Jon Snow smiled. "You sound shy, Young Griff."
After a beat—aware he was little better—he added, "At least a touch shyer than I am."
Young Griff laughed, then said, "When I first learned what sets boys and girls apart, my father taught me I must love only my wife—with all of me, body included."
Jon halted mid-step. He agreed with that; he had sworn, quietly, that he would never father a bastard.
"You've a… good father," Jon managed, awkward with praise.
Young Griff's eyes danced. "Aren't you curious how old I was?"
"How old?"
"Seven. Or eight," he said, not entirely sure.
He was easy to like; after these days together Jon already counted him a friend, and with friends he could relax.
"A little late," Jon teased.
Young Griff feigned a tragic sigh, and they both burst out laughing.
…
Off the quay, the big man Rolly looked about. "You two find us a bite. I'll see to the horses."
Jon put out a hand. "Let me."
Young Griff tipped his chin toward a winesink nearby. "Rolly and I will wait there."
Jon nodded toward the place and set off toward the horse traders.
When he'd gone, Rolly asked, "You like him, don't you, Your High—"
Young Griff's brow creased. "Remember: Young Griff."
Rolly scratched the back of his head. "I'll remember. Heh."
Young Griff clapped that thick arm as they walked. "He's… pure. I'd like him to be the next Orys—but who can swear how things end?"
(They said Orys was Aegon the Conqueror's bastard brother—his deadliest captain, founder of House Baratheon, and one of the few men Aegon truly called friend.)
He lowered his voice. "Rolly, I'm here to look on certain kin from afar. I brought only a pair of eyes this trip."
…
With the sun high, the three of them rode toward the city-state of Kantis. The horses snorted; iron shoes rang crisp on hard-baked earth, throwing up dust.
Night fell. They raised a tent by the roadside and kindled a fire.
Sweat streaked Jon's brow and cheek; he longed for the winds of the North.
He took the wineskin Young Griff tossed him, drank deep, and sighed with pleasure—then glanced over. After a day in the saddle, Young Griff looked neither road-worn nor ruffled; every motion still carried that easy grace… Bastards learn to read people. Jon had known for days his friend was high-born.
High-born… He looked away. If Young Griff wouldn't speak it, Jon wouldn't pry.
"Seven hells," Rolly grumbled, "if only days were as cool as nights…"
The grousing warmed Jon. At Winterfell, Lord Eddard allowed each child one cup of wine at feasts—no more. But at the back tables with servants, no one counted Jon's cups. He'd drink and listen to boasts of war, hunt, and love—private blessings for a bastard.
He shook his head at the thought. What could a baseborn boy know of high things?
They sat round the fire as the dark deepened.
Young Griff scanned a rough map. "Three days more, give or take, and we'll be in."
Rolly nodded. "To see true Targaryen blood…"
He shot Jon a sideways grin. "You joining the tourney?"
Jon shook his head. "I'll watch."
"You?" he asked back.
Rolly snorted. "My work's keeping Young Griff safe—and perhaps seeing if the silver-haired princess is as fair as they say."
A cold glint flickered in Young Griff's eyes; he smiled. "Let's hope we're not disappointed."
Jon hesitated. "You won't be. They say the Targaryens are comely folk."
"Then I'm easy," Young Griff said lightly. "Not a wasted journey."
Rolly laughed. "And a glimpse of the famed Beggar King won't be wasted either."
He leaned in, conspiratorial. "I hear the Beggar King sold his mother's crown to keep up appearances—and meant to sell the silver-haired princess to the Dothraki for an army."
Jon stared. "To trade his own sister to horse-lords? I've heard they're savages."
"Maybe the brother and sister don't get on," Rolly offered, scratching.
"More exact to say," Young Griff murmured, "she's all he has left to sell."
Jon thought of Arya and Sansa. Little Arya had always loved him; Sansa had seldom shown him a sweet face, yet he'd never dream of harming her.
He remembered sights and whispers in the Red Keep. "For some, power trumps kin."
Coward, he added inwardly.
Young Griff studied him. "You speak of such things as if they're… common."
Jon was quiet, then honest. "At the Red Keep… I tended horses. You hear… enough."
"The Red Keep—that's the Westerosi palace?" Rolly said, leaning closer.
Jon nodded.
"Go on, then," Rolly urged. "Tell us a tale."
Young Griff's eyes were on him too, plainly curious.
Jon smiled and shook his head. "What I heard may not be true."
"Drink, and start at your pace," Young Griff said, tossing him the skin again.
…
Crab Claw Peninsula, Siren's Port — Hall of Governance.
Hands clasped behind him at the window, Gawen Crabb held a letter—Daenerys's own hand, in reply.
