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At first light, Jon pulled on his best clothes and sought out Gehring's office. It took him longer than expected to navigate the twisting corridors of the palace, but eventually, he found the man's office—a dingy room hidden away in a forgotten corner, far removed from the palace's main chambers.
The office was as unimpressive as its resident. One wall was crammed with cubbyholes stuffed with papers, each more cluttered than the last. Gehring, a portly man whose years had settled around his middle, was seated at a wooden desk, shovelling food into his mouth. Despite the early hour, a whole feast lay before him, washed down with a goblet of red wine. His face was blotchy, veins like purple rivers spidering around his nose.
At first, Gehring didn't even notice Jon standing there. It wasn't until he glanced up, irritation flickering across his piggish eyes, that the officer registered his guest. The annoyance melted away, replaced by a clumsy attempt at deference as Gehring shoved his food aside and lurched to his feet. The man clearly had no idea who Jon was, but he knew nobility when he saw it.
Jon said nothing, letting his gaze linger on the man's dishevelled appearance and the mess of his meal. He didn't need to speak to know the man wasn't eager to see him.
Gehring had all the qualities of a man unfit for his station—bloated, sluggish, and reeking of self-indulgence. With a Skaven attack imminent, Jon couldn't afford to tolerate incompetence. If Gehring was a traitor, Jon would expose him. If not, then perhaps he could force some courage into the fool.
You are Captain Diethard Gehring of the Palace Guard?" asked Jon with a dangerous edge in his voice. He watched, satisfied, as Gehring flinched, the man's eyes flicking nervously toward the door like a trapped animal. Jon didn't take pleasure in bullying men, but sometimes it was necessary to get things done, and this was one of those times.
"Yes… My Lord," Gehring replied, his voice a mixture of respect and wariness. He clearly didn't recognise Jon, but the tone and the way Jon carried himself were enough to make him fall back on obsequiousness, a tactic often used by those desperate to appease their betters. Jon had seen it many times before. It was a weakness he knew how to exploit, though he took no pleasure in it.
"I am Sir Jon il Cuor di Lupo," Jon began. "And I've received troubling reports of strange noises and disappearances among the servants. I understand you are in charge of the investigation, though with little success so far."
Gehring shifted uneasily, clearly not expecting such a direct confrontation. "Ah, that… My lord must understand what the peasants are like. They'll imagine all manner of things—ghosts in the shadows, noises where there are none. Most of it is probably down to laziness or mischief." He gave Jon a greasy smile as though expecting camaraderie. "Before I was chosen for the Palace Guard, I was in the city watch. This sort of thing happens all the time. Peasants will say anything to cover for their own bad behaviour."
He chuckled, trying to sound confident but failing, and added, "They tell a dozen stories, none of them the same. One sees two figures, another three, and someone else swears they saw nothing at all. I've checked the places they've mentioned and found nothing unusual. Just tales, My Lord."
He smiled again, hoping this would end the matter as if his word alone was enough to close the case. Perhaps that worked with other nobles—those pleased to let their lackeys deal with these small matters. But Jon wasn't most nobles.
"I appreciate your insight, Captain," Jon said. "However, I require more than that. I'll be going down to the lower levels to see for myself, and I expect you to accompany me." Though phrased politely, there was no mistaking the command in his words. Gehring's face twisted in reluctance, but he couldn't refuse. After hesitating, he stood and reluctantly buckled on his sword.
Jon knew Margaery might have found a subtler way to handle this, perhaps prying the truth from Gehring without ever needing to dirty her hands. But he was not in the mood for subtleties. He wanted to see for himself if the man was hiding something—or worse, aiding the Skaven.
They left the office and stepped into the hallway. Ghost was waiting there, silent as the grave. At the sight of the Direwolf, Gehring's face drained of colour. The man's cowardice was almost amusing, but Jon kept his expression neutral.
"Don't worry," Jon said softly. "He won't harm you. Just don't try to touch him." Gehring gave a nervous nod, doing his best to keep as much distance from Ghost as the narrow hallway allowed.
They made their way through the palace, encountering only a few servants who quickly scurried out of their path. Soon, they reached the cellars, where Gehring led them to a heavy door, locked with a large iron key. He fumbled with his key ring, no doubt stalling for time, while Jon retrieved a lantern and lit it. Together, they descended into the vast wine cellars.
To Jon's surprise, the floor was swept, and the place was mostly free of cobwebs and dust. The countess took far too much pride in her wine selection. That was unfortunate for Jon's purposes as it did not appear that there would be any tracks or other signs of the Skaven if they had been there.
But Jon had another way of finding out. He turned to Ghost.
"Seek." He told him. The Direwolf's crimson eyes gleamed in the dim light, his head lowered, ears twitching. There was no hesitation, no questioning—Ghost always knew what to find.
Jon crouched beside Ghost; the heavy silence of the cavernous chamber broken only by the soft scrape of claws on stone. The wolf sniffed, pausing, then growled low and deep, his fur bristling. He scratched at a flagstone.
Jon's mouth twisted as he moved closer. The stone felt cold and solid beneath his fingers, but at Ghost's urging, he pressed harder. The mortar crumbled away like dead leaves, and with a grunt, he lifted the slab, revealing a foul, yawning tunnel below. The stench hit him like a punch to the gut—pungent, rotten. Skaven.
His stomach churned at the familiar stench. It clawed at his senses and brought back unwelcome memories. He hadn't smelled it in months, but the memory of it was fresh, as though it had never left him. Skaven. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening around it. Those vermin had left their mark again. The blood stains on the floor of the tunnel told the rest of the tale. The servants hadn't disappeared into the night—they had been taken. Slaughtered.
Jon rose slowly, his gaze settled on Gehring, who stood by, shifting nervously from foot to foot. The captain's eyes flicked between Jon and the open tunnel, his lips parting as though he might offer some excuse.
