Chapter Text
Chapter Fifteen: Take a look what you've done; 'Cause, now we got bad blood
Bran’s fingers dug into the stone as he pulled himself higher. The wall was slick with salt and mist, but his feet found the holds as if he had never fallen. Wind whipped his hair, and the sea roared below, white spray bursting against the cliffs. His heart beat faster. He was climbing again!
Not bound to his pony by braces or carried in someone’s arms. His body was whole and strong.
He reached a ledge that jutted like a beast’s snout. The stone was dark and glassy, unlike anything at Winterfell. It felt older than Winterfell, older than the Wall, even older than Old Nan’s tales.
Bran climbed on, laughing as his legs carried him without issue. The black stone seemed alive beneath his hands, warm in some places, cold in others.
“Higher,” he told himself, his voice lost to the waves.
He edged past a gargoyle’s open jaws, almost certain its eyes followed him. Above, a balcony hid in shadow. He fixed on it and pushed upward, fingers burning, legs steady. At last he pulled himself over the railing. The sea stretched endless before him. He spread his arms wide, the wind tugging at his sleeves, and for the first time since his fall, Bran felt whole again.
A sharp voice cut through the roar of the sea.
“Get down from there!”
Bran startled and glanced down. A girl stood on the path below the wall, her skirts whipping about her ankles. She looked about his age, maybe a year older, with dark hair that the wind kept tossing across her face. She cupped her hands to her mouth and shouted again.
“Do you want to break your neck? Climbing is dangerous!”
Bran laughed, his voice carried by the wind. “I am a good climber. You do not need to worry.”
The girl frowned up at him, her hands dropping to her hips. “Everyone thinks they are good until they fall. Then they are only broken.”
Bran shook his head, still smiling. He pulled himself onto a ledge just above her line of sight, the sea booming behind him. “Not me. I know what I am doing.”
“You are not invincible,” she called back, “Come down before you hurt yourself.”
Bran clung to the stone and looked down at her again. The he could see she meant it, every word. But the strength in his arms, the way his legs carried him up without falter, filled him with too much joy to let go.
“You will see,” Bran said, his voice carrying from the height. “I will not fall.”
The girl crossed her arms, scowling, but she stayed where she was, watching him climb.
Bran lingered on the ledge, the spray damp on his face, while the girl glared up at him. Her arms were still folded across her chest, and she looked as if she would stand there all day just to make sure he came down.
Finally her voice changed. Softer this time, though it still carried. “Please. Will you come down now?”
Bran blinked at her. No one ever asked him nicely like that. Mother always ordered, Robb always warned, and Old Nan always scolded.
“All right,” he said.
His fingers and toes found their holds as easily as they ever had. The stones were wet, but he felt steady on them. He grinned at her. “See? Not a scratch.”
“You should not climb here. The sea makes the walls slick. A fall would carry you straight into the rocks.”
His smile faltered for a moment, then returned. “I have never seen a place like this before. Is it Dragonstone?”
She lifted her chin at that, pleased. “Of course. This is my home.” She smoothed her hair back from her face, though the wind pushed it forward again. “My father is the lord here, and one day I will be the lady. It will be mine.”
Bran’s mouth fell open just a little. “You will be the Lady of Dragonstone?”
“Yes.” She said trying to sound dignified but her tone’s giddiness betrayed her.
Bran looked back up at the towers of black stone rising above them, shaped like claws and wings. “That is amazing!”
The girl’s eyes brightened, and for the first time she smiled at him, small but true and sweet.
Bran shifted from foot to foot, still grinning up at the towers. He thought maybe she was waiting for him to speak, and the excitement in his chest spilled out before he could stop it.
“I am Bran. Brandon Stark of Winterfell.”
The girl’s eyes widened. She took in a quick breath that sounded almost like a gasp. “You are Bran Stark?”
“Yes,” he said, puzzled by her surprise.
She stared at him a moment longer, then pulled at the cuff of her sleeve. The wind caught the fabric, but she tugged it higher until her pale forearm was bare. Etched there was a direwolf made of stone.
