XV.

Protocol demanded that Jon would wait for guests in the Red Keep, behind its fortified walls. Protocol was to be damned when it came to his sister – so Jon, Arya, Edwyn, their direwolves, some of his kingsguard, and Jaime waited at the harbour, watching the large Manderly ship, flying a strange trio of flags (direwolf grey and black; Martell orange and yellow; and the Manderly merman in blues and greens) as it slowly pulled into Blackwater Bay.

Edwyn fidgeted beside his father, Honour's tail frantically wagging back and forth, both in complete opposition to Jon's and Ghost's solid and still forms.

"How much longer, Father?" asked Edwyn, glancing up at Jon.

"A bit, Ed," replied Jon, glancing down at his son, taking in his wife's green eyes and the light brown hair. Edwyn's face was all Northern, though, with a sharp jaw and a blunted chin that he would grow into. Jon knew people wondered about his Targaryen heritage in his children and their lack of Targaryen colouring - but Jon was not worried if they took after more of their Lannister mother or his Stark side. Things could still change, and Jon was more worried about the day Leon would think to stick his hand in a fire. "They still need to sort the docking plank and lash the boat down."

"Not too much longer, though," interrupted Arya, eyes taking in the large sails as the ship drew parallel to the harbour dock.

She was right, and soon, the first to disembark were two direwolves: Bleddyn, Rickard Stark's large and shaggy black wolf with patches of grey on his underbelly, raced down the plank with Lady on his heels, scaring the life out of any dock workers.

Ghost glanced up at Jon, and the man tilted his head toward Ghost's father and littermate.

Immediately, Ghost rose and Honour, sensing he was about to be freed of his royal constraints, rose to his paws and yipped excitedly, hopping in place.

"Father?" asked Edwyn, glancing at the wolves.

"Off they go," said Jon – and that was their permission, Ghost racing to his pack, with Honour on his heels. The little wolf, unfortunately, tripped over his large paws and fell face forward onto the wood.

Edwyn cried out, but the pup just picked himself off and continued, although slower as he greeted the rest of the pack. As the wolves tumbled on the dock and Bleddyn began vigorously grooming Ghost and then Honour, the humans behind inched around the dogpile, wide smiles on their faces.

"Sansa, Oberyn!" greeted Jon, stepping forward.

Sansa was in his arms first, hugging him tightly. "Your Grace," she teased, blue eyes crinkling in delight. Her hair was up in some complicated updo, and her dress was a deep, burnt Martell orange that complimented her hair. She even had a smattering of freckles along her pale skin from her time in Dorne.

Jon let Sansa go to greet Jaime and Arya, turning to his other brother-in-law. "Oberyn."

"Your Grace," the Dornishman greeted with a wide smile and tiny bow. Behind him, he heard Sansa exclaim, "Edwyn! You've grown since I last saw you!"

"Where are all yours, then?" asked Jon, peering over the man's shoulder. Oberyn partially turned. "Oh, they're coming, the entire lot of them."

It was like watching goslings follow their mother as Obara walked down the plank first, dressed similarly to Arya in trousers and tunic and leather protection. At twenty-one, she looked very much like her father, widow's peak included with her closely shorn hair. And she carried a spear, which made Jon glance at Oberyn and the man's returning smirk.

From there, Jon began counting and adding the Sand Snakes' names as they greeted him: Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, Sarella, all sharing Oberyn's dark eyes; and then his children with Sansa, the eldest the only he had previously met: Morgan, Raya, and the youngest boy of the brood, Alaric. And then he turned to the next child, taking in the dark, wavy hair and gray eyes and did a doubletake.

He mentally recounted the Snakes and Martells, barely noticing Oberyn's smirk grow wider at his side at the obvious look. No, there are four Snakes, that's correct. And then there are three of Sansa's, just look at Raya's red hair... but...

"Who...?" Jon blinked, looking back at the Northern-looking boy. He then shot Oberyn a nasty look. "I hope you didn't—"

Oberyn replied with an affronted look. "I love my wife, Jon, thank you very much." He beckoned the boy forward. "No, this... is why Lord Stark needed Sansa's deft hand at Winterfell."

