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Two days had passed since Jon's dream with Ymir, and her words still haunted him as their party continued south. The morning sun cast long shadows across the Kingsroad as Jon rode silently, lost in thought.
You are no longer alone.
The phrase echoed in his mind like a half-remembered song. Was there someone else out there with Titan abilities? The very thought sent a chill down his spine. Jon barely understood his own powers, and now there might be another like him somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms.
And what of Ymir's mention of Valyrian blood? It made no sense. As far as Jon knew, he was the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark and some unknown woman. He'd heard the whispers that his mother might be Ashara Dayne of Starfall. House Dayne was known for their purple eyes, which might explain one of his mismatched eyes, but where did the green come from? His father's eyes were grey, not green. And House Dayne didn't have Valyrian blood, so why would Ymir mention it?
"By the Old Gods, are you even listening?"
Jon blinked, startled from his thoughts by Robb's voice and the feeling of his brother's hand shaking his shoulder.
"Where have you been hiding in that brooding head of yours?" Robb asked with a grin. "You've been staring at your horse's mane for the past mile like it holds the secrets of the First Men."
Jon cleared his throat. "Just thinking about the tourney," he lied quickly. "All the glory to be won."
"Glory?" Theon Greyjoy snorted, pulling his mount alongside them. "The only glory at King's Landing will be mine when I put some southern knight on his back." He tossed his head arrogantly. "Do you think Lord Stark will let me enter, Robb? It would bring honor to Winterfell to have its ward triumph in the capital."
"Father's allowing me to enter," Robb replied, adjusting his riding gloves. "Though he's made me swear to withdraw if I face someone too far beyond my skill."
"Smart man, your father," called Smalljon Umber from nearby. "Though I'd wager good coin that King Robert himself enters the melee. What northman wouldn't want to test his steel against the Demon of the Trident?"
Torrhen Karstark's eyes lit up. "Gods, can you imagine? Crossing blades with the man who crushed Rhaegar Targaryen's chest? I'd lose happily just to tell the tale!"
"Do you think the King will compete?" Jon asked Robb. "It's been fifteen years since the rebellion."
Robb shrugged. "I couldn't say. We've never seen him in the North."
"Fifteen years is a long time for a warrior to grow soft," Theon observed, patting his own flat stomach. "Even for a legend."
"I care little about seeing the King swing his warhammer," Domeric Bolton's soft voice cut through the conversation as he guided his pale horse closer. "I want to see the Kingsguard in action, particularly Ser Jaime Lannister."
Jon nodded despite himself. "The Kingslayer is said to be one of the finest swordsmen in the realm."
"A magnificent swordsman indeed," Dacey Mormont said as she approached. Her eyes twinkled mischievously as she looked at Domeric. "Will you be asking Ser Jaime for a kiss as well as a match, Bolton?"
The northern heirs erupted in laughter. Domeric's pale face remained impassive, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
"I believe I'll leave the kissing to you, Lady Dacey," he replied coolly. "You seem more practiced at pursuing what you desire."
Instead of taking offense, Dacey grinned broadly. "Ser Jaime might be one of the most handsome knight in the Seven Kingdoms," she said, her eyes sliding deliberately toward Jon, "but I've set my sights elsewhere of late."
Robb nudged Jon with his elbow, not bothering to hide his smirk. Theon made an exaggerated kissing sound that earned him a glare from Jon.
What would Wylla think if she could see me now? The thought came unbidden, bringing with it a familiar pang of guilt.
"Look there!" called Lord Galbart Glover, pointing ahead. "King's Landing!"
Jon's thoughts scattered as he gazed forward. In the distance, massive walls rose from the landscape, surrounding countless buildings that sprawled toward the sparkling waters of Blackwater Bay. Even from here, Jon could make out the imposing shape of the Red Keep perched atop Aegon's High Hill, its red stone catching the sunlight.
"Gods be good," breathed Smalljon Umber. "It's bigger than I remembered."
"You've been here before?" asked Daryn Hornwood.
"Aye, after the Greyjoy Rebellion. Came with my father to see the celebrations." The big man shook his head. "Place stank worse than a wildling's armpit."
"It doesn't look much changed," observed Lord Tallhart, squinting at the distant city.
"It's only been fourteen years, Leobald," Lady Maege Mormont said dryly. "What did you expect? That they'd moved the Red Keep to the other hill?"
