Chapter Forty Two: The Truth

After placing a chaste kiss against her forehead and releasing her from his grasp, he had asked "How do you fare?"

She had gazed at her feet for a long sullen moment before looking up at him and replying "I am afraid the tidings I bear are ill, good ser."

He had frowned and stated restlessly "Does that mean…?"

She had just nodded and confirmed his assumption with "The union has already been sanctioned by both the crown and the faith."

"You said you would speak to your father," he had recalled, trying not to sound accusatory.

"I tried to," she had insisted, "Alas, he could not be swayed. He is determined to see the match through."

"And there is no recourse to this?" he had presumed, though he pretty much already knew the answer.

"None that I can see," she had told him in dismay, "The wedding will happen. There is nothing anyone can do to prevent it. Not even you or I."

As if the King would ever heed my counsel. Or request my opinion. But the least he could have done was ask his daughter's.

He had sighed a long, sullen sigh and muttered "I suppose that is it then."

"Aye," she had agreed, "That is it."

He had said nothing in response, but his dissatisfaction must have been evident on his countenance. She had placed a soft hand on his shoulder and asked in worry "Will you be alright?"

"I will survive, my princess," he had reassured her. He had then turned to her and said "My main concern is whether you will."

"Ever the valiant knight," she had commented admirably, "You needn't worry, ser. I can handle my brother."

"If he ever harms you, you need only send for me," he had claimed.

She had asked worriedly "What would you do?"

"Whatever was necessary to protect you," he had answered.

"You could lose your head for such talk," she had cautioned him.

"Some things are worth losing one's head for," he had argued.

"I am not one of them," she had insisted, "Please, expel such ideas from your mind."

"Very well," he had conceded, albeit reluctantly, "For your sake, I will not intervene in your marriage."

"Thank you," she had said gratefully. She had then queried "What will you do now?"

"I will move on in my own way," he had proclaimed, "Everyone is meant to be with someone. For most, there is one person. For myself… I believe there are seven."

She had seemed surprised. "Did you decide that just now?"

"No, I have been contemplating it for a time," he had revealed. In the event that a scenario such as this one was to transpire. "At present, I believe it is the most appropriate option available to me."

"Then I hope you find solace in that pursuit," she had stated kindly.

"I shall strive to," he had declared. He had then shared another kiss with her; this one was on the lips. The mark to the end of a forbidden romance.

It had been forty years since that conversation. Ser Bonifer Hasty still remembered every moment of it, as though it had occurred minutes ago. It was special to him; it was the very last time he and Princess Rhaella Targaryen had seen one another in person.

Ser Bonifer had spent the last four decades of his life fighting in the name of the Seven. In all that time, he had found peace of mind in his work. More than he ever thought he would find. Definitely more than Her Grace found.

Rhaella Targaryen had become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Alas, she was wife to the least sane monarch the Seven Kingdoms ever had. Ser Bonifer had often heard of how King Aerys Targaryen had tormented and raped his sister. Their marriage was analogous to his rule.

Bonifer Hasty did not mourn the Mad King when Jaime Lannister drove his blade through his back. In fact, he had reveled in that sadist's demise. Alas, his satisfaction was short-lived. Just a few months later, Queen Rhaella died birthing her final child on Dragonstone. When he leaned of her fate, Ser Bonifer had prayed to the Seven for the rest of her soul, and to the Maiden especially. He had never prayed so hard as he did that night.

With the death of Prince Rhaegar on the Trident and the deaths of his children during the Sack of King's Landing, the only Targaryens left were his siblings Viserys and Daenerys. The prince, unfortunately, seemed to take too much after his father. The princess, on the other hand…

Bonifer Hasty had had seventeen namedays when he courted Rhaella Targaryen, and she had had fifteen. This year, Daenerys Targaryen had seen her own fifteenth nameday.

At this time, Daenerys was in the courtyard of Magister Illyrio Mopatis' manse. She was sitting in a comfortable chair and reading a book. Alysane Mormont was sitting on the ground nearby, sharpening her sword on a whetstone. A few of the Westerosi units who did not belong to the Legion without Banners were lounging around the vicinity.

Bonifer Hasty was standing idly on the platform that overlooked the courtyard. He had come to that spot to admire the view of Pentos and the Narrow Sea to the west. He had stayed for another, equally beautiful yet more corporeal view.

Not only did Daenerys Targaryen look nearly identical to her royal mother; she was every bit as gentle and compassionate, as well. When he gazed at her, Bonifer felt he was staring at the spitting image of his late beloved. If only she and I were not born four decades apart.

He quickly shook that notion from his head. None of that, ser. To date, that was the only suggestive thought Ser Bonifer Hasty had had of the Lady Daenerys. Every other thought he had of her since he first met her was clean and platonic. He intended to maintain that type of relationship with her. Even though he was tempted to do otherwise.

In the midst of his reverie, Bonifer Hasty managed to discern the sound of footsteps approaching him from behind. He casually peered over his shoulder and saw his colleague Malcolm Branfield walking towards him.

"Ser Malcolm," he murmured in greeting.

"Ser Bonifer," the other knight returned cordially. He stopped a few feet away and inquired "Enjoying the sights?"

"Yes," Bonifer Hasty disclosed, "The Narrow Sea is rather peaceful this time of day, whilst Pentos is at the height of activity. Yet despite being in opposite states, they complement one another perfectly."

Malcolm Branfield smirked and muttered drily "You and I both know I was not referring to the city and the surrounding landscape."

Indeed not. I sense what could be an accusation in those words, but it could also be a point of debate. "Malcolm, enlighten me. Are you commenting on the object of my admiration, or my admiration itself?"

"The latter, although the former merits some consideration," the native of the Crownlands remarked, "I would be a lackwit not to have noticed Lady Daenerys' beauty. You, however, have done more than notice it."

"How so?" Bonifer Hasty enquired, genuinely perplexed, "I have made no advances."

"True, you have not," Malcolm Branfield muttered, "But I can tell you would if you could. Go ahead and admit it."

"Very well; I admit it," Bonifer Hasty said grudgingly.

"Do not sound so ashamed," Malcolm calmly bade him, "It is not wrong to desire things. Even if said things are beyond your reach."

"No," Ser Bonifer supposed, "But it is foolish to hope one might actually have such things."

"There we agree," Ser Malcolm contended, folding his hands behind his back, "Men like you and I have a firm grasp of what is and is not within our grasp. We may wish to reach for certain things, but we know better than to pursue them."

"That is precisely what I believe, too," Bonifer Hasty coincided, "Nonetheless, even the most disciplined cannot help but to yearn for something. There is little that can be done to keep them from wanting it."