"You said it was superstition." Jon's growled. "Mere peasant imaginings, wasn't that it?" He took a step forward, his hand still resting on his sword. "Does this look like nothing to you?"
Gehring's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. His face had gone pale. "My lord, I—" He stopped himself, clearly thinking better of whatever words had been on his tongue. He swallowed hard. "I— I appear to have been mistaken."
Jon took another step closer, his eyes narrowing. His mind raced with bitter thoughts. How many lives had been lost because this man had dismissed the warnings? How many souls had been dragged into the darkness to die at the claws of those vermin, their bodies left to rot in the filth below? He thought of the mercenary they'd found torn to pieces in the tunnels. And now... the servants. If this fool had done his job, perhaps some of them could have been spared.
His grip on the sword tightened. If it turned out that Gehring had been in league with the Skaven, Jon would not hesitate to see the man's life ended—slowly. Painfully.
Gehring licked his lips nervously. "I shall gather the men, my lord. We will search the tunnels at once."
"No," Jon said sharply, his voice like the crack of a whip. He wasn't about to trust Gehring's men in those tunnels. Too many shadows. Too many blades that could find his back. "Seal it. Post a guard. I'll speak with the countess when she returns."
Gehring bowed, relief flooding his features. "Of course, my lord. At once."
Jon turned without another word as he strode from the chamber, Ghost padding silently at his side. The stench of Skaven lingered in the air, but they had escaped into the dark for now; next time, he would have their heads.
Jon scowled he'd have to go back later today to see if that fool had sealed the tunnel. And if it hadn't, that would tell him all he needed to know about Captain Gehring. If the man was in league with the Skaven, they would attempt to silence him soon enough, as would Margaery and the rest of their company. A subtle approach might have been wiser, but it was too late for regrets. He would have to be ready for whatever threats came his way.
He returned to his quarters, noting that Gunther was not there. Hopefully, the boy would learn something useful. He wondered if the others were making progress with their own interrogations. He briefly considered seeking them out but decided against it. It was still early, and he doubted they would welcome him meddling.
He was mulling over what to do when Ghost suddenly tensed. His eyes narrowed, and Jon's hand instinctively dropped to the hilt of his sword. A voice broke the stillness from the shadowy corner of the room.
"No need for that," the voice said smoothly.
Jon's fingers clenched on his weapon, but he knew the voice.
"Buchman," he growled. The witch hunter. His grip on the hilt of his sword loosened, but he didn't sheathe it. Not yet.
The figure shifted in the corner of the room. Buchman stood up, stepping from the shadows like a wraith, his black coat blending into the dark. Jon hadn't even noticed him when he entered. Typical of the witch hunter—always skulking, always watching.
"How did you get in here?" Jon asked.
Buchman waved a hand dismissively. "I can move unseen when it suits me. Brute force has its uses, but so does stealth. A man of Sigmar must make use of all the weapons in his arsenal." The witch hunter's words stirred something bitter in Jon. It reminded him too much of the underhanded methods employed by the Order in Marienburg. He swallowed his retort; there was no point in arguing.
"Do you have news?" Jon asked, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand.
Buchman stepped forward, unafraid of Ghost's low growl. His presence was almost eerie as he loomed in the dim light.
"I do," Buchman said, his voice calm and assured. "I paid a visit to the Bakers Guild. They tried to play innocent at first, but I've dealt with better liars in my time." His lips curled into a sneer. "It didn't take long to uncover the truth. Their account books were altered, deliberately understating the grain they received and the bread they produced. A clever little scheme, trying to drive up prices while avoiding taxes."
Jon's lips tightened in disgust. Greed was nothing new, but to aid those monsters was madness.
"That still doesn't explain all the missing grain," Buchman continued. "After those involved in the price manipulation confessed, I went over the books again. This time, I looked for anyone responsible for the grain's transport who hadn't been implicated. That's when I found one such man—Hans Gruber. When I confronted him, he ran, injuring one of the guards I'd enlisted to help. But we caught him quickly enough and brought him to our chapterhouse."
Gruber was a simpering fool," Buchman went on. "A little pressure, and he swiftly confessed. A robed stranger had approached him and several others and offered them a large sum of money to steal sacks of grain from their guild warehouses and leave them at certain locations. The individual seemed to know about the others' price manipulation scheme and assured Gruber and the others that if the grain they were stealing was found to be missing, then the others would be blamed for it. To me, it appears that Gruber and the others were motivated solely by money, and once he was arrested, his motivation became solely that of self-preservation, and he told all that he knew, including the locations where they were to take the grain and the names of his fellow conspirators."
Jon felt a slow dread building in his gut. The Skaven always found a way to twist men to their purposes, be it through gold, fear, or worse.
"And what did you find at these locations?" Jon asked, already fearing the answer.
"Signs of them," Buchman spat, his noble face twisting with disgust. "Their filth was everywhere, but the creatures themselves. Gone. Gruber's co-conspirators and their families? Also gone. We found signs of a struggle at several of their homes. I suspect the mutants silenced them before they could talk."
Jon shuddered at the thought of Skaven creeping into homes, slaughtering families in the dead of night. Their cruelty knew no bounds.
"You think they moved that quickly?" Jon asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"They entered von Halstadt's manor, didn't they?" Buchman shot back. "Remember some of the mutants we faced in sewers escaped; the one who enlisted them knew of the other guilders' wrongdoing. That must mean that he, or perhaps it, is connected to the Guild or was either watching it or is well connected. I must confess that it is likely they knew I was on to them as soon as I went to the Guild offices." His eyes narrowed. "No doubt once they returned to their fellows, they decided to deal with the traitors amongst the bakers in order to not be traced. I doubt not that it was only by the grace of Sigmar that we could get a hold of Gruber before they could reach him."
