The sunlight dimmed as evening drew nigh, casting long shadows across Pentos.
Alyn stood at the edge of the sea, his gaze fixed upon the distant palace. Nine slender towers rose against the darkening sky, ornate and elegant, with pale ivy crawling across ancient stone like grasping fingers. The manse stood proud at the edge of the bay, a gift from the magisters of Pentos to Khal Drogo.
All the world knew the Dothraki lived as nomads, following the great grass sea wherever it led them. Their tribes were called khalasars, and the fierce warrior who led such a horde bore the title of khal.
And Khal Drogo commanded the largest khalasar of all, with more than forty thousand mounted warriors who answered to his call.
Alyn, however, was about to make an enemy of this man whose very name struck fear into the hearts of city-dwellers across Essos.
At a feast some ten days past, Khal Drogo had cast his dark eyes upon Princess Daenerys Targaryen and found her pleasing. The two were now betrothed, and the hour of reckoning drew ever nearer.
Alyn had precious little time remaining.
It was fortune alone that Khal Drogo had returned to his khalasar camped upon the grasslands outside the city walls, leaving the palace to house the princess and her retinue until the wedding day arrived.
After days of patient maneuvering, Alyn had finally arranged this clandestine meeting with Jorah Mormont.
"What business do you have with me?" came a deep voice from behind.
Alyn turned to face the speaker.
The middle-aged man who approached was broad of shoulder and thick of chest. His hairline had begun its slow retreat, and his skin had been bronzed by years beneath foreign suns. Upon his dark green surcoat was embroidered the sigil of his fallen house: a black bear rampant, standing upon its hind legs.
Ser Jorah Mormont, once Lord of Bear Island, now exiled from the realm he had dishonored.
"Lord Mormont," Alyn began, deliberately using the title the man had forfeited, "can you not see the folly and madness that drives Viserys? Why would a man of your caliber choose to serve such a master?"
Jorah's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Mind your words, squire. You forget yourself."
Alyn knew he must press onward, despite the risk.
"Following a beggar king who styles himself a dragon, or mingling with horse lords who know naught of ships or stone houses—is this truly the life you envisioned for yourself?"
The waves crashed against the rocky shore, their constant roar providing some small measure of privacy for this dangerous conversation.
"Or," Alyn lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, "do you perhaps still yearn for the pine-scented woods of your homeland? Might your present allegiance stem from promises whispered to you from across the Narrow Sea?"
Jorah's hand moved to the hilt of his sword with deliberate slowness. "Speak plainly. What game do you play?"
"The Spider spins his webs, and his whispers cross oceans," Alyn replied, watching the knight's face closely. "The promise you received comes from the Spider himself."
Alyn could only pray the Crown Prince's intelligence had been accurate.
"The Spider shall soon know the king's fury, and his promises will turn to ash in your mouth," Alyn continued. "What you truly require is the forgiveness of the Iron Throne itself."
"Lord Mormont, answer me true—do you wish to return to Westeros, or have you made your peace with exile?"
Conflict warred across Jorah's weathered features, but beneath it all, Alyn saw the unmistakable longing for home.
"Not a day passes that I do not think of Bear Island," the knight admitted at last. "The scent of pine and snow, the crash of waves against our shores... you ask for my answer? I shall give it. I am certain of what I desire."
His blue eyes hardened as he studied Alyn with newfound suspicion. "But tell me true—who are you, Alyn? Who do you truly serve?"
Jorah weighed many possibilities in his mind, but when Alyn mentioned, "His Royal Highness sent me to accomplish a task," the knight's disbelief was palpable. How could this complex scheme be the design of a royal youth?
Yet Viserys had indeed boasted of Alyn's former position as squire to Prince Joffrey, discarded and forgotten.
So it was all an elaborate mummer's farce, Jorah realized.
Despite himself, the knight felt a stirring of curiosity about this unseen Prince Joffrey, who could command such unwavering loyalty from afar.
Alyn laid his bargaining piece upon the table. "His Highness spoke of you specifically when instructing me. Should you lend your aid in completing my mission, those charges that drove you from your home would become as inconsequential as summer snow. Lord Mormont could reclaim his honor and standing."
The stern face of Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, flashed unbidden in Jorah's mind. The exiled knight gave a bitter smile.
"No," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "My honor can never be restored, nor will the North receive me as it once did. It would be blessing enough to wash some small measure of the shame from my family's name."
Alyn waited in silence, letting the waves fill the space between them.
After a long moment, Jorah spoke again. "What does His Royal Highness intend?"
Alyn did not answer directly. "I would remind Lord Mormont that my loyalty to His Highness has never wavered. Should my mission fail... I cannot promise your true allegiance would remain hidden for long."