The boy sidled up to Oberyn's side, looking vaguely uncomfortable and desperately trying to hide it behind an exceedingly large amount of bravado. "Your Grace," he said, his voice cracking from nerves. He bowed.

"Erm, hello," replied Jon, still taking in the boy. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Thank you, Your Grace," the boy replied, eyes darting about.

"Ah, Your Grace!" boomed a familiar voice, and Jon spotted Rickard Stark hurrying down the plank and toward them. "Apologies for my delay in greeting you, there was an issue with moving the wolves off the ship."

Jon's eye did not twitch. "Wolves, my Lord?"

"Ah, yes, four of them." Rickard looked vaguely apologetic. "One for young Leon, of course. And,

well, there's an extra, although I'm not sure why... Aly's still too young for one, isn't she?"

"It's probably for Willam," replied Jon, and upon Rickard and Oberyn's confused looks, he clarified, "Arya and Jaime's eldest boy."

Oberyn's face lit up. "My sister-in-law and Jaime Lannister?"

"The one and only," replied Jon dryly. "Also known as the White Knight."

"Truly, Your Grace?" the boy, almost forgotten, piped up. "Lord Jaime is the White Knight?"

"A fan of the tales as well, are you?" Jon nodded, jerking his head back a bit. "We'll introduce you."

At that, he looked meaningfully at his grandfather and Oberyn, his Hand taking the hint and clearing his throat. "Ah, yes, Jon – erm, Your Grace... might I introduce Edrick Snow?"

Snow? Jon glanced at the boy, who shuffled in place, his cheeks the tiniest bit red before he tossed his head back and stood straight.

"He's Brandon's," finished Rickard with a tired sigh.

Oh, thought Jon, inwardly cringing. Oh, dear. Looking over the boy again, he saw his uncle in him, from the hair, the bravado, the eyes; but his hair was darker, almost as black as Jon's.

With another glance at his grandfather, Rickard finished with a mutter, "His mother is Barbrey Dustin."

Seven hells and Others take me, thought Jon, clenching his jaw, and resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in aggravation. He had known there was something between Brandon and Barbrey Dustin even in his other timeline – she had been vocal about it throughout his childhood; but she had also married Willam Dustin shortly after Brandon's own marriage to Catelyn Tully – Brandon had attended, as they were both close friends of his.

Closer than maybe we all knew, thought Jon with a mental eye roll. He cleared his throat and smiled at Edrick because he knew how the boy was probably feeling, given he felt it most of his life. "Welcome to King's Landing, Edrick. I'm happy to have another Stark cousin in the Keep – we're practically overwhelmed with them right now."

The boy's hard expression slowly shifted into disbelief, and after glancing at his grandfather and Rickard's accompanying nod, he turned back to Jon with a tentative smile on his face. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Right, well... you must be, what? Nine, ten namedays?" He nodded. "Nine, Your Grace."

"Same age as my son Edwyn." Jon chuckled. "You even have similar names – that might get confusing quick."

"Will... will Beast be safe in the Keep, Your Grace?" the boy asked.

Jon stared. "Beast...?"

"His direwolf," sighed Rickard.

Jon looked between a smirking Oberyn and his exasperated grandfather. "I... you're japing."

Rickard shook his head and Oberyn practically sang, he was so smug, "A direwolf for all the Starks, Jon!"

Jon glared at Oberyn, and then addressed Edrick. "Your direwolf will be fine. Edwyn's got one himself, named Honour. And there's my Ghost, Arya's Nymeria, and now Sansa's Lady. Beast, er... will fit right in."

The boy beamed up at Jon. "Thank you, Your Grace!"

"Aye... well..." Jon shifted, his eyes seeking out the others: Arya and Jaime were speaking animatedly to Edwyn and Sansa, but sensing his father's eyes on him, Edwyn turned partially. Jon waved him over, Edwyn trotting obediently with Honour on his heels.

