2:Jon

The Exile

Jon watched as Daario drowned another cup of wine and pulled another whore into his lap. Jon had never met a more grotesque man than him. His beard was cut in three prongs, all dyed blue. His eyes and curly hair were equally blue, but his mustachios were painted gold. Yet the most startling about him were his golden tooth and his frilly garments. He was a fool and a mummer, but that couldn't change the fact that he was a capable fighter.

Jon had joined the Stormcrows scarcely a year ago and had had plenty of time to see their prowess in battle. First they had fought a handful of small skirmishes against a Dothraki horde and scarce four moons ago they had fought a bloody struggle against another sellsword company hired from Myr. It had been Jon's second taste of battle and he had done well. At least that is what Sallor had told him when he saw the blood on his blade, though Ghost had killed far more men than him. Sallor, like Daario, was another joint commander and in charge of the archers. He was a tall and thin man, a twisting scar marring the right cheek of his face. Jon liked him well enough, but that didn't mean he trusted this man. Sometimes, he seemed far more interested in Ghost than Jon.

"So this dragon whore expects us for an audience, eh?" Prendahl na Ghezn asked. He was a man with a broad face and dark of hair. He also spoke with a thick Ghiscari accent and had made it his habit to call Daenerys Targaryen "dragon whore" whenever he found the moment to do so.

Jon knew why. He felt sympathy for the Masters that had been butchered at Astapor.

As always, Daario laughed and brought his cup to his lips as the second whore settled in his lap and twirled his blue curls in a playful manner. It was the dark-haired girl from Norvos that had shared Jon's bed for nearly a week during their campaign against the Dothraki. Thinking about it made Jon realize how low he had fallen after his departure from the Night's Watch. He had been so angry and determined to leave the past behind him that he had thrown away everything he had held dear, including his honor.

The first thing he had done after arriving in Volantis was to drown himself in wine and to take a whore to bed. All his life he had suppressed his urges to please his Uncle, but that had been his way to pay him back for his betrayal. And yet as much as Jon had enjoyed this week of leisure, he had also used up all the coin he had earned by working as a shiphand. The fact that he had nearly puked out his guts out for the following three days, had been enough to get sober and to make plans. Not long after, he had made the acquaintance of the Stormcrows and had asked to join. At first, they had made fun of him, but after he had proved his mettle by defeating one of their capable warriors, they had allowed him to join.

That he was able to read and write had brought him a place as an apprentice to the paymaster. He was an elderly man and far too blind to do the accounts on his own. Jon didn't mind helping him, though he had joined to taste blood, not to control dusty accounts.

And he had seen blood aplenty. The campaign in Myr had been bloody enough, but it had been nothing like he had imagined it.

That was another lesson he had learned. Real war was not glorious. It was bloody and afterwards, even when a victory had been won, it smelled of shit. Truly, it was no wonder that these sellswords were constantly drowning themselves in wine and whores to numb their fears.

Not that Jon blamed them. He had done the same by taking said girl to bed, though it hadn't given him as much pleasure as he had hoped for. It was cheap pleasure bought by coin. Theon Greyjoy might be able to convince himself that these girls really admired him for his supposed prowess, but Jon was not so easily blinded.

"They also say this dragon whore is the most beautiful woman in the world," Daario pointed out. "Mayhaps I can take her for my own once we have won this battle. Mad women are the best to fuck."

Jon didn't know why, but after hearing Daario's words he felt the hot breath of anger coursing through his body.

Daenerys Targaryen was a stranger to him, but even so she was his relative, his aunt, whatever that would mean to her.

All he knew about her came from stories. That her brother had sold her to a Dothraki Khal, that she had hatched dragons from a burning pyre and that she had put the Masters of Astapor to the sword. And yet, when Daario had spoken so crudely about her he couldn't help but to feel angry. It had felt as if he had spoken about Arya or Sansa, his supposed sisters. Arya, he was sure wouldn't care that he was a Targaryen, but Sansa, who was pledged to wed Joffrey would only see him as a threat.

"Mayhaps we should listen to what she has to say before we make any hasty decisions," Jon countered and searched Daario's gaze. "Mayhaps she would be prepare to pay us more than we were offered by the Masters?