"So now I shall ask what have you been doing?" Buchman asked, brusquely.
Jon frowned. The man's bluntness set him on edge, but he bit back any further retort. There were more pressing matters at hand than his own irritation. Lady Catelyn had taught him to endure far worse than mere discourtesy. Recounting all that Margaery had told him, the plan they had cobbled together, his meeting with Gehring, and the discovery of the tunnel. Buchman listened silently, his cold, keen eyes fixed on Jon, calculating, weighing. The silence stretched, heavy as iron. Then, at last, Buchman spoke, voice low and level.
"This is troubling. Confronting the captain may have been... rash. If he is in league with the mutants, he will now be forewarned. Even if he is not, he is a fool and will likely bungle whatever task you have given him." Buchman paused, his thin lips curling into a wry, humourless smile. "Perhaps it would be wiser to deal with him directly. Remove any doubt."
He said it with the calm detachment of a man ordering his evening meal, and Jon felt a chill slide down his spine. He had killed before and ordered the deaths of others when necessary, but never with the cold indifference Buchman showed. The Witch Hunter spoke of murder as though it were merely an administrative task. Jon could see now how such men could torture, burn, and kill without hesitation. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Buchman was still speaking as though Jon's silence had gone unnoticed. "Exploring the tunnel now would be unwise. We do not know its length or destination. We could lose men—men we cannot afford to waste."
Jon suppressed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't have to crawl back into that festering pit of darkness, not yet. But Buchman's words offered little comfort.
"We must, however, place a watch upon it. I fear what it portends."
"What do you mean?" Jon asked, frowning.
"The mutants took a grave risk constructing it beneath the palace. It is the most guarded place in the city. If they simply wished to contact traitors within, they could have done so elsewhere, with less risk. No," Buchman's eyes glittered darkly. "This tunnel means their plans involve the palace itself."
Jon's stomach twisted. He remembered Remas. The Skaven attack on the Temple of Myrmidia was burned into his memory—the blood, the carnage, the chittering hordes. It had been a vicious assault, a swift, brutal raid. This was different. They were dealing with something far more planned.
Still, Jon could not dismiss the uneasy sense that the Skaven's numbers, while dangerous, would not suffice for a full-scale siege.
"Perhaps they hope to kidnap the countess," Jon suggested. "Ransom her for something." The memory of Alighiero De Felice's grandchild flitted through his mind—an almost successful abduction by the ratmen. Whatever the Skaven had wanted with the babe, their plan had been thwarted, but not before it came perilously close.
Buchman snorted, his thin lips twisting with scorn. "If they think that empty-headed noblewoman is worth anything, they are fools as well as damned."
Jon stiffened at the open disdain in his voice. He had little love for the countess, true, but such disrespect? He wouldn't have dared say such a thing aloud. Buchman, however, seemed utterly unconcerned. He noticed his reaction and smiled.
"I am an ordained Witch Hunter of Sigmar. No man save the Grand Theogonist may censure us," he said with a touch of disdain. Jon thought of Marienburg, but he held his tongue as Buchman continued.
Jon said nothing, though his mind returned briefly to Marienburg, where even Buchman's title had not rendered him invincible. The witch hunter carried on, dismissing the thought.
"As for seizing her, it would gain them little. The fools in her court fawn over her, but the emperor is new to his throne, and a man of strength. Karl Franz would rally the Elector Counts and crush any such attempt to usurp his power."
Jon nodded. That made sense. He recalled Maester Luwin's lessons about the Defiance of Duskendale. His father had said that if Ser Barristan hadn't saved the Mad King, Lord Tywin would have stormed the castle and killed everyone inside, even the king. Buchman, seeing Jon's agreement, pressed on.
"Still," Buchman continued, "we cannot assume they think as we do. Their mutations twist their minds as much as their bodies. They might believe such a scheme could work, even if it's doomed to failure. Indeed, I believe they may have already made a move."
Jon sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
Buchman considered whether to answer. At last, he spoke. "There are eyes in the palace that report to me. They tell me that the night after our excursion in the tunnels, a man was spotted attempting to enter the palace. He escaped before he could be apprehended."
"You think he was involved?" Jon asked.
"I do not believe in coincidences, Sir Jon," Buchman replied coldly. "Someone chose that moment to infiltrate the palace just as these events unfold. There is a connection."
Jon felt a cold knot forming in his gut. The timing was too precise to be a simple coincidence. The Skaven were planning something far worse than a mere raid.
Buchman frowned. "Do nothing more with the captain than what you've already told him. He will be watching you, thinking himself clever. I will have him watched in turn. In the meantime, I would advise taking precautions. If any of those you mentioned are in league with the mutants, they may move to silence you."
Jon frowned; he knew the Skaven left no loose ends. If they had marked him, it was only a matter of time.
"When the Countess returns," Buchman added, pausing at the door, "inform her as you planned."
Jon frowned. "I thought you had little faith in her abilities?"
Buchman smiled cynically. "While you are correct in most matters, the creatures have entered her home, and I have great faith in her ability to deal with matters which offend her or affect her directly. This does both."
Buchman made his way towards the door, seemingly having said all that needed saying, or at least all he was willing to share.
"We will speak again," he muttered.
With that, the Witch Hunter turned on his heel and strode from the room. The door closed with a dull thud, leaving Jon in silence.
He sat there for a long while, his thoughts troubled. He did not trust the man, or care for his methods. He had been raised to value honour and honesty, not this skulking in the shadows. Buchman and his kind reminded him too much of Craster. Vile men who the Night's Watch had called allies when they should have been put to the sword.
Jon frowned for months; it had been sometime since he had given thought to either the Watch or home. Events happening around him had driven them clear from his mind. While this had happened before, his thoughts had always returned home. He remembered Margaery speaking of how they might not be able to return and might have to make the best of what they had here. He had scoffed at the thought. But in the dark of night, a traitorous part of him wondered if that was so terrible.
