He remembered the detailed directions the man with the pointed beard had given him, he also remembered when he had agreed with Domeric that the most intelligent thing to do was to simply deliver the letters and leave for good. But now that he had he entered the castle, he could not help himself from wandering its courtyards, regardless of the danger he'd been cautioned against.
The conqueror's city was the tale of the millennium, after all. He had never been one to obsess over history, but in the skies above him dragons had once been commonplace, in the halls he wandered now Maegor had been murdered and thrown over his empty throne, Green and Black were fed to dragons and assassinated every day. Every great king, conniving pretender, and terrible monster he could think of had once called this city home.
My grandfather and uncle were also murdered here.He thought, a sense of familiar anger boiling in him, even though he had never met them.I must see where they died.
But in contrast to all those dark and twisted tales, the Red Keep was the most gorgeous castle he had ever laid eyes on. It was smaller than Winterfell and lacked much of its practicality, but Winterfell needed to serve as a home to countless during harsh and long winters. The Red Keep did not share the spartan brutality of the Bloody Gates, but the Gates served only as a military fortress.
The Red Keep had a military, a practical and a political role to serve. The walls and glass were all brightly colored, beautiful under the sunlight that shined down on them. He saw servants running around everywhere he looked, tending gardens and grass, carrying sheets and plates of extravagant meals, and scrubbing down and washing every surface of marble and stone where no one walked.
There were also more nobles than he thought existed, of houses and descents he could not name. They all dressed in dresses and doublets of silk and velvet that made his newly bought clothes seem destitute in comparison, despite it being by far the most expensive piece of clothing he owned.
It became clear to him that the blood that painted these walls over the centuries was not a result of some maligned curse, but of the absolute power the city exerted over the continent. It attracted all, the naïve and the crooked, like a moth to flame. The halls he wandered had two sides, something which fascinated him to end, wealth and extravagance befitting the ruler of the continent on one side, and a poison chalice on the other.
But he did not long for that same power, and he attracted not the eyes of those who did. Here, he was just another nameless knight in cheap velvet wandering the courtyards and gardens with eyes full of wonder.
Eventually, after an hour of climbing up serpentine stairs and walking between great walls of marble and stone, past barracks and defenses and stables, he found the doors of throne room proper splayed open with two gold cloaks standing guard along its flanks, and a few nobles casually entering and leaving.
Some part of his mind imagined he would find the man from his father's stories, a tower of muscle and fury with Mya's hair and eyes sitting atop a small throne with a war hammer laying splayed across his legs, listening to some civil matter or other.
There was no king, but he did mind, could not mind, for his mind screeched to a halt when he laid eyes on the Iron Throne. A monstrosity of jagged steel charred by the dragonfire of the Black Dread, it twisted and bent around itself until it stood at thrice his height. A throne forged from the blades of Aegon's enemies, blades still sharp even centuries after his conquest, both those that protruded from its sides like frayed hair, and those along the steps and seat which had likely bled every Targaryen king from the Conqueror to the Mad.
He stood there for some time, completely in awe of it. When he was in control of his mind again, he imagined where his uncle and grandfather were strung up decades ago, burning and choking while a disgusting bag of flesh sat atop the throne and cackled.
If I could go back to that day…He thought, a fire burning in his chest.I would cut through Aerys' kingsguard or die trying.
"Stark?" A deep masculine voice called out to his right. He turned to see a prince from the stories approaching him, the man had a handsome face, long curled blond hair and bright green eyes, he wore white plate armor and cloak, and an expression that was both sardonic and inquisitive.
"Kingslayer." Jon responded, though that hardly did anything but make the man more amused. A myth from the rebellion, an oathbreaker and monster slayer, and someone his father especially despised.
"Most men know better than to call me that to my face." He said, his tone had a sinister edge to it, though it phased him not, and he met the Lannister's gold flecked eyes.
"I am not most men." Jon said dismissively. Some part of him longed for nothing more than to test his mettle against a fighter as storied as him, but he somehow doubted the other knight would accept his offer for a friendly spar.
