Two moons in from their last shore leave in Sunspear, everyone on the ship was intimately acquainted with one another and equally sick of one another, depending on the moment and the words spoken to someone at any given time.
To combat boredom, Jon rigorously trained Loras and Rickon in drills that Robb helped him with – throwbacks to days in Winterfell's own training yard when Rodrik Cassell would do the same with them – and then engage in limited, tight-quarter spars where they chased each other around the deck and wove between annoyed deckhands shouting after them in High Valyrian.
Arya would join when she wasn't participating in impromptu lessons from the men on the ship, learning the rigging, the sails, until she fit right in.
Sansa was even persuaded to learn a new skill: archery. That, however, stopped a few hours into the first session when she lost seven arrows over the rail to the ocean, making Arya despair. Instead, the charmed sailors taught her daggers with their thin, quick blades, playing dancing finger games and showing her the proper way to throw a dagger to stick it to the mast.
It didn't quite stop all manner of boredom from creeping into their daily lives, but it was enough to
keep them busy and put eager eyes on the horizon for Lys, the next stop for the ship and the end of their journey before they chartered another ship to take them to Volantis (plus, time off the rocking boat and back on solid ground was something they were all looking forward to).
The air was warm and salty, curling the boys' hair and weighing the curls down with salt. Sansa's hair was practically a fiery gold, while Loras' blond head was sun-bleached. With the sun shining almost a full fourteen hours, they were all tanned a light golden colour – although Loras was a deeper hue – after burning their skin the first three weeks of the voyage. Furthermore, the Starks' scars – the ones visible when the men were sparring shirtless, at least – were harder to see against their darkened skin.
"We're not going to lose you, are we?" asked Sansa with a quirk of her thin eyebrows at her brothers, as the large group stood at the prow of the ship, watching as the horizon and the white beaches and pale wooden docks of Lys grew closer and closer. Lys was a walled city spanning three islands with smaller ones bursting from the turquoise seas in rounded, layered rocks with palm trees extended sideways or thick vines dripping into the water and swaying in the warm breeze.
There were numerous stone and wooden plank docks that stretched out into the shallows and coral reefs around the lush tropical island, and several more stone docks that extended from walled manses with tiered gardens and walls that butted directly up to the waterfront. Two large towers oversaw the entire island from the northeast, with a few other rounded, dome-top towers littered through the island, but for the most part, there was little architecture to detract from the abundance of greenery spread through the island and to the smaller ones nearby.
"Lose us?" replied Jon, incredulously, turning to face her.
"Well, Lys is well known for its pleasure houses," answered Sansa, who then laughed at the faces both Robb and Jon made. There was no way Jon would visit one – he never had in the past, and the habit was too ingrained now – and Robb had been celibate since their return, too deeply wounded and grieving for Talisa to think of visiting another.
Bran, however, looked contemplative. Arya caught it and blinked at him in surprise, ready to open her mouth, but Bran said, seriously, "I could tell them about the night before we all fought, Arya," and she snapped her mouth shut instead, blushing a furious red.
"Oh, what's this?" grinned Rickon, eyeing up his sister. At his side, Loras peered around Rickon to look keenly at Arya as well. "Was there a special someone for you—ACK!"
"Shut your mouth," grumbled Arya, bringing her fist back to her side even as Rickon nursed his barely wounded shoulder with an exaggerated pout.
"Children," chided Sansa, but there was a twinkle in her eye when she spoke.
"My Lords, Ladies," interrupted the captain. "The shallow waters make it impossible for the ship to get closer to the docks. We'll disembark here."
"Very well," said Robb, speaking for them all. He and Jon went to help move their rucksacks and swords to dinghies that ferried them across the calm, see-through waters to the nearest dock.
The waters were calm, barely making splashes or waves as the confident sailors rowed them across the gentle waters in two boats.
"It's warm!" Arya stuck her hand in the water, wriggling her fingers and watching as a tiny school
of thin fish parted on either side and disappeared under the dinghy.