No, he snarled inwardly; he wasn't here to dwell on lost causes and uncertain futures. There was only one thing that could clear the fog in his mind: steel.
He knew the others would not be in their suites then, so he went to one of the training halls, hoping to clear his head with some weapons practice. Fortunately, several young officers and nobles were more than willing to spar with him. None of them were as skilled as Viscount von Liebwitz, but they were competent enough. Jon threw himself into the fray, letting the din of battle wash over him. Their strikes came quick and eager, forcing him to focus, to fight, and gradually, the unease that gnawed at him began to melt away.
Several hours later, he made his way back to his room, tired and sweaty but feeling more at peace. He was surprised to see Gunther in the room, clearly waiting for him. The boy jumped as Jon entered and tried hastily to hide the cup he had been drinking from. He caught sight of the crumbs littering the tray on the table—the remnants of snacks left by the servants that morning. He gave the boy a look to let him know that he knew what he had been up to and then ordered water be heated for a bath.
"Well," Jon began, stripping off his sweat-streaked tunic, his tone light, "I trust you've come here for more than just my food and drink."
Gunther gave him a look of wounded innocence. "My Lord, would I dare to do such a thing?"
Jon merely snorted, and Gunther continued. "As you ordered last night, I spent the day trying to find people who might be willing to speak of Captain Gehring." He paused, a pleased look on his face, he had clearly learned something and was pausing for dramatic effect. His good humour was contagious, and Jon, rather than being annoyed, smiled indulgently.
"And you learned something?"
"I did indeed, My Lord.
"Of course, none of the servants know much about the good captain's time as a thief-catcher, but they had much more to say about what he has been up to since he got appointed here.
"None I spoke to knew anything about the captain dealing with Skaven, not that I asked, of course, but they knew other things.
"It seems that the man is good at noticing things, things the nobs are more than willing to pay to ensure that he keeps his mouth shut about."
Jon understood at once. "Blackmail."
Gunther smiled "Indeed, My Lord. It seems that he has a rat-trap mind and is very good at finding things out, and he must be good at finding proof of it because not only do the nobles pay him, none of them seem to have tried to just kill him or have him arrested or sent away."
Gehring engaging in blackmail would explain his wealth and perhaps even his position if he had power over the people who controlled appointments and promotions. Jon also found that part of him would prefer that explanation, sordid as it might be, to the alternative. Having seen the Skaven up close, he found the thought that someone would willing associate with them to be repugnant. Simple corruption he could, if not condone, at least understand. While he would prefer the man merely be corrupt, and much of what he had seen and heard of the man could be explained by it, there was something that could not. The tunnel that they had found.
The construction of the tunnel had to have taken time, and if the man was as observant as people claimed to be, then Jon had a hard time believing that the man had been completely unaware of what was going on. Complicate, or merely corrupt? He passed the two ideas back and forth in his mind and found that he could not determine one way or the other. As he could not decide one way or the other, he decided to put it aside for the time being and focus on other venues of inquiry.
"Did you learn anything of the Lady Gilberta von Tendler?" Gunther shrugged, though again he had an expression which suggested he had something exciting to say.
"Not much, My Lord.
"She is not exactly the chattiest sort with the servants at the best of times, let alone on this matter.
"The servants say she said that her brother died from injuries sustained while hunting and that both of her sisters died of fever. However, some of the servants did not believe that that was the case.
"They say that her brother, Heinz von Tendler, was a skilled hunter and had been on dozens of hunts and even when he was hunting dangerous animals such as boars and bears, he would rarely come back with as much as a scratch. On the hunt, he supposedly was injured. He was hunting deer, and it was in woods that had been heavily logged, with very little underbrush. So it sounds as if there was little which could have caused his injuries. Of course, there were rumours." Here, Gunther's face broke into a ghoulish grin.
"What rumours?" Jon asked. Gunther leaned over and looked at him like Bran when Old Nan told them one of the scary stories he had loved so much.
"One of her servants told me that the von Tendlers were afraid of something. Helga, the maid I was talking to, thought he might have been…changing."
Jon was confused. "What are you talking about?"
Gunther looked at him as if Jon was some sort of idiot. "I am saying she thought that he was mutating."
Jon felt his stomach clench. While it had not really been discussed much, Jon knew that mutants existed and it was considered a terrible thing to be one, though people seemed reluctant to explain exactly why to him, though he did know that they were considered cursed by the gods for some reason. He could easily see why it would be a scandal if a member of a prominent family were found to be one, and he knew from Sam's story of how he came to the wall that some families were willing to do anything to prevent a scandal.
"What about her sisters?"
Gunther grinned again. "They don't talk about the first sister, Gretchan von Tendler, much. She was always sickly as a child, and no one was surprised when she succumbed to fever. Elsa von Tendler, on the other hand, that was another matter.
"It seems that the loss of her two siblings unhinged her a bit, and she turned to religion. Started talking about forsaking the world to enter some religious order or other." He shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face.
"I never understood all that, Randal tells us to enjoy life. A life of prayer, plain food and chastity and the gods alone know what else seems like a taste of hell to me." Thinking of the Watch, Jon had to agree that many would find it hard to understand why anyone would choose such a life; there had been times when he had struggled with remembering why he had chosen such himself. He forced the thought away as Gunther continued speaking.
"I do not think that Lady Gilberta would mind overly much except that the servants say that Elsa was talking about giving all the family lands and wealth to the Church of Sigmar, which would have left Lady Gilberta penniless and with few options." Gunther shrugged, a cynical smile on his face.
"Then Elsa, who had always been a healthy woman, suddenly sickened and died. Leaving her sweet sister to inherit the lands, wealth and title, though I am sure that it is nothing but a tragic, if fortuitous, coincidence as far as she is concerned." Jon nodded noncommittedly.