"Do you want her?" Malcolm Branfield asked straightaway, gesturing to the spot in the courtyard where Daenerys was reading.

Bonifer would have been alarmed by the suddenness of that question, had he not predicted the possibility of it being asked earlier on. Instead, he looked Malcolm in the eye and told him "If you must know… no, I do not. I may desire the image of her, but only because that image bears so great a resemblance to the last Targaryen Queen. But the mother is not the daughter, and the daughter is not the mother. I loved Rhaella dearly, but I feel nothing of the sort for Daenerys."

"Are you certain?" the slightly younger knight asked, skepticism detectable in his tone.

I am sensing an accusation. Bonifer was quick to answer it. "I know my place, Ser Malcolm. As well as I know hers. Her parents were King and Queen of Westeros. Even if deposed, her station in this world is much different from mine. Apart from that, I am old enough to be her grandfather."

"In another life, you might well have been her grandfather," Malcolm pointed out.

That was an intriguing concept. I more likely would have been her father, seeing as she is Rhaella's child. Either way, none of us would have had to venture to Essos in the first place with that manner of arrangement. "Perhaps. But the chance for that has long passed, and I am a man of the gods now. That will never change. Thus, it is no use lamenting on missed opportunities."

Malcolm Branfield appeared astonished by the elder knight's conviction. "It is that simple?"

"It is that simple," Bonifer Hasty affirmed.

Again, Ser Malcolm smirked. Then he murmured approvingly "Well, then I applaud your resolve. A great number of men, even husbands and fathers, would likely lunge at the prospect of courting a maiden such as Daenerys Targaryen."

He is not far wrong. Even so, I wonder how many of those men would be interested in more than appearance? A thought occurred to Ser Bonifer. "Would you?"

"No," was the former Crownlander's prompt response. Too prompt to be wholly believable.

"I have lived a solitary life because of my devotion to the Seven," Bonifer Hasty remarked, "But I am curious, Ser Malcolm. What reason do you have for remaining unwed and childless at your age?"

"If you must know, I just never had any interest in having a family. I never saw the need to, either. I was not my lord father's eldest son. I was not groomed to be a lord; I was spared the responsibilities of the heir. Instead, I became a knight and travelled the Seven Kingdoms, looking for adventure."

And found plenty of it, I am certain. Bonifer Hasty contended "I can understand why you followed that course in your youth. Back then, your house had no shortage of members. Yet even after your parents and siblings perished, you still never felt compelled to continue your line?"

"That is correct," Malcolm Branfield mumbled, a little drearily, "House Branfield's seat was burned to the ground during the Rebellion, so even if I wished to have a family of my own, I had nothing to be lord of. Fortunately, of all my siblings, I was always the closest to my sister Elissa. When she married Lord Gregor Forrester of Ironrath, I went north with her. I was able to make a new home for myself in the North."

"But who did you side with during the Rebellion?" Bonifer said inquisitively.

"The Targaryens, at first," Ser Malcolm disclosed. Ser Bonifer expected as much. He may have been living in the North at the time, but he was born a Crownlander. "However, when I realized that we were fighting for a lost cause, I bent the knee. Alas, my brothers – the obstinate fools they were – refused to yield and perished for it."

Then Ironrath was the only home left for him. Not knowing what else to say, Ser Bonifer stated "They died for what they believed in."

"Or, one could argue, their beliefs were what killed them," Malcolm disputed bitterly. His bitterness did not linger for long. Soon, his usual jovial grin returned. He turned to his colleagues and asked "Which side did you join, Ser Bonifer?"

"The Holy Hundred stayed neutral throughout the Rebellion," Bonifer Hasty recounted, "Our members were from all over the Seven Kingdoms. We lived like brothers, and we would not pit brother against brother. Therefore, we opted to rally to neither side whilst the fighting lasted and rally to the victor whenever it ended."

"A prudent course of action," Malcolm Branfield observed, giving a nod of the head, "However, let us suppose you had not formed the Holy Hundred. Who would you have fought for then?"

"I am a Stormlander; naturally, I would have been obligated to support Robert," Ser Bonifer professed.

"Jon Connington was from the Stormlands," Malcolm countered.

"And he was exiled for his loyalty to the Targaryens," Bonifer reminded him. Exiled by the Mad King himself.

"Yes, but considering what Aerys normally did to those who displeased him, exile was a rather merciful punishment," Malcolm debated.

"Be that as it may," Ser Bonifer pronounced, "It would have been no contest for me. Had I not been a man of the gods, I would have sworn my sword to the Baratheons, and if need be, I would have died for them."

At that, Malcolm grimaced and said glumly "Then you are a better man than I."

That statement perplexed Bonifer a bit. "Why do you say that?"

The native of the Crownlands brushed the tips of his left thumb and index finger against his forehead for a few seconds. Then he lowered his hand and proclaimed. "A moment ago, I called my brothers fools for dying in the name of the Mad King. Between the two of us, there are times when I instead regard them as heroes who died for the realm. There is also the issue of my surrender in the war. On the whole, my choice to deflect seemed a wise one. But at times, I wonder if my choice was really dictated by cowardice. There are even certain occasions when I am ashamed outliving my family for so long."

Bonifer Hasty took a minute to reflect on everything he had just been told. After that, he lightly shrugged and professed "I see you live with a fair deal of guilt, Ser Malcolm. But you are not the only one. We have all done things we regret. All the same, you are not to blame for the destruction of your house and the demise of your family. You made your decision; your brothers made theirs. All willingly."

"I… cannot disagree with that," Malcolm Branfield admitted after a moment of thought, exhaling deeply, "At the end of the day, I suppose there were no favorable options whatsoever in the Rebellion. Regardless of which paths we chose to take, we each had to pay the price for them."

"At some point in our lives, we all must pay for our decisions," Ser Bonifer debated, "The difference between you and your brothers is that you can atone for the wrongs you may have done."

"Atone how?" Malcolm enquired, intrigued.

"By doing just what you are doing now," Bonifer replied.

"Discussing my personal grievances about myself with you?" Malcolm stated sardonically.

"No, I mean what you are doing here," Bonifer Hasty uttered with a scoff, gesturing to their immediate surroundings, "Although you forsook the Mad King during the Rebellion, you can make peace with your desertion by protecting his children."

That remark seemed to bring a strange form of contentment to the knight from the Crownlands. He rubbed his chin, and then he smiled, lightly nodded his head, and murmured "That is a peculiar view of our present situation. But it seems fitting, just the same."

"Of course it does," Ser Bonifer asserted, "You fought for the Targaryens once. Now you can do so once more."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Fight for them in what capacity?"