"Father?" Edwyn's curious green eyes turned from Jon to the other boy, quickly taking him in from the top of his dark brown hair to his worn boots.

"Ed, this is Edrick," introduced Jon. "He's a cousin of yours from Lord Brandon Stark's side."

Edwyn sent his father a quick, disbelieving look – after all, Marwyn and Septa Ferrara ensured that he knew all the Starks when they were born, and Brandon Stark had four trueborn children, none of whose names were 'Edrick' – but then he turned just as quickly back to the other boy his age, who was staring at Honour.

"Did you want to pet him? He won't bite," offered Edwyn, his face stoic as he watched the newly- introduced Snow.

Edrick shook out of his stare. "Oh, well, aye, thank you... it's just... I have a direwolf, too." Surprise suffused Edwyn's face for a moment, and then a genuine smile broke out. "You do?"

Edrick nodded and whistled – there was a scream from somewhere on the ship – Rickard sighed and muttered, "Edrick..." – and then a large black blur burst over the plank, not even touching it, as it landed on the dock and shot toward the boys.

"Seven hells!" shouted Silveraxe from behind Jon, drawing his sword. "Your Grace, Prince Edwyn —"

Jon, absolutely stunned, watched in surprise and horror at the large terror that reminded him of Rickon's Shaggydog, until the wolf came to heel at Edrick's side. He was almost nose-to-nose in height and size of Honour, but while Honour was earthy browns and whites, Beast was all black with yellow eyes.

"Are you sure you didn't want to rename him Balerion?" joked Jon, although it was weak and fell flat. His heart was thundering in his chest, and he caught Oberyn's smirk from the corner of his

eyes.

"Don't feel bad," muttered Rickard, glaring down at the boy, "We've all been terrorized by that thing since introduced in Winterfell."

"You can control him?" demanded Jon, sternly, as he wheeled back around to face Edrick. "Because if you can't, Beast won't stay in the Red Keep. That's a condition that Edwyn also follows, as does Josslyn."

"Who is Josslyn?" asked Oberyn.

"Arya's daughter," answered Jon, absently, "She has a pet lion. Tywin is over the moon." Oberyn sputtered and choked on his spit.

"I can," retorted Edrick vehemently.

"See that remains true." Jon eyed the boy a bit longer. "Ed – why don't you take Edrick and your wolves, and uh..." He glanced at the kingsguard with him and chose the two that seemed least nervous of the pack of wolves on the dock, "Ser Ethan and Ser Lewyn, and return to the Red Keep. The two of you can find a room for Edrick in our wing."

Edrick's head snapped around at that, eyes wide. "But, Your Grace... I'm a Snow..." "Snow, Stark... you're family," replied Jon quietly. "And you'll be treated as such."

Awe, close to hero-worship, appeared in Edrick Snow's eyes; then, Edwyn was tugging on his second cousin's arm, and they were joining Ethan and Lewyn and disappearing from the docks and back toward the Keep.

"Is the Queen going to be fine with that?" asked Rickard shrewdly, once the boys were gone.

Jon sighed. "Honestly, having Edrick in the family wing is probably going to be the least worrisome thing. Eight direwolves and a lion, and then three Stark siblings together under one roof? I'll be lucky to make it to the end of the week without having to find somewhere else to sleep." He paused, and then muttered, lowly, "I'm glad you're here, grandfather. There is something... strange in the air."

Rickard's eyes sharpened. "Oh?"

"I'll need you at the council meetings," said Jon, without revealing much.

Rickard clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder. "We are pack, and I remain yours, faithfully, Jon." There was a lump in Jon's throat, and he croaked, "Thank you, grandfather."

Rickard's hand tightened on his shoulder in response.

Jon had been right: by the end of the week, Cersei was entirely exasperated by Jon and humouring him and his edicts about the direwolves being allowed free reign throughout the Red Keep, especially after the head cook – overcoming their fear of the queen – approached Cersei and ranted for the better part of an hour about how the wolves had connived together to liberate the kitchen of the two boars and several pheasants the cook had been planning to use for that evening's feast.