Laughter rippled through the northern party as they continued their approach to the capital.
Jon felt Dacey pull her horse alongside his. "You've been quiet today," she said, her voice pitched low enough that only he could hear. "More quiet than usual, I mean, which is saying something."
Jon glanced at her, noting the genuine concern in her eyes. "Just... dreams," he admitted.
"Ah," Dacey nodded. "Was it about her?"
"No." Jon hesitated. "Something else. Something I don't understand."
Dacey was silent for a moment. "My mother says dreams are messages from the old gods. That we should listen to them, even when they speak in riddles."
"And if the riddle's answer frightens me?" Jon asked before he could stop himself.
Dacey's hand briefly touched his on the reins, a quick, warm pressure. "Then you face it with the same courage you showed against that bear." Her eyes held his. "And remember, you're not alone, Jon Snow. Whatever comes."
Not alone. The same words Ymir had spoken, yet somehow different, coming from Dacey's lips.
"There they are!" shouted Bran excitedly from further up the column, pointing at riders approaching from the city. "The King's men!"
A small contingent bearing the royal banner had emerged from the gates and was making its way toward them. The Baratheon stag stood out starkly against its golden field, as did the Lion of House Lannister.
"Straighten up, you lot," barked Lord Stark's voice from the front. "We're representing the North now."
Jon watched as his father rode forward to meet the royal escort, his back straight, his face composed into the solemn mask he wore for formal occasions. Robb quickly moved to join him, as befitted the heir to Winterfell.
"Shall we?" Dacey asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jon nodded, spurring his horse forward.
As they approached the royal party, Jon couldn't help but scan their faces, wondering if any of them might be the one Ymir had spoken of. The one who was "closer than he thought."
The gates of King's Landing loomed before them, massive oak-and-iron barriers flanked by towers of pale stone. The royal escort led the Northern party through an opening just wide enough for three riders abreast. Jon Snow rode between Robb and Theon, taking in the sight of the capital with curiosity.
That curiosity lasted precisely three heartbeats after passing beneath the shadow of the gate.
"Seven hells," Jon muttered, his nose wrinkling involuntarily. "Is that—"
"Shit," Theon finished bluntly. "Horseshit, pigshit, and the shit of half a million people."
Robb pulled his cloak across his nose. "Gods be good. This is the seat of the Seven Kingdoms? It smells like the underside of a diseased goat."
A City Watch guard standing nearby shot them a sour look. "You'll get used to it, m'lords."
"I sincerely hope not," Jon replied, earning a laugh from both companions.
The narrow streets opened before them, crammed with people who pressed against walls and doorways to make way for the procession. Jon tried to focus on the sights rather than the stench—stone buildings packed tightly together, climbing up the city's hills; hawkers calling their wares from tiny stalls; children running alongside the horses until guards shooed them away.
"People must be really relieved when the wind blows toward the walls," Jon observed dryly. "No wonder the Red Keep sits so high—to escape the smell."
The royal escort led them along the Hook, a broad avenue that wound its way up Aegon's High Hill. As they climbed higher, Jon couldn't help glancing back at the sprawl of the city below. His eyes were drawn to a massive ruin crowning a distant hill.
"Is that the Dragon Pit?" he wondered aloud.
Before either Robb or Theon could answer, a shrill voice called out from the Stark carriage behind them.
"Look! The Dragon Pit!" Arya's excited face appeared at the window. "Can we go there? Are there still dragon eggs? Or bones from when the smallfolk attacked during the Dance of Dragons?"
"Arya!" Lady Catelyn's voice followed immediately. "Sit down this instant. A lady does not shout from carriages."
"But Mother, it's the Dragon Pit! Septa Mordane said—"
"I don't care what Septa Mordane said about dragons. You will behave as befits a daughter of Winterfell!"
Jon exchanged an amused glance with Robb. Arya's head disappeared back inside the carriage, though not before she shot Jon a conspiratorial look that clearly said, We'll go there anyway.
"The Dragon Pit," Domeric Bolton mused, guiding his pale mount alongside Jon's. "Where the Targaryen dragons wasted away, growing smaller with each generation until they disappeared entirely." His colorless eyes fixed on Jon. "Even the mightiest creatures can be diminished when confined, wouldn't you agree, Snow?"