It took Bonifer a moment to realize what he was insinuating. "I mean you should fight to protect them. I am not implying you should shed blood for them."

Malcolm seemed somewhat relieved. He mumbled softly "I certainly hope not. Because as of now, the only person who would ever wish harm upon them is the man who sits the Iron Throne."

"True," Bonifer Hasty coincided, folding his arms and leaning against the balustrade to the platform, "Lord Gregor may have convinced the King to spare the Targaryens for the present, but I've little doubt that Robert Baratheon would still order their heads if he felt they posed too great a threat to his reign."

"Then we must assure him they do not," Malcolm proposed.

"Just what I was thinking," Bonifer professed. Long as we maintain the truce, neither party has anything to fear from the other.

"That is not as simple and straightforward as you make it sound," Malcolm debated, "Daenerys is harmless. Anyone with eyes can see that. But Viserys…"

He did not need to say any more. Where to even begin with him?

"That lad is impossible to control," Bonifer Hasty perceived, "If left unchecked, he'll be a threat to everyone. Including himself."

"Especially himself," Malcolm said with a note of malignance, "Do you know what I was doing before I came here?"

Without even bothering to guess, Bonifer asked "What?"

"I was in the lounge, having another heated discussion with the self-proclaimed rightful king of Westeros," Malcolm revealed.

Bonifer rolled his eyes and let out a slow breath. He mumbled irately "What was it about this time?"

"His most recent attempts to amass an army of his own," Malcolm responded.

"Failed attempts, I presume?" Bonifer asked rhetorically.

"Aren't they always?" Malcolm muttered sarcastically, "As of today, he has suggested every sellsword company out there which he had yet to put forth. Alas, these prospects had many of the same problems as the others. Too small. Too honorable. Too remote. Too unknown. But, as usual, the most common excuse was too expensive."

It is not without reason that Viserys is scorned as the Beggar King. Bonifer Hasty rubbed his temple and thought aloud "Perhaps we could write King Robert and ask him for coin to hire an army. If not him, we could send a raven to Lord Gregor. The Legion can certainly spare enough funds to procure at least one sellsword company."

"Allard tried to explain that to Viserys," Malcolm disclosed, "In response, he looked at him as though he said his mother was a whore."

If anyone called his mother a whore, I would not react well, either. Bonifer queried "Did he give you the impression that he was displeased?"

"More than the impression," Malcolm said drily "He had a whole speech prepared about how he was above crawling to anyone and begging for money, least of all the Usurper and his Mountain. But his main argument was that this is all a matter of pride to him. He is very much determined to produce an army of his own making, without financial aid from anyone."

"Somehow, I am not surprised," Bonifer Hasty muttered bluntly. Pride; a faster kill of men than blades. "What are we going to do with him?"

"Just what you suggested; we will protect him," Malcolm Branfield stated, suddenly a fair amount calmer.

"Yes, but how do you protect someone from himself?" Bonifer disputed, "The lad is too pompous by half. If he goes on as he has, that malicious attitude of his will someday be the death of him."

"Oh, unless it improves, I'd wager that any person in this building could be the death of him," Malcolm conjectured, "Directives and discipline be damned; it is only a matter of time before he provokes someone here into giving him the same fate as his father."

"I hope it does not come to that," Bonifer remarked. Though there is a distinct likelihood it will. "I may care little for Viserys, but we are still under orders to keep him safe."

"I give you my word that no harm shall befall him from my hand at least," Malcolm Branfield assured the older man.

Bonifer Hasty smiled and "I know I can count on you."

"Always," Ser Malcolm confirmed, "Just as the rest of us can you."

"Of course you can," Bonifer affirmed.

If Allard Seaworth was the unofficial commander of the hundred Westerosi units that were guarding Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen, Bonifer Hasty was his unofficial second-in-command. While the second son of the Onion Knight oversaw the company's affairs, the leader of the Holy Hundred took responsibility of their behavior and the way they conducted themselves. For whatever reason, he was deemed better-suited to the task than anyone else in their party. Maybe it was due to his being a lifelong follower of the Seven. They do not call me 'The Good' without cause, I suppose.

Bonifer Hasty had a strange effect on people. Whenever he was around, people generally seemed more agreeable. For instance, Viserys did not beat his sister like he used to. The Westerosi solders had been able to protect her from his volatile mood swings, and none of them more than Ser Bonifer. Viserys' behavior still left much to be desired, but at least Daenerys was no longer a victim of his abuse.

Despite the observations made by Malcolm Branfield (and others), Bonifer Hasty truly had no profound feelings of sexual attraction towards Daenerys Targaryen. He was fond of her, and he appreciated her beauty, but he swore to himself that he would never lay a finger on her. All the same, he would protect and defend her with his life. He was aware that she never asked that of him. For that matter, neither did anyone else. Nonetheless, it was the very least he could do to honor the memory of her late mother.

Just as the conversation between Ser Bonifer and Ser Malcolm seemed to reach its conclusion, they received more company. Eddison Tollett arrived on the scene, looking as cheerless as ever.

"How do you fare today, Edd?" Bonifer asked the Valeman as he came closer.

"About as well as ever, ser," Dolorous Edd glumly answered him.

"That bad, eh?" Malcolm japed. Bonifer chuckled, whereas Edd Tollett sneered.

Bonifer Hasty noticed Dolorous Edd held something in his hand. "What's that you have there?"

"Message, ser," Edd replied, displaying the object to the two older men. It turned out to be a scroll.

"For me?" Bonifer Hasty assumed, taking the scroll in his hand. It was tightly wrapped, but the ribbon was loosely tied, as though it had already been opened.

"Well, not exactly…" Eddison Tollet murmured.

Ser Bonifer removed the ribbon and unrolled a foot of the parchment. Straightaway, he understood what the Valeman meant. He could not make sense of the contents.

"What the hells is this?" he thought aloud.

Malcolm Branfield stepped up behind him and peered over his shoulder. He furrowed his brow and noted "That's not the Common Tongue."

"Indeed," Bonifer conceded, "It is definitely in another language."

"I concluded as much," Dolorous Edd Tollett stated, "I consulted one of the magister's scribes. She claimed it was written in Dothraki."

Bonifer was stunned. He looked to the younger man and repeated "Dothraki?"

As Edd Tollett nodded his head, Malcolm Branfield scoffed and muttered "I was not aware the Dothraki could write."

"I believe they have scribes of their own," Bonifer Hasty thought aloud. As he rolled the scroll back up, he asked "Why did you bring this to me?"

"Well, the scribe I spoke to was able to translate it," Eddison Tollett disclosed. He reached into his doublet and pulled out a smaller piece of parchment, which he held out to Bonifer. "She was even kind enough to write it down. When you see the contents, you'll understand."