Daario's smile faded instantly, a more serious expression taking hold of his features as he pondered over Jon's words. He liked to play the fool or the flamboyant lover, but deep down he was a realist. Jon had heard that Daario had changed sides numerous times if it was to his advantage. Loyalty was a foreign word to a sellsword like him.

"It seems our paymaster has been training you well, green boy."

"My name is Aemon," Jon corrected him, though that was another lie. It was a name he had taken to conceal his identity, but he had no doubt that Daario was aware of his lie.

"Even so, you are a green boy," Daario japed and bared his golden teeth. Ghost stirred suddenly, his teeth bared. Jon patted his head to calm him, but Daario seemed not the least bit frightened. His smile grew only brighter. "A boy who can't drown a flagon of wine without puking his guts out is no true man."

"Even so," Jon countered and took a sip from his cup. "You should at least listen to what Daenerys Targaryen has to offer you. She has three dragons, ten-thousand Unsullied and a horde of Dothraki following her. Aegon Targaryen took the Seven Kingdoms with less than that. She is clearly on a conquest and by helping her with this conquest we might all get very rich."

"Her brother was the Beggar King," Prendahl scoffed. "They say she stole the Unsullied and killed men who invited her into their city. How trustworthy can a whore like here be if she butchers innocent men?"

"Innocent men," Jon scoffed and couldn't help but to laugh. The short time he had spent in Volantis had shown him how innocent the Masters were. Back when he had lived in Winterfell he had never taught much about the topic of slavery, but now he knew why it was outlawed in Westeros. It was a disgusting practice and what the Masters of Astapor did to boys to turn them into Unsullied was even more disgusting No, Jon felt no sympathy for these slavers. They could burn for all he cared. "The Masters of Astapor are hardly innocent. They built their riches upon the suffering of those beneath them."

"As if the Lords and Kings of the Sunset Kingdoms are any different. The only difference is that you call them smallfolk and not slaves. Do not act so highly, green boy. You know nothing of the world," Prendahl replied and smiled smugly. "You know nothing of the world."

"Mayhaps that is true," Jon granted him grudgingly. "But slavery is outlawed where I come from. You also seem to forget that many a man here in this company was a slave or a pit fighter. I have yet to hear them speak about their Masters' kindness."

"You dare!" Prendahl snarled and freed his blade. "I will not take insults from a green boy."

"As you wish," Jon returned and freed his own blade. Ghost was quickly at his side and bared his teeth.

The other men laughed and snickered in amusement, but it was Daario put an end to the quarrel before it had even begun.

"Are you so easily roused by a green boy, old friend?" Daario asked and grinned. "Or are you just angry that he is not licking the Masters' feet like other sellswords. Well, I can't say I have ever held much love for these cunts either. My mother was a whore and I was probably fathered by one of these cunts. Later they sold me into slavery, until the day I won my freedom by becoming a champion of the pits."

"And wasn't it an honor to you? Weren't you rewarded for your loyalty? The Masters are good to those who know their place.

Daario laughed and leaned forward to pick a grape from the bowl while his other hand fondled the girl's breast.

"The Masters can suck my cock for all I care. The only reason I fight for them is the gold they pay."

Then, he leaned forward and spit out the core before Prendhal's feet.

"And that is why am willing to consider the green boy's idea," Daario added tauntingly and shifted his attention back to Jon. "We shall talk to the dragon whore and listen to what she has to offer."

Jon didn't know if he should feel relieved, but this was at least something he could do for his aunt. He had considered seeking her out a year ago, but then he had realized what a silly idea that was.

What could he offer to her? Nothing, but if he could help her win this battle she might consider giving him her trust. It was all he had left or he would remain and exile until the end of his days.

It wouldn't be a bad life, but then he had recalled Master Aemon, the blind old Maester withering away at the Wall. He had no strength left to help Daenerys Targaryen, but Jon Snow did, whatever that would mean for him.

"You are listening to this green boy?" Prendhal asked. "Have you lost your mind or are you thinking with your cock?"

"My cock has always been a better judge of character than my head, old friend," Daario replied cheerfully and shifted his attention back to Jon.

It seemed Prendhal had heard enough and a heartbeat later he was gone.