"Ned!?" Another voice called out, this one loud and booming, Jon turned this time to some fat man wearing a crown. At first, Jon wondered what man was fool enough to wear a crown in the king's own castle, but then he spotted the older white cloak trailing behind him, he realized that he was one of the few men in the city he had to peer his neck up to look at, and he saw two familiar blue eyes dotting his face. "Is that you!?"
This cannot be Robert Baratheon.He told himself, trying to keep his disappointment from showing. All his life, he would imagine the legendary clash between stormlord and black prince along the raging waters of the Trident, and try as he might, he could not place the man that stood before him in the scene.Where is the Demon of the Trident?
"Only his bastard, your grace." Jon said, putting an arm against his stomach and bowing his head in respect.
"His bastard?" The man, the king, Jon figured even if he hardly looked the part, said, he brought a hand to his beard and ran a hand through, before he fell back into a smile. "Oh, I remember you! Arryn told me you looked just like your father when he returned from that tourney in the Vale, but the resemblence is uncanny."
"He reminds me more of his uncle Brandon, your grace." The other kingsguard behind him said, this one was by far the oldest present, with long white hair and beard and a lined face. "Lord Arryn mentioned his heroism in a recent council meeting, he earned a knighthood after defending a village in the Vale from a clansmen raid and besting their chieftain in single combat."
Barristan the Bold!And the man still looked the part, old he may have been, but he sensed in him a far greater strength than in even Lord Yohn's old bones.Men of story and myth wander these halls as though its commonplace.
"Ha, a warrior! Just like his father." The king said, his smile growing even wider, the years since the rebellion may not have been kind to the king's health or strength, but Jon could still see traces of his storied charisma.A man who made easy allies of defeated enemies.
"And you remind me of your daughter, your grace." Jon said, both the king and the Bold grew confused at his words, the kingslayer looked offended at the suggestion.
"Myrcella?" He asked, "She looks nothing like me, she has her mother's coloring through and through."
"Your other daughter, your grace." Jon said. "The one abandoned and forgotten in the Vale."
The king remained confused, until realization dawned on his face, but then his eyes were saddened, and his face fell to melancholy Jon did not think him capable of.
"Mya…" He said, "I wished to bring her to the capital a decade ago and raise her under my own roof, as your father did with you, but Cersei would not have it, threatened to… harm the girl, but Jon promised me she would be taken care of."
"And she is, in so far as she does not starve. But she spends her days shoveling shit and working with bison, your grace." Jon said, meeting his gaze once more. Some part of him wondered if he was expected to crumble here, a lowly bastard in the presence of legends, to slump his shoulders and lower his gaze, but he was not built for such behavior. "Me, your grace? I could earn a better life for myself with my swordhand, but she has had no such opportunity, your blood, your eldest daughter will work with bison and shit until she passes."
"Can't she marry?" the king asked, almost pleading with him. Ser Barristan behind him looked on with interest at the exchange, while the kingslayer looked like he could not care less about what was being said, even though his eyes were still locked on Jon.
"She and a son of Lord Redfort loved each other, once. But the lord would not allow his son to marry a fatherless bastard with no dowry, and so betrothed him to another." Jon said. "Forgive me for speaking out of turn, your grace, but I believe she deserves better."
"She does." the king said, almost slinking his shoulders, as though the weight of two decades of rule collapsed onto him at once, before he came back up, eyes widening."Why don't you marry her!"
"Uh, I, your grace, I cannot." He started, the thought had never even crossed his mind. "She's like a sister to me."
"But she's not your sister, not by blood." The king said, suddenly nodding his head even as Jon shook his. "My daughter and Ned's son, like Lyanna and I, but a generation later."
"I am not you, and she is not Lyanna." Jon said somewhat firmly, this was not how one was meant to address their king, but he had never been one to mince words.
"What's the matter, boy? Too good to have a king for a father-in-law?" The king said. "Don't worry son, I'll give her a princess' dowry and a princess' name!"
"It's not a question of gold or names, your grace." Jon said, "I will not force her to marry me."