I may as well take his word. As Bonifer Hasty took the parchment, Dolorous Edd added in "I should warn you, ser. You're not going to like it."

He was quite right. When Ser Bonifer began to read the translated message, he was somewhat bewildered. Overtime his confusion gradually disappeared, and it was hastily replaced with shock and anger. By the time he was finished, his fists were clenched and his face was contorted in fury.

"That conniving rat…" he whispered darkly.

Bonifer speedily turned around and marched towards the manse. Eddison Tollett and Malcolm Branfield hastily followed him into the building. Bonifer stomped through three hallways until he arrived at the lounge. Without even bothering to knock, he burst inside.

As he expected, Viserys Targaryen and Allard Seaworth were still there. Magister Illyrio and the Red Woman were there, as well. All four of them were seated at a table on the side of the room. They all sharply turned to the door when the Stormlander knight made his entrance.

"Trouble, Ser Bonifer?" Allard Seaworth queried in concern.

Bonifer did not bother to answer him. When he came into the room, his eyes immediately went to Viserys Targaryen. He solemnly walked over to the blond man and seized him by the throat with his free hand. That action alarmed everyone there, the deposed prince most of all.

"Get your fucking hand off me!" Viserys yelled.

With no regard for the younger man's well-being, Bonifer Hasty forced him out of his chair and slammed him against the adjacent wall. He glared into his eyes and muttered through the gritted teeth "You bastard. You filthy, degenerate bastard."

No, even bastards have more integrity than this.

"Unhand me at once," Viserys snapped angrily.

Instead, Bonifer tightened his hold, as though he meant to choke the life out of Viserys Targaryen. Under different circumstances, he may very well have done just that.

Before he could, Allard Seaworth rose from his chair and shouted "Ser Bonifer! Stand down!"

Bonifer Hasty did not acknowledge the command right away. For a minute, he continued to grip Viserys by his throat, as though he was contemplating whether or not he would strangle him.

Ultimately, he chose to obey Allard's order. He released his hold on the blond man and backed away a pace. As Viserys gasped to regain his breath, Bonifer gazed down at him in malice.

By now, Malcolm Branfield and Eddison Tollett had entered the room, as well. Out of the corner of his eye, Bonifer spotted them standing by the doorway. He did not know how long they had been there, but it must have been long enough to see how he had handled Viserys. That must not have been a pretty sight.

"I knew he wouldn't like it," Dolorous Edd uttered drearily, "Count on me to be the bearer of bad news."

"Wouldn't like what?" Allard Seaworth enquired.

Bonifer Hasty turned to him and held out the parchment Edd had given him, saying "See for yourself, Allard."

The younger Stormlander took the piece of parchment and swiftly read it over. When he was done, he was considerably calmer than Bonifer Hasty had been, but he seemed no less angry. He slowly looked to Viserys Targaryen, waved the parchment in front of him, and mumbled heatedly "What is the meaning of this?"

Viserys did not reply right away. Then he said stiffly "First tell me what 'this' is."

Ser Bonifer gestured for Edd to come closer. When the Valeman reached them, Bonifer pointed to the scroll in his hand and proclaimed "That message is addressed to you. It was sent by a Dothraki horselord named Khal Drogo."

"And instead of bringing it to me directly, you had it translated and read it yourself beforehand?" Viserys snapped.

"That is beside the point," Malcolm Branfield contended.

"No, it is not," Viserys countered, swiping the translated note out of Allard's hand, "This is my business."

"Well, everything you do is our business," Bonifer Hasty debated, "Especially when it concerns your sister."

"Or your plans to marshal forces of your own," Allard Seaworth added crossly, "What in the name of the gods were you thinking? A khalasaar?"

"We do not have the money to hire sellswords," Viserys argued, "No one outside of Westeros is willing to fight out of duty or obligation. Everyone on this side needs incentive to fight for our cause. Thus, our only alternative is to deal with someone who was willing to barter instead."

"So you chose to barter with your own flesh and blood?" Bonifer Hasty spat.

"I would not sell Daenerys to just any man," Viserys pronounced, as though that made his intentions any less disgraceful, "She is the last female Targaryen; her virtue by itself is worth a fortune. In fact, I would say Drogo will be the one to get more out of the bargain."

"He won't get anything," Ser Bonifer declared stalwartly, "This 'bargain' will not happen."

"That is not for you to decide," Viserys muttered plainly, "Dany may feel safer with you and your lot around. But she will still do as I tell her."

"A man with a broken jaw or a missing tongue can tell no one anything," Bonifer Hasty murmured ominously, placing one hand on the hilt of his sword and tightening the other into a fist, "Which do you prefer?"

"Enough," Illyrio Mopatis interceded, right before any blows were exchanged. The magister proceeded to get up from his own chair. That took a bit of time, given how large he was. Once he was on his feet, he muttered sternly "I will not have this squabbling. Not under my roof."

"If it unsettles you, we could take this matter outside," Bonifer Hasty suggested. He was being sarcastic or spiteful; he was absolutely serious.

"That is not what I meant," Illyrio declared, "You are all guests of mine. Long as you are here, I demand you treat each other accordingly, or I will have you all thrown out."

"Thrown out of the manse?" Viserys assumed in astonishment.

"Thrown out of Pentos," Mopatis bluntly clarified.

The hostile atmosphere rapidly dissipated there. Some may have viewed that as an empty threat, but Magister Illyrio had the means to make it happen. He was one of the most influential men in the Nine Free Cities, not just Pentos. Additionally, he was the closest thing to an ally the Targaryens and their Westerosi guards had in Essos. They could not afford to lose their connection with him.

Although the threat of violence was gone, Bonifer Hasty was still quite displeased with this newest development. He looked to the cheesemonger and told him "I will keep my sword sheathed, but you cannot seriously mean to advocate this proposal, Magister. Daenerys is under your protection, as well."

The morbidly obese man gave a small smile and muttered "I have not forgotten that, good ser. I would advise you to relax."

"How can I relax?" Bonifer Hasty said, almost demandingly.

"Because no harm will come to Daenerys Targaryen," Lady Melisandre claimed, "I have seen it in the flames."

Bonifer Hasty was taken aback. So were Allard Seaworth, Eddison Tollett, and Malcolm Branfield.

Allard said inquisitively "What exactly are you saying, my lady? You knew?"

"Of course I knew," Melisandre pronounced, "This is the most logical course of action for the prince to take."

"Hold up," Edd Tollett interjected, "Do you mean to say you put Lord Viserys up to this?"