"But Prendahl is not completely wrong. They say Daenerys Targaryen took Astapor by treachery. How can we be sure that the dragon whore would keep her word?"

Jon was taken back by this question, though it didn't take long before he found an appropriate answer.

Jon knew it would be risky, but hiding the truth from her and revealing it at a later time might be just as bad of a choice.

She might think that I came to fool her. No, it is better to be honest. Besides, I have already lost everything. I can only win.

Thus, he returned Daario's smile and tried to sound as confident as possible.

"She will listen, because she is my blood, my aunt. Allow me to speak to her and I might be able to convince her. And if she doesn't agree, well, then you can still fight for the Masters. Either way you cannot lose."

For the first time since meeting him Daario looked stunned.

"Aemon," Daario repeated then and suddenly started to howl with laughter. "Of course! Aemon!"

Once Daario had regained his composure, he started to nod his head in understanding.

"But if she is your aunt…Why are you here with us and not with her?"

"I have never met her," Jon admitted hesitatingly. "I cannot guarantee that she will like me, but I am prepared to face the consequences alone. Still, what I said about her isn't wrong. I think she is on a conquest to gain an army to retake her father's crown. You and the others could get very rich by earning her trust."

"Prendhal will not agree. I might be able to convince Sallor, but not Prendhal. He loves his chains too much," Daario pointed out and leaned back.

"He doesn't have to live until the next day," Jon suggested. "The Widower would make a better join-commander than him. I have seen him tear apart two men at once while Prendhal was pissing himself."

"Prendhal would kill you if he knew what you just said, green boy," Daario warned and slipped his curved blade free, showing Jon the bare steel. "But it is good for you that I have never held much liking for Prendhal."

"Which means?" Jon asked and watched him polish the curved blade with the hem of his silken tunic.

"That we are going to meet your aunt, green boy, but be warned. Do not betray me or I shall cut off your cock and hand you over to the Masters myself. I am not a man to be trifled with, green boy."

"I understand," Jon replied and dipped his head. I am not to be trifled with either, he thought and brushed his hand over the pommel of his sword. I am a green boy who has nothing to lose, but his worthless life.

And despite his threats, Daario kept his promise.

Prendhal didn't see the next day.

…

It was beyond midday when they set out to meet his aunt. To reach her camp, they had to cross through a birchwood forest and down a slanting sandstone ridge.

The current battle plan was a simple one. The Second Sons would fight on the left wing and the Stormcrows on the right wing while the Yunkish slaves would hold the center. In total they were five thousand men to face ten-thousand Unsullied and a small horde of Dothraki. It would be a bloody battle, a battle Jon Snow didn't want to participate in. He had already betrayed his first family. He didn't want to do the same with his aunt.

Not long after, they finally arrived at the well-fortified camp. Daario liked to make fun of the Unsullied for lacking the essential parts of a man, but nobody could deny that they weren't disciplined soldiers. The deep ditch they had dug around the camp was impressive and even now the woods were full of Unsullied, lopping branches off birch trees to sharpen them into stakes.

"You should have brought your wolf with you, green boy," Daario teased him as he led his horse beside Jon's. "I heard her dragons are not bigger than dogs."

"Ghost will meet her soon enough," he replied politely and kicked his feet in the sides of his horse, urging it into a faster pace. He was not in the mood for japes. He was about to meet his aunt and he had no idea how she would react to him.

She is he Mad King's daughter. What if she burns me upon hearing my story? My mother was part of the reason her family lost the throne.

The camp itself proved equally impressive. The tents were arranged in orderly rows and surrounded a golden pavilion in the center. My aunt's dwelling place, Jon guessed and noticed that there lay a second encampment beyond the golden pavilion. It was sprawling and chaotic, but without ditches to protect it or even tents. Goats, sheep and half-starved dogs roamed freely amongst the horde of women, children and old men.

Half of Astapor followed her, he realized with horror. The sheer amount of them worried him more than the swords of the enemy. These people will either be enslaved or starve to death if my aunt doesn't win this battle.

It was a sun-kissed Unsullied leader who greeted them with a score of hundred men, their sharp spears glinting like diamonds.