Bran’s mouth fell open. His own hand rose without thought, going to the place on his arm where the same mark lay beneath his sleeve. He pushed the cloth back quickly and showed her. The Stone Direwolf stared out from his skin, a mirror to hers.
Shireen’s voice came low, but steady. “I am Shireen Baratheon. And it seems… we are matched.”
Bran could hardly keep the grin off his face. His arm still tingled where the direwolf mark lay, as if it had come alive the moment she showed him hers. He looked back up at the tower wall, and his legs twitched with the urge to climb.
“We should go higher,” he said, already reaching for the first hold.
Shireen blinked at him. “Higher? Bran, you only just came down.”
He laughed, setting his foot into a groove. “That was for you. Now it is for me. Come on.”
“You will get us both scolded,” she said, but she followed anyway.
Bran looked over his shoulder, auburn hair falling into his eyes. “Not if no one sees us!” He started upward, his fingers steady on the tower. “And if you have a direwolf too, you cannot be afraid of a little climbing.”
Shireen muttered something under her breath but lifted her skirts to find a foothold. She was slower and careful in a way he never was, but she followed.
Bran felt alive, every muscle pulling the way it used to before his fall. He glanced down once and called, “You are doing well. I thought you said climbing was dangerous.”
“It is,” she answered, her voice thin with effort. “I said so because it is true. But you were not going to listen anyway.”
Bran laughed again, then hauled himself to a ledge wide enough to crouch upon. When she joined him, cheeks flushed, he leaned back against the stone and looked down at the castle below.
“Look at that,” Bran said, his chest swelling. “Dragonstone. I never thought I would stand here. Or climb here.”
Shireen followed his gaze, her face calmer now that she was still. “It is my home. I have never lived anywhere else.”
“Winterfell is big,” Bran told her, eager to share. “But not like this. All black stone, and the sea everywhere. It feels like a story.”
Shireen’s lips curved faintly. “To me it feels cold. And the sea is loud when the wind turns.” She hesitated, then added, “But I suppose it is a story, if you are looking at it for the first time.”
Bran looked at her, then back at the town, and thought he could see both at once, the strangeness and the sameness.
Bran turned toward her, the words pushing at him until he could not keep them in. “I was hurt when you never reached out. The direwolf on your arm… it is the same as mine. It points to House Stark. To me. I thought you would write, or send someone, or something. But you never did.”
Shireen’s hands folded in her lap, the knuckles pale. She did not answer at once. “My father would not allow it,” she said softly. “He is jealous of your father. He says Lord Eddard already took one brother from him. Robert chose him for Hand and never looked back. He could not bear the thought of losing me as well. Not to… not to a Stark.”
Her voice caught a little on the last word. She looked away quickly, as though ashamed of saying it aloud.
Bran stared at her, his heart thudding. He had expected so many different things but this was not her fault at all. Relief washed through him, so strong it made him laugh under his breath.
Shireen blinked, confused. “Why are you smiling? I just told you my father would not let me see you.”
“I thought…” Bran stopped, his throat tight. He forced the words out anyway. “I thought you stayed away because of me. Because I fell. Because I cannot climb anymore.”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head at once. “No. I do not care about that.”
Bran looked at her, startled.
Shireen hesitated, then smoothed her hair back again. Her skin was pale, marred with patches that gleamed gray in the sunlight, rough and ridged like stone. She turned her face slightly so he could see it all.
“This is why I thought you would not want me,” she whispered. “Greyscale. The maesters say it will not spread, that I was lucky, but still… it frightens people. They look at me and they turn away, as if it might leap from my skin to theirs.”
Bran leaned closer, studying the patches without flinching. He reached out and touched the edge of one, feeling the change in the skin. It was cool and hard, but it was still her.
“I do not care either,” he said simply. “It is part of you. And I like you as you are.”
Shireen’s lips parted, as if she had no answer ready and she blinked hard, her eyes shining. For a moment neither of them spoke. They only sat together on the high tower of Dragonstone, watching the sun rise, each of them carrying scars the other did not mind.