The dock, when they arrived, was busy – there were people unloading cargo from other dinghies, pirates with rough accents or grimy hands and oiled leathers, slaves with brand marks on them, and an aroma of spices and fruits that Westeros did not have much access to. Bright colours from clothing drew their eyes as the Starks hitched their bags on their shoulders and checked their swords; Loras' head was swivelling left and right the moment their boots hit the wooden planks.
The entire island was wrapped with thick, high walls of crumbling, tiny bricks in dirty brown, bits of moss clinging stubbornly to pieces while other bits were eroded from the salt. They passed through a gatehouse, half-brick, half-rotted wood, and then were meandering along cobblestone streets for an inn.
Lys was entirely different from Westeros, beyond the obvious. Voices called over one another in different languages: High Valyrian, low Valyrian, Common Tongue, and other, garbled, and lyrical languages they had never heard before. Men wore wide-brimmed hats, some with bright feathers tucked into them; there were beautiful women, scantily dressed, leaning over wooden rails, and calling down to men and women who passed by, trying to entice them into their pillow houses. There were men shucking oysters opposite men grilling filleted fish; there were women selling seashell necklaces opposite slaves being sold at an open-air market.
Robb was wide-eyed, swallowing thickly as a woman passed by him, her bare shoulder brushing up against his chest with a sultry look, but he blushed and then turned to face his siblings. "Gods – this is – I've never—"
Arya struggled to keep a smirk off her lips. "The men on the ship said there's a reputable inn near the northern side of the island, past a banana grove. We'll get a few rooms there, I'm sure."
"You spoke to them most, Arya," said Jon easily, resting a hand on his hilt; he looked relaxed, but his eyes were constantly moving and Loras, at his side, mimicked him. "Lead the way."
Arya did so, with Sansa linking her arm with hers, Robb pushing Bran along, even as people around them exclaimed at the wheeled chair, having never seen one before. Jon took up the rear of the group, corralling Rickon and Loras who walked on either side of him.
The inn Arya stopped outside of looked the same as many of the other buildings: a mix of thick rock and rotted, salt-blasted wood bleached by the sun into a pale, sickly grey. Vines climbed up the corners of the inn, clinging to the rock exterior and the wraparound wooden balconies of the second and third floors. There were floor-to-ceiling shuttered doors and window, all thrown open, but there was little to see peering in – the rooms were kept dart to keep the midday heat away.
Opposite of the inn was a pub of some kind, with several loud and drunk sellswords hanging off one another, haphazardly zigzagging their way across the cobblestones, disappearing into the inn they were standing outside of. One belched before entering.
Sansa shot Arya a look. "Are you sure this place is reputable?"
For a moment, Arya pursed her lips, perturbed. Then, she shrugged. "My Lysene is a bit rusty, but
I'm sure Innaros said it was clean, well-known, welcoming, and safe."
A yoo-hoo from above them had them all looking up, where a silvery-blonde-haired woman leaned over the balcony railing, her breasts pushing up against her arms, resting on the rail, and giving them all a view. There was a slit in her dress and when she stretched a leg out enticingly, the slit kept going, revealing more than just her leg but the curve of her hip. All that held her dress in place
was a well-placed broach resting at the dip of her waist.
She sent bedrooms eyes at the Starks below and called in a lyrical voice, "Is there something I can
help you Westerosi with? I'm eager to give you all a proper welcome to Lys!"
Rickon gaped at the woman, and Loras flushed beet red, but it was Jon who turned to Arya. She flushed under his gaze, and muttered, "Well, to be fair, he was probably talking about the whores. I did say my translation was poor!"
"Ahh, you're a gem, Sonya," the hardened man said with pleasure, eyeing the froth on his ale as the large tankard was slid across the bar top. The woman in question – Sonya – smirked. "My favourite ale."
"Kept just for you, handsome," she winked.
That was true, the man thought. Although he didn't visit Sonya's inn that often – slightly over a dozen stays in a decade – he usually stayed several moons and spent an ungodly amount of coin that he earned during his campaigns with the Golden Company.
He had finished one such campaign and was just – tired. Strickland wanted him to stay on for their next contract, but it put him too close to Braavos, which made him uncomfortable. He was in exile, and Braavos was still frequented by Westerosi, some of whom would recognize him even if he wasn't shaving his head or dying his beard, trying to look like some Tyroshi.