"This one is Greyworm," the man greeted them in Bastard Valyrian. "The Queen means to see the leaders of the Stormcrows."

"And we shall be pleased to meet her," Daario returned and climbed from his saddle, a bright smile curling on his lips. Sallor, the ever-serious joint-commander followed in silence.

Thus, they left their horses behind and were led towards the golden pavilion. Outside he spotted Dothraki, their bells ringing with every movement.

Jon counted around thirty men, but no more. It was not much, but more than Jon had to offer. All he had was Daario, who would drag his aunt into his bed like a cheap whore.

That will never happen. I will kill him before he comes to that.

As they entered his tent, his heartbeat increased and the heat of the day was becoming almost unbearable. Sweat was rolling down his cheeks, but an almost sweet smell filled his nostrils. It was the smell of incense; of lavender, jasmine and perhaps sandalwood.

Inside he also found a heap of cushions and a young girl, seated atop it in a cross-legged position.

It was true what they had said about his aunt. She was a beautiful girl, but Jon Snow had known too few girls to judge whether she was the most beautiful.

Her soft-featured face, her silver hair and her dark purple eyes gave her an exotic appearance and yet he couldn't help but to notice that she was still half a child.

Even the two sun-kissed ladies seated beneath her feet looked older than her. Only the slightly darker-skinned girl seated next to her looked younger than her.

There were also two men in the pavilion. One was a large man with a black beard and balding head. He was garbed in leather and wool, but it was only after Jon had laid eyes on the black bear embellished on said man's tunic that Jon realized who he was.

Jon had seen him only a handful of times, but never this close. This man was Jorah Mormont, who had been exiled for the crime of slavery.

What is he doing here, Jon wondered and lowered his head. It made him glad that he had cut his hair short. Why is he serving my aunt?

"Welcome," his aunt greeted them in a soft-spoken voice, her deep violet eyes studying them with interest."Welcome."

It made Jon wish that he had something of the Targaryens of old to call his own.

Yet he forgot about his doubts when he laid eyes on the dragons. They were a wonder to behold, almost like a dream.

The white-and-golden dragon sat atop a cushion while the black dragon lay curled beneath the Princess's feat. The green-and-bronze dragon was the only one who showed interest in them, his head moving back and forth, watching Jon from the distance. "Welcome, my friends. I am please to have you here. Well, what do you have to say to me?"

"You would do well to take your rabble elsewhere," Sallor spoke his practiced lines. "You took Astapor by treachery, but Yunkai will not fall so easily."

"Five hundred of your Stormcrows against ten-thousand of my Unsullied," his aunt teased sweetly. "I am only a silly girl and do not understand the ways of war, but these odds seem poor to me."

She was not wrong. Her men surpassed their numbers and even Jon didn't trust these slave soldiers to hold their center.

"The Stormcrows do not stand alone," Sallor countered. "The Second Sons stand with us."

A band of pickpockets and savages, Jon knew. They were known far and wide for their lack of discipline. They would turn their back on them without hesitation.

"The Stormcrows do not stand at all," his aunt taunted them. "They fly, at the first sign of thunder. Perhaps you should be flying now. I have heard that sellswords are notoriously unfaithful. What will it avail to be staunch when the Second Sons change sides?"

"That will not happen," Sallor insisted weakly. He truly was a bad mummer. "And if it did, it would not matter. The Second Sons are nothing. We fight beside the brave men of Yunkai."

"You fight beside bed-boys armed with spears," his aunt mocked his words, the bells braided into her short silver hair bringing forth a clinking sound. "Once the bloodshed has begun, you will come to see your mistake. Join me now and you shall keep the gold the Masters paid you and claim a share of the plunder. And once I come to my kingdom there shall be even greater rewards waiting for you. Fight for the Masters and your wages will be death. Do you think the Masters will open the gates when my Unsullied are butchering you beneath the walls?"

"You are very convincing, oh gracious Queen," Daario said with a grin and dipped his head. "And as it stands I also think that fighting at your side could be more profitable than fighting against you."

Jon noticed the hint of surprise in his aunt's face. It was only subtle but it was there.

I seems the offer surprised her.

"That is good," she said once she had regained her composure. Then, she swept her gaze back to Daario and briefly at Jon. "But why trade mockeries if you are prepared to fight at my side?"