Bran thought of Sansa. She would tell him not to hesitate, not to waste the moment. Sansa always believed in stories where knights and ladies showed how they felt. Bran’s stomach twisted nervously, but he leaned forward anyway and pressed his lips quickly to Shireen’s.
It was only a small kiss, barely more than a touch. Still, Shireen let out a startled squeal and pulled back, clutching her knees to her chest with both hands. Her eyes were wide, her face pink.
“You kissed me!” she blurted, as though she could not quite believe it.
Bran’s cheeks grew hot, but he managed a grin and a nod. “I did.”
For a moment she looked ready to scold him, her mouth half open. Then she bit down on her lip, trying and failing to hide the smile that spread across her face. She looked at him sideways, shy but pleased.
Bran smiled back, the nerves in his chest softening. “I will send a raven in the morning. Then you will know where to find me, no matter what your father says.”
Shireen’s eyes brightened at that, though she did not answer.
She gasped and her eyes flew open. The tower, the waves, and Bran were gone. She lay in her chamber in Dragonstone, her quilt bunched at her waist. Her heart beat fast, but not with fear. There was a warmth curling in her chest, steady and bright, flowing from the bond she carried. It was as if the mark on her arm glowed from the inside.
For the first time in many nights, she did not feel so alone.
♣ ♥ ♠ ♦
Jaime’s smile did not reach his eyes. Jory eased a step forward, and Ned felt Mors set himself at his shoulder with a sound that was almost a growl.
“You mean to take me in the street,” Ned said. “In the king’s city. With witnesses enough to fill a sept. Think on what you do.”
“I have,” Jaime answered. “You hold my brother’s fate. I will have him back.”
“The Hand is not a purse to be snatched,” Jory said. His sword angled a hair higher.
“Careful, Cassel,” Jaime murmured without looking at him. “My patience is thinner than it was yesterday.”
Ned kept his gaze on the Kingslayer. “If your quarrel is with me, you come to the Keep, ask for audience, and speak where the law sits. You do not bring your personal house soldiers into the fish market to cause blood shed.”
“The law,” Jaime said, and for a heartbeat there was something tired in the word. “Your lady seized Tyrion at an inn and raised Riverland men to do it. It’s said that she called on half the room by name and had them draw steel. Was that the law, Stark?”
Ned felt the sting of it, then set it aside. “Catelyn was acting on my orders as Hand of the King. Either way, this is folly. Fighting will get us nowhere and ou know it.”
Jaime’s hand rested on his hilt in a way that was almost absent. “I do not need a square fight. I need you.”
“You think to drag me through the mud and hold me for ransom,” Ned said. “For a son of Tywin Lannister that is a peasant’s game.”
“For a brother it is simple,” Jaime replied. “Brandon Stark rode to King’s Landing when he thought a sister stolen. He called for Rhaegar in Aerys’s yard and demanded satisfaction. That was not wise. You do not speak of him as a fool.”
Ned felt old anger rise but he kept his voice even. “Brandon went to his death because of that ride. He brought our father to the flame. The Mad King used his pride to burn our family. You hold the man you stabbed in the back as justification and justice?”
Mors shifted again and the red cloaks moved in answer, a rustle like dry grass. The crowd on the far side of the lane hung back, curious eyes peering over baskets and barrels. Ned saw the writing on the wall as clearly as a chalk line on a board. Jaime had numbers, but not enough to storm the Red Keep, but more than enough to handle Ned and his men.
“You do this, and you make your house answer for it,” Ned said. “Your father can deny Catelyn before the court. He cannot deny you cutting down the king’s Hand in the street. This becomes a call of banners.”
Jaime’s look did not change. “You think I do not know my father. He will stomach this better than a son left to rot in an cell with no fair trial.”
“Tyrion is not rotting,” Ned said. “He is guarded and on his way to a hearing. I have sent a rider with my seal to the Vale already.”