Jon matched the Bolton heir's stare. "Some things refuse to be caged, no matter how strong the bars."
"Well said," came Dacey Mormont's voice as she nudged her horse between them. "Though I'd wager good coin you've never seen the inside of a cell, Bolton."
Smalljon Umber's booming laugh broke the tension. "Speaking of places to stay—where are we northern lords supposed to bed down while the Starks enjoy royal hospitality? I'm too big for most inns' beds."
"The Silver Trident near the River Gate is said to be comfortable," offered Lord Glover. "Though I've heard it costs a golden dragon per night."
"Robbery," Lady Maege huffed. "For that price, the innkeeper better warm my bed personally."
As the northern lords debated the merits of various establishments, Dacey leaned toward Jon. "My mother will never say it, but she's worried about the cost of lodging here. Bear Island isn't exactly flush with gold."
Jon nodded, understanding all too well what it meant to have pride but little else.
"Once you're settled in the Red Keep," Dacey continued, her voice dropping lower, "perhaps you might show a she-bear around the city? I hear the Street of Steel has smiths that can forge blades light enough for a woman but strong enough to split a man in two."
"I'm not sure I'll be welcome in the Red Keep," Jon replied. "Bastards aren't typically given royal accommodation."
Dacey's lips curved in a half-smile. "Then we'll both find some tavern to drink in. I'd rather hear your brooding observations of the capital than listen to my mother complain about southern prices all evening."
Their conversation was interrupted as the procession reached the outer courtyard of the Red Keep. Jon's gaze traveled up the pale red stone of the castle walls, taking in the towers that seemed to pierce the very sky. Despite having grown up in Winterfell, Jon couldn't help feeling impressed by the sheer grandeur of the Targaryen stronghold.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Theon muttered, sounding annoyed by his own admiration. "I suppose even dragons need proper nests."
Smalljon gave a theatrical bow toward the Mormonts. "We'll take our leave here, then. The common folk must find our own accommodations while the wolves sleep in the dragon's old den."
"Don't get lost in the city, Smalljon," Robb called out. "We'd hate to organize a search party when you don't appear for the feast."
"The only thing that would keep me from a royal feast is death itself," the giant Umber replied with a grin. "And even then, my ghost would find its way to the wine."
As the northern lords prepared to depart for the city below, Dacey caught Jon's eye one final time. "Tonight," she said simply. "I want to have a dance with you during the feast."
It wasn't a question, and Jon found himself nodding before he could think better of it.
The inner courtyard of the Red Keep bustled with activity as servants rushed to attend to the newly arrived Northern party. Grooms appeared to take their horses, while stewards directed household guards to their quarters. Lord Stark dismounted first, helping Lady Catelyn down from the carriage before assisting Sansa and Arya.
Jon slid from his saddle, uncertain where he should position himself. As a bastard, he had no official place in the formal greeting that would surely follow. He was considering quietly slipping away when a voice halted him.
"Ned! By the gods, look at you—still grim as a winter storm."
Jon turned to see an elderly man with kind eyes approaching. Though stooped with age, he carried himself with dignity. Silver-white hair framed a lined face that broke into a genuine smile as Lord Stark strode forward to embrace him.
"Lord Arryn," Ned said warmly. "It's been too long."
Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Lord of the Eyrie, clasped Ned's forearms. "Fifteen years since we stood together in rebellion. Who would have thought we'd both live to become such respectable old men?"
"You were always respectable," Ned replied with a rare smile. "I was just following your example."
Jon Arryn's laugh turned into a slight cough. "Not always successfully, I fear. But come—let me look at your children. Gods, they've grown!"
"Lady Catelyn," Jon Arryn said warmly, taking her hands in his. "Still as lovely as when I first saw you. It does my heart good to see you well."
"Thank you, Lord Arryn," she replied with genuine affection.
The old man turned to Robb next, measuring him with appraising eyes. "The very image of your mother, with the North in your bearing. You'll make a fine Lord of Winterfell someday, young man."
Robb bowed respectfully. "I hope to honor my father's example, my lord."
"And this beauty must be Sansa," Jon Arryn continued, smiling at the auburn-haired girl who curtseyed perfectly. "Every bit as graceful as your mother."
"It is an honor to meet you, Lord Hand," Sansa replied with practiced courtesy.
Jon Arryn chuckled as he moved to Arya, who was struggling to stand still. "You, I think, must be young Arya. I see the wolf's blood runs strong in you."
