The wide streets around the base of Aegon's Hill kept the stone paving swept and levelled. The smell of warm bread and imported spices replaced the cold breeze of the castle courtyard. The noise of the lower city was muffled here, exchanged for the sound of well-groomed horses and wealthy merchants' carts.
I pushed the heavy polished oak door of the inn. The wide hall showed colourful tapestries on stone walls and two large hearths burning in opposite corners. The smell of hot wine with cloves and roasted meat dominated the clean air. Men in thick silk tunics and knights with freshly painted shields spoke in moderate tones around round tables.
I crossed the waxed plank floor. My boots with traces of road mud stood out against the thick carpet covering the broad staircase steps.
The brass handle of my room turned without producing sound.
Fenrir raised his head from the thick clean rug in the center of the room. The wolf struck his tail against the floor twice. Hela tracked the door's movement from the top of the solid mahogany wardrobe, blinking her feline eyes in the room's light.
Perseu kept his back against the tapestry beside the wide window. Belzakar cleaned the silver buckles of his own boot with a damp cloth. Morghaz sat on the edge of the bed of white linen sheets, running a whetstone along the metal edge of the spear in long, rhythmic strokes. Kevin threw a clean knife at the ceiling and caught it by the handle, following the steel's spin with half-closed eyes.
"Did the smoke convince the king?" Kevin asked. He drove the knife into the top of the center table with a dry blow.
"Aerys demanded that Toyne's sigil hang on the city gate," I replied. I released the belt buckle and lay the heavy leather with Truth and the dagger on the smooth wood of the table. "The City Watch will ride to the forest to collect the bones from the pyre. As far as the Crown is concerned, the Brotherhood is dead."
Morghaz stopped the whetstone. The rough scraping against the steel ceased.
"And the ship in the cove?" the dark-skinned warrior asked, keeping his eyes on the spear blade.
"The smuggler demanded to look at his family before tying his neck to our agreement," I confirmed. I walked to the silver jug on the sideboard. "The answer will come tomorrow, before the tide fills."
Perseu pushed off the wall. The creak of the dark leather of his shoulder plates sounded low.
"We are confined until dawn, then," Perseu noted.
"Clean the soot and earth from the armour," I ordered. I poured fresh water from the silver jug into a metal cup. "Rhaegar Targaryen will send an invitation. The royal wedding will take place in a few days. The prince's seal will guarantee entry for you into the banquet at the Red Keep."
Belzakar dropped the cloth on the upholstered chair.
Kevin pulled the knife from the table wood. The corner of the archer's mouth rose, pulling the skin of his face into a wide smile.
"Lords' food," Kevin said, balancing the blade on his wrist. "Castle wine. At least our wait in this capital will yield well-roasted meat before we go back to sea and snow."
I turned the cold water from the cup down my throat. The liquid went down washing the dryness of the streets and the smoke from the Great Hall hearth. I struck the metal cup base against the sideboard with a dry crack.
I walked to my pack thrown in the corner of the room. I pulled a leather pouch of silver coins and tied the laces to the side of my trousers.
"Enjoy the high fire and the inn meat today," I said, pulling the hood back over my head. "I will return to the streets."
Morghaz took his eyes from the spear edge.
"Checking the forges again?" the warrior asked.
"Looking for a gift for the bride," I replied, resting my hand on the door latch. "The entire North will be measured by what I deliver. Bastard or not, I carry Winterfell's banner in this city. Entering the Great Hall empty-handed would make my band appear lesser than the Southern lords."
Hela yawned at the top of the wardrobe, stretching her front claws into the wood. I turned the brass handle and pulled the door back into the corridor. The sound of the inn's noble hall filled my ears again.
The heavy parchment arrived by the hands of a Crown messenger the following morning. The red wax seal showed the three-headed dragon pressed at the center. The smooth paper with perfect edges bore my name and the entry permission for my escort.
The morning of the wedding arrived cold. The flames burned high in the inn room's hearth, crackling the dry wood.
I pulled the laces of my grey wool doublet. The fine, close-woven fabric wrapped my torso. The weave repelled the Southern fashion of gold thread and gemstones. The grey face bore the direwolf stitched in silver thread on the left chest. I fastened the heavy dark fur cloak at my shoulders with two polished silver buckles.