“Your seal will not mend a broken neck if my brother trips on one of Arryn’s pretty bridges,” Jaime answered. He took two steps closer, easy as a man approaching a skittish horse. The red cloaks came with him, and Jory mirrored the move without needing a word. “I have heard enough promises for one reign.”
“Then hear sense,” Ned said. He could almost taste the salt off the harbor on his tongue, that and the iron of coming trouble. “If you draw here, you bring the Watch down on us all. You put me on my back or I put you on yours. Either end gives the realm a story that will result in war. The wiser course is this. You and I go to the Red Keep with a guard of both houses. We send at once to the Eyrie for terms. We settle it with the king, in daylight, with witnesses.”
“While your lady keeps marching him up goat paths,” Jaime said. His eyes flicked to Mors, as if weighing the Umber’s temper and counting the cost of lighting it. “No.”
“You would match Brandon’s rash ride and call it love,” Ned said. “You forget the gallows that came after.”
“I was there,” Jaime said, and for the first time there was heat in it. “I remember better than you think.”
They stood close enough now that Ned saw no wavering. The man had chosen his road.
Ned tried once more. “If you take me, Robert will not pardon it. Whatever you think of him, he will not have his Hand clapped in irons by Lannister men. You force his hand, mine and your father’s. There is still a path that keeps our swords sheathed. Take it.”
“You say a path. I say a delay. Every hour that passes is another hour my brother spends on the edge of a mountain. I will not sit a in a comfy chair and talk while he dangles over some Arryn cliff.” Jaime studied him a heartbeat longer, then shook his head. “I mean to leave here with you, Stark. I do not care whether it is on your feet or over a saddle.”
Mors took a half step that promised much. Ned lifted a hand and the Umber stopped, though not happily.
“Last chance,” Ned said. “Stand down. There is still a way to keep blood off the stones.”
“The stones are always hungry,” Jaime said. He looked past Ned to Jory. “Tell your men to lower their blades.”
Jory did not move. There was no speech left that would keep the peace. He set his feet, gave Jory the smallest nod he could, and lifted his voice so the line of red cloaks could hear him.
“Then we do what we must, and pray the realm does not burn for it.”
The first clang of steel split the morning air. Swords were already out, red cloaks pressing close, and the fishmongers and hawkers who had lingered scattered shrieking into the alleys.
A crossbow snapped from the rear rank of the Lannisters. Ned heard the sharp hiss before he saw Heward stagger back, eyes wide, a bolt jutting from his throat. He clawed at it, gurgling, then dropped to the stones. The red cloaks surged forward on the sound of his fall.
“Shields!” Jory barked, but they already on them.
Crowfood bellowed a sound that shook the dockside gulls from their posts. His axe came down on the first man to close, splitting half through helm and skull alike. Two more swarmed him, stabbing at his legs and shoulders, and he flung them off like children, swinging one by the collar straight into another. Both went sprawling, and he came on roaring, the axe sweeping arcs wide enough that no man dared take him head on alone.
Ned had no time to watch. A red cloak in front of him pressed in, his movements disciplined, his blade aimed high then low in testing feints. The man’s beard was black with silver streaks, his stance firm. Ned knew him from Cersei’s household.
“Tregar,” Ned said under his breath, steel ringing as he parried a hard cut toward his ribs.
The captain’s teeth bared in something close to a grin. “Stark.” His riposte came sharp, a thrust meant for the belly. Shiver deflected it to the ground, but the force ran up his arm.
Their men clashed around them. Jory had his sword out, locked already with the Kingslayer himself. The Kingslayer pressed fast and hard, his blade working like lightning . Jory’s face was tight with focus, his parries steady but barely keeping up.
The red cloaks still had numbers, a wall of crimson pressing against grey and mail. Yet their own crossbows, now useless in the crush, hung limp at their sides. Ned saw one trying to crank his string, then giving up as Mors thundered past, hurling another man into a stack of barrels that burst into fish and brine.