"We both did," Illyrio Mopatis confessed. Upon seeing the shocked glances the Westerosi gave him, he smirked and muttered "Did you honestly believe I would have allowed this sort of business to go on in my establishment without my knowing of it?"

"Magister, I am appalled," Allard Seaworth uttered in disgust. You are not alone, my friend.

"Lady Melisandre and I only presented the idea to Viserys," "The choice to follow through was his entirely. Call it the act of a desperate man."

"Desperate for what?" Malcolm Branfield snapped, "Some delusion of glory?"

"Salvation for my homeland," Viserys claimed in an uncharacteristically noble tone, "The Usurper will need every sword he can find. Even among his own people, Khal Drogo is a legend. He commands forty thousand, each of which would follow him to the death. They would make an impressive complement to the soldiers of the Seven Kingdoms"

"Or, alternatively, they would make an impressive invasion force to the people of the Seven Kingdoms," Allard Seaworth debated, "When we return to our homeland, the only people we will bring back will be those that Robert Baratheon and Gregor Clegane have approved of. Lord Gregor may make an exception for a Dothraki horde, but hard as I might try, I cannot imagine the King granting such an unsavory mob entry into Westeros."

"Then wait for the Others to come," Viserys stated mockingly, "By then, he'll be begging the Dothraki to cross the Narrow Sea."

"We will return to Westeros long before that happens," Allard asserted, "But if the King and the Mountain refuse to give passage to the Dothraki, they will not come back with us."

"Good luck explaining that to Khal Drogo," Viserys shot scathingly.

"Frankly, I do not see why we should even bother negotiating with this horselord," Malcolm Branfield remarked.

"He has already received Prince Viserys' proposal," Melisandre pointed out, "Now he is coming here to see Princess Daenerys. If she does not appear, there will be trouble. On a grand scale."

"What trouble could he give us?" Edd Tollett disputed, "We could deny him access to the manse. Or better yet, the city."

"If we do, he would besiege Pentos," Illyrio Mopatis contended, "That would effectively cut off all the city's supply routes along the land. The supply lines from the sea would not be enough to sustain the city indefinitely."

"Then we could evacuate," Allard Seaworth recommended.

"And go where?" Melisandre countered, "Robert Baratheon has not yet summoned you back to the Seven Kingdoms, and you have no other trustworthy allies outside of Westeros."

If we could call the magister trustworthy. Bonifer Hasty let out a deep sigh and uttered "Then it appears our only option is to meet with him."

At that, Viserys smiled wider than Ser Bonifer had ever seen him smile before. The expression on his countenance was sickening. And I said he did not smile often enough.

Bonifer Hasty pointed a finger in Viserys' face and told him "Do not get too cocky just yet, boy. Drogo has only agreed to meet with you; he has not consented to your proposal."

"What if he does?" Viserys cheekily murmured, "What will you do about it?"

Off the top of his head, Bonifer could conjure up at least a dozen different threats, all of which he could make good on. Even so, he did not put forth any of them. Instead, he eased down and proclaimed "Nothing I suppose. For the present."

But you will not remain in the magister's custody forever, and King Robert may change his mind about you. If so, the Seven have mercy on your soul. Even the Stranger has little love for a man who would sell his own sister for an army.

…

The Legion without Banners was the largest brotherhood in the Seven Kingdoms. Some argued that it was a brotherhood in a more literal sense of the word. Those people saw it as an actual family.

Samwell Tarly was one of those individuals. While he loved his mother and sisters and they loved him, his relationships with his father and brother were not so spectacular. Then again, while he and Dickon were not the closest of brothers, at least there was no enmity between them. He could not say the same of Randyll Tarly.

The kindest thing Samwell's lord father had ever done for him was send him to Moat Cailin. He had intended for Samwell to serve as a squire to one of the top officers of the Legion. Samwell did no squiring; he instead earned the position of Gregor Clegane's personal notary. It turned out to be a position he was much better suited for.

For the last few years, Samwell had been aide to Lord Gregor in everything that did not require a sword. He had copied important letters, he had done the moat's sums, he had kept a record of the moat's stores, he had catalogued every new member of the Legion, he had assisted in determining where each member would be most useful, and he had even helped Lord Gregor with many of his inventions.

The work was tiring, but Samwell found it extremely rewarding. It was work he enjoyed doing, and work he was very much qualified for.

Apart from that, Moat Cailin was more of a home to him than Horn Hill, and the Legion was more of a family to him than his own. Most of all, Gregor Clegane was a better father than Lord Randyll. Not just to me; he is a better father in general. After all, I have never heard Rick or his siblings say a single negative thing about the Mountain.

Samwell Tarly was proud to be a Legionnaire. It was as though he had found his calling in life. In fact, while most Legionnaires would eventually leave the organization and return to their homes, Samwell could see himself staying on indefinitely.

At times, he was even tempted to renounce his birthright just so he could remain in the Legion permanently. However, he would not do something so rash without considering the possible ramifications of it. Furthermore, regardless of how serene he felt at Moat Cailin, there were times when he yearned for home. He missed his mother, his siblings, and, in a strange way, even his father.

Sooner or later, Samwell would go back to Horn Hill. In all likelihood, that will not be for at least another ten or twenty years. Maybe whenever I return, Father will be slightly less displeased with me than he was when I last saw him. There was a chance of such, but Samwell would not give his hopes up.

Whenever Samwell Tarly was not carrying out his duties to Lord Gregor, he could normally be found in the Knowledge Tower alone or in other parts of the moat with his friends. He was the type of person who liked to keep busy, even when on his leisure time.

At present, he was on the second highest floor of the Banquet Tower. He was seated at one of the trestle tables nearest to the entrance of the hall. It was almost time for the midday meal.

While he waited for the food to arrive from the Flour Tower, Samwell kept himself occupied with a number of sheets of parchment. One had the sketch of a contraption that he and Lord Gregor had been working on. The rest had detailed accounts of each feature of the device. He had an inkwell in front of him and a quill pen in his hand. Every now and then, he made a slight modification to the blueprint and chronicled the alteration thusly.

As he worked, Samwell sang softly under his breath. He was fond of singing when no one was within earshot. It happened that he was on the only person currently seated on his bench, so he could sing without drawing attention.

As he amended the drawing and its description, he quietly chanted: "So give me reason, to prove me wrong, to wash this memory clean. Let the floods cross, the distance in your eyes. Give me reason, to fill this hole, connect the space between. Let it be enough to reach the truth that lies…"

"Across this new divide," a voice from behind finished the lyric.

Samwell glimpsed over his shoulder and saw Jon Snow standing over him. He smiled at his best friend and japed "You've heard that one too often."

"As have you," Jon Snow cheekily remarked.