"Is it true you have moon doors in the Eyrie?" Arya blurted out. "Where you can push people through to fall thousands of feet?"
"Arya!" Lady Catelyn hissed, mortified.
Jon Arryn laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to shed years from his face. "Quite true, though we use it sparingly these days." He ruffled Bran's hair next. "A future knight, I hear? You have a climber's build."
Bran beamed at the recognition. Little Rickon hid partially behind his mother's skirts, but Jon Arryn crouched despite his age. "And the youngest wolf of Winterfell. Well met, young Rickon."
He then stood up and his gaze then fell on Jon, who straightened instinctively under the scrutiny. "And this must be Jon Snow. You have the Stark look about you, lad."
"Thank you, my lord," Jon replied, surprised to be acknowledged at all.
"I understand you were named for me," Jon Arryn said, his expression softening. "A great honor for me."
Jon felt warmth rise to his cheeks. "I hope to bring no dishonor to the name, my lord."
"If you're half the man your father is, you'll bring it only credit," the old man said kindly, then turned back to Ned. "We'll speak later. Robert wishes to see you privately after the formal audience. Much has changed since you last saw him."
"Now, let me show you all to the throne room. Robert is eager to greet his oldest friend—though I warn you, Ned, he's not the man you remember."
As they followed the Hand through the corridors of the Red Keep, Jon found himself lagging behind, looking at the place inside, it was beautiful outside, but inside, it felt like stepping into a dream.
"Overwhelming, isn't it?" Robb had fallen back to walk beside him. "It makes Winterfell seem almost... modest."
"Different," Jon corrected. "Winterfell has stood for thousands of years. This place feels like it's still trying to prove something."
Robb snorted. "Trust you to find a way to prefer our drafty old castle."
"Drafty castle without the smell," Jon reminded him with a half-smile.
They passed through a set of gilded doors into an antechamber where servants waited with scented cloths and refreshments. Beyond lay another set of doors—these massive and iron-bound, guarded by knights in the gold cloaks of the City Watch.
"The throne room lies beyond," Jon Arryn explained, turning to face them all. "Remember, you stand before the King of the Seven Kingdoms, not the boy who grew up with Ned in the Eyrie." He hesitated, seeming to choose his next words carefully. "Time changes us all, sometimes in ways we don't expect."
The doors to the throne room swung open with a resonant groan, revealing a cavernous hall that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it. Jon felt a sudden tightness in his chest as they crossed the threshold. He had heard tales of this place since childhood—where Aegon the Conqueror had received the submission of lords, where Maegor the Cruel had executed his enemies, where the Mad King had burned men alive. The weight of bloody history pressed down on him.
"Seven bloody hells," Theon whispered, forgetting his usual swagger.
Jon shared the sentiment. The hall stretched before them, longer than Winterfell's Great Hall and twice as high. Massive columns rose like ancient trees to support a vaulted ceiling. Light streamed through tall windows, casting long fingers of color across the stone floor, though Jon noticed no dragons among them—Robert had clearly removed any Targaryen imagery.
And there, at the far end of the hall, perched atop a dais of marble steps, loomed the Iron Throne.
Jon had imagined it countless times, poring over books in Winterfell's library—a thousand swords melted together by dragonfire, twisted and fused into a seat of power. But the reality before him was both more and less than his imaginings. More terrifying, less elegant. It wasn't just a chair forged from weapons; it was a monstrous thing, a twisted mass of jagged metal that seemed almost alive, hungry for blood. Its asymmetrical spikes reached upward like grasping fingers, sharp enough to slice open any who sat upon it carelessly.
A throne that'll kill you if you relax for even a moment, Jon thought. Maybe that was Aegon's point all along.
Standing at the foot of the throne were four knights in gleaming white armor and snow-white cloaks—the Kingsguard. Their faces remained hidden behind ornate helms.
And seated upon that terrible chair was a figure Jon almost failed to recognize from the descriptions he'd heard all his life.
Jon felt his eyes widen despite himself. This... this was the Demon of the Trident? This was the warrior who had crushed Prince Rhaegar's chest with a single blow of his warhammer? The man seated before them was broad-shouldered still, hinting at the impressive frame he must have once possessed, but his face was fleshed and ruddy, his doublet straining against a substantial belly. Not grotesquely fat, but certainly far from the lean warrior of legend. A thick beard, mostly black but shot through with strands of gray, covered much of his face.