They were served soup, salad, and a variety of unique non-meat dishes that put off many in the

room and had Jon realizing that he needed to establish some type of order amongst the wolves and the children.

So, summons were sent, and first thing at daybreak, Jon sat with his children, his niece, nephews, a second-cousin who would be referred to as a nephew as well, his siblings, and several wolves and one lion, at the base of the weirwood tree in the Godswood, with Marwyn eagerly watching. His kingsguard remained behind in the bushes, silent sentinels partially hidden by the thick foliage in the hushed, damp garden space.

Jon cast his eyes over the group: Sansa and Lady sat primly on a spread blanket on his right, and Arya and Nymeria sprawled on his left, Nymeria dwarfing the younger Stark girl. Ghost remained at Jon's side and slightly behind, looming over his shoulder as he silently watched his pack with his bright red eyes, mimicking the weirwood tree behind him.

Arranged in a semi-circle at their feet were Arya's children closest to her: Willam, as blond and green-eyed as his father with his new direwolf Toothless for his clever absconding of the boar, and the dark-haired, grey-eyed, and long-faced daughter Josslyn with her graceful lioness, Softpaw.

At Sansa's side were her children: the black-haired and tanned Morgan, with Sansa's blue eyes and lounging idly back on his elbows like his father oft did, his sand-coloured direwolf Viper jumping and pouncing around him, chasing insects; the red-headed Raya without a wolf but leaning forward as she waited to hear Jon speak (their little brother, Alaric, was too young to participate, barely a year old and spending time with Lelia in the nursery in the Keep).

Between Raya and Jon's three eldest – Edwyn with Honour, Leon with his newly named direwolf The Dread, and little Alysanne without a wolf – sat their cousin Edrick with Beast. Only Edwyn seemed to be sitting as patiently as Raya; Edrick, Leon, Willam, and Josslyn were all barely sitting still, ants in their pants, while Morgan looked beyond bored – a look he copied from his father.

"The first thing you must know as a warg," began Jon, sternly looking at the children around him, "Is that you are never alone. You will become part of your animal – an extension of yourself in another's body."

Jon began to explain the connection he felt with Ghost, but within minutes he could tell that the children just weren't interested. Oh, Edwyn was – but the rest were just done with the concept and lesson.

The lessons descended into chaos when Josslyn decided she had enough and demonstrate she was clearly Arya's daughter when bored, she took the clump of dirt she had been working free the entire time and threw it at Raya, who shrieked and began crying. Sansa immediately went to soothe her.

Morgan, with anger in his eyes and hot Dornish blood in his veins, leapt to his feet to defend his little sister's honour, Viper at his feet and barking. William immediately got to his feet, raising his voice at his cousin while Josslyn had fallen to her back, rolling in the dirt, and laughing uproariously, ignoring everything around her. Softpaw, as a lioness, was beyond all the childish antics and continued to wash her paw, but Toothless bent low on his front paws and growled at Viper, adding to the noise and confusion.

Drawn into the chaos, Alysanne moved to Jon's side, wanting to hide; Leon threw himself forward into the fray to loudly argue with Willam and Morgan with Dread yipping at the other direwolves, but Edwyn stood partially in front of his little sister, and after a moment's decision, Edrick moved to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the crown prince, picking his side. Their wolves loyally sat at their sides, providing a shield for the little princess.

"Arya!" snapped Sansa, glaring at her sister while Lady yawned, showing off her giant maw, "Control your daughter!"

"For what?" drawled Arya, grinning. Nymeria copied Josslyn and rolled onto her back in the dirt. "For something I often did to you as a child?"

The two began bickering, their children picking their mother's sides, of course, leaving Jon to stare around, wondering how his warging lesson had collapsed so quickly.

At some point, a brave Kingsguard sidled up to Jon, coming from the side and behind as Oakheart warily eyed the large assembly of direwolves – the pups who were now playfully wrestling in the dirt while the boys copied them – and murmured, "Your Grace. The Lord Hand has a situation he wishes brought to your attention. The Small Council asks to meet."

