Chapter 7

287 AC – POV : Jon 6 years old

The first rays of sunlight glided over the walls of the Red Keep, while Jon Storm lay there with his eyes closed. He counted his heartbeat as he did every morning to chase away his nightmares. In the corridors, the castle was waking up. A door slammed in the distance, the sound echoing against the stone like thunder.

He pushed back his blanket, the air smelt damp and of lavender, the perfume Maria used to mask the musty smell that clung to the walls of her room. Jon was already thinking about the day ahead of him, a day that was all very similar: the lessons with Maester Lorcas, the corridors he would have to cross without being noticed.
'Little storm ?' called Maria from the doorway.

She came in with a tray containing his lunch: a piece of bread that at first sight was hard, some cheese and an apple. He sighed, it was his daily lunch since the queen had urged the steward to cut back. Her face lit up with a smile when she looked at him.
'Hurry up and eat Jon. The Maester doesn't like to wait' He nodded.

Before leaving, Jon approached the small shelf where his wooden wolf was resting. A servant had brought it a year earlier for his fifth birthday with a simple message: 'From the king' The wolf's eyes seemed almost alive in the wood.
There was a scratch on his ear from a fall, but Jon took good care of it. He often carried it with him in his satchel, as a sort of good luck charm, and that morning was no exception.
'That figurine again ?' murmured Maria as she watched him do it.

'I like having it with me' he replied softly.

She stroked his hair and led him into the corridor of the red dungeon where a few servants were already passing by, carrying buckets of water or washing. Jon made himself small, as always. From a very early age, he had learned from Maria how to make himself forgotten. She had taught him to be discreet within the castle walls.
The Maester gave his lessons in a corner of the Red Keep, away from the prying eyes of the courtyard. The room smelt of parchment, hot wax and dried herbs. The walls were blackened and had shelves full of scrolls and old books of all kinds. While the Maester had many qualities, organisation was not one of them. A narrow window let the light in over the table where the inkwell and a few sheets of paper were waiting.

When Jon entered, Lorcas beckoned him to sit down. The boy took out his wolf and placed it on the table, the wolf looking in his direction as if protecting him.
'Good morning Jon, I appreciate your efforts in not arriving late this time,' began the Maester as he unrolled a parchment. 'Today we're going to work on your calculations. We'll start with a practical exercise, taking the example of a grain merchant...'

The initial calm in the room was shattered when the door burst open, startling Jon and the Maester, his quill leaving a dark stain on the parchment. Joffrey Baratheon entered, a little prince with golden curls that fell over his shoulders just the way his mother liked them. At five years old, his round face already bore the whimsical pout of spoilt children. Two guards in Lannister colours followed him, uneasy at having to escort their young prince through the castle corridors at such an early age and having to deal with his fits of anger and unpredictable behaviour.

Maester Lorcas rose with a curtsy, his chains jingling softly.
'Your Grace ? We are currently in the middle of a class, perhaps you should...'

'No!' shouted Joffrey, stamping his foot as he often did in his tantrums. 'I want to see the bastard !'
His high pitched voice echoed against the walls. The guards exchanged glances they were familiar with these crises, frequent in their young prince who was discovering the power that was due to his rank.

Jon felt his throat tighten. His heart was racing and he felt the fear welling up inside him. His rare interludes with his half-brother had never gone well. Joffrey approached the table, almost jumping, and his eyes fell on the wolf figurin on the desk, shining with a curiosity that looked worrying from Jon's point of view.

'What's that ?' he asked, holding out a hand towards the wolf. 'A toy ? Bastards aren't allowed toys. Mother said so'
He seized the figurine holding it as he held his own toys without regard to their value.

'The king gave it to me' Jon murmured and regretted his words as soon as they left his lips.
Joffrey's face flushed at the mention of his father the king as if he were about to throw a tantrum 'My father wouldn't give anything to a bastard you're lying !' He shook the wolf in his hand 'Do you know what happens to those who lie to their bastard superiors ? They get their tongues cut out !'

His fingers tightened on the wolf angrily, throwing it to the ground.

Jon froze, rage rising inside him. Without thinking, he stood up abruptly, which surprised Joffrey, who wasn't used to someone daring to react to his actions. His shock was brief, however, and he let out a high pitched laugh that was less confident than before : 'What are you going to do, you bastard ? Bark ? Like that stupid figurine ? You should...' but before he could finish his sentence, Jon pounced on him and pushed him backwards. Unbalanced and shocked, Joffrey fell backwards and hit a shelf, causing parchments and an inkwell to fall to the floor.

The prince stood motionless for a moment, his eyes wide as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. The guards themselves seemed to freeze. Then his face twisted and he screamed.
'He hit me !' Tears of rage and fear rolled down his cheeks as he screamed. 'Guards! I want his head cut off !'

The two guards exchanged worried glances, their hands on the pommels of their swords. Joffrey's cries echoed in the small room, while the Maester was in a state of trance, not knowing how to react to the situation he was facing. Jon picked up his statue and, with the split wolf clutched to his chest, was shaking like a leaf. His legs were failing him, despite the sadness at the loss of his figurine, he knew that he had pushed the prince, a crime that was worth death to some men. If the queen found out, he didn't know what she might do, perhaps take Maria away from him too ?

Before the guards could decide what action to take, a new man entered the room : Ser Barristan Selmy, chef of the royal guard,his helmet gleamed under his arm and he see the scene with precision : Prince Joffrey in tears, the guards , and the king's bastard frozen with some kind of broken figurine against his chest.

'Enough' he said in a voice that was neither strong nor weak, but carried the weight of authority.

The Lannister guards looked relieved, as if freed from a difficult choice. Joffrey, his face still red and wet, turned to Barristan:

'He pushed me! I want his head ! Mother says we must punish those who...'

Ser Barristan bowed just enough to show respect, but not enough to stoop. 'Your Grace' he said 'the King your father awaits you to begin the hearings. Since that incident with that cat, he has decided that it would be good for you to attend to certain duties that a monarch must perform, that you must perform in the future and he would be... displeased to hear that you are not attending or that you are keeping him waiting '

These words seemed to lessen the anger of the Prince of the Seven Crowns. The mention of his father had the effect it always had. The prince feared the King's disapproval and he still remembered the blow he had dealt him not long ago because of that cat and even if he still didn't understand why it had earned him such a reaction, he didn't want to see that expression in his father's eyes again.

'He won't get away with it' he spat at Jon wiping away his tears with a gesture 'Bastards have to learn their place'

He turned, his golden curls flying, and stormed out of the room, thhe guards followed him, their boots echoing on the stone.

here was silence again. Maester Lorcas let out a long sigh, the sound of his chains tinkling softly in the air. Jon stood there, huddled like a wounded bird, still holding his split wolf.

Ser Barristan watched the boy for a moment. His gaze lingered on Jon in a strange way, as if he saw a ghost in his features. For a heartbeat, something passed in his eyes, but his face quickly became expressionless again, his usual air of authority.

'Be more careful boy' he said simply.

With that, he left, leaving the room in deep silence. Maester Lorcas gently closed the door, and calm returned, disturbed only by Jon's sniffling and breathing.

The boy looked at the crack on his wolf, his eyes burning with tears he didn't dare shed. Crying was a luxury bastards couldn't afford.