He was not alone. A certain wildling girl with flaming red hair had entered the room alongside him. She muttered in assumption "Is that one o' the Mountain's songs?"

"Yes," Samwell affirmed, "It's one of my favorites of his."

"It is one of mine, as well," Jon concurred. He turned to his female companion and stated "I'm surprised you have not heard that song before, Ygritte. Ever since Lord Gregor patented it, it has been played from here to the Red Mountains."

"The lyrics are a trifle… bewildering," she observed.

"That is the beauty of them," Samwell debated, "That song – along with most of the other songs Lord Gregor has produced – are unconventional in that they do not have any direct story. Or, if they do, the story is meant to be interpreted in more than one way."

"That does sound interesting, I suppose," Ygritte commented bluntly, "Perhaps we could discuss this further. But what say we do so over lunch?"

"You'll hear no argument from me," Samwell slyly uttered. I am famished, in any case.

While Samwell usually ate breakfast and dinner on the top floor of the Banquet Tower with Lord Gregor, his family, his household, and the members of the secret council, he generally had luncheon on a lower floor with the lower-ranking Legionnaires. He was not the only one who preferred that arrangement. Jon and Ygritte often joined him.

Just then, nine cooks from the Banquet Tower arrived. Six of them were carrying three large black cauldrons in pairs. The other three were carrying platters of fresh-baked bread. The cooks set the cauldrons and the platters on a short stone table in the center of the room.

"Go ahead and sit down," Jon beckoned Ygritte, "I'll get our food."

He headed over to where the cooks were passing out bowls and spoons. The other soldiers in the room had already begun to crowd them. There was some pushing and shoving, but none from Jon. None was given to Jon, either. The Legionnaires always treated him respectfully, due to his status as Lord Gregor's dedicated squire.

While her lover got their food, Ygritte took a spot on the bench beside Samwell. As she sat down, the Reachman turned to her, flashed a smile, and nodded his head once. She did not acknowledge the gesture, but he was certain she had noticed it.

Not so long ago, I would have cringed if any woman outside of my family sat next to me. Glad I've cured myself of that compulsion.

Samwell was far less timid than he had been four years ago. He did not get quite so nervous around women any more, but he still had yet to have a paramour of his own. Maybe if I learned to flirt. It seems to work for Theon Greyjoy well enough.

"You're perspiring," he noted. Brilliant way to start a conversation, he chided himself. Still, Ygritte did seem rather sweaty.

"You do not jest," Ygritte wryly muttered, wiping her brow.

"Have you been working out?" Samwell enquired.

"Yes," Ygritte replied, "But not outside."

At that, her eyes shifted from Samwell to a spot across the room. Without even looking, Sam could tell that she was looking at Jon. She means that form of workout.

"Alright, new subject," Samwell proposed. Although the topic of intimacy between man and woman fascinated Samwell, he did not like discussing it at the table. Apart from that, Sam had no desire to know about Jon and Ygritte's sex life. Especially since he himself had no sex life to speak of. Not yet, that is. I plan to change that soon. Hopefully before the Others get here.

Jon returned a minute later. He had two bowls in his right hand, a third in his left hand, and a loaf of bread tucked under his left arm.

Ygritte scooted down the bench a little to make some room for him, and he subsequently sat down between her and Samwell. He placed the two bowls in his right hand in front of her and himself. He started to place the bowl in his left hand in front of Samwell, but the heir to Horn Hill hastily stopped his friend and beseeched him "Not on the parchment, please."

Scoffing, Jon moved to place the third bowl next to Samwell, beside the sheets of parchment instead of on top of them. After that, he pulled out the loaf of bread and divided it into thirds.

Although Samwell did not like to leave jobs unfinished, he could afford to break for a meal. So he exchanged his quill for a spoon, pushed the bunch of parchment off to the side, and concentrated on his bowl. He grinned when he saw what was inside.

"So we're having stew," Ygritte remarked.

"Not stew," Samwell corrected her, "This is chili con carne."

Ygritte seemed bewildered, so Jon enlightened her with "It is Spanish for 'chili with meat.' When Lord Gregor found those scrolls about the long-dead civilizations of Spain and Italy, he uncovered much more than just their languages. The recipe for this dish was included in the Spanish one. Lord Gregor thought it looked appetizing; so he gave it to the cooks."

Ygritte lightly nodded her head in acknowledgment, but she still seemed more curious in examining the chili than eating it. She enquired "What all's in it?"

"Well, meat, obviously," Samwell Tarly revealed, "There are also tomatoes… onion… beans… herbs, spices, and peppers from the Free Cities… and a few other things which I cannot place. If you want the full list of ingredients, you could ask the cooks."

Ygritte shrugged and muttered "Alright, I will try it."

"You'll need a spoon," Jon told her, handing her one. He gave a second to Sam and kept a third for himself.

"Bread works, too," Samwell suggested, "Great for dipping."

Samwell noticed that his bowl held a little more than Jon's or Ygritte's. He was appreciative of that. Jon knows how to distribute portions. While Sam was not a selfish person, and while he was not as fat as he once was, he still ate a little more than the average man. Given how much he used his brain, Samwell felt he actually needed a little more nutrition than the average man.

Ygritte tried a spoonful of the chili. Immediately, she dropped her spoon and her hands went to her mouth.

In response, Jon placed one comforting hand on her chest and another on her shoulder, and he asked "Are you alright?"

"This is fuckin' hot!" Ygritte barked.

Jon chuckled, patted her on the back, and murmured "It's not hot. It's spicy."

"Which is a variant of 'hot,'" Samwell pointed out.

At that moment, a serving girl placed three tankards of ale before them. Ygritte promptly picked up hers and gulped down a hefty amount. After that, she seemed fine.

"Give it another try," Jon bade her, "I know you'll love it."

She turned to him, grinned, and proclaimed "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

Samwell snickered. I never get tired of hearing that. Even though it is quite erroneous. Nevertheless, Ygritte picked her spoon back up and continued eating. The next spoonful went down more easily than the first. Looks as though it agrees with her.

Samwell broke off a fragment of bread, dunked it into his bowl, scooped up a bit of meat and a few beans, and shoved the result into his mouth. He chewed it happily.

After he swallowed, Jon restarted the conversation. He asked him "So, what have you been up to today?"

"I've been modifying some schematics," Samwell apprised him. Not as fun as what you've been doing, but still engaging. Not to mention just as meaningful.

"Schematics for what?" Jon queried.

"Lord Gregor's latest creation," Samwell disclosed.

"Oh?" Ygritte murmured, gazing at the heir to Horn Hill, "What is it this time?"