I pulled the leather belt to my waist. Truth's midnight-blue leather sheath found the left hip. The worked hilt with bands of deep blue and bright silver, together with the multifaceted sapphire pommel, contrasted sharply with the austerity of my Northern clothes.
Perseu tightened the straps of his own plate of midnight-blue boiled leather. Morghaz adjusted his freshly treated leather tunic and brushed wolf furs, fixing the polished bronze bracers on his thick forearms. Belzakar and Kevin tied blackened metal bracers over doublets of absolute black suede and immaculate white linen shirts.
I walked to the center table. Two boxes rested on the smooth wood. The smaller one, of dark carved wood with a polished brass clasp, fit in one hand. The second box was over a meter long. Perseu stepped forward and lifted the long structure. The carving on the solid wood lid showed detailed scales and dragon wings contorting in a battle sculpted in relief.
I held the smaller box in my right hand.
The descent to the street put us directly into the dense flow of heavy carriages, groomed horses and coloured cloaks marching toward Visenya's Hill.
The midday sun struck the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. The white marble courtyard surrounding the sacred building was taken over by the delegations of Westeros's great houses.
The interior of the sept smelled of heavy incense and perfumed wax. The circular walls rose high, culminating in stained-glass windows that projected red, green, and golden lights onto the polished limestone floor. Thousands of nobles occupied the oak pews. We held position in the rows furthest from the marble altar, wrapped in the shadows cast by the gigantic statues of the Seven Gods.
Elia Martell's march dragged down the central aisle. The Princess of Dorne walked at a slow pace. She wore the maiden's cloak, a heavy cape of vibrant orange silk embroidered with the sun and spear in thick gold threads. Prince Doran Martell supported his sister's right arm, guiding her walk across the stones to the base of the altar. Rhaegar Targaryen waited at the top of the steps, dressed in black and red.
The High Septon raised his wrinkled hands. The crystal crown weighed on his thin, white hair. The choir voices ceased immediately, leaving only the echo in the vaulted ceiling.
"Who comes before the gods to bind these two souls in one flesh, one heart and one soul?" the High Septon's voice thundered against the cold stone.
"I, Doran of House Martell," the Dornish prince answered, his drawn accent cutting through the crowd's silence. "I give my sister."
Elia knelt on the marble steps. Doran unhooked the copper brooch on her right shoulder. He pulled the orange cloak, removing House Martell's colors from the woman. The Prince of Dorne stepped back, folding the heavy fabric over his own arm.
Rhaegar descended a step. The heir opened a black cloak embroidered with the three-headed dragon of rubies at the front of the chest. He advanced and settled the dark fabric over Elia's slight shoulders, covering her back with House Targaryen's colors.
The prince held the princess's face in both hands and helped her to rise.
"With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my wife," Rhaegar said. His voice came out clean and perfectly projected in the vast space of the sept.
Elia raised her chin. Her dark eyes held the Targaryen's gaze.
"With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my husband," she replied, her voice lower.
Rhaegar inclined his neck and kissed the princess's lips.
"One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever," the High Septon declared, lowering his arms to the sides of his body.
The sept's crystal bell tolled loud, marking the end of the sacred rite. The sharp sound escaped through the open ceiling and descended down the hill. The conversations began to fill the space again.
At my side, Perseu held both arms firm around the long box with the dragon engravings. The metal of the latches reflected the altar candles. In my hands, the smaller box rested closed.
The lords and ladies began to rise from the pews, sweeping the silks along the central corridor toward the double doors of the sept.
The procession toward the Red Keep took the streets. We followed the dense flow descending the hill and climbing the opposite slope. The capital showed clean banners and bonfires along the main paving.
The castle's inner courtyard seethed under the light of hundreds of torches fixed to the high walls. Royal guards in white cloaks and enamelled armour flanked the steps leading to the double doors of solid oak and bronze.
A line of nobles waited for entry. At the front of the open doors, a herald in a black and red tunic struck the base of a long iron staff against the limestone floor. The man's voice thundered above the noise of the carriages outside.
"Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches and Protector of the South! Lady Alerie Tyrell! And Lady Olenna Tyrell!" the herald announced into the hall's interior.