"Oh, thank the Gods," breathed Jon in visible relief. "Ser Hector, inform the Lord Hand that we can have the meeting in a few hours. Also, can you please take Aly inside? Perhaps to her mother?"

Ser Hector nodded, crouching as Alysanne transferred her grip on her father's clothing to the white cloak. Demonstrating he was the eldest child with younger siblings, Ser Hector swept Aly into his arms and hitched her higher on his hip.

"Father, I'll join Aly and let Mother know what happened," offered Edwyn quietly. "May I be excused?"

Jon nodded; at Edwyn's side, Edrick fidgeted, and Jon sighed, waving a lazy hand. "Go with him, Edrick. And take your wolves."

Both boys nodded and Edrick bowed with a murmured, "Your Grace," before leaving, hot on Edwyn's heels and leaving Jon to deal with Sansa and Arya and their children – and Leon. He sighed again and wondered why he thought it would be nice to have the entire family in the Red Keep. All he needed was the ghosts of Robb and Theon with their pranks, Bran and his climbing antics, and Rickon to run around naked, add in a dash of Lady Catelyn's disapproving looks and Father's booming laughs, and it would be just like home.

Even over a decade later, the grief was raw, and with practiced ease, Jon pushed aside the bitter nostalgia to focus on the present and break Sansa and Arya up. He fell back on time-honoured bribes, absently wondering if the kitchen had lemon cakes and if Arya would spar with him later. Yes – those would work!

Er... hopefully.

A few hours later, Jon swept into the Small Council chambers. He was the last to arrive with Ser Barristan; even Cersei was there before him, lounging in her seat with a drink – wine, her usual choice – with her father and speaking to him. Rickard was with them as well, a sight that still confused Jon sometimes at how well his grandfather and father-in-law got along. It was a full room, with all members of his council, plus Tyrion, Sansa and Oberyn, Arya and Jaime.

When he stepped into the room, everyone but Cersei rose to their feet, ending their conversations mid-sentence when they bowed, or in Sansa and Arya's cases (as they had been invited), gave a shallow dip of their chins. There was a frisson of tension and an undercurrent of unease from Varys and Manderly that seemed to cast a sombre mood for everyone else.

With a frown, Jon sat. He glanced at Cersei, who hid a frown behind the rim of her glass. Under the table, he took her hand in his, and they shared an uneasy glance that she tried to hide behind a

haughty expression when she demanded, "Lord Hand. You asked for this meeting. Speak."

Rickard dipped his head in acknowledgement. "Lord Varys and Lord Manderly spoke to me about the trading ships that have been attacked, Your Graces."

Cersei's eyebrows came together. "We've been made aware of this, Lord Hand. This is old news —"

"With all due respect, Your Grace," interrupted Rickard careful, noticing the way Cersei bristled. Jon squeezed her hand. "That was until another trading ship went missing – a northern one not under King's contract."

Eyes turned to Manderly, who nodded. Sweating, he pressed a handkerchief against his forehead. "Aye, I received the raven from my son this morn. And it's not the only one, Your Grace, Your Grace."

Baffled, Cersei looked around the table. "Ships go missing all the time!"

Velayron inclined his head. "Of course, Your Grace – during storms, mostly. Sometimes attacked by pirates for their cargo or slavers for the people. But... we've had five vessels of the King's cargo for trade in Essos attacked in the last six months, and now we're receiving notice of several unaffiliated ships being attacked in the Narrow Sea. As of this morning? At least three separate reports; from the North and the Stormlands—" he looked around the room to say with added information, "Lord Baratheon sent a raven. A ship from Tarth, and one under Lord Stannis' fleet out of Storm's End. I wouldn't be surprised if Prince Doran sends a raven shortly, as well."

Oberyn pursed his lips, brows furrowed, but Jaime asked the question. "Why would Prince Doran lose ships, too? Or is it all just the western coast?"