Instead, he took his portion of the plunder and decided on Lys, for a few reasons: first, as a gateway between the east and west, he was able to hear any news and keep abreast on what the Usurper was doing in King's Landing. As usual, it was the same: drinking, eating, fucking. At least the man was consistent.
Second, the last time he had been at Sonya's, there had been a wonderful bedmate, a pillow biter, lean in body with the silver hair and purple eyes of Valyria – oh so common to be found in Lys – that caught his attention and he had spent his coin on. The whore in question certainly didn't judge him, nor minded being called someone else's name...
With his drink in hand, the man wandered around the ground floor of the inn, passing by women and men elegantly draped across loungers or feeding someone grapes, or running fingers down arms and skimming up legs. Sonya ran an inn, but all inns on Lys were also pillow houses, and hers was one of the better for the middling crowd – and her employees knew discretion, as well as when one was staying for the inn portion of Sonya's and not the pillow pleasure.
Much like that group, he thought, passing by a large table near the back on his way to the sunken den in the middle of the room, directly underneath the open roof in the courtyard, surrounded by two, elongated u-shaped pools; the gaps were stone stairs leading down into the den where a table had been set up for a game of cards.
The table he passed was a strange, motley-looking group: two women, one exceptionally beautiful with her long red hair, and another dressed like a female sellsword; two teenagers, one who looked eerily like a young Mace Tyrell; a man in a wheeled chair contraption, and then two Northern- looking brutes, which was a rare enough sight that several of the other sellswords and pirates in Sonya's were either staring openly at them or giving them shifty eyes, hoping to avoid catching their attention.
No matter, he thought, sliding into a seat at the card table, giving a thin, fake smile at the five men
already there. I'm not here to revisit the past and past enemies if they are Northmen. I'm here to win some coin.
One pirate, with a scar across his left eye and down his cheek, hocked and spat out a glob of spit, a twisted sneer on his face when he muttered something in Valyrian, causing the other pirates to laugh. Then, he said in Common, "Well, well. If it ain't Toyne's pet. Got tired of fightin' already, Griff?"
"I just needed a break, Valqa," replied the man evenly. "Deal me in?"
The pirate glanced at one of the other men, with a fancy hat and peacock feather, and nodded.
Cards were dealt, and Griff took a sip of his drink. Not a bad hand to start; he could work with
it. And so, the evening went on, Griff drinking his ale and it being replaced, silently and efficiently, by one of Sonya's girls. He was drunk, but not as drunk as the pirates, who were already halfway there when he joined them. But they were all laughing loudly at one another, upping their stories about who had the most embarrassing moment on a ship or during a fight, even as the coins – a mix of currencies – in front of Griff grew.
He may have been drunk, but he wasn't that drunk that he was incapable of keeping his head and ability to count cards – but it was enough for one of the younger pirates with Valqa to snap at him in a Valyrian dialect that the Free Cities favoured, "you're a fuckin' cheat, Griff."
He leaned back in his seat, rolling his broad shoulders. He hoped he looked indolent, lazily looking around the inn. In a darkened corner, he saw the silvery hair of his pillow mate. The man caught his eyes and gave him a sultry look from the shadows and a grin stretched across Griff's lips even as he turned back to Lazar. "I don't need to cheat a drunk man out of his coins, Lazar."
"No," spat Lazar, tossing his poor hand down on the table, revealing nothing substantial, "You'll just take them! Curse you, y'bastard."
"You're practically giving them away, you drunk," jeered Griff. "Go sleep it off. Or better—" he picked up one of his won coins and flicked it with his thumb in Lazar's direction. "Get yourself a bedwarmer on me. Maybe it'll improve your mood, boy."
Lazar caught the coin, an angry look rippling across his face. "Let it go, Lazar," cautioned Valqa, "You're drunk."
"So're you," the pirate retorted mulishly, words slurred, "And since when d'you side with Westerosi scum?"
"Scum, am I?" echoed Griff.
Lazar's eyes narrowed and he stood, leaning threateningly toward Griff. "All Westerosi are scum," he declared loudly in Common.