…
Fifteen days later — Bitterbridge, the Reach. The muddy Mander flashed in the sun. Along the Rose Road, green lawns framed ranks without number: trebuchets, scorpions, rams. The tents of Reach and Stormlords sprouted like silk-shining mushrooms. A thousand cookfires smoked a pale haze into the air. Sunlight made ten thousand spearpoints weep red, as if blood-bright.
Renly Baratheon's vast banner flew over the camp: crowned black stag on gold—tall, leaping, proud.
Beneath it a tourney field had been cleared. Horses screamed; steel rang; the crowd roared—a cauldron of noise.
On the dais Renly and Margaery sat side by side, murmuring and smiling.
A stag-crown worked with a single rose sat upon Renly's brow. He wore green velvet; across his chest the Baratheon sigil was stitched in golden thread—trimmed with Tyrell rosework. Slim of limb, broad of shoulder, with straight coal-black hair, summer-blue eyes, and that famed easy smile—he might have been young Robert reborn.
Margaery Tyrell wore a Highgarden green gown, arms bare; long brown curls spilled down her shoulders. Her gentle eyes strayed often to Renly, and her smile was both shy and sweet.
Below, two barded destriers crashed together with a thundering crack—iron into meat. Gasps rippled through the stands.
On the dais Margaery started, near to a cry; only when both knights staggered up—armor dented, dazed but whole—did she loose a breath.
Renly's gaze was on her; she tipped her face, still pale, and managed a smile of relief.
He answered with a tender look so soft that more than one highborn lady clutched at her heart.
…
Not far off Olenna Redwyne turned away and huffed, "Looks like a king, does he."
"What was that, Mother?" asked Mace Tyrell, hand stilled on his beard.
"Daughter of the Arbor," she snapped, glaring at his complacent grin, "when does my granddaughter put a future king in her belly?"
Mace's smile froze; he hurried to soothe. "His Grace has promised, Mother. If you trust no one else, trust your granddaughter."
He preened his whiskers. "She is queen already. The golden rose will not fail."
Olenna snorted. "All this bowing and curtseying—no results yet."
"Lord Tywin marches for the Riverlands," Mace said. "If fortune's kind, the matter may be settled without our—"
"Spare me the art of war," she cut in. "Do as you please."
"I'm for Highgarden," she added.
Mace blinked. "Mother—"
"Have pity on an old woman," she rapped her knee. "One more month of kneeling and I may never get up again."
…
By day's end the mêlée field was a churn of mud, broken lances, and splintered mail. Out of a hundred and sixteen knights, Brienne of Tarth stood champion.
"Forward, my champion!" Renly cried.
Limping, Brienne climbed to the dais.
She stood tall before him. "Your Grace."
Her blue plate was a map of hurts: hammer-dents, gouges, scored channels from swords; her enamel flaked, her cloak torn to ribbons.
Renly's smile was warm. "Your noble father did not overpraise you. You are a finer sword than most men."
"As champion, ask what you will within my power—and it is yours."
Brienne did not hesitate. "Your Grace, I beg a place among your Rainbow Guard. Let me be one of your Seven. I give you my life, to follow you to the world's end, never to leave your side, and to keep you from all harm."
"I grant it."
Joy transformed her plain features to something bright as a maiden's. Renly tugged away the shredded cloak and, with his own hands, fixed a new rainbow cloak upon her shoulders.
"My life is yours, Your Grace," she said, voice shaking with feeling. "By the Seven, I am your shield from this day forth."
…
Night fell, and the feast began. Minstrels and mummers played while the company started on pears stewed in strongwine, then crisp-fried fingerlings dusted in rock salt, cockerels stuffed with onion and mushroom, great loaves baked brown, mounds of turnip, sweetcorn, and peas, prime ham and roast goose, and platters of venison with malt and barley piled high.
At high table Renly pricked morsels with his dagger's tip to offer Margaery; they traded banter and whisper.
He laughed often and easily, speaking to high and low with the same bright warmth.
Toward the end, those who had drunk too deep slipped their leashes. Lord William's son Jossua and Ellis wrangled over which of them would be first over the walls of King's Landing; Lord Varner hauled a serving girl into his lap and nuzzled her neck as his hand went wandering; Ser Morrigen of the Green Guard styled himself a minstrel and plucked a harp to "The Lion with His Tail in Knots"; Ser Mullendore teased a black-and-white monkey with scraps from his plate; Ser Tanton, a foot stuck squarely in a spice jar, swore he'd best the Hound, Sandor Clegane, in single combat.
Amid the laughter, one of Margaery's maids leaned in to whisper. Margaery nodded once.
…
At the king's pavilion, men in forest-green plate with great golden stag-antlers on their helms stood guard.
Hearing footsteps, their captain looked up—and his eyes flew wide.
He stared as at a wraith. "S–Ser Loras?"
.
.
.
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