The lord of the Reach advanced. The velvet green cloak dragged over the limestone, heavy with golden roses stitched into the fabric. On his right flank, the elderly woman walked at hard steps, leaning her weight on a dark wood cane. Olenna Tyrell moved her face from side to side. The wrinkles creased the skin of her pointed chin as her small eyes swept the tables. To Mace's left, Alerie Tyrell maintained a straight spine. The silver threads in her hair shone beneath the torchlight, braided with small rings of pure gold.
Rhaegar Targaryen waited near the entrance to the main dais. The prince wore fitted black silk, with rubies set in the dragon on his chest. He took short steps forward to receive the family. Mace Tyrell quickened his pace. The Lord of Highgarden's round face flushed immediately. His cheeks took on a strong red tone and his chest puffed under the velvet.
I advanced to the door frame. I handed the parchment with the dragon seal to the steward positioned beside the herald. The man checked the broken wax, read the letters on the thick paper and whispered in the announcer's ear. The herald paused for a fraction of a second, tightened his fingers on the staff and struck the iron on the stones with a sharp crack.
"Arthur Snow, Son of Rickard Stark, Lord of the North, the Demonwolf, and the Wolfpack!" the thick voice announced.
We crossed the doors. The heat of the great hearths and the smell of roasted meat, cloves and sweet wine struck my face.
The mention of Winterfell's blood joined with the mercenary title cut through the murmur of the front rows. The sound of silver cups against wood stopped on the hall's left flank. Lords of the Stormlands and knights of the Reach turned their necks.
Men twisted their lips, the disdain for the bastard surname leaking through their hard expressions. The women, however, reacted to the visual contrast. Ladies from Southern houses raised silk fans to cover their whispers. The candelabra light struck directly on my face, illuminating the mixture of platinum and black threads falling over the cloak, and the absolute contrast of my irises: the left eye deep violet, the right eye icy grey.
The majesty of my sword broke the austerity of the Northern grey wool. Truth's spiral hilt and the brilliant sapphire on the pommel drew the torchlight, reflecting in the midnight-blue leather dotted with silver filigree of the sheath. Behind me, the Wolfpack marched with military precision. No dented armour, no step out of cadence.
The carved wooden box remained firm in my hand, while Perseu held the dragon-carved case against his dark leather armour.
Rhaegar heard the herald's echo. The prince stopped talking, shifted his eyes from Mace Tyrell's flushed face and turned his chin toward the great central corridor.
The Targaryen's violet eyes found mine across the crowded hall. A contained smile marked the heir's lips. He gave Mace Tyrell a short nod, asked leave with a polite murmur and turned on his heels. The Lord of the Reach blinked twice, his shoulders dropping slightly as the expression wilted on his flushed face.
Rhaegar walked directly toward me. The soft boot soles vanished beneath the musicians' playing, but the sound of the steel scales marked each of the prince's steps. Ser Arthur Dayne marched one step behind Rhaegar's right shoulder. Dawn's pale sheath kept pace with the white plates' movement.
The lords at the side tables fell silent and watched. Rhaegar stopped a meter away.
"Arthur Snow," Rhaegar greeted. His voice kept the formal, polished tone of a prince before his court, without the informality of empty courtyards, but the nod indicated familiarity. "I am pleased you accepted the invitation. The North makes itself present in this hall tonight."
"The honour is mine, Your Grace," I replied. I inclined my chin in a short movement, maintaining my posture straight before the gazes of hundreds of nobles.
Ser Arthur Dayne stopped beside the heir. The Sword of the Morning's violet eyes descended from my face, ignored my rustic clothes and fixed on the multifaceted sapphire on Truth's pommel. The white knight studied the silver work for long seconds. His breathing kept its slow rhythm. Dayne raised his head and gave a silent nod of recognition. I returned the nod in equal measure.
"Your sword helped ensure the safety of the delegations that travelled to the capital," Rhaegar continued, projecting his voice enough for the nearby tables to hear the reason for the royal deference to a bastard and his band. "The Crown thanks you for the service rendered on the roads."
I raised the smaller box slightly with both hands. Perseu held the long structure motionless at my back.