One man from the large party Griff had clocked earlier in the corner glanced up, hearing the words. They looked back and forth between them and then turned back to their companions.
Griff didn't say anything, turning back to his cards and looking at one of the other pirates, uneasily looking between Griff, Valqa, and Lazar. He began to nervously deal out the next hand, his own hand shaking as the cards flicked across the tabletop.
Lazar slammed his hands down on the table. "Don't 'nore me! I said it, all Westerosi are scum!
You're scum, Griff, and," he lowered his voice in a rumbling sneer, "your precious prince was scum too, an' worse, came from a family of sister-fuckers."
Griff exhaled, red descending over his vision.
It was one thing to insult him. Fine – after all he had done, he deserved it. But, to insult the one he loved? No.
"I'd ask if y'were a sister-fucker, Griff, but you don' 'ave any sisters," continued Lazar. The others at the table had frozen. "But you 'ave a brother. D'you fuck him? You do like your boys—"
Griff smiled at Lazar, a wild thing that was all teeth. In a fluid motion, he stood and took the table with him, flipping it toward Lazar.
The younger pirate staggered back and the others at the table popped to their feet, hands on their hilts or withdrawing daggers. Around them, patrons paused and turned their heads to watch, a careful, tense air hovering in the inn.
"Griff! Lazar!" shouted Valqa.
"You take that back," ordered Griff, eyes hard.
"No," petulantly spat Lazar.
"You fucking take that back!" shouted Griff, eyes blazing. "Say what you will about me but leave him out of this!"
Lazar sneered. "Can't handle the truth, can you, Westerosi?" He spat. "I'd say your lover deserved his fate, but can't say that can I? He wasn't your lover; he didn't give it to you up the—"
Griff roared and threw himself forward, bringing his ale with him and smashing it over Lazar's head, drenching the pirate and sending him staggering to the side. The pirate then recovered and punched Griff, hard, in the stomach.
There was noise exploding around them, even as Griff grabbed Lazar's jacket and dragged him forward to meet his own fist; vaguely, Griff was aware that the other pirates with Lazar were moving toward him.
Hands grabbed and yanked Griff back, another punch to his stomach sending him to his knees. But Griff rallied and threw himself forward, wrapped his arms around Lazar's knees and pulled him to the floor with him.
They scuffled; someone shouted something above him.
The steel of a hilt descended from the corner of his eye, and Griff jerked his head back in time that the hilt and hand caught his chin instead of his temple instead, sending him reeling to the side.
Someone kicked him, and he curled up.
He brought his hands to his face and did his best to blindly wallop away any hands that came near, hoping that he would sink into unconsciousness soon enough and that the pirates would just toss him to the street. He'd miss his warm bed in Sonya's, but still.
Then, there was a loud roar in some garbled language, and the feet and hands were gone, followed by a crash.
Griff looked up, one eye swollen and his jaw throbbing; he was dizzy from pain and ready to just give up. One of the teenagers from the large group (the darker haired one) had thrown himself into Lazar, sending both sprawling, Lazar draped over the elevated pond. The young teen was pushing Lazar's head into the water and the pirate was struggling, arms flailing as he tried to pull his head out.
Valqa had his dagger out, in a reverse grip, but was mostly on the defensive as the small sellsword woman he spotted earlier was weaving around him in classic water dancer style, quick as lightning and striking with deadly precision as she caught Valqa's wrist. The man swore and dropped the dagger, clutching the wrist with his other hand as blood ran freely down through his fingers.
There were two other pirates, one that hauled Griff up, dagger in hand, hoping for a killing blow as some form of vengeance. The last pirate, the one who dealt the card hands, was pressed up and guarded by the redheaded Northerner, hands held up in supplication.
"For Lazar!" cried the pirate, the one who had a tight grip in Griff's jacket, even as the dagger descended.
Griff squeezed his eyes shut, swaying. I'll be with you soon, Rhaegar. But the blow never landed. His eyes popped open.
Standing between the two, perpendicular with shoulders pressed against both men, was the last tall Northman with a long, serious face. He had caught the pirate's hand, holding his wrist in a tight, bruising grip. The hand opened and he caught the dagger with his other hand, the free one.