Lady Gilberta had indeed benefited from events. The question was, had she only benefited from the deaths, or had she had a part in causing them? If she had had something to do with the deaths, had she caused them herself or had she had help? He did not know and doubted he could learn from her.
No, it would be up to Margaery to learn anything there was to know. Thus, at least for the moment, all that he could do was wait.
That evening, they all gathered in Margaery's quarters. As the countess was not present, there were few grand gatherings, and the members of the court who had not been invited on the hunt took their meals mostly in their own quarters or socialised with their fellows. Margaery had informed Jon that many of the people who had not been invited on the trip believed that their positions were less than those who had been invited and were now manoeuvring amongst themselves in an effort to form alliances to shore up their positions. This proved helpful to be Margaery's objective, as Lady Gilberta had been almost desperate to talk to someone who clearly held the countess's favour.
"That actually makes sense," Margaery said after Jon informed them of what Gunther had told him; "And it would explain her actions."
"What did she do?" Sbaraglia asked.
"I timed my arrival so that I called upon her shortly before tea, and the rules of courtesy compelled her to invite me to join her, though I think she would have done so anyway.
"As we partook, I congratulated her on assuming the title and offered my sympathies for the tragedies that struck her family.
"She accepted my words, but though she tried to hide it, she was clearly nervous.
"Also, while I cannot say for certain that this is correct, I believe that she was expecting someone. Despite the opportunities that my visited offered to her, she seemed distracted and had a difficult time focusing on our conversation. Several times during my visit, she half-turned to look at the door. I asked if I was interrupting any previous engagements she might have. She denied this, but it was clear that she was lying."
"Well, we can disregard the Skaven if she was waiting for someone." Stated Taraborrelli, who had been silent until now.
"I doubt the rat-men would come in through the front door." Jon had to agree that it seemed very unlikely from what he had seen of the creatures so far. Margaery continued.
"After a while, she seemed to realise that we would not be interrupted; she turned her full attention to me.
"She made a great show of complaining of the debts which she had inherited along with the title and how they were placing great strain on her. Despite these debts, however, her clothing is of the latest fashion, and as what is and is not in fashion is always changing, she must have acquired the clothing recently. She also is not lacking for jewellery, and all the pieces that I saw were of the highest quality and they all appeared to be new." Sbaraglia indicated that he wished to speak.
"I concur, My Lady.
"At your request, I looked into the land holdings of Lady Gilberta, and while they are not poor, the incomes they yield are far from sufficient to keep her in the lifestyle she appears to be indulging in." Taraborrelli snorted.
"With respect, she is hardly the first noble to live beyond their means." Sbaraglia looked slightly impatient.
"I am aware of that. However, no matter how I looked, I could not see any sign of her being in debt, and she has been in power long enough that it would be showing by now. The only conclusion I can come to is that someone is covering her expenses, though who it is or why I was unable to uncover, though I am confident that I could do so if I have more time." Jon looked at him curiously.
"I thought that you were going to speak to the scribe Wilfried Loosli. When did you have time to learn about Lady Gilberta?" The older man smiled in a superior manner.
"I did indeed call on young Loosli." He turned to nod respectfully to Margaery.
"You were correct, My Lady, he was quite flattered when I listed my credentials, which I only exaggerated a little.
"He expressed his own interest in becoming a scholar himself, though he lamented that he lacked a patron to sponsor him. I commiserated with him on that, though I commented that he must have innate skill if he were to be elevated to have obtained his current position." He paused and looked thoughtful.
"He looked uneasy when I said that and tried to brush it off with some self-deprecating remarks about the favour of fortune, but it was clear that he was hiding something. I am sure it relates to how he obtained his position." Margaery took on a thoughtful expression.
"Well, there is nothing I know of that would indicate that he obtained his position through bribery, and his family is not important enough to have obtained it for him. So that means that his unease must be linked with whoever, or whatever, was behind his promotion."
"Though if someone did grant him the position, the question is why did they elevate him? What is he doing for the person, persons or…whatever that would merit such generosity." Sbaraglia said. Jon wondered the same thing. Indeed, the same could be said of most of the people they were looking into.
The captain, he could understand, the man could use his position to oblige the Skaven in whatever they were doing. But the others did not seem to be able to do anything. He supposed that Loosli might have access to correspondence which the Skaven might find helpful, and Father Hoffman had access to the countess directly and might even have some influence if he chose to exercise it, but Lady Gilberta did not appear to be in a position to do anything which could aid the Skaven in any way. He wished that they could speak to Father Hoffman directly, but none of them had any fair reason to speak to him and he was with the countess on the hunting trip in any event.
"When is the countess and her party due to return?" He asked.
"I have eyed the servants preparing the palace, so I believe it shall be soon." Though Jon did not like it, it appeared that they could do little more until the countess and the others returned. Well, there was one thing that he could do, though he did not want to.
He would have to bring Buchman into their confidence. He did not want to, but perhaps the man could be of use and might even know more than they did, and with the resources at his command, he might be able to determine who, if any, of the people they suspected were indeed working for the Skaven. Still, despite the possible aid that Buchman might give, Jon was hesitant. He remembered all too well what they had done to Ingfried on mere suspicion. Could he risk that any of the people they were investigating being tortured despite their innocence? The thought revolted him, as he was certain his father would disapprove of such acts. Eddard Stark had put more than one man to the sword, he had never inflicted torture on any of them.