"I've not said anything, but Gerion informed me that when he returned from his latest expedition, he fought off a small fleet off the Orange Shore in Essos," added Tywin with a look of annoyance on his face. "I dismissed it – as Gerion often engages with pirates on his travels – but I am seeing a pattern here."

And I do not like it, were his unsaid words, ringing through everyone's minds, especially those who knew Tywin Lannister well enough.

"Maybe instead of asking who has lost ships, we should ask who hasn't," suggested Tyrion sensibly. "That would narrow down who is leading this fleet."

"We've heard nothing from the Reach," offered Manderly, slowly.

Cersei scoffed, taking a sip of her wine, and Randyll Tarly scowled heavily in her direction, glowering in silence at his end of the table.

"We'll hear from them soon enough," argued Arya, crossing her arms, and sitting back in her chair. "Why's that?" asked Yohn Royce, bushy brows furrowed.

Varys tittered the tiniest. "My Lord, Lord Stannis is married to Janna Tyrell, Olenna's eldest daughter. The Queen of Thorns managed to marry her children into the Hightowers, the Baratheons, and back into the Redwyne family. Between Oldtown, Storm's End, and the Redwyne fleet, we will know if they've had their own maritime troubles."

Velayron nodded absently, fingers steepled as he thought, eyes locked on the tabletop.

"Benjen hadn't written anything about Sea Dragon Point," offered Rickard with a frown. He turned to Tarly. "Has your wife's sister written anything about Bear Island?"

Tarly shook his head. "No – Melessa has not heard from Rhea."

"So, from the North, Sea Dragon Point and Bear Island are quiet," mused aloud Jon, leaning back in his chair.

"Surely, you're not thinking...?" Sansa trailed off, staring at Jon. He met her eyes and shook his head. "No... No, I don't think so."

"Would you care to explain to the rest of us?" snarked Jaime, earning a harsh glare from his father for his tone.

"Sansa was wondering if I thought it was the Iron Fleet," explained Jon. "But Gerion was only attacked off the coast of Essos – not near Lannister waters." He leaned forward, though. "But it does make me wonder where the Iron Fleet is."

Varys frowned, mentally reviewing what his little birds had told him of the Ironborn.

Velaryon hummed thoughtfully. "Ol' Quellon is getting up in age, is he not? Rumour was his health was failing a decade ago and he's been hanging on – to spite his sons, by the sound of it."

Arya snorted. "Thank the Gods, then. If he dies, everything goes to Balon Greyjoy. Fucking prick." "Better Balon than the Crow's Eye," mumbled Brynden Tully.

"While enthralling," drawled Tywin, sounding anything but, "this fails to tell who is attacking our ships."

"Clearly someone out to get the king," pointed out Tyrion, causing everyone to turn to him in surprise. He drove his eyebrows up in mock surprise. "Oh, can't you see it? First, it was ships under the king's contract, sending trade to Essos specifically. Now, it's any ship with a connection to the Starks. The North, obviously; but also, Storm's End where Lady Lyanna lives. The Lannisters, because of my dear sweet sister, the Queen of the realm."

Tyrion toasted Cersei with his own drink, and everyone ignored the sarcastic tinge to his words about her, even as Cersei herself heavily scowled at her younger brother. He continued then, "We'll likely have a raven shortly from the Dornish – and of course, the Reach soon enough. But the attacks will be in the Narrow Sea."

Incredulously, Jon said, "Surely you're not suggesting that those attacking Westerosi ships are from Essos?"

"Well, it's not the Iron Fleet," shrugged Tyrion. "That we know of," argued Arya with narrowed eyes. Tyrion shrugged again, acknowledging her words.

"Whoever is behind this," began Oberyn carefully, "we must recognize that they are growing bolder with their attacks. And that these are pointed attacks toward the Starks – and," he added with a glance at Jon, "The ruling Targaryen family."

Thunder passed across Jon's face. His voice was frosty when he addressed his Small Council. "I

want an increase in patrols from houses with ships and the ability to do so, along the western coast."

"I'll write to the Baratheons," said Rickard, still frowning. He drummed his fingers on the table. "Lord Stannis captains their fleet and he can coordinate with the other houses, such as Tarth and Estermont."