Tregar pressed him hard, his blade nicking Ned’s sleeve, the weight of each slash heavy. He fought like a soldier who had drilled, precise and without flourish. Ned gave ground once, then steadied. Ned cursed himself again, it was Brandon who was the warrior, it was he who would be at home in the crush.
Shiver hissed through the air as he turned a strike aside and caught the edge of Tregar’s trousers. The steel split leather and bit shallow into flesh. Tregar reeled back with a grunt, his hand flying to his leg as blood welled between his fingers.
Ned stepped forward, ready for the next stroke. The fight still raged on every side, the cries of wounded and the crash of steel echoing along the street. But Tregar was bleeding now, and that evened the field.
Ned’s sword arm ached, sweat stung his eyes, and still the press of red cloaks threatened to fold them under. His Grey Cloaks held their line, though the loss of Heward still weighed heavy, the boy’s blood still warm and soaking the cobblestone.
Ned caught sight of Jory through the melee. His captain moved with steady precision, his stance firm despite the fact that his foe was probably the best swordsman in Westeros. The Kingslayer fought as if born with a sword in his hand. The speed of it made most men falter, yet Jory did not. He met each strike stroke for stroke.
Yet he was not winning, Ned could see that clearly, but he was not breaking either. The Kingslayer’s lips curled into something almost like delight, a flash of teeth as he redoubled his efforts.
Ned’s breath caught as he glimpsed them locked blade to blade, hilt to hilt. Jory strained against the Kingslayer’s strength, then Jaime’s hand flicked to his belt. The Kingslayer’s dagger swung straight at Jory’s eye.
Ned’s mouth opened in warning, but another figure was already there.
Jon seemed to come out of nowhere as he seized Jaime’s wrist. The strength of it shocked the Kingslayer; he caught the Kingslayer mid-thrust, halting the dagger inches from Jory’s face.
For a heartbeat Ned thought Jon meant to reason with him. He had seen them together before, trading quiet words at the edge of the training yard and his son had nothing but good things to say about Jaime. For a moment he thought Jon would try to remind Jaime of that friendship.
Instead Jon’s head snapped forward, smashing into Jaime’s nose with a sickening crack.
The Kingslayer reeled, stumbling back three steps, the dagger clattering to the ground as his and Jory’s swords unlocked. His hand flew to his face, blood streaming between his fingers. “That was a rotten trick, bastard.”
Jon’s expression expressed clear exasperation as he kicked the fallen dagger into the press of bodies, far from Jaime’s grasp. “That is enough, Ser Jaime.”
Val burst into the melee, wildling styled axes that Jon had commissioned from Tobho Mott at the ready, no doubt to get herself covered in blood… yet again.
Three warriors followed behind her, each bearing shields painted with the sigil of the Laughing Tree. Their sudden arrival cut into the red cloaks like a hot knife through butter. Ned saw Mors Umber hesitate mid-swing, his face twisting in sudden shock at the sight of that old and secret emblem.
Then came the direwolf.
Ghost flowed into the fray, silent as ever. The sight alone broke the resolve of several red cloaks. They faltered, stepping back, unwilling to press against a beast out of legend.
Even Jaime froze a moment as his eyes fell on the direwolf’s crimson eyes. He looked back at Jon, chest heaving, and spat red into the dirt. “You are not the one giving orders here.”
Jon did not so much as blink. “Do not think this wrist is enough to stop me from knocking you out like a lullaby.”
Jaime’s attention had narrowed to Jon as the fighting had all but stopped. Blood still trickled from his nose where Jon’s head had broken it, and the Kingslayer wiped it away with the back of his hand, smiling in a way that did not reach his eyes.
“You want to know what this is?” Jaime said, circling a step as though the fight around them had become background noise. His sword hung loose in his hand, but there was tension in his shoulders. “Your lady mother… no, my mistake, your father’s wife… saw fit to seize my brother. Bold as you like. In front of half the realm. Dragged him off like a trussed boar. Did she think the lions would just watch from the den?”