Still, during his time in the Watch, he had seen and learned things that showed him that sometimes one had to do things that haunted one's conscience for the greater good and that held true, whether for a kingdom or a city. As he considered it, he suddenly remembered something; he did not know how to contact the witch hunter; the man said he would contact Jon when the time was right. Until then, Jon had no way of speaking to the man; he had time to decide what, if anything, to tell the man, and perhaps by then, they might have learned something that could spare the innocent from his attention. He felt strangely relieved at having the responsibility removed from him. This good mood carried over to his accepting Margaery's invitation to join her for dinner. His thoughts of Buchman reminded Jon of Ingfried, and he wondered where and how she was doing. Jon, remembering the tense relationship between the two, decided not to bring the subject of Ingfried up to Margaery. Instead, he commented on something he had noticed about her since their arrival in Nuln.
"You seem to take great pleasure in manoeuvring the political factions here.
She smiled then, a slow, deliberate expression that seemed to hold both amusement and something sharper beneath the surface. There was a gleam in her eyes as she met his gaze, her lips curving with genuine pleasure at his words.
"I do," she replied, her voice lilting with a tone that betrayed no shame. Her smile lingered for a moment before fading, replaced by a thoughtful pause. She looked away, as if weighing something in her mind, considering her next words. After a brief silence, she spoke again, more quietly this time, as if sharing some closely held secret.
"I was trained to the intrigues of the court," she continued, her eyes returning to his, the softness of her earlier expression replaced by a steely intensity. "As you were trained for arms. I have heard that some men love battle; well, what I do is a battle as well, and I enjoy it. It is a dance, and it can be no less lethal than the dance you men perform with blades.
"Well," she added, her voice growing firmer, "what I do is a battle as well. The court is my battlefield, and I am a soldier in my own way." She paused once more, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them. "It is a dance," she said softly, "one of shifting alliances, whispered secrets, and careful manoeuvring. And" her eyes flicked back to his, sharp and unyielding now, "it can be no less lethal than the dance you men perform with blades."
Margaery must have noticed his discomfort because she moved toward him, her steps light and deliberate. "You seem uneasy."
Jon gave a short laugh, more frustration than amusement. "Uneasy? I hate nothing more than being forced to do nothing when we know the enemy is out there, plotting, moving."
Margaery raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a small smile. "I understand, but sometimes patience is our best weapon." She paused, looking thoughtful. "I've learned that court is no different from the battlefield. It's all a game of power and position. A single misstep can be as deadly as a sword through the heart."
Jon shook his head. "It's different. On the battlefield, there's honour in the fight. You face your enemy. You know where the danger lies."
Margaery's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Perhaps. But I think you underestimate the danger of this game. It may not be as bloody as your battles, Jon, but make no mistake—it can be just as deadly. The court is a battlefield, and I…" she paused, her smile fading, "… I've learned to thrive in it."
She moved to the window, gazing out into the night. "I wasn't always like this. I used to think I was untouchable, that no one could challenge me in my own domain." Now, there was bitterness in her voice. "But the Queen… she showed me just how wrong I was."
Jon remained silent, watching her closely. There was anger in her words, but it wasn't directed at him. It was a deeper, more personal wound.
"She had me arrested, Jon. Me." Margaery's voice was low, but there was no mistaking its venom. "I was careless, too sure of myself. I thought my name and my position made me unconquerable. But I was wrong."
Jon frowned, sensing that this wasn't just idle conversation. Margaery was laying something bare, something she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge.
"I don't know what would have happened to me if…" she trailed off, her gaze distant. "If we hadn't been brought here."
The silence hung between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. Jon wasn't sure what to say. He'd never seen Margaery like this—so vulnerable, so open. It was unsettling in a way, like seeing a hawk with its wings clipped.
"In a way," Margaery began her voice soft but laced with steel, "I suppose I should be grateful. It was a harsh yet necessary lesson. The understanding that I am not untouchable, that I should never underestimate the lengths an enemy will go to bring me down." She spoke calmly, sending a shiver down Jon's spine, the words weighted with dark reflection.
Though still bright, her eyes flickered with a hint of something Jon could not place—perhaps it was fear, maybe a strange exhilaration. "Knowing I can fail adds a certain... piquancy to events. The knowledge that I might lose everything—my power, my standing, even my life—gives me a nervous excitement." She paused, glancing at Jon as if testing his reaction, but he remained silent. "It's forced me to rely on my wits, not my name. Back home, the Tyrell name carried weight. It demanded respect all across the Seven Kingdoms. But here?" She scoffed, the bitterness creeping into her voice. "Here, I am a foreigner from a land these people have never heard of."
Jon listened, unsure of what to say. He had heard men speak of the thrill of battle, the way it consumed them, driving them mad with a bloodlust they both feared and craved. But this? The way Margaery spoke of politics, of life-or-death gambles as if they were some kind of sport—it unnerved him. Yet, he could not help but admire her resolve.
"I have benefited from the Princess's patronage, of course," Margaery continued, her tone more measured now, "but I know that will only last as long as I am either interesting or useful to her. I have to play the game of politics here in a way I never had to back home." She smirked, though there was no humour in it. "Back home, I could twist men and women alike with a word. Here, I am forced to wield my sharpest weapon—my mind."
Jon shifted uneasily. He had never enjoyed battle. Not truly. The terrible excitement that overtook men in those moments, the wild, savage hunger to survive by any means necessary... It was something he accepted but did not relish. The thought of a lady like Margaery taking pleasure in a game that could claim her life, the way war had claimed his father's, troubled him more than he cared to admit.
"I am glad that you take pleasure in it," he said, his voice strained, trying to fill the silence with something that wouldn't sound too awkward.
"Thank you," she replied, her gaze flicking back to the fire. "It is good that I've been able to make a life for myself here, that I've carved out a place where I can survive."
"You think we'll be here forever?" Jon's voice grew harder, unable to hide his disapproval of her apparent resignation, her quiet acceptance that this world—this strange, unforgiving place—was now home. He wanted to challenge her, to stir some hope of returning, but her response came with a sad, knowing smile.