"To test the waters, your grace," Jon added hesitatingly.

"Your grace," his aunt repeated, obviously pleased with the use of her title. She even smiled a little, but her brows were slightly furrowed as she regarded Jon more closely. "You are not from Essos. Your accent is familiar…," she trailed off, but it was Ser Jorah who gave her the answer she was seeking for.

"The boy is from the North," the grim man said, his grey eyes piercing into Jon's. "And I think I know him."

The old, white-bearded man that had been lingering at the entrance of the pavilion was also watching him, though he appeared less hostile than the Ser Jorah.

His aunt gave Ser Jorah a startled look.

"You truly know him, Ser Jorah?"

"I think so," the man said and drew closer, his hand touching the pommel of his sword. "The boy has a Stark face. I have seen him before, when he was much younger. The boy is Eddard Stark's bastard son."

Jon swallowed hard and his aunt's expression darkened instantly.

"So he is the son of one of the usurper dog's?" the girl asked, her voice laced with hostility. Jon should have expected such a reaction, but it didn't change the displeasure he felt when he heard these words from her lips.

Jon met her gaze directly. Fear would not serve him now.

"Aye, Lord Eddard served the usurper Robert Baratheon," Jon confirmed and shifted his attention to Ser Jorah. "The same man you served before you were exiled for the crime of slavery, isn't that so, Ser Jorah Mormont?"

The effect was instant. Ser Jorah's face changed to a grimace of anger and he was about to unsheathe his blade, but his aunt raised her hand to stop him.

"No fighting, Ser Jorah. I want to hear what he has to say."

"This brazen bastard boy dared to insult me!" Ser Jorah snarled, his grey eyes fixed at Jon.

"I was just telling the truth," Jon replied tauntingly and ignored Ser Jorah. He was not the reason he came here. The reason he came here was his aunt. "But let me be clear. I hold no grudge against Ser Jorah or you, your grace. It is true, I have Stark blood and for many years I believed myself to be his son, but that was another lie…," he trailed off, his voice faltering as her violet eyes met his.

Swallowing hard, he forced the words over his lips.

"In truth, I have never been Lord Eddard Stark's bastard son. That was a lie he made up to protect me from R-…no the usurper's swords. In truth, my mother was Lady Lyanna Stark and my father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon…which makes me your nephew."

Silence followed, but that was no surprise to Jon either. He had not silver hair nor purple eyes. And yet it seemed his words had moved something inside his audience.

The handmaids looked confused, but Ser Jorah seemed to understand the implications as did the old, white-bearded man.

His aunt also seemed to understand the implications, but she appeared more shocked than anything.

"You dare to make up such lies…," Ser Jorah began to grumble, but his aunt silenced him again.

She looked incredibly pale and trembled as she handed her cup to the younger girl seated next to her.

"Ser Jorah speaks true," she said in an almost soft voice. "Why should I believe you? You come here after so many years…telling me that you are my nephew. Tell me, why should I believe a boy with a Stark face?"

"You have every reason to mistrust me, your grace," he granted her and shrugged his shoulders. "I have no silver hair or purple eyes."

Then, he pointed at the green-and-bronze dragon, still watching him. "I don't even have a dragon. All I have is the story my uncle gave me and the bitter lies to accompany it. I never asked to be a Targaryen nor did I ask to be born. My uncle made me believe that I am his bastard, but barely a year ago, after he joined me at the Wall, I found out the truth. To protect me from the usurper he had lied to me and had allowed me to enter the Night's Watch, forsaking lands and titles all in one. Feeling betrayed, I deserted the Wall to make for Essos. In truth, I am an oathbreaker, no better than a slave trader like Ser Jorah. Were I to return home my own brother, no cousin, would be forced to take my head."

His aunt stared at him in utter disbelief, her mouth opening and closing. The black dragon seemed to have noticed her discomfort, because he was brushing his head against her thighs. The green and bronze dragon seemed even more anxious.

Could it be that he is able to sense my blood?

"Your grace," Ser Jorah spoke again. "This boy is obviously trying to fool us…mayhaps he is even a spy."