His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but his stance betrayed the itch in him. He wanted Jon to rise, to step forward, to give him the excuse of blades crossed.
Jon’s jaw tightened, but he did not answer at once. Instead, he turned his head toward Ned, his eyes demanding an explanation.
Ned’s mouth was dry, but he forced the words out. “Catelyn acted on what she knew. She was still under the impression Tyrion had a hand in Bran’s fall and it was his knife the Catspaw carried. She had him taken to the Eyrie.”
At the name of Bran, Jon’s expression hardened. He turned back to Jaime, his voice clipped. “Someone tried to murder my brother.”
For the first time since the fighting began, Jaime faltered. He turned pale, though his grin did not wholly vanish. “The boy fell.” His tone carried a touch of defensiveness.
“No. After we left Winterfell. A catspaw crept into his chamber with a Valyrian steel dagger.”
Ned caught the brief flicker in Jaime’s eyes, something like recognition. The Kingslayer’s smile vanished and his voice lost its mocking tone. “With a dragon bone hilt.”
Jon gave a quizzical head tilt. “Aye. Littlefinger told Lady Catelyn he lost it in a wager to Tyrion during our Joust.”
“Tyrion never would have wagered against me. Never. Not even if he thought I was bound to lose. He loves me too much.” His voice was quieter now, but more dangerous for it.
Jon’s stare did not waver. “Aye. Littlefinger framed your brother for murder.”
The words hung between them.
“Walk away Jaime.” Jon warned, “You owe me for Tysha.”
The Kingslayer visibly flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking…”
“I am not a fool and neither is Tyrion. The only reason he believed that crock of shit story is because you vouched for your father.” Jon said, “It wouldn’t be much of a push to get him to figure out the truth. I never said anything to protect you.”
Jaime looked both guilty and furious, yet he pulled his men back with a sharp gesture, his gold hair darkened with sweat and blood both. The red cloaks gathered, wary eyes flicking from Ghost to the men with the weirwood shields who had joined the fray. Jaime’s voice cut through the clamor like a drawn blade.
“You had better see that my brother comes to no harm, Stark,” he said, “If a hair falls from Tyrion’s head, I will see you pay for it in kind.”
He did not wait for an answer. He turned, his cloak swirling behind him, and the red cloaks followed, dragging their wounded with them.
Jon was at Ned’s side in moments, his eyes searching his face. “Are you hurt?”
Ned shook his head. “No. I am well enough.”
Jory wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his glove, grim but standing. The other grey cloaks were gathering, checking wounds, counting heads. Heward lay still where he had fallen, the crossbow bolt buried deep in his throat, his eyes already glassy.
A lad with one of the weirwood shields ran up to Wyll, who had grown pale but was still breathing. The boy dropped to his knees without hesitation, pressing cloth against the leg wound as if he had tended battlefields before.
Ned’s eyes narrowed as he took in the shield. White, painted with the image of a laughing tree. His voice was quiet, but there was steel in it. “Jon. Who are these men? And why do they carry that sigil?”
“They are mine. Men of my household.”
Ned’s brows drew together. “Your household?”
Jon nodded once. “King Robert told me to begin gathering men of my own. He said a lord without men is no lord at all. He said I would be getting Moat Cailin.”
That much Ned already knew. The plan had been Ned’s, to give Jon something of his own while keeping him close to the North. But the shields… those troubled him.
“The laughing tree,” Ned pressed. “Why that sigil?”
Jon’s gaze shifted, flicking toward Ghost before returning to his father. “The king had it made after I saved Mya Stone. He called it fitting, said the laughing tree had returned. At first I thought it a jest, but then when King Robert… let slip what he did after the joust...”
Ned felt an ache in his chest at memory. “And you chose to keep it?”
“It was a gift and I will not shame such a gift, especially from a king. If I must found a house, better it be tied to family than to nothing at all.”
Around them, the street was littered with the wounded and the dead. Jaime’s threat still echoed in Ned’s ears, but the laughing tree burned in his sight like a memory that refused to die.
