Chapter Text
It had been many long years since Jon last walked the streets of King’s Landing. Even so, his memory of the place had endured with startling vividness, and the stench that greeted his party as they neared the walls of the city was all too familiar.
The capital was impressive, in its way. Even Jon could not deny that. It was huge, for one thing, easily ten times the size of White Harbor, with a web of apparently unending streets that spiralled and doubled back on themselves with no apparent plan or pattern. All told, these streets held the better part of half a million souls, with hundreds more spilling beyond the city walls into a scattered collection of ramshackle shantytowns. But above it all – above the clamour of the docks and the swarming flies of Flea Bottom; above the reek of salt, sweat, and sewage, all baking in the southron sun – rose the three hills.
Named for Aegon and his sister-brides, they dominated the horizon, each capped with crowns of stone. To the north, the Hill of Rhaenys, surmounted by the blackened ruins of the Dragonpit; to the west, Visenya’s Hill, the Great Sept of Baelor and its towers of crystal winking upon her brow like a gilded circlet. And to the southeast, atop the hill named for the Conqueror himself, was…
Well. Jon’s new home.
The Red Keep was fashioned from great blocks of pale red stone that almost shone in the morning light. It was larger than Jon remembered – or perhaps only more intimidating – with high curtain walls, thick parapets, and seven massive towers topped with ramparts of iron. From where it sat at the summit of Aegon’s High Hill, the castle commanded a view of the entire city, of every spindling street and crooked little alleyway, its hulking form a silent threat.
Somehow, it reminded him of a spider. A very large spider, at the centre of a very large web, all twitching legs and dripping mandibles. Many-eyed and waiting.
‘Is it as you remember it?’
His uncle’s voice shook him from his thoughts. Blinking, Jon swivelled his head to look at him, but the Lord Stark was looking at the castle straight ahead of them. He followed his gaze, and a ripple of movement drew his eye up towards the battlements, where the black banners of House Targaryen hung flapping in the breeze.
‘Aye. It is.’ After a weighty pause, Jon snorted through his nose. ‘Big, red, and ugly.’
At that, Ned laughed – a rare enough sound from him in the weeks since King Rhaegar’s summons. It almost took Jon by surprise.
Alongside Jon and his uncle travelled a small retinue of ten men-at-arms and a handful of servants. They were northmen all, dark of hair and broad of shoulder, and the people of King’s Landing did nothing to hide their stares as they rode into the city proper and made through the busy streets. Jon paid them no heed, or tried not to, and reminded himself of the advice Robb had given him the day of his departure from Winterfell.
Back straight. Head high. Be proud, Jon, of who you are.
It was good advice. But it had been easier to hear when surrounded by the comforts of home.
By the time they reached the castle barbican, it wasn’t yet noon and the weather was already unbearably hot. This did nothing to improve Jon’s mood. He was practically boiling inside his leather cuirass, sweat coating his brow and stinging his eyes, the beginnings of a headache looming behind his temples. As he passed beneath the immense portcullis before him, he found himself hoping that it wasn’t his father waiting to receive him on the other side; he was in no fit state to see anyone, let alone the king.
To Jon’s relief, it was only the royal steward who greeted them: a thin, pallid streak of a man, with a soft, beardless face that was washed out badly against the black-and-red of his doublet. He didn’t recognise him, but his station was made plain enough by the colour of his garb and the three-headed dragon pinned to his collar. With him were a handful of servants, and two neat rows of Gold Cloaks standing to attention on either side of the gateway.
The steward bowed, and his attendants followed suit; Jon felt the throbbing at his temples intensify, staring at the white line of the man’s parting.
‘My lord Prince – the Red Keep welcomes you home. His Grace rejoices at your safe return.’ He straightened then, looking up with a benevolent smile. ‘The Warden of the North is, likewise, ever welcome in our halls; Lord Stark, House Targaryen is honoured to extend to you its hospitality.’
‘Thank you, Ser Rosby,’ said his uncle, climbing down from his horse.
Ser Rosby, Jon noted. His would be a useful name to know.
‘My prince,’ the steward went on, attention focused on him once again. ‘His Grace eagerly awaits your long-appointed reunion, but he has commanded that I first see to your comforts. Shall I take you to your chambers?’
Jon realised with a start that he had not yet spoken. Glancing over his shoulder, he asked, ‘What of my men?’