"If not you, then who?" Barristan asked from behind the king. "Some stranger who might prove himself a cruel man and a crueler husband?"
"Let her choose." Jon said, "I'll not return to her with an order of marriage. If you wish to be generous, your grace, give her a name, give her wealth, and let her choose a husband for herself."
"I am her father." The king said. "It is my duty to choose a husband for her."
"You've not been a father to her for her entire life, your grace." Jon said honestly, both kingsguard behind him looked towards the king for his reaction, but Jon kept going. "She wrote you a letter, if you wish to read it."
Jon reached into his bags and pulled out the letter in question. The king took it from him with coarse hands and unfolded it, his eyes running across the words as the conversation between them died. He turned his eyes to the kingslayer and Ser Barristan and found both of them still somewhat invested in the conversation, but otherwise just lifelessly standing there.
What a boring posting.He thought, even as he remembered stories of the Sword of the Morning and the dragonknight.The greatest fighters in realm, and they spend their days standing around.
He noticed then how many of nobles who had been absentmindedly coming and going were now stopped in their tracks. They still pretended to gossip of course, but even he could spot the dozen eyes jumping towards their little congregation.
No longer a faceless knight,He thought, turning to meet any glares or looks that came his way.
"Oh, Mya... Fine, I'll not order the marriage." The king finally said, wiping a tear from his eye before shaking his head straight and burying the letter in his pocket. "But you boy. You are Ned writ again, brazen honesty and all, and a knight of some prowess if what Barristan says is true, how about you join my kingsguard?"
Both of the kingsguard behind him swiveled their head at their king, while the king looked at him with open arms and wide eyes.
"Uh, your grace." Barristan said. "No offense meant to the young knight, but the kingsguard is full, we have all seven members."
"Fuck," The king said, scratching his head. "Can we not exile Trant or Blount to the Wall, heavens every time I look at Blount, I wish for someone to pluck out my eyes."
"It would be seen as a great insult to their houses, to send them to Wall for no crime committed." Barristan started, but Jon cut him off.
"I would turn down your offer regardless, your grace." Jon said, "I am deeply honored, of course, but I'm too young to swear my life away, besides, I've been already granted a keep in Lord Royce's land."
"Fine!" The king said, his chest deflating fully now, he was clearly not used to not getting what he wanted.He is a king, after all."Follow me."
The king quickly turned, and Barristan gestured for him to follow as the old knight and the kingslayer locked steps a few feet behind them. They were led out of the throne room back into the courtyards, now with even more eyes drawn to him as he was flanked by the three of them.
Eventually they came upon the tower Jon had come here for in the first place, it stood as tall any watch tower in Winterfell or Gates, though here it served a much more political purpose, given the small number of men at arms and the overwhelming number of servants. The king somehow managed to carry his great weight over the many winding steps of the tower as all they passed looked befuddled towards them.
Once at the top, the king swung open a door to reveal a room not too dissimilar from Lord Royce's solar back in Runestone, but everything here was a tad more expensive, be it the Myrish carpets and glass, the gold and silver candelabras and walls adorned with tapestries and wall hanging of the most luxurious wool and linen. In the middle of it all was a great desk, and behind it sat his namesake scribbling something down, he stopped mid quill stroke to look towards his door with mouth agap.
"Robert? Ned!?" The older man said, looking towards them in complete confusion. The last time they had seen each other was after his scuttle with Corbray. The older of the Jons had not changed much since then, but the younger had. "No, you're Jon Snow, what is the meaning of this?"
"Arryn, draw up the papers to legitimize my bastard daughter, and give her a good dowry, some ten thousand dragons or some such."
"Your grace!?" Lord Arryn said, jumping to his feet. "What?"
"Mya's her name, the girl I left in the Vale." The king said, he walked over and picked up a quill from Arryn's desk, then signed his name at the foot of some empty sheet of parchment. "Here's my signature, you handle the rest for me."
"Your grace, you cannot." Lord Arryn said, his voice turning stern. Jon prepared himself for another argument, but the king hardly looked perturbed. "The last time a king legitimized his bastards, we had a century of Blackfyre Rebellions."