There was nothing but ice in his eyes as he considered the weight of the dagger, glancing between it, the bruises on Griff's face, and then the pirate, whose eyes widened. He began to say, "No, don't —"
But then the dagger was jerked upward, and the pirate's voice trailed off into a gurgle. The Northman let go of the wrist and the pirate staggered back, hands falling to his stomach where the dagger protruded, blood already soaking the front of his shirt.
He watched the pirate fall, impassively with his cold eyes, before turning to Griff. There was something familiar in the man's face – in the length of his face, maybe or the dour expression? Griff squinted.
"Ser—" he gasped out, reaching to clutch at his saviour's shoulders.
Something flickered in the man's face, icy impassivity morphing into concern and worry – and that was a familiar expression, the pinched tightness at the corner of his eyes, the downturn of his mouth despite it being fuller than he remembered.
A part of Griff was howling he's not blond, you fool! but his mouth moved independently of his mind even as black encroached on his vision and his knees went weak. He began to fall, but the man caught him and held him.
"Rhaegar?" he whispered, and then succumbed to unconsciousness.
When Griff woke, it was slow. His head lolled forward and rocked with the movements of the ship.
He inhaled sharply, jerking his head up and yanked – only for his arms to remain tightly bound behind him, to the chair he was on. He looked around frantically, in a single spot of light coming
from a porthole to his right. He was in a storage room in the bowls of a ship; he could hear the creak of wood and the thud of waves as they crashed against the bow. There were crates and a few trunks stacked in the darkness around him, but without much light he couldn't see beyond his tiny circle of weak sunlight spilling in from the porthole.
Until one of the shadows by the crates moved.
He swore.
"Oh, he's awake," said a feminine voice cheerfully.
"Took him long enough," said a derisive male, low and rumbling in a Northern brogue. "It's been three days!"
Griff groaned. "Where am I? Who are you?"
The sellsword woman stepped forward from the shadows, arms crossed and an amused look on her
face. Griff inhaled sharply, his eyes wide. By the Gods, she looks like Lyanna Stark--!
"Welcome abroad the Mermaid's Tail," she said. "We had to take you with us after the fight. Not
all the pirates were dead, and they seemed rather upset at the loss of one of their own."
Only one? thought Griff, thinking back. He knew the tall Northman had stabbed the one threatening him, but he had been sure the other had drowned. His confusion must have been evident because the girl continued.
"Robb stopped Rickon before he killed the one that had bothered you."
Robb. Rickon. Those were Northern names. Were they all Northerners? He groaned. He had been kidnapped by a bunch of Northerners! If they knew who he was...
"I guess you owe us now, Connington," the girl continued, and his heart stopped. "For saving your life." She peered at him. "You were knighted, weren't you? Or were you only a Lord?"
"He was knighted," said a smooth voice from the shadows.
Irritably, Jon Connington wondered, just how many people were there, watching him? even as he jerked on the ropes that bound his hands and arms again.
"Going to kill me then?" he drawled. "I certainly wouldn't expect any less from savage Northerners."
The girl rolled her eyes, turning and glancing into the shadows. "He's a real charmer, he is."
"Be nice to our prisoner, Arya," the owner of the thick brogue chastised, stepping forward. It was the tall redhead, dressed in leathers and grey, eyeing Connington coldly. His arms were crossed.
"Can we keep him?" a younger voice asked, near Connington's ear. He jerked and glanced sideways, where the young teen who attacked Lazar was half bent, eyeing him. There was something wild in his face, an amused, if slightly malicious glint, to his eyes. "He's a ginge, Robb! Like us. He'd fit right in."
"Gods, Rickon, you can't just keep someone because of their hair colour—" Arya protested. "But—!"
"Stop it, both of you," said the man, eyeing the two. He and the girl were of a similar age, Connington thought, looking between them. Robb, the man, frowned heavily and turned back to the shadows. "What are we doing with him, Bran?"
Connington swallowed. Bran. That was close to "Brandon." His eyes darted over Robb's shirt and noted a tiny direwolf stitched into the sleeve. Gods. They're Starks. Or in the service of them.