Jon glanced at his father and saw the momentary flicker of surprise in Lord Stark's eyes before his expression settled back into its customary solemnity.
"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and his family!" announced the herald, his voice echoing through the hall. "Lady Catelyn Stark, their children Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Brandon Stark, and Rickon Stark."
There was a deliberate pause before the herald added, "And Jon Snow."
Jon felt the eyes of the court upon him at the mention of his bastard name, but he kept his gaze forward, his face carefully neutral as he had learned to do whenever his status was highlighted in public.
As protocol dictated, the Stark family moved forward and knelt before the throne. Jon followed suit, one knee touching the cold stone floor, head bowed. Heavy footsteps echoed through the hall—the sound of someone descending stairs with considerable effort.
"By the gods, look at this!" boomed a voice that held the remnants of what must once have been a battlefield roar. "Ahh, Ned, good to see you, stand up you old dog, let me look at you!"
Jon raised his eyes to see King Robert standing before them, breathing heavily from the exertion of descending the dais. Up close, his deterioration was even more apparent—the once-powerful frame now sagging beneath rich velvets and brocade.
His father rose, and the king immediately pulled him into a crushing embrace, pounding his back with a big hand.
"Too long!" Robert declared, finally releasing Ned. "Too bloody long! Look at you—cold as ever with that frozen Northern face. Still skinny as a spear too. Don't they feed you in that frozen wasteland?"
"Not all of us have the luxury of royal meals, Your Grace," Ned replied, a rare smile softening his features.
Robert roared with laughter. "Gods, it's good to see that sour face! Fifteen years and you haven't changed a bit. Unlike me?" He patted his belly without a trace of shame.
"You look well, Your Grace," Lord Stark lied politely.
"Horseshit," Robert snorted. "I look like a man who's drunk and eaten too much for fifteen years—because that's exactly what I've done! But enough about my sorry state." He turned his attention to Lady Catelyn. "Your wife's as beautiful as ever, Ned. The South agreed with her, I see."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Lady Stark replied with a perfect curtsy.
Robert moved down the line, greeting each Stark child in turn, offering boisterous comments and easy laughter. When he reached Jon, he paused, studying him with unexpected intensity.
"So you're the bastard," he said bluntly.
Jon tensed. "Yes, Your Grace."
Robert's eyes narrowed, taking in Jon's features with a scrutiny. "Strong Northern look about you." He glanced back at Ned. "He fights well?"
"As well as Robb," Lord Stark replied carefully.
"Good, good." Robert clapped Jon on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "A man needs to know how to swing a sword, baseborn or not. You'll enter the tourney, I hope?"
Before Jon could answer, Robert had already moved on, returning to Ned's side and throwing an arm around his shoulders.
"Come, all of you," the king announced. "Let's leave this gloomy hall. I've been sitting on that damned uncomfortable chair all morning, waiting for you. Now we can drink properly!"
The Small Hall of the Red Keep proved considerably warmer than the throne room, both in temperature and atmosphere. Unlike the cavernous formality of the royal audience chamber, this space—though still large by Northern standards—felt almost intimate with its roaring hearth and long oaken tables.
The royal family and members of the court awaited them inside. Queen Cersei Lannister stood near the head of the table, a vision in crimson and gold with her golden hair arranged in an elaborate southern style. Jon had heard tales of the queen's beauty since childhood, and she indeed possessed a face that might have been sculpted by a master craftsman—high cheekbones, perfect symmetry, full lips. Yet there was something in her expression, a coldness in her emerald eyes, that reminded Jon of the frozen surface of a winter pond.
Behind the royal family stood more of the Kingsguard. Jon recognized Ser Barristan Selmy from the descriptions in Old Nan's tales—the legendary knight who had served three kings, his weathered face noble despite his advanced years. And beside him, with his golden hair and handsome features, stood the infamous Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister.
"My family," Robert announced with considerably less enthusiasm than he'd shown for the Starks. "My wife, Queen Cersei."
The queen extended her hand to Lord Stark, who bowed and kissed it formally. "Lord Stark," she said, her voice melodious yet distant. "King's Landing has awaited your arrival with great anticipation."
"The honor is ours, Your Grace," Ned replied with impeccable courtesy.