"Dorne will send ships to patrol and scout the Stepstones," offered Oberyn, an excited glint in his eyes. He had a feeling he knew where everything was going. "That is often where the trouble is."

Jon acknowledged them with a nod and then turned to another. "Lord Velaryon."

The older man looked at Jon. "Your Grace?"

For once, the man's distinctly Targaryen features did not bother the actual half-Targaryen in the room. "As my Master of Ships, I want you to work closely with Lord Varys and Lord Manderly. We have a few trading ships ready to leave – either see if we can provide a naval escort or hold them back."

"It will be done, Your Grace," the man agreed.

"Furthermore," added Jon, steel in his voice, "Between yourself and Lord Varys, I want to know every move the Iron Fleet has made in the past year. Where have they gone, where they docked, anything."

Jon glanced at Arya, and she gave a tiny, barely noticeable nod. While Varys was going to use his little birds, Arya was going to use her abilities in a much less savoury fashion and get Jon much more than his Master of Whisperers.

"Let's not antagonize the Iron Fleet," cautioned Jon, "but let us still watch them. I don't believe they're at fault, but..."

There were murmurs of agreement around the table.

"And finally," finished Jon, raising his voice. "Someone find me Davos the smuggler."

He was feeling cornered. It wasn't an altogether unknown feeling for him, but it was the first time in a long while that Davos felt like there were eyes in every corner, on every roof, watching his every move.

It was, of course, worse in Flea Bottom in King's Landing than it was out in the open water just by plain fact of the number of people crowded together in the slums (although, "slums" were hardly the word for the area ever since King Jon had Lord Tyrion Lannister re-plan the architecture of the entire city and had rebuilt it, quadrant by quadrant), but ever since he stepped foot back on soil, he had the uneasy feeling he was being watched.

There was a light drizzle of rain, turning everything grey and dull, and Davos used the weather to his benefit as he kept his face down. Swallowing thickly, Davos pulled the hood of his brown cloak up and over and then tugged it low to hood his eyes as he hunched and moved through the cobblestone streets, skimming, and sticking to the shadows and ducking through alleyways in hope that the feeling of eyes on him would lessen.

They did not.

He hurried his pace, turning left instead right – he was not going to lead whoever was watching him to Marya and the boys – and ducked under a low-hanging and sloping roof of a butcher, ducking behind a cart and glancing up and down the street.

There! He thought, narrowing his eyes on the urchin who slipped out of the alley opposite him, peering in confusion up and down the street. After hesitating, the urchin picked a direction and began to meander through the crowd of people hurrying out of the rain.

Davos waited a few moments, and then stood from his crouch and turned the opposite way as the urchin, down the street and into the warmth of a half-buried pub and inn. There was a fire going in the hearth, and there were several people of varying degrees of roughness surrounding the tables and bar, most laughing raucously or playing some type of card game or finger dancing. A few prostitutes were perched on men's knees, and there was a bard of some kind in a lit corner strumming on their lute.

Davos went to a dark corner after grabbing an ale from the bar, settling with his back to the wall and keeping his cloak up and himself hooded as he watched the door with keen brown eyes. Eventually, as time whittled on, and the urchin failed to appear, he began to relax and thought about Marya, about his warm bed.

That was a mistake.

A slight figure slid into the empty bench opposite him, making Davos tense. The figure wore a cloak as well – although much finer than Davos', despite the muck and worn quality of the fabric – and had their hood pulled low. They deposited their own ale on the table and wrapped their hands around the mug.

Davos eyed the hands, the long, slender fingers and then up into the darkened recesses of the hood of the figure. "You're no man," rumbled Davos quietly.

The figure tipped their head sideways, flicking the hood far enough back so the weak light from the hearth – at the figure's back – barely penetrated the shadows. But it was enough for Davos to make out the long face, the pointy chin, the thick brown eyebrows, as well as the overall pretty face of a highborn woman.

She grinned. "Correct."