"I doubt that," the old, white-bearded man remarked. Jon had never met him, but there was something soft and fearful in the way he looked at Jon. "A spy wouldn't be so honest. I also do not think the boy is lying. It is possible…everybody knows that Rhaegar Targaryen took Lady Lyanna. Tell me, my boy? What exactly did Lord Eddard tell you about your mother and father?"

Jon met the man's gaze and cleared his throat. He had mulled over this tale a thousand times, but that didn't make it any easier for him to recount it.

"He told me that my mother's abduction was a lie…he told me that my mother loved Prince Rhaegar and that he wed her beneath a weirwood tree. I suppose that makes her his second wife, though I don't know what that means for me. The vows beneath a weirwood tree would be regarded valid by the people of the north, but I doubt it would be the same in the south. Everyone knows that my father was wed to Princess Elia Martell, his first wife. I do not know whether I am a bastard or trueborn," he explained and angled his head to search his aunt's face. "All I know is that you are my aunt and that Maester Aemon would have wanted to help you if he was able to do so."

The girl's eyes widened in confusion.

"Maester Aemon?"

"Aemon Targaryen, the son of King Maekar and brother to King Aegon the Unlikely. He was a Maester of the Citadel and later joined the Night's Watch," the old, white-bearded man said, his voice laced wonder. "I thought he was long dead. Did he send you here, my boy?"

"No," Jon replied. "In truth, he would be ashamed of me for breaking my vows. And yet without breaking them I wouldn't be here."

Then, Jon sucked in a deep breath and searched his aunt's face.

"I know you have no reason to believe me, but it was I who asked Daario to listen to your offer, because we all have an interest in seeing you succeed. Daario and his men long for riches and I long for home, but I can't return without getting a pardon from a King or Queen. By helping you to the crown I can do that."

"You don't want the crown?" his aunt asked him, her voice barely above a whisper. "You came all the way to help me?"

Jon nodded his head. It was true. It was not the loss of his potential birthright that had angered him so much, but the fact that his uncle had lied to him all those years and that he had treated him like a fool.

"No, I don't care for the crown. You can have it for all I care."

"Your grace," Ser Jorah began again and drew closer to touch his aunt's shoulder. "I must advice you against this…this boy is…," he continued, but his aunt cut him off, her gaze still fixed on Jon.

"Come here," she told him. It sounded almost like an order. "Come here to my side and let me take a look at you…forgive me…I have not even asked your name?"

Jon did as she had asked of him and rose slowly to his feet.

"Among the Stormcrows they call me Aemon, but the name I have known all my life is Jon…Jon Snow."

"Aemon," she repeated and smiled. It gave Jon the assurance he needed. "Come here, Aemon and meet, my children."

The silver-winged dragon stirred and the green-and-bronze one grew even more anxious as he drew closer. He flapped his wings excitedly and made a chirping sound, before he propelled himself into the air and soared towards Jon.

He landed beneath Jon's feet and chirped again, his wings spread wide.

Jon was at a loss of words, the dragon staring back at him as if he was beckoning Jon to touch him.

Jon gathered his courage, leaned down to touch his head and surprisingly the dragon complied eagerly.

He chirped and rubbed is head against Jon's burned hand.

"What is his name?" Jon asked his aunt, his breathing labored from the sudden excitement.

"Rhaegal," his aunt said, her voice brimming with emotions. "He is named after my brother Rhaegar."

"My father," Jon whispered, unshed tears burning in his eyes. "You named him after my father."

"This…," Ser Jorah stuttered helplessly, his face as pale as curled milk. "Your grace…this must be a sham."

"It is no sham. My children wouldn't lie to me," his aunt replied and brushed his hand away, her smile only meant for Jon. "And it also means Jon Snow will stay."

"But your grace!" Ser Jorah exclaimed, but his aunt cut him off again.

"Enough, Ser Jorah. Your Queen has spoken. Jon Snow stays."

Then, she angled her head looked over to Daario and Sallor. "And you shall have your gold, but first we must win. And to achieve this feat you must prove your loyalty to me."

"Of course, oh gracious Queen," Daario chirped in amusement. "We shall prove our loyalty to you. But how will it be done?"

His aunt smiled sweetly.

"I shall explain it to you."