"I carry Lord Rickard Stark's banner tonight," I said. "And I bring gifts from the North for the Princess of Dorne."
Rhaegar lowered his eyes to the carved wood and the dragon scales on Perseu's box.
"The princess waits at the main dais," the prince replied, indicating the royal table with a contained gesture of his right hand. "Follow me."
Rhaegar started the march back down the central carpet. Ser Arthur Dayne turned on his heels, the white armour hissing as he assumed the rearguard. I tightened my fingers on the box brass, advancing with my escort down the corridor opened between the Southern lords.
The wooden dais at the far end of the hall raised the royal table above the sea of guests. I climbed the short access steps. The heat of the iron candelabras struck hard against my fur cloak.
Rhaegar stopped beside his wife's chair. Elia Martell kept her fine hands crossed in her lap. The thin orange silk dress highlighted the princess's olive-toned skin.
"Elia," Rhaegar called, his polished voice rising above the musicians' playing. "This is Arthur Snow, the blood of Winterfell who cleared the forests so our wedding delegations could arrive safely."
Elia raised her face. The princess's features showed delicacy and a pale, shadowed tiredness under her dark eyes. She opened a calm smile.
"The South owes gratitude to your sword, Lord Snow," Elia said. Her voice came down soft and gentle, free of the cutting sharpness of most Southern nobles. "The lords of the capital forget the weight of closed roads with ease. Be welcome at our banquet."
"The honour is mine, Princess," I replied.
Elia turned her neck toward the lady-in-waiting seated at her left. The two had been sharing a cup of wine at the end of the table before our march had interrupted the conversation.
"We were discussing the rigour of winter and the customs of the houses beyond the Neck," Elia continued, indicating the woman beside her with a soft gesture of her fingers. "This is my closest lady-in-waiting."
The woman turned her face.
Long dark hair fell in smooth, heavy cascades over pale lavender silk. She raised her chin. Her eyes found mine immediately. They were large, vivid and of a deep violet tone, striking as rough-cut stones held against torchlight.
A single, heavy beat echoed against my ribs. The air locked at the base of my throat for one entire second. The absolute logic, the numbers and the cold empirical reason that had governed my previous life as a scientist, added to all the eons of hollow peace in the Elysian Fields, held no variable capable of preparing my body for that sudden weight in my chest. My fingers tightened on the box brass without my ordering them to. The sound of the harps, the distant drums and the clash of thousands of silver cups in the entire hall sank beneath the echo of my own pulse.
The woman followed the difference in my irises. A long smile pulled the corners of her lips.
"Ashara Dayne," she introduced herself. The voice came out clear, carrying an absolute confidence that filled the space between us. "It is a pleasure to meet the man who brings peace back to the gates of our city, Arthur."
I forced my breathing back to its normal cadence. The cold air descended through my lungs. I eased the pressure of my fingers on the box.
"The pleasure is mine, Lady Ashara," I replied. My voice came out straight and controlled, concealing the failure of my own body. "The stories about the beauties of the South do not do justice to the reality of the castle."
Princess Elia covered her lips with the tips of her fingers, concealing a contained smile. Ashara kept her violet eyes fixed on mine, holding the eye contact without blinking.
"Allow me to present the men who share the weight of the road with me," I said, cutting the silent tension. I turned my shoulders, indicating the armed group with my free thumb. "Perseu, Belzakar, Kevin and Morghaz."
Perseu lowered his head in a short military nod, keeping the long dragon box secure against his dark leather breastplate. Morghaz inclined his great height in respect. Belzakar brought his right hand to his chest. Kevin widened a quick, polished smile, measuring the dais with an archer's sharp eyes.
"The North walks well accompanied," Elia observed, nodding to the escort.
I shifted my face. Ser Arthur Dayne held position at the rear of the heir to the throne, just behind his sister's shoulder. The white armour reflected the flames of the large hearth at the back.
The Kingsguard knight's eyes left Ashara's face and found my features. The mail-gloved hand rested loose at his side. The corner of the Sword of the Morning's mouth rose, creasing the hard skin of his face in a discreet, knowing half-smile. The knight spoke no word, simply adjusted his bearing and restored the rigid sentinel's mask in the blink of an eye.