Even the Free Folk know of Lord Gregor's accomplishments as an inventor. How about that? Samwell ate two more spoonfuls of chili. Then he wiped his hands on a linen, picked up the sheet of parchment with the drawing, and slid it in front of Jon and Ygritte. As they looked down at it, he proudly announced "He calls it a printing press. He's been working on it for over a year now, and I've been helping him every step of the way. The design has almost been finalized. Once it is complete, we shall start building. If it proves functional, it will be a breakthrough in modern literature."

Jon and Ygritte were intrigued.

"What exactly will it do?" Jon asked in interest.

"Basically, it is a machine that writes text," Samwell professed, "It will copy words at a much faster rate than the human hand. In my opinion, it will revolutionize the world."

Jon smirked and drily uttered "Lord Gregor has revolutionized the world before. Nine times, if I count right. He practically does it at least once a year."

"I suppose he'd need something extraordinary for the tenth occasion," Ygritte presumed.

"This is certainly what I would call extraordinary," Samwell giddily pronounced, "If you ask me, this will be far more beneficial than cement, concrete, black power, or anything else Lord Gregor has patented to date. With a printing press, letters will be written and copied in minutes. Books in days; whole libraries in months. Just think of all the information we'll be able to share with the world."

Jon seemed indifferent, but he raised an eyebrow and nodded his head, as though he quite liked the sentiment. He candidly remarked "Only you could get so excited over books, Sam."

"It is not just books," Samwell contended, "It is the ability to print them. With more books, we could educate more of Westeros. In time of war, books are just as invaluable as swords. Many people are reluctant to admit this, but it is undeniably true."

"Then when the Night's King comes along, how about we just chuck a bunch o' books at him until he retreats," Ygritte cockily proposed.

Jon laughed again, whereas Samwell glared at her. He did not get angry, though. It took a great deal to make him angry. He merely smirked and muttered "Fine, mock me now. But soon enough, you'll see that wits and strength are equally essential."

"I might agree…" Ygritte began. After a pause, she added in "Except my people survived north of the Wall without books for thousands of years."

"Yet they still ventured south," Samwell disputed, "Tormund and some of the others have learned to read. It has done them much good."

"He has you there," Jon perceived, taking his best friend's side for once. She just shrugged and went back to eating her chili.

"If you'd like, I could teach you to read, Ygritte," Samwell submitted.

He half-expected her to flat-out decline his offer. To his pleasant surprise, she actually seemed to consider it for a few moments. Eventually, she turned to him and uttered "Maybe."

"If you rather I taught you, I am willing to oblige," Jon declared.

Samwell grinned wickedly and commented "Why would she want to learn from someone who knows nothing?"

Almost right away, Jon and Ygritte broke out laughing. Samwell soon joined in.

When the laughter subsided, Jon looked to Samwell and remarked "Oh, well. I suppose you would be the better teacher anyway. Every now and then, I enjoy a good book as much as anyone. But I am not eager to mentor anyway. I don't like books that much."

"Why not?" Sam queried curiously.

"Because they have an air of pretention about them," Jon professed, "In my experience, the average book is riddled with countless incidents, ironies, and abrupt shifts in the plotline. Those are the very things that separate fantasy from reality. If there is one thing about life I appreciate, it is that most everything about it is in our control. There are never any sudden, unexpected twists."

While some may have seen that as a good argument, Samwell did not. In his mind, life was full of "sudden, unexpected twists." Robert's Rebellion alone was ample proof to counter Jon's proclamation. Maybe Ygritte is right about him after all.

Be that as it may, Samwell said nothing to contradict his best friend's philosophy. He just accepted it and resumed eating.

Samwell, Jon, and Ygritte spent the remainder of their meal eating instead of talking. Within ten minutes, their bowls and tankards were empty.

After wiping his fingers of grease and crumbs, Samwell gathered up his sheets of parchment and organized them into a small neat pile. He thought aloud "I better deliver these to Lord Gregor. Once he approves them, I expect it will not be long before he commissions the construction of his printing press."

"Good luck to you there," Jon bade his best friend. He wrapped his arm around Ygritte's waist and muttered "We're going to get some exercise."

Initially, Samwell thought that was an innuendo. Then Jon saw the expression on his face, and he rolled his eyes and amended that last sentence with "In the training yard."

"In any case, have fun," the heir to Horn Hill uttered plainly.

The three young adults exited the dining hall at the same time. They found Jon's bodyguard, Ser Marvyn, standing just outside the door.

Very little was known about Ser Marvyn, just that he was originally from the Reach. Most likely Oldtown; Samwell was inclined to think he held the guise of a Hightower.

Interestingly, Ser Maryn was not the only person they encountered outside the room. Jon Snow's maid was there, too.

"Afternoon, Myrna," Samwell told her cordially.

"Jon, Sam, Ygritte," Myrna kindly greeted the three of them, "Are you busy?"

"Not especially," Jon claimed, ignoring the exasperated look Ygritte threw him.

"Then I would like you to come with me," Myrna politely requested, "Lord Gregor… has something he wishes to tell you."

And he sent a maid to summon us? As strange as that may have appeared, Samwell decided not to argue. Jon and Ygritte decided the same.

"Did he say what about?" Jon queried.

"No," was all Myrna said in response.

They were content with that. Lord Gregor would not ask for us without good reason.

"Very well," Ygritte uttered, "Lead the way."

Samwell, Jon, Ygritte, and Ser Marvyn spent the subsequent ten minutes following Myrna in relative silence. Sam expected her to bring them to the Lord's Tower. Instead, she brought them to the Meeting Tower. That was not only unusual; it was all but unheard of. As far as Sam knew, no one outside of the secret council had ever been inside that building.

Myrna led them to the primary council chamber on the highest level of the Meeting Tower. Samwell was expecting to find Lord Gregor up there by himself. Again, his assumption was premature. Prince Oberyn Martell, Princess Elia Martell, Edgar Sand, Ihtos, Lady Shaara, her daughter Rhaella, and Ser Rebinald were all there, as well. What could they all possibly have in common?

All of them except Ser Rebinald and Lord Gregor were Dornish, but being from the same region did not always entail further similarities. Besides, when did Lord Gregor ever distinguish an individual based on one's background?

Ser Marvyn was the last person to enter the council chamber. He shut, locked, and bolted the door behind him. Now it is just us. The whole rest of the world does not exist.

Before Jon or Ygritte could ask any questions, Samwell took the opportunity to approach Gregor Clegane. He held out all the sheets of parchment and announced "I've finished reevaluating and updating the schematics, my lord. I believe you will find everything in order now."