Jorah's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
Alyn proceeded to outline his mission, speaking low and swift.
When he had finished, Jorah turned as if to leave. "You propose madness! The princess is to wed Khal Drogo within the week. The man commands more than forty thousand screamers—the fiercest warriors in all the known world. What could two men alone hope to achieve against such force?"
Alyn stepped quickly to block the knight's path. "Is it not rather late to harbor second thoughts? If you wish to walk away, you must first draw your sword and cut me down."
Alyn understood all too well the difficulty of what he proposed, yet he could see no path of retreat.
"Has the brave knight who once claimed countless victories in the tourney lists grown so craven? Are you lesser now than a mere squire like myself?"
Jorah's laugh held no mirth. "You think to goad me into throwing my life away with such transparent tricks?"
Alyn shook his head slowly. "Consider what awaits you should your role as the Spider's creature become known in Pentos. Would that fate prove any kinder?"
Jorah's silence was answer enough.
"Moreover," Alyn continued quickly, sensing advantage, "we need not stand alone. I have dwelt in Pentos these four months past, and in that time, I have cultivated friendships with those willing to lend their strength to our cause."
Disbelief was plain on Jorah's face.
What allies could this boy have found? the knight wondered. Sellswords and cutthroats, most like. Desperate men with nothing to lose.
Alyn read the doubt in the older man's expression.
"Perhaps Lord Mormont might deign to hear my plan before passing judgment."
"How can you claim we do not march toward certain death? To ensure the success of this venture, I assure you I hope for both of us to safely return across the Narrow Sea."
Jorah found himself curious despite his misgivings, wondering what brilliant stratagem this young squire might have devised.
But after Alyn had shared his plan in full...
"Seven hells, boy," Jorah muttered. "If you don't call this rushing headlong toward death, then I suppose only opening your own throat upon this very beach would qualify."
Yet despite himself, the knight felt a grudging admiration for the squire's unwavering loyalty and reckless courage.
The boy placed no value on his own life when weighed against his duty.
"Lord Mormont, I have not forgotten who I am," Alyn said, his face set with determination. "Compared to wasting my remaining days in service to the Beggar King, I would gladly perish in pursuit of a worthy purpose!"
The trials of recent months had honed Alyn's resolve to a razor's edge. He had endured storms at sea, withstood mockery and hunger, witnessed slaughter, suffered insults and suspicion, and borne countless beatings.
Through it all, only his sacred mission had sustained him.
Abandon that charge and resign himself to permanent exile in Essos?
No. He yearned only to return to the Red Keep, to familiar faces, to the life that had been torn from him.
He would have Viserys and Daenerys both, or die in the attempt.
"The combined might of Pentos's magisters and the Dothraki horde is beyond our capacity for direct confrontation," Alyn admitted. "This single chance is all we possess."
His eyes shone with fervent belief, as though he could already envision their triumph.
"Think of it—what a glorious spectacle it shall be. The streets of Pentos will run red, and we shall escort the last dragons back to King's Landing in chains. His Highness will be most pleased."
"Not only will the Mormont name be cleansed, but your own infamy shall be transformed to glory, brighter and more radiant than ever before!"
Jorah's reason commanded caution, even as part of him responded to the boy's passion.
"Let us hope we both live to witness such a day," he said simply.
They returned to the palace separately, taking care not to be seen together.
Viserys Targaryen was already deep in his cups, sporting with serving girls in his chambers, while Daenerys sat alone in the courtyard, her violet eyes fixed upon the rising moon.
"Princess Daenerys," Alyn approached with appropriate deference.
The young dragon's thoughts had drifted to days long past.
She remembered kind Ser Willem Darry, who had smuggled them from Dragonstone. She thought of the house with the red door in Braavos, of the lemon tree that grew outside her window. She recalled her brother in those earlier days, before bitterness had consumed him, when he would share tales of their mother and father and the Seven Kingdoms that awaited their return.
That was the childhood she had lost, never to recover.
Now only the endless Dothraki sea of grass lay before her, and beyond it, the Seven Kingdoms that consumed Viserys's every waking thought.
Given the choice, she would rather journey to that homeland she knew only through words and imagination—a place of rolling green hills, flowering meadows, and deep, rushing rivers.
"Where is Ser Jorah?" she asked, her voice soft as a summer breeze. "Please bid him come and share stories of home."
Alyn bowed deeply. "Ser Jorah has retired for the evening, princess. If you wish to learn of your kingdom, perhaps I might offer some tales of King's Landing and the Westerlands."
He smiled with practiced warmth. "I believe you would find them to your liking."
Princess Daenerys glanced at him, her expression unreadable in the moonlight. After a moment, she gave a reluctant nod.
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