Jon III

Folk at the gates named the ship the Iron Victory. It was captained by Lord Victarion Greyjoy, who now held Pyke, for old Balon had no living sons, but a daughter only, and the ironmen wouldn't bend their knee to such. The new lord of the Iron Islands brought his brother Euron and his principal bannermen, all to swear to the king. Lord Harlaw in particular was notable, but there were also Orkmonts, Goodbrothers, and Botleys about, among others.

"No living sons," Jon muttered.

When they returned from the survey trip, the prince dismissed him and headed straight to the "model room," where a new version of Aegon the Dragon's painted table was being constructed, this time not for conquest, but for building. The Rosby Road was only just the start. His master Joffrey stated boldly that the highway would continue onward to Duskendale, with a vassal road to Stokeworth, and from there all the way to Maidenpool. Towns and villages would be planted like crops up and down its length, and every one would have a tower house for a landed knight, at a minimum. In time, these knights might be raised to lords in truth, if their holdings grew peopled enough to warrant it.

It went unsaid, but there was an implication that one such holdfast was intended for him. Jon wasn't stupid. He was to be the queen's brother, and honors, titles, and lands would be found for him. "You can choose your own name," Joffrey told him, "pick out your own sigil, words, the lot. Something that calls attention to your Stark blood would be best, but ultimately the decision is up to you."

Jon would have living sons, trueborn, with a noble lady for a mother. His eyes grew misty at the thought. In this, he was luckier than Lord Balon.

Theon Greyjoy was no friend of his. Proud he was, and fond of naming Jon bastard in his hearing, but the man died well. The first time they encountered a giant, the wolves went mad at the scent, slavering and snapping like hellhounds. Theon, thinking quickly, put arrows in its eyes, blinding the hairy mountain. The creature's rage proved terrible, swinging a club thick as a treetrunk in wild arcs. It was Greyjoy's misfortune to be within reach. There wasn't enough left of the man to bury. The men of his house had more courage than sense, Jon supposed; how else did they dare to rise against Robert alone?

Upon reaching his chambers, Jon dipped his hands in the basin to wash off the dust from the road. A servant had already changed the rushes, and there was a lit brazier to warm the room, he noted with approval. Here, in the Tower of the Hand, Jon was treated near as well as a trueborn Stark. Well, mayhaps not as well as Sansa, who was mistress of all. She was kinder to him now, and they shared more than ever he would've imagined, for he belonged to the prince as much as she did.

Speaking of the prince, all Jon's clean doublets had Baratheon badges now, and he chose one of golden samite, finer than anything he'd ever worn at Winterfell. The black stag on his breast announced to all whom Jon served. There was a longsword hanging from his belt, sharp steel gifted to him on his nameday. Father told him the finest master smith in the Street of Steel spent a week in its forging. Ghost, silent as ever, padded at his side as Jon left to seek Arya.

Arya, little sister Arya, had begged off from the trip to Rosby, though she'd been invited. Usually, she'd never say no to such an adventure, but dancing took priority. Every night, she talked of it, the water dance, swordplay of the bravos of the free cities, and every day she practiced for hours, doing queer training Jon had never heard of in any yard with a proper master-at-arms. She jumped and climbed and chased, standing upon one toe, balancing on a beam, and more. Only Prince Joffrey's moves seemed stranger. They'd actually shared a few, and more than once, he'd caught Arya doing "pullups" or an "ab circuit".

She was eleven now, nearly twelve, and had been studying the blade for the better part of a year. That girl had more muscles than a lady ought to have, but none questioned it. None ever questioned. The Starks were high in favor at court and like to stay that way. Father had greater cares.

Soon enough, the clack-clack of wooden swords echoing in the halls told him he was close. She and Master Syrio trained heedless of the hour, missing meals at times.

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When Jon entered the large chamber where Arya received her instruction, there was another woman there. Long-legged and older, but pretty enough, with short black hair and breeches. She wore a simple tunic with the kraken of House Greyjoy blazoned in golden thread across the chest.

One of the visitors, Jon thought.

Arya and Syrio danced, and it looked very much like a dance, lunging and parrying quick as cats. Amusement danced in the older woman's eyes, and something else when she caught him staring.

"Oho, and who is this?" she teased. "Could it be our golden prince? Come to visit your wolf-girl, is it? The tales named you handsome." She sauntered over to him, quite unafraid of Ghost, and rested a hand on his shoulder. It lingered there, and from her touch something warm and tingly spread through Jon's body. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "The tales told it true."

He was blushing, and he knew it. The woman had an easy, confident manner, unlike any highborn lady he'd ever met.

"Jon isn't the prince," Arya corrected her. His sister kept her eye on Syrio. They still exchanged blows even as she talked. "He's my brother. He just guards the prince."

"The lad dresses princely enough," the woman replied. There was a teasing smile on her face. "Even my lord father never dressed so well."

"And who is your lord father, my lady?" Jon croaked, fighting to remember his courtesies.

She laughed bitterly. "Balon Greyjoy, who else? And I'm no lady." Her hand glided down his arm. "You can call me Asha."

"Theon's sister?" he blurted out.

The smile on Asha's face wilted like a winter rose. "Aye. Knew him, did you?"

"Yes," Jon confirmed. "He was very brave."

"Was," was Asha's only reply. Her hand withdrew at last, allowing Jon to breathe again.

"Youch!" Arya's wooden sword went flying, and she shook her hand to ward off the pain.

"Enough for today, Arya child," Syrio announced. "Tomorrow, your guard will be surer. Go now, and greet the noble lady."

There was something insincere about the way he said "noble lady," Job observed. Making no sound at all, the man disappeared through a side passage, leaving the three of them alone, well, five counting the wolves.

"Braavosi have but little love for we Ironborn," Asha said once he was gone. "That fighting style is for warding off reavers on the high seas, as much as anything else," she explained.

"Then how do you fight?" Arya asked curiously. Plainly, Asha was just the sort of woman his sister dreamed of being one day. It made Jon uneasy.

The woman took out her weapon. "I prefer an axe!" she said with spirit.

"Prince Joffrey likes axes too," Arya said casually. "He let me swing his black axe before. It's really light, but cuts anything."

"Is he handsome?" Asha asked. "I should like to meet this prince."

Sensing danger, Jon's duty compelled him to speak. "You must have a care, Lady Asha. If you laid a hand on Joffrey the way you did with me, Lady would eat you."

Asha frowned. "What lady?"

"Lady the wolf, silly!" Arya explained. "Jon's not lying, though. My sister, Sansa, loves the prince very much. Any girl who looks at him like you looked at Jon won't live long."

Asha didn't seem to be dissuaded. "That makes me want to meet him more! Shall we duel for his favor?"

More courage than sense, Jon decided.

***

The next day at court, Lord Victarion, a great hulking brute of a man, kneeled before the Iron Throne and swore to Robert. His manner was brusque, but the gifts he offered were rich. Silent servants bearing chests piled all at Robert's feet.

On and on it went: gold, silver, armor, curved swords with gilded pommels, daggers of Valyrian steel, pelts of tigers and spotted cats, jade manticores and sphinxes from Valyria, chests of nutmeg, cloves, and saffron, ivory tusks and the horns of unicorns, feathers from the Summer Sea, and bolts of silk and samite.

His father, Lord Stark, remained grim, but the more gifts accumulated, the better pleased King Robert looked. Across the great hall, Jon spied a man with an eyepatch talking with Lord Renly, the king's brother. Joffrey muttered something about a Captain Jack Sparrow, but Jon had never heard of House Sparrow.