"And these are my children," Robert continued, gesturing to three golden-haired youths. "Joffrey, my heir. Myrcella and Tommen."
Prince Joffrey, a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen, gave the Starks a smile that reminded Jon of Theon when he was about to insult his mother. Princess Myrcella cursied prettily while young Prince Tommen simply stared wide-eyed at the Northerners.
Jon remained slightly apart from the formal greetings, knowing his place. A royal reception was no place for a bastard to push himself forward. Instead, he observed the court with quiet interest, noting how the various courtiers positioned themselves near those with power.
"And my wife's family," Robert waved a hand dismissively. "Lannisters, the lot of them. You remember Jaime, of course."
Ser Jaime stepped forward, removing his helm to reveal features so similar to the queen's they might have been reflections. "Lord Stark," he said with a lazy smile. "The capital has grown dreadfully dull. Perhaps you Northerners can liven things up."
Jon didn't miss the subtle tightening of his father's jaw.
"We Northerners prefer our lives quiet, Ser Jaime," Lord Stark replied.
"How fortunate then that King's Landing never is," came another voice, belonging to the smallest man Jon had ever seen. Tyrion Lannister, the queen's dwarf brother, waddled forward with a goblet already in hand. "Lord Stark, a pleasure. I've always wanted to see the Wall. I'm told men piss off the edge of the world there. Is that true?"
Lord Stark seemed unsure how to respond to such directness, but Robert saved him with a booming laugh.
"Always the crude one, aren't you, Imp? Pay him no mind, Ned. The little man's mouth runs faster than sense."
Tyrion smiled, apparently unperturbed by the king's words. His mismatched eyes—one green, one black—glanced briefly at Jon before moving on. Something in that glance made Jon uneasy, as if the dwarf had seen more in a moment than others might in a day.
"In honor of House Stark's arrival," Robert announced, raising his voice, "we shall hold a great feast tonight! With Northern ale for our Northern friends!"
The queen's lips thinned almost imperceptibly. "My love," she said, her tone suggesting the endearment was anything but genuine, "we've already planned feasts for when House Tyrell arrives tomorrow. The kitchens will be overwhelmed."
"Then overwhelm them," Robert replied flatly. "I want a feast."
"The queen raises a practical concern, Your Grace," Jon Arryn intervened smoothly. "Perhaps we might combine the welcomes? The Tyrells would surely appreciate being included in Lord Stark's reception."
Robert waved a hand irritably. "Fine, fine. Tonight we drink privately, tomorrow we feast with roses and all the rest. Does that satisfy everyone?" He didn't wait for an answer before turning back to Ned. "Come, let's find somewhere quieter. I want to hear about the North, not stand around trading pleasantries with these peacocks."
As Robert led Lord Stark away, Jon caught the coldly calculating look the queen directed at his father's back.
"Fascinating, isn't it?" came a voice at his elbow. Jon turned to find Tyrion Lannister beside him, sipping from his goblet. "The subtle dance of court. Much more complex than the dances you're used to at Winterfell, I'd wager."
"I wouldn't know, my lord," Jon replied carefully. "Bastards aren't typically included in Winterfell's dances."
Tyrion smiled. "Then you and I have something in common. The dwarf and the bastard—observers on the periphery." He raised his cup in a mock toast. "The best position for seeing truth, wouldn't you agree?"
Before Jon could respond, the Imp had already moved away, leaving Jon to wonder why the queen's brother would single him out for conversation.
Across the room, Jon noticed Robb being introduced to several young ladies who seemed utterly charmed by the heir to Winterfell. Sansa was already deep in conversation with Princess Myrcella, the two girls looking like opposites with Sansa's auburn hair and the princess's golden locks. Arya, predictably, looked bored and restless.
"Don't mind my uncle," said a female voice, drawing Jon's attention. A young woman with golden-brown hair and sharp features stood nearby, watching him with amusement. "Uncle Tyrion collects curiosities and unusual people. He appears to have added you to his collection."
"And you are?" Jon asked, surprised at being addressed by yet another noble.
"Joy Hill," she replied with a smile. "Lord Tywin's niece. We bastards should recognize each other, don't you think?"
Jon blinked in surprise. Another bastard at court—and a Lannister one at that. "Jon Snow," he introduced himself unnecessarily.