"Jon will want to speak to him," answered the smooth voice from the back.
The girl, Arya, moved around the cabin with ease, walking with the rolls of the ship as she lit a few other lanterns until the light chased away the shadows, revealing the boy in the wheelchair tucked in a corner, hands steepled and pressed before his mouth as he calmly surveyed Connington.
"Who's Jon?" asked Connington, keeping calm. If he was free, he could take them on, he was sure of it... he just needed to stall...
None of them answered, just watched him. There was a thud, the beginning of loud, booted steps from behind him. Connington tried to twist around in his seat, to turn his head to see behind; that must have been where the stairs were, and each thud was as loud as his pounding heart.
There was a presence behind him, solid and large and sweat began to bead on Connington's brow. He hadn't felt this way in a long time, half-terrified, and half-furious. The last time had been at the Battle of the Stony Sept.
"Are you going to face me, heathen?" he spat, covering his rising fear. He fought against shifting in the seat.
The presence behind him moved, the air shifting, and then the man who saved his life stood before him, looking down from his standing position. Connington tilted his head back to peer up at the man.
He blinked in shock.
This was the man he vaguely remembered calling "Rhaegar." Why had he done it? What had he been thinking? Well, groused Connington in the privacy of his own mind, he had been in a fight and probably suffering from a concussion. But still...
Wetting his lips, Connington let his eyes trail over the man, thinking back to what he saw before he lost consciousness. The same dour expression, easily seen with the man's pulled-back hair, although it was leaning toward stoic; the downturn of his mouth, the familiar look of concern, although it was absent now...
The height, his lean body. Connington's eyes slipped over the broad chest, covered in a black shirt and leather, subtle red stitching holding it all together, to his belt and the sword at his side.
His heart stopped.
His eyes widened.
"Is that..." he breathed. "Is that Dark Sister?" His eyes jumped to Jon's.
"Aye," he replied, his own Northern accent thick. He was watching Connington carefully, eyeing him and coming to some sort of decision when he elaborated, "My father entrusted it to my mother
and the kingsguard before he died."
The words swam in Connington's brain, looping over and over as he tried to make sense of it – he did make sense of it – but still, the final thought eluded him. Father. Mother. Dark Sister. Kingsguard.
Everything snapped into place and his mouth dropped open as the man's features became so obvious, how did he miss it the first time? How many hours had he spent in Rhaegar's company? Had watched his prince's face? Knew how his body moved when he fought?
Rhaegar disappeared with Lyanna Stark. Three kingsguard went missing. The man was Northern looking. But he had Dark Sister.
The age just didn't add up.
There was something desperate in his face; that was the only explanation he had when Jon sighed. He turned, strode away to grab at a crate, a small one, and then brought it over before Connington's seat. Once placed, he sat on it, elbows pressed into his knees as he stared at Connington.
"Will you listen?" Jon asked, quietly.
Connington nodded, mouth dry. He couldn't form any words if he wanted, but he could listen. So, Jon spoke, the others hovered around him in quiet, silent support. Each word was a mix of horrifying, incomprehensible fantasy, but the weary look, the quiet determination – that was all Rhaegar's.
Something burned in Connington. He had been so listless for so long, in one campaign after another, seeking absolution, seeking revenge, seeking something to fill the emptiness of his heart since Rhaegar's death and his exile.
Rhaegar believed in prophecy.
Jon believed in time travel.
If he could support his father in his lunacy, what's to say he couldn't believe the son? There had been strange rumours around the Stark children falling ill before his campaign had begun, and of another set of Starks walking around but he had dismissed those rumours.
Maybe he needed to put more stock in rumours, Connington found himself thinking since it brought his prince's son to him.
The thought, the admission and ease of which he took to Jon's words should have shocked him. But, the man mentally sighed, he was always susceptible to Rhaegar. And, he added, peering at Jon, it seemed that transferred to his son, too.
With a fervour growing in him, Connington raised his bowed head and steadily met Jon's eyes, and said, empathically, "My King."
Jon eyed him for a moment, weighing him, and then reached out, placing a warm, accepting hand on Connington's shoulder.
TBC...