The Mountain took the sheets and spent a few moments shuffling through them. After that, he smiled down at his notary and told him "Very good, Sam. But the printing press will have to wait for the morrow. Now, we have something more urgent to discuss."

Samwell nodded his acknowledgment and declared "As you say, my lord."

There was a large table in the center of the room, yet no one was seated against it. Rhaella and Edgar Sand were leaning against two of the tall chairs, Ihtos and Ser Rebinald were posted against the wall, Prince Oberyn was slouched against the table, and Shaara, Princess Elia, and Lord Gregor were standing in various spots around the room.

"Myrna claimed you wished an audience with us, my lord," Jon muttered simply yet respectfully.

"That is correct," the Mountain affirmed, "You in particular, Jon."

If Samwell was not intrigued before, he was now. Needless to say, so was Jon. The latter enquired "Why me?"

"Because what I have to say has to do with your… genealogy," Gregor tentatively apprised him.

"Well, you have my full attention, my lord," Jon proclaimed.

"Mine, as well," Samwell conceded.

"And mine, I suppose," Ygritte commented, though she actually sounded rather disinterested.

Everyone in that chamber stood in absolute silence for about two minutes. Finally, Lord Gregor exhaled a sigh through his teeth, and he told Jon "What I am about to tell you, I and others have been wishing to tell you for the longest time. I have considered all the possible ways to tell you. After all this time, I've decided the kindest approach is also the most direct one."

"Well, by all means, be direct," Jon implored him.

Lord Gregor most certainly was, as the very next statement out of his mouth was: "What you were told about your parents is a lie."

The suddenness of that revelation was almost as shocking as the revelation itself. Jon stared blankly at him for about ten seconds. Then he breathed out "What?"

Lord Gregor elaborated with "You were raised believing that you are the baseborn child of Brandon Stark and Ashara Dayne. That is untrue. He was not your father, nor was she your mother. You are not even a bastard. You were born from a legitimate union."

"Between who?" Jon asked, almost demanded.

It was not Lord Gregor who answered him. He instead turned to Myrna and beckoned her forward. Samwell watched Jon's maid as she gradually approached his best friend. She seemed extremely anxious.

When she was less than three feet away from Jon Snow, she told him in a soft tone "I know you hate being lied to Jon. I hated having to lie to you, as well. But I will lie to you no longer. There will be no more secrets between us."

Shaara was holding a length of cloth in her hands. At a signal from Myrna, she approached the young maid and held the cloth out to her. Is it scented? I definitely smell something, but I am not certain what. Myrna turned to her, picked up the cloth, covered her head with it, and pressed it against her face. She held it there for close to three minutes before she removed it.

When she turned back to Jon and Samwell, her façade had greatly changed. She had gone from blonde to brunette. Her hazel eyes had turned grey. Her freckles had disappeared, and her face had somehow gotten larger. The cloth… it must have been a type of poultice.

After giving the length of cloth back to Shaara, Myrna looked back to Jon and softly told him "My name is Lyanna Stark… and I am your mother."

Samwell had been expecting a shock, but nothing like this. He was downright flabbergasted. And if I'm this stunned… I cannot possibly fathom what is going through Jon's head right now.

Jon seemed frozen in this stance. It was as though he had ceased to blink, breathe, move, or do anything indicative of a living being.

In spite of that, Myrna – or the lady who was now Lyanna Stark, apparently – continued restlessly with "History claims that I was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen. In that matter, history errs. I loved Rhaegar and he loved me. By my own volition, I ran away with him. He and I were wed before a heart tree. When the Rebellion began, I wanted to stay with him, but he refused to put me in harm's way. So he took me to Dorne and sheltered me there for my own safety. He promise he would return to me when the fighting was done. Alas, I never saw him alive again. But… before he left, I was with him long enough to conceive a child."

That all but answered the question on Samwell's mind. But he had to be certain it was accurate. So he cleared his throat and asked "My lady, does that mean…?"

Lyanna Stark just nodded at him, and then she told Jon "Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was your father."

Had he been in Jon's position, Samwell did not doubt that he would have fainted. What was incredible was that Jon did not. All the same, he had yet to physically respond to what he had just learned. He must be in shock. Jon was so motionless that Samwell was starting to worry for his best friend.

Ygritte seemed to handle the news better than either of them. She casually folded her arms and said to Lord Gregor "This is all most incredible, my lord. Most incredible, indeed. But just what are Sam and I doin' here?"

"You are Jon's two closest friends, Ygritte," Gregor Clegane debated, "Additionally, Samwell is here because I can rely on him to remain discreet. And you are here because… it would have been wrong for to have remained in the dark."

"Yes, I think it is my business to know just who I'm bedding down with," Ygritte stated jokingly. After that, she quickly turned to Lyanna Stark and said apologetically "I meant no offense, my lady."

Lyanna did not seem bothered by the former wildling's jape, or even by the meaning behind it. She merely nodded at Ygritte. Then she promptly returned her gaze to Jon Snow.

No. Not Jon Snow. Jon… Targaryen? If Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar wed, then… my lord; Jon… he's a prince. A fucking prince, for gods' sakes!

"I know I cannot begin to understand how or what you must be feeling," Lyanna Stark softly admitted, "But please understand, I did not just give you up. I tried to find some way to keep you with me. But it would have been impossible. You would have had to live apart from the rest of your family, as the whole world thought I was dead. Letting your uncle take you back to Winterfell was the only option. I would have given anything to have been there for you as your real mother. Please, believe me. I love you with all my heart."

If there was any question left as to whether Jon's mother truly loved him, any lingering doubt had effectively been expunged by that short speech. She sounds far too sincere to be lying. No one, not even the best mummers out there, could say that without meaning it.

Jon was still standing in the same motionless position as before.

"Jon?" Sam uttered nervously. He was getting seriously worried now.

So was Lady Lyanna. She seemed she was on the verge of tears. She begged her estranged son "Jon, please. Say something. Anything. Tell me you hate me. That you'll never forgive me for lying to you. That you never want to see me again. Just please… don't say nothing."

Finally, Jon answered her. He did none of those things. Instead, he stepped closer to Lyanna Stark, reached his arms out, and pulled her into a tight embrace, which she swiftly returned. As he held her close, he whispered in an anguished tone "Mother…"

That was the most heartbreaking thing Sam ever heard in his life.

Lyanna soon began to weep. Jon wept, as well. Most of the women in the room threatened to do the same.

Samwell Tarly had never seen his best friend cry. Not even once. Sam himself used to cry plenty. He still cried every now and then, but Jon, never. Jon almost seemed too manly to cry.

Even so, the present situation was entirely excusable. Not that it required an excuse anyway. Still…

If ever it was manly to weep…