Jory was steady on his feet, though bruised, and Wyll groaned softly as the boy with the weirwood shield tightened a bandage around his leg.
Mors Umber stood apart from the others, his axe still resting against one shoulder, his chest heaving. He was staring, though not at the wounded or the retreating enemy. His eyes had fixed on Val.
She stood slightly behind Jon in her plain training garb, Ghost prowling at her side. The look in his Mors’ eyes was something between disbelief and recognition, as though he had seen a ghost in the middle of King’s Landing. But Val gave no sign she noticed, merely scratching Ghost behind the ears to keep him calm, as the throng of people looked at the beast nervously.
Jon stepped forward, wiping a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his still bound wrist, but his voice was steady when he spoke. “Father. You should know the men who fight under me now.”
He gestured first to the tall knight who stood with his helm under one arm. “This is Ser Keat of Sunflower Hall. He holds the Captain slot. We crossed blades in the crown prince’s tourney melee last year.”
Ser Keat bowed his head slightly. His mail was scuffed, but he carried himself with the discipline of a seasoned fighter. What struck Ned most was the weapon in his hand. Not a sword, but a spear of ash wood tipped with steel. It was unusual, a knight outside of the Neck or Dorne favoring a weapon the marsh folk loved best.
“You keep to the spear?” Ned asked.
Keat’s voice was calm, almost wry. He had clearly heard this line of questioning before. “It keeps a man alive longer than a sword does, if he knows the measure of it. My grandsire swore it saved him thrice in War of the Ninepenny Kings. I see no reason to trade it away.”
Jon pointed next to the boy crouched at Wyll’s side, his hands stained with blood but moving with practiced care. “That one is Aeden Graves. His father was a landed knight under House Hightower. Aeden went to the Citadel to forge his chain, but he was… asked to leave before he could finish. He carries his silver link still. He knows enough about wounds to keep men breathing.”
Aeden glanced up at Ned, cheeks flushed, but his hands never stilled on the bandage he was tying. “I learned more in the yards than the libraries, my lord. The Archmaesters said my hours were better spent elsewhere.”
Between the quickness of his fingers and the focus in his eyes, whatever his failings at the Citadel, the boy had no hesitation when it came to blood and bone.
“And the last?” Ned asked.
Jon’s gaze flicked to the lean figure leaning against the wall, arms folded. The man had not spoken once, his dark hair tied back, a thin scar running from his temple to his jaw. He had fought with a stiletto blade, like Needle.
“Corsair,” Jon said simply.
Corsair tilted his head in acknowledgment but said nothing more.
Ned let his gaze move over the three of them, then back to Jon. “You have chosen widely.” His voice dropped lower. “But they carry the laughing tree.”
Jon’s jaw tightened, but he stood firm. “They do. They swore to me, and I gave them my banner to follow. If I am to build a house, it will not be rootless.”
Ned’s response was cut off by an irate Val
“What do you want, One-Eye!”
Ned’s eyes snapped to Mors. The giant of a man still had not looked away from Val. Ned was startled by the edge in her tone. The insult should have drawn a snarl at the insolent girl, but the great bear of a man only blinked at her, his broad chest heaving as if she had struck him.
“You have been staring at me since I got here,” Val pressed, her azure eyes blazing. “I know you southerners are not used to fighting women, but I will not be looked at like some strange beast.”
Mors’s mouth opened, then shut again. Then, to Ned’s shock, the old warrior’s face crumpled. A ragged sound tore from his throat and before anyone could speak tears welled in his one good eye.
Ned’s breath caught. Mors Umber had fought like a storm, had lived through more winters than most men dared count. He was as hard and unyielding as the North itself. To see him undone, here in the filthy streets of King’s Landing, brought Ned up short.
Val faltered, her scowl slipping. She turned her head toward Jon, confusion plain on her face. “What is wrong with him?” she asked, somewhat guiltily.
Jon looked as bewildered as she did, but Mors found his voice before either of them could answer. He took a stumbling step forward, “Karsi?”