"I know who you are," Joy replied with a wry smile. "Everyone does. The Northern bastard who killed a bear single-handed. Quite the story making its way through the Red Keep."
Jon suppressed a groan. "The tales grow with each telling."
"They always do," she agreed. "Best get used to it. In King's Landing, stories have more power than swords."
Rhaenys
The hills overlooking King's Landing offered a view that twisted Rhaenys Targaryen's heart—a city that should have been her birthright spread before her like a carpet of distant lights. From this vantage point, the Red Keep stood as a darker shadow against the night sky. Somewhere within those walls, her brother was crushed, her mother had been raped and murdered. And she herself had nearly joined them.
"Not the most pleasant sight, is it?"
Rhaenys—no, Rhae Sand—turned to find her uncle Oberyn approaching, two cups of Dornish red in his hands. He offered one to her, his eyes following her gaze toward the capital.
"I don't know what you mean, Uncle," she replied, accepting the wine. "It's just a city. One city among many."
Oberyn's smile was sharp as a dagger. "You lie admirably, niece. Almost as well as I do." He raised his cup. "To homecomings—may they be everything our enemies deserve."
The Dornish encampment sprawled behind them in a riot of color even in the darkness—orange silk tents embroidered with the sun and spear of House Martell, the personal standards of various lords, and the more modest accommodations of their guards. They could have pressed on to reach the city before nightfall, but Oberyn had declared that no self-respecting Dornish party would arrive at court looking travel-worn and dusty.
"A dramatic entrance requires proper preparation," he had insisted with a wink. "Let the court wait one more day. It will only sharpen their curiosity."
Now, Rhaenys sipped her wine, letting the spiced warmth slide down her throat. "Do you think anyone will recognize me?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Oberyn studied her face in the torchlight. "No one has seen Rhaenys Targaryen since she was a toddler. And the corpse they presented to Robert—" He stopped himself, an unusual flash of restraint. "No, niece. Your secret is safe. You are my natural-born daughter, Rhae Sand, born to a Summer Islander with dark hair—an exotic beauty I met during my travels."
"So you've told me a hundred times," she murmured.
"And I'll tell you a hundred more until you stop asking," he replied. "You were born for this deception. Not just the hair, but this—" He tapped her temple. "A mind sharp enough to maintain the lie, no matter the provocation."
From deeper in the camp came the sound of laughter. Arianne Martell's voice rose above the others, followed by the distinctive cackle of Nymeria Sand.
"Your cousins are enjoying themselves," Oberyn observed. "Perhaps you should join them. Brooding alone on hillsides is distinctly un-Dornish behavior." His eyes twinkled. "People might start to think you're a secret Stark."
Rhaenys couldn't help but laugh at that. "Fine. But I'm taking this wine with me."
"There's my girl," Oberyn said with a grin, clapping her on the shoulder. "Let's—"
A scream cut through the night—not the playful shriek of revelry, but the genuine cry of terror. It came from the eastern edge of the camp, where the horses were picketed.
"Stay behind me," he commanded, but Rhaenys was already moving, the dagger at her hip finding its way to her hand.
They ran toward the commotion, joined by guards and several Sand Snakes converging from different directions. In the torchlight near the horse lines, a scene of chaos unfolded. Two guardsmen backed away from what first appeared to be a shadow come to life—a massive Shadowcat, its dark coat nearly invisible in the night save for the gleaming yellow eyes and bared fangs. It was two meters tall.
One horse already lay disemboweled on the ground, while others strained against their tethers, whinnying in terror. The shadowcat, larger than any Rhaenys had ever seen or heard described, crouched low, preparing to spring at another guard.
"Surround it!" Oberyn shouted, drawing his spear from where he'd snatched it from a passing guard. "Obara, with me! Nym, circle right!"
The two Sand Snakes moved instantly at their father's command, Obara's own spear at the ready, Nymeria uncoiling her whip. Rhaenys positioned herself beside a young guard who looked on the verge of fleeing.
"Stand fast," she told him firmly. "It's just a cat, albeit a large one."
"Seven hells, what's a shadowcat doing this far from the mountains?" Arianne's voice came from behind them as she arrived, a curved Dornish blade in her hand.
"Perhaps it developed a taste for Baratheon venison," Oberyn replied with grim humor, never taking his eyes off the beast.