"You don't belong here, girl," continued Davos with a slight grumble, eyes darting toward the prostitutes. "And certainly not alone."

"Oh, I'm not alone," the woman replied, her lips quirking up. "I'm with you, am I not?" "I'm married," bit out Davos, sitting back and readying to leave.

"That's right," the woman said, that strange smile still on her face. "To Marya."

Davos froze.

"And you have, goodness me, seven children at last count?" the woman continued. "I have two myself, but seven! Poor Marya must be worn right off her feet."

"You know who I am," mumbled Davos through bloodless lips, staring at the woman. She inclined her head. "You're Davos the smuggler."

Davos swallowed. "I am."

"Excellent." She grinned, all straight, even, white teeth. It looked like a wolf's smile and Davos fought back a shudder. "I have been looking for you."

"The child was yours?" Davos felt his mouth curl in distaste.

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "That was the Spider's."

The Spider's? thought Davos, eyes widening. What in the Gods' names had he done to warrant the Master of Whisperers' attention? Better still – he narrowed his eyes on the woman again. Who was she?

"And who are you?" he asked bluntly, his voice rough.

"A friend," the woman replied. "I mean you and your family no harm, Davos. But you're the best that we know of – as a smuggler – and we have need of your expertise."

"So, it's a job," mused aloud Davos, leaning back in relief. The woman was clearly the wife or daughter of some high-ranking lord who wanted him to do some smuggling. He could do that.

"Mm, of a sort," she agreed easily, drinking her ale. "It would be you in charge, but your boys and their ships would be engaged as well. And you'd be well compensated, I promise. I have friends... in high places."

Davos thought of the offer. He hadn't been home too long – he just come back from meeting with Salladhor Saan, moving cargo for the pirate. He wanted to see his wife and sons, but... the cargo hadn't paid as much as he had hoped, not with the king moving into trade and selling directly to Essos with his preferred ships. Perhaps he could use this job to bolster the meagre coin Saan provided? Enough for Dale and his wife to move out of Flea Bottom? To start that family they wanted?

Davos nodded. "I accept."

The woman grinned. "Then let's go. Your employer will want to meet with you right away."

They both stood from the table, moving toward the front door. She stepped through first, Davos gesturing for her to do so (he didn't trust her enough at his back just yet), just as he went to pull his hood up in protection from the rain outside. He then asked, "And who is this mysterious employer?"

When she didn't reply, Davos looked up, the drizzle catching his hood and water falling into his eyes. For a moment, he thought it was far too bright outside for rain – what with all that white in the street. Then he blinked and his eyes cleared, and he sucked in a harsh breath as his eyes darted around the street and the way he was cornered.

Around him were kingsguard with white cloaks – and another kingsguard before him that he recognized. He would have been deaf and blind to not recognize Barristan Selmy! The woman stood with her own hood lowered, dark hair catching the rain and frizzling up. At her side was a tall, golden-haired man with a sardonic smirk. If the man's looks hadn't clued Davos in, the golden armour and lion's pommel in his sword would have.

"I—" Davos stuttered, eyes darting around. "I've not committed any crime." The Lannister snorted. "I'm fairly certain piracy is a crime, smuggler."

The woman smacked his chest with the back of her hand. "Be nice, Jaime." "Yes, dear," the man replied, sarcasm on his tongue even as he rolled his eyes.

"Davos the smuggler," began Ser Selmy, "Your presence has been requested. Prepare yourself to meet the King."

The king! Davos' mind screeched, eyes snapping toward the woman. She caught his gaze and gave a cheeky grin.

"Aye, your mysterious new employer is my brother," she confirmed – also confirming her identity as the infamous Arya Stark – or, Lannister – in doing so. "I told you I have friends in high places."

Davos wanted to laugh hysterically as he was escorted to a waiting horse. If he managed to survive this, he was either going to have the job opportunity of a lifetime, or Marya and the boys were never going to know what happened to him. Whatever it was, Davos hoped he was worthy enough of whatever King Jon wanted from him, if he was asking for him specifically.

One does not fail Targaryen kings, after all.

TBC...