‘They shall be seen to, of course,’ replied Ser Rosby, still smiling. His pale eyes reminded Jon of a lizard’s; it was as if the man kept forgetting to blink.
‘Make sure they are,’ Ned put in. ‘These men rode hard.’
As he spoke, he came to stand by Jon’s horse, holding it by the reins to let him dismount. He quickly got down, and took a moment to reach up and pet the creature’s neck.
‘You have my word,’ the steward replied. ‘Lord Stark, your quarters have been prepared, as well. If you would both please follow me.’
They passed into the inner bailey through a second smaller portcullis. Now off his horse and back on his own two feet, Jon took the opportunity to look around and properly orient himself: the Grand Hall, the kitchens, the armoury, the kennels. Even though he’d been away for years, now that he was here again he found the place was slowly coming back to him.
At that moment, the steward stopped and smoothly turned to face them. ‘Lord Stark, you will be situated in our guest quarters for the duration of your stay. I trust you will be comfortable. My chamberlain will see you there.’
The man in question appeared from behind them with a graceful bow. Had he been following them all this time, Jon wondered? Or did Ser Rosby just have men everywhere?
‘Very well,’ Ned replied. But before he left, he looked briefly to his nephew, a question writ on his features. Jon gave a faint smile, nodding his head, and with that Lord Stark left.
Rosby led the way down the serpentine steps, through the lower bailey, and over the dry moat into Maegor’s Holdfast. This place – this enormous, thick-walled fortress, lurking in the depths of the Red Keep – Jon remembered well. After all, he had spent most of his childhood years here.
Rush mats covered the floors, filling the air with the same sweet, herbaceous smell he remembered from his youth. The scent awoke a distant memory: chasing Aegon through the corridors on short, pudgy legs, in a round of some childish game. The same dusty suits of armour that now stood watch over the halls had frightened him then, looming dark and terrible over his tiny form, and he was always sure to give them a wide berth lest he find himself clutched in gauntleted fists. He allowed himself a rueful smile at the thought.
It seemed the place itself had barely changed, he thought; it was only everything else that had.
At last, they arrived at his chambers. Following a few abortive attempts to initiate conversation, Rosby had been blessedly silent for the duration of their walk, but Jon was still relieved he would finally have some time alone. He very much doubted he would have many such opportunities in the weeks to come.
The steward held the door for him and Jon went inside, drawing to an immediate halt not five feet past the threshold. For a moment, all he could do was stand there, staring.
In Winterfell, his quarters had been rather humble. A single small window let in what little sunshine fell upon the surrounding tundra, and even the brightest days of summer were not enough to chase the shadows from the corners of the room. It was already a small space, and that darkness made it feel smaller still, drawing the walls and ceiling in close about the creaky old bed. But Jon had not minded. In fact, he had rather liked it; that feeling of being cocooned from the cold world outside, wrapped up small and safe by the glow of the fire and a dozen sputtering candles.
The royal apartments were entirely different. And while Jon still held some distant memories of them – of their many interconnected rooms, their Myrrish rugs and fine furnishings – he found himself completely unprepared to see them in person.
Walking inside, he found himself in a bright and airy solar, arrayed with elaborately carved wooden furniture that had all been polished to a dull gleam. Elaborate lattice doors opened out onto a sun-bathed balcony, framed by gauzy drapes of the finest silk. Before them stood a plush couch, perfectly positioned to take in the sweeping view of the Blackwater, and a small table laden with silver bowls of fruit, a platter of lemon cakes, and a delicate crystal carafe of something dark and red.
Rosby spoke. ‘I trust you will find everything to your liking, my prince. Every effort has been made to ensure your comfort.’
‘It’s…’ Jon paused. ‘Big.’
There was a brief silence. Evidently, this was not the response the steward had been expecting.
‘Please, help yourself to the refreshment provided, my prince. Presently, I shall introduce you to your household staff, who will help you prepare for your audience with the king. If you require—’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Jon cut in, turning back around to face him.
Rosby looked uncertain. ‘I see. You have brought servants of your own?’
‘No.’
‘Then, my prince—’
‘It won’t be necessary,’ he said again, firmer this time. After a beat, he inclined his head in a polite nod, his gaze levelled on the other man. ‘Thank you for your gracious welcome, Ser Rosby. Please, have someone bring me water for bathing. I will call on you when I am ready to meet with my father.’
Pale eyes blinked at him. Then, the steward bowed. ‘As you wish, my prince.’ He left, closing the door gently behind him.