"Jon," she said, using his name in a way she never had before, with an intimacy that caught him off guard. "Let me be honest, perhaps unkindly so."
Her words made his heart pound, a dread creeping into the pit of his stomach. "No, I do not think we will ever go home." Jon opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand, silencing him with a gentle yet firm gesture. "You've been searching for a way home since we arrived here, I know. But tell me, what have your efforts yielded?"
Jon clenched his jaw, a flood of frustration boiling beneath his skin. He had searched, followed every lead, questioned every mage, every seer, every scholar he could find. But it always led to dead ends, hints and riddles, nothing that could guide them home.
"Do you even know how we came to be here in the first place?" Margaery pressed, her voice sharp but not unkind. "Let alone how we might return?" She let the silence linger, her words sinking deep. "You have hints. Rumours. Vague possibilities. But nothing real."
"Tell me, honestly, are you going to go running all over these lands chasing one possibility after another until you are old and grey?" She paused, and looked to Jon that some powerful emotion was rolling within her for a moment, and then she mastered herself and began to speak again. "And even if we were to return home, what do you think would happen to us?"
Jon was confused. "What do you mean?" he asked, even as an uneasy feeling began to gnaw at his belly.
She gave him a pitying look. "If we are not to suppose that time was halted by whatever was brought here, then months have passed since, as far as the people in Westeros know, we vanished. Seemingly in a puff of smoke. Do you agree?" Startled by the question, Jon nevertheless found himself nodding in agreement.
"Now then, Jon, and please be honest, what do you think the people back home believe?
"They no doubt assume that I fled in fear of being found guilty at my trial and you know what they say happened to men who vanish from the Wall."
Jon had not thought of that, but now that he did, he felt his stomach turn to a ball of ice, for he knew full well what men said in that circumstance desertion. All the Watch would know is that he was in his quarters one night and gone the next morning. The only thing that they would believe is that he had, for whatever reason, broken his oath and ran. He was hardly the first to do so, but as far as he knew, he was, or would at least be thought of as the first Lord Commander to do so. The more he thought of it, the more horrible the images in his mind played out.
He saw the looks of hurt and betrayal on the faces of Edd, Satin, Pyp, Grenn and all the rest who had stood by him, especially Sam. He saw Thorne's sneering face as he declared that he had been right all along about Ned Stark's bastard. The images came and came until they threatened to overwhelm him. He fought the urge to beat the sides of his head to drive the thoughts out. Lady Margaery looked on sympathetically, but when she spoke again, her words were remorseless.
"I am sorry, but we must face facts. I have no doubt been condemned, my marriage set aside, and perhaps even been condemned by my own family, at least publicly, to avoid the wrath of the Crown. You have undoubtedly been condemned as a deserter, and you knew better than I the fate of such men." Jon did know, both from seeing his father carrying out the sentence and from the story of the Seventy-Nine sentinels and shuddered, as at that moment, the story seemed more horrifically real than it ever had.
Should he return, they would call for his execution; they would have no choice. Even if they did not want to, and he was sure that there was more than one who would want to, the king himself would insist upon it. The enormity of his plight struck him like the blow of King Robert's war hammer. Though he tried to deny it, even as he searched for an alternative, he found himself facing a horrible truth. Even as the terrible thought came to him, Margaery gave voice to it.
"I believe that we must face the truth: We likely cannot return home and there very well may be no place for us there anymore, even if we could." She then forced a smile.
"It is not all ill, if you think about it. We are unknown here and, in a way, freer than we were back home and can make of things as we will." Jon's good mood had completely soured, and he found he had no words and soon returned to his own room.
Thankfully, Gunther was not there, as Jon desired solitude. No matter how hard he tried, he could not drive Margaery's words from his mind. He tried to find some faults in her arguments, but he could not. The thought that there was possibly no way home and nothing good waiting for them, even if they could somehow do so, tore at him. It was not in his nature to give up, and the thought of simply giving up trying to return home was upsetting to him. However, did he want to fight a battle where only death and shame awaited him? He did not know what to do, and no answer would come. Even as he turned these thoughts repeatedly in his mind, another thought occurred to him.
He remembered Margaery's other words about making a new life in these lands, and the more he thought of it, the more he found that it appealed to him. Here, none looked down on him due to his bastard nature, as none knew of it. He had been knighted, something he had dreamed of as a boy. He was free of burden as Lord Commander, and here, there were no trees to see him. He thought of Ingfried kissing him and how good it felt. It was clear that she had wanted him, and he felt himself drawn to her as well. They could be together, and no one would say anything. It seemed that men of skill and valour could make a name for themselves in these lands. Visions of love, children and a comfortable life where he was not trying to fight a hopeless war against an ancient soul with an army which wanted to fight each other as much as the enemy.
Jon angrily shook his head. Though no one else might know if he broke his oath, he would know. His father had raised him to be honourable and dutiful, even if it cost him everything. As before, he recited the oath of the Night Watch, but this time it was different. He felt no comfort, and the words seemed hollow. He did not know why, but he felt very alone.
To his relief, the countess and her entourage returned to Nuln two days later. Jon was still deeply troubled by the conversation he had had with Margaery and was grateful for having something to focus on to distract himself, having not heard from Buchman. The morning after their return, Jon sought out Viscount Leos and wasn't surprised to find him at the training grounds, sparring with the free riders.
Jon watched for a moment, brow furrowing. Something was off about the Viscount's movements. His strikes were too aggressive, more savage than a sparring match required. His face flushed not with effort but with anger. Jon saw a barely controlled fury as Leos fought, beating his opponent brutally. With a flick of his wrist, Leos disarmed the man and, for a moment, it looked as though he might run the poor sod through. But then he saw Jon, and a broad, disarming grin split his face.
"Sir Lupo! It is good to see you. Care for a match? These louts provide me with little entertainment." The men scowled but remained silent, unwilling to challenge the young noble's words.
