmanned ships north, with the wildfire packed safely in the hulls. Then, if one ship goes off, no one gets hurt and it will be at sea, so no people are at risk. Think about it. Lord Tyrion, you filled ships up with it and it didn't go off until a spark hit it."

"Your grace, that was a ship in the bay, not a ship sailing all the way north!" he pointed out. "This would be insanity."

"But the ships would be towed on great chains, by other ships," he explained. "Right, here's what I mean: we load the wildfire onto small boats and then connect the small boats to much bigger ships with chains. Then tow them north. When they reach the north, we carefully arrange the wildfire around places where the Others are gathering. It will take time, but it could work."

"This is madness," Tyrion stated.

"Your Grace, if I may?" Hallyne interjected. "We, that is my fellow pyromancers and I, would be more than happy to travel north and make new wildfire to defeat the enemy."

"I thank you, Wisdom Hallyne," he replied, dejected. "But please, can we just try my way once; I want to get rid of this stuff, not make more of it. Just one small boat carefully loaded with wildfire and packed with sand and your spells, or whatever they are. Just one. No one will get hurt."

"You're the king," Tyrion reminded him. "We're yours to command."

"Then I command it," he said. "One small row unmanned boat towed north on a mile of chain, to keep it clear of the manned ship. Let's see how it goes."

"And if it's successful and we need to move it all?" Tyrion asked.

"We evacuate the city for people's safety and move it at once," he said, uncertainly.

"I advise your grace that this is insanity, but I will support you. You are my king, after all," Tyrion replied, mechanically.

It was enough for Jon. As they made their way out, he decided it was time for the dragons and their fire breathing instincts to join Dany on Dragonstone. Had he known how much wildfire was down there he would never have allowed them into the capital in the first place.

They emerged into darkness and walked back to the Red Keep, stopping along the way to chat to the local people. He was learning their names and what they did for a living now, and liked to enquire after their wives, husbands, babies and businesses. All of them going about their lives, blissfully ignorant of the fire monster percolating ten feet beneath their homes. Before too long however, the walkabout was brought to an abrupt halt as Ser Loras came charging through the streets.

"Your Grace!" he shouted out to Jon. "Your grace, it's the Queen."

Startled, Jon strode over to him. "Is she all right?"

Ser Loras, breathless and flushed in the face, managed a smile. "We've been searching for you for hours, your grace. The Queen's labours began just before noon. The prince is coming."

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