"She's a woman, she won't take up arms against Joffery." The King said, waving him off, but then he stroked his great beard once more. "Though mayhaps she should, whip that boy into a man."
"The Lannisters will—" Lord Arryn started, then met Jaime Lannister's eyes, who stood at the door with the same arrogant smile on his face.Try it, Lannister.Jon thought, an anger burning in his veins, the same he felt when he imagined his uncle and grandfather's deaths. "You endanger her by doing this, Robert."
"I'll make sure no harm comes to her, your grace." Jon said, turning to meet the Lannister's gaze. "I swear it on my life."
"The bastard thinks too highly of himself." the Lannister said, his face wearing the same dismissive look he seemed to give everything.
"I long to show you why, kingslayer." Jon said. The knight looked ready to meet his challenge, though the king only laughed at his words.
"Robert…" Lord Arryn started again.
"Bah, let me handle Cersei, my mind is made Jon, see it done." The king said, waving the lord off and turning to leave, he stopped when he got to Jon, the bastard, not the lord. "Make sure the papers get to her boy, you hear me? And tell her that her father loves her, even if he cannot be with her."
At that, Jon bowed in agreement, and the king nodded his head towards him, then turned to leave, his kingsguard behind him, though the Lannister glared at him as long as he could.
"Gods." Lord Arryn said, from the other side of the room, collapsing in his chair. "Why is it that every time I see you, namesake of mine, it comes with a headache."
"Apologies, my lord." Jon said.
"Your father and Robert were both the same in that regard." Lord Arryn said, sighing and reaching for the parchment Robert had abandoned. "And like your uncle Brandon before you, you make mortal enemies of the supremely powerful."
"Aye, but I feel it is inevitable in this regard." Jon said with a shrug. "I made a promise to Mya in the stables of the Gates of the Moon, one I intend to fulfill, my lord, Lannisters be damned."
"The Lannisters are not so easily damned or insulted, boy, unless you father never taught you of the Tarbecks and the Reynes." Lord Arryn said, dipping his quill in ink and beginning to pen something. "Did you truly come to the capital for this promise that you made?"
"I am also to deliver these to you, my lord." Jon said, taking the scroll case off his back and laying it on the man's desk. "Your reports from Ser Brynden and Lord Nestor as the happenings in the Gates and Vale."
"It is that time a year." The lord said, and he saw the older man sinking into his chair at the news. Jon spied the mountain of documents on the man's desk, and the empty ink pots he had likely already gone through laying discarded to the side, he nearly shuddered at the thought of so much paperwork. "Well, if your business is concluded, I would advise you leave the city post haste. The Lannisters are not Lyonel Corbray, they can do more than rant and drink themselves to death, and I have little power over them."
"I cannot." Jon said earnestly. "I have other business yet in the city, on the Street of Steel. Did Brynden tell you of the Valyrian Steel axe the clansmen carried?"
"It's here!?" Arryn asked, and Jon nodded. The lord sighed and deflated once more, before looking Jon directly in the eyes. "Tell no one of this,no one, even the walls have ears here."
"I understand." Jon said, "No one will hear of it from me."
There was a silence as the Arryn kept scribbling away at the parchment while shaking his head.
"Lysa will not like this, but I'll have my steward prepare you rooms in the Tower, it'll be safer than the city or the rest of the castle, but do not dally,leavethe moment it is done."
"Thank you, my lord."
"You are still Ned's boy, I'll not let harm befall you if I can help it." The older lord said, finally lifting the pen from the paper and handing it to Jon.
'By order of his grace Robert Baratheon,
King of the Andals, the Rhoynor and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,
His natural born daughter, Mya Stone, shall henceforth be known as Mya Baratheon, and afforded the respect, dignity and dowry owed to a full-blooded princess of House Baratheon,
She has no place in the succession of the Iron Throne, Storm's End or Dragonstone, and will NOT pass on a legal claim to any of the aforementioned titles to her husband, sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters or any of their descendants.'
Imagine my name on there.He thought, though it seemed like a childhood fantasy, and unlike his swordsmanship, it was not up to him.I would need father's approval above all else.