Jon shook his head. "I fear, Your Grace, that I must decline. But there is a matter I wish to discuss."
Leos tilted his head, puzzled but intrigued. With a casual wave, he handed his sword to an attendant and stepped from the ring. Jon walked with him, leading them away from the others. The Viscount seemed to understand, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one would follow.
"Now, what is all this about, Sir Lupo?" Leos asked. Jon paused, his mind racing as he tried to arrange his thoughts. He had been rehearsing what to say, but now that the moment had come, he found his words entangled, refusing to emerge. For a heartbeat, he stood there, silent. Then, recalling the bluntness of King Stannis, began to speak.
"There's a threat to the palace," he said, his voice steady but grave. In truth, he feared the danger might encompass all of Nuln, but he knew too well that the nobles, much like those in Westeros, were moved by the threat to their own skin above all else.
Leos stopped midstride, his glancing at him with a dark interest. "What do you mean?" he hissed.
Jon recounted his discovery of the tunnel, and as he spoke, he watched the young noble's face shift, the tension giving way to something darker, something eager. A gleam of battle lust flickered in Leos's eyes, a hunger that made Jon wary, for he had seen such dangerous eagerness before in knights who rushed into battle without caution.
"Fear not," Jon said, forcing calm into his voice. "The tunnel is guarded." though he still harboured suspicions about Captain Gehring. Whether the man was guilty or simply afraid of implicating himself, he had followed orders and stationed men at the entrance. Jon was about to mention Buchman's involvement, but something in Leos's expression gave him pause—the fire of anticipation as if the prospect of marching into those rat filled warrens was a pleasant thought for the man. Rodrik Cassel's voice echoed in his memory, warning him of the perils of such recklessness.
Yet just as suddenly as it had appeared, the wild eagerness in the Viscount's face faded, replaced by a more composed, if still tense, resolve. "We must inform my sister at once," he declared, striding towards the countess's private quarters with Jon following in his wake. They moved swiftly through the palace, ignoring the glances of servants, guards, and courtiers alike. When they arrived at the ornate doors to the countess's chambers, they were blocked by her personal guards—four men, sturdy and clearly uneasy under the Viscount's glare.
Leos stepped forward, his voice hard as steel. "Stand aside."
The lead guard hesitated, glancing nervously at his comrades before responding. "Forgive me, Lord Viscount, but Her Grace has left strict instructions not to be disturbed."
Leos's eyes narrowed. "Guardsman, the matter I must discuss with my sister is paramount. Now, move aside."
The guard's grimaced, but before he could respond, a scream pierced the air from within the room, freezing everyone in place. Another scream followed, sharper, more desperate. Without a word, the Viscount threw himself at the door, panic overcoming his composure.
"OPEN IT, DAMN YOU!" he shouted, pounding on the door as Jon and the guards rushed to help. They rammed against the heavy wood with all their strength, but it held firm, the ornate panels proving surprisingly resilient. A call went up for an axe as they battered the door, grunting with effort. Finally, with a thunderous crack, the door gave way, sending them sprawling inside in a chaotic heap.
Leos scrambled to his feet first, eyes wild with fear as he sprinted down the hall beyond, his rapier flashing in his hand. Jon followed, heart pounding, as they raced through the lavishly adorned corridors. At last, they burst through another set of doors, these swinging open without resistance. What they saw froze them in their tracks.
The room was the countess's bedchamber, dominated by an immense bed draped in silks and finery. But the opulence was drowned in chaos. A group of seven attackers, swords drawn, surrounded the bed, where a naked man stood, desperately fending them off. On the bed, the countess shrieked, clutching the sheets to her chest, terror written on her face. Jon remembered the man as one of the city's pistoleers, rumoured to have recently caught the countess's favour.
The attackers surged forward, and the pistoleer stabbed out, catching one in the throat. The man dropped, gurgling on the floor, but before the pistoleer could withdraw his blade, another attacker darted in knife flashing. Jon saw the blade plunge into the man's back just as he was about to shout a warning. With a strangled cry, the pistoleer collapsed.
Leos roared in fury, charging into the fray. The attackers whirled to face them, and Jon, swordless, cursed under his breath. He had not expected to fight and was unarmed. His hand reached instinctively for where Karaghul would have hung, but it was not there. He cursed again, knowing he was at a disadvantage. Then, as if sensing his plight, three of the attackers raised pistols, taking aim.
The guards at their side were tall, imposing figures clad in shining breastplates and wielding halberds. Yet even their presence was no deterrent, and the assassins fired, the shots rang out. One guard fell instantly, a bullet lodged in his chest. The second shot missed Leos by inches, shattering a priceless vase behind him. Jon, unarmed, was ignored as two of the attackers lunged at him.
In a heartbeat, Jon spotted a fallen sword and snatched it up as the first attacker reached him. But before the man could strike, a crossbow bolt suddenly slammed into his neck, dropping him where he stood. Jon had no time to ponder the source as the second attacker rushed him. He parried clumsily with the unfamiliar blade, but with a twist of his wrist, he drove a riposte that severed the man's head in a single stroke.
Blood sprayed across the room, the metallic scent filling Jon's nostrils. The guards had already dispatched two more of the attackers, and Leos was duelling with a fourth, driving his rapier into the man's eye. The last assassin, seeing his comrades fall, moved to stab Leos in the back. Jon lunged forward without thinking, his blade plunging into the man's side before he could strike.
The assassin crumpled, gurgling his last breath. Jon stood panting, blood dripping from his sword as the room filled with reinforcements—guards and servants alike. Even as they rushed to preserve the countess's modesty, Jon's eyes flicked to the crossbow bolt in the fallen man's neck. He turned to Leos, expecting relief or gratitude, but what he saw instead sent a chill through him, desire burned in the young lord's eyes.