The shadowcat seemed to assess its suddenly multiplied opponents, yellow eyes gleaming with feral intelligence. Instead of retreating, it made its choice with lightning quickness, springing not at the armed adults but at a stableboy who had frozen in terror several paces to Rhaenys's right.
Without thinking, Rhaenys lunged, shoving the boy aside as the cat's trajectory carried it directly toward her. She brought her dagger up just as its massive weight slammed into her chest, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and snarling fury.
Hot breath reeking of carrion washed over her face as jaws snapped inches from her throat. Rhaenys drove her knee upward into the creature's belly while trying to position her dagger for a killing thrust. Razor-sharp claws raked across her left palm as she pushed against the beast's chest, trying to create space.
"Rhae!" Oberyn's voice seemed distant through the blood pounding in her ears.
The shadowcat reared back for another lunge at her face, and Rhaenys prepared for the killing bite—but it never came. Instead, a spear point erupted from the creature's throat in a spray of hot blood. The beast convulsed once, then collapsed heavily across her legs.
Obara Sand stood over them, her face spattered with blood, hands still gripping the spear shaft embedded in the shadowcat's neck. "Are you hurt, sister?" she asked, yanking her weapon free with a wet sound.
Rhaenys pushed the massive carcass off her legs, adrenaline still surging through her body. "I'm fine," she gasped, accepting Obara's hand up. "Just winded."
Oberyn was beside her in an instant, his dark eyes checking her for injuries with a father's concern. "That was either very brave or very foolish," he said, his voice stern but laced with pride.
"The boy would be dead," Rhaenys replied simply, glancing at the wide-eyed stableboy who stared at her with newfound worship.
Arianne approached, eyeing the dead shadowcat with appreciation. "That pelt will make a fine trophy. Perhaps Cousin Rhae should claim it, since she nearly became its meal."
"I'll pass," Rhaenys said, feeling the excitement of battle beginning to fade. With it came awareness of various aches—and a stinging sensation in her left palm. She glanced down to see blood coating her hand, though in the torchlight and chaos, she couldn't assess the severity.
Nymeria approached, eyeing her with concern. "You should have Myles look at that," she said, nodding toward Rhaenys's hand. "Shadowcat claws often carry filth that festers."
"I will," Rhaenys promised, suddenly eager to escape the attention. "It's just a scratch. I'll find the maester after I clean up."
Before anyone could insist on examining her more thoroughly, she turned and walked briskly back toward her tent, cradling her bleeding hand against her chest. Behind her, she could hear Oberyn giving orders for the shadowcat's carcass to be skinned and the horses calmed.
Inside her tent, Rhaenys lit a single oil lamp, its golden glow filling the space with long shadows. Only then did she look properly at her injury. Blood coated her palm, but when she wiped it away with a cloth dipped in water from her washing basin, she could see three parallel gashes across her palm—deep enough to bleed freely, but not life-threatening.
"Myles will want to stitch this," she murmured to herself, reaching for a clean cloth to bind it temporarily. As she wrapped the linen around her hand, a strange sensation made her pause.
Heat—intense heat—seemed to radiate from the wound. For a moment she feared infection had set in with impossible speed, but then she saw it: tendrils of steam rising from between her fingers, curling upward in the lamplight like ghostly serpents.
"What in seven hells...?"
Rhaenys unwrapped the cloth with trembling fingers. The steam continued to rise, more visible now against the dark fabric of her sleeve. Beneath it, the wounds were... changing. Before her eyes, the torn flesh knit itself together, the edges of the gashes pulling toward each other as if sewn by invisible hands.
She stared, transfixed with horror and fascination, as the wounds sealed completely, leaving only faint pink lines where moments before there had been open cuts. The steam dissipated, leaving behind nothing but the cooling sensation of quickly healing flesh and the dried blood that evidenced the injury had ever existed.
Rhaenys sat heavily on her camp bed, her mind racing. This was impossible. Unnatural.
Yet the evidence was literally in her hand.
A memory came to her: "Dragon's blood runs in your veins, little one. It makes us different. Special." At the time, she had thought it merely the kind of thing all fathers tell their children to make them feel important. Now, she wondered.
But no Targaryen in recorded history had ever displayed such an ability. This was something else. Something beyond even the magic of Old Valyria.
Suddenly, she saw a flash of a giant tree made of light, but it disappeared before she could understand what even happened.
What is happening?
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