And while his father might be convinced to grant him the honor, it would likely put the lord in hot water with Catelyn Stark, and that was a part of his past Jon did not wish to retread.
Someday, maybe.He thought, the name Jon Stark too sweet to his ears to fully give up on the dream.
"My lord Arryn?" He heard behind him as a hunched man entered the room and he was snapped from his reverie "You sent for me?"
The man turned out to be the Lord's steward. He led Jon to the lower levels of the tower, passed all the barracks and staff quarters to where the guest rooms were.
The rooms the man had arranged for him were more pleasant than he hoped for, likely meant for noble guests of the Hand of the King in other times. He had in his rooms a large window overlooking some of the gardens of the Red Keep and the city beyond them, a copper bathing tub in one corner and a desk and dresser in the other. In the middle of the room was large featherbed with silk sheets and covers, and a separate room to the side with a chamber pot.
Better than I've had since I've left the Gates.He thought.Though probably even better than I had in the Gates or in Winterfell.
From his window he could see the sun coloring red the sea as it set, occasionally flickering as ships crossed past it. There were still some hours of daylight left, but he was exhausted beyond all belief and allowed himself to collapse into the comfortable mattress.
Sometime later, he flew over the vast woodlands of the Kingswood for what felt like hours, before descending for the killing blow on some clueless rabbit and stealing the carcass away to devour. He then flew away somewhat eastwards, until he spotted the city on the horizon. The great quilt of stone and lumber larger than anything he'd laid eyes on, and he spent hours lost along its streets until he found once more the tall building upon the Street of Steel.
Tobho Mott was inside the stone barn at its base, treating the axehead with some solution that bubbled and burned as he poured something bloodlike into it. He watched him for some time before growing bored and flying to the castle in the distance.
The journey had taken him hours to make on foot, but barely a few minutes in the air. The courtyards were empty at this time of night, save for gold cloaks on patrol, a few lonely souls taking late night walks and young lovers disappearing into the gardens under moonlight.
Though his sharp eyes he also spotted the man with the pointed beard still awake, talking to some bald man about something or other.
He found the Tower of the Hand, and peered into each of its windows, a few had servants having a late dinner, a few had Arryn men-at-arms preparing for sleep. Through one he saw the Lady Arryn still breastfeeding her eight-year-old son. He felt some disgust even in his birdlike form and flew away to the top of the tower, where the Lord Arryn was still at his desk, now discussing something with a stern-faced man who bore familiar sapphire eyes.
But then he heard a knocking at his door and was quickly jolted awake. He reached for his sword and with the hairs standing on his back, he moved to peer it open. He expected some assassin or blackguard come to kill him in the night, the same faceless monster which had killed Maegor or Aegon the Second. But instead, standing in the doorway he saw only the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes.
She stood a little shorter than him and had blond hair that flowed to down her back like rivers of gold, the shift she wore was so thin that he could see her breasts through it.
"Who the are you?"
"Everything you've ever wished for." She said, her voice as sweet as honey, her skin as spotless as silk, she smiled with lips so soft and plum he half expected them to melt at his touch. "Are you going to let me in?"
With long delicate fingers she reached for his face, and there was something inside him, stronger than most anything he'd felt before, that wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her as she so clearly invited and pull her to his bed, to lay with her and find out what Theon had always talked about even back in Winterfell.
This is how Mya was born.He thought, and his mind crawled to halt. In his mind, the images of breasts and fucking were clouded with the image of a young storm-eyed bastard on the streets he walked earlier today, longing for a father's love that she would never know.
"Leave." He said, moving his hand to pull hers away from his face.
"But, ser, I—" she said, her expression failing as she stammered for her words.
"Leave." He said again, his tone left little room for argument as he slammed his door shut and locked it. Now alone in the dark, he moved back to a bed that now felt far too big for him as his blood boiled with desire unfulfilled.
No bastards, no empty lust, if I am to lay with a woman it will be for love most true.He told himself, trying to be resolute even as he twisted and turned with regret in his bed.