Jon Snow POV
One Month in Gulltown
The harbor sprawled before Jon like nothing he had witnessed in his six-and-ten years.
When the Sea Strider had pulled into dock a month past, Jon stood at the bow and stared. The docks stretched along the coast in ordered lines, weathered wooden structures worn smooth by countless hands and cargoes. Ships from the Free Cities filled the harbor: Braavosi cogs with their purple sails, elegant Lysene vessels, even Volantene galleys. But most impressive were the warships being constructed in the shipyard—the skeletons of vessels designed for speed and combat, their hulls taking shape beneath the hammers of skilled shipwrights.
The Vale was building a fleet.
Not merely merchant cogs, but true warships. Galleys with oars and rams, cogs designed for cargo but with reinforced hulls, vessels meant to carry soldiers and supplies with the speed to outrun opposition. The shipyard itself had expanded dramatically, new slips being prepared, new vessels going up at a pace that spoke of considerable resources directed toward maritime power.
The work was visible everywhere beyond the harbor as well. New docks were being constructed with better drainage and crane systems for moving cargo. Warehouses rose in stone, replacing the ones that used to be made of wood. New markets were being built. A custom house of impressive design to handle increasing trade. The foundries worked constantly, their furnaces glowing red even in daylight. The smithies were busy with commissions. Everywhere, there were administrative buildings—structures designed to house the clerical apparatus of a truly governed city.
"You're wanted in the solar," Hoster said, appearing beside Jon as he stood looking out over the construction. The Blackwood boy had grown more comfortable with the work of running messages, moving swiftly between the various departments. "Lord Artys needs his cup filled for the afternoon."
Jon nodded and turned from the railing. His role had shifted slightly over the past month—in addition to carrying reports and fetching documents, he had become Lord Artys's cupbearer. It was a position of some trust, requiring him to be near his lord during the day, attending to his needs, and it meant Jon heard things. Not everything, certainly, but enough to understand that matters of considerable consequence were being discussed.
The administrative quarters had become familiar to him—the corridors, the offices, the solar where Lord Artys conducted much of his daily business when not in the great planning chamber.
The three of them—Jon, Hoster, and Olyvar—had settled into a rhythm over the past month. Every morning before dawn, they trained with wooden swords, then with live steel under the watchful eye of Ser Steffon Storm and Lord Artys himself. The lord's skill at arms was without equal. Jon had never seen anything like it. The speed, the precision, the way he could fight three or even four opponents at once without apparent exertion. It was no wonder the knights of the Vale saw him as the second coming of Artys the Falcon.
After training, their duties began in earnest. Olyvar had been positioned to listen to the visiting nobility and learn the intricacies of their holdings and allegiances. Hoster moved between the administrative offices and the planning chambers, fetching reports and learning the language of supply and logistics. And Jon carried messages, stood as cupbearer, observed the daily business of governance.
But the strange thing was this: Jon was not scorned for his bastardry. The common folk and servants who saw him in Lord Artys's colors treated him with respect. The lords who visited accorded him courtesy because he was the Falcon's squire. Even the minor nobles understood that to disrespect one of Lord Artys's household was to disrespect the lord himself. It was a liberation Jon had never known possible.
Ghost padded alongside him as he moved through the castle. The direwolf had come with him from Winterfell, and the great white beast drew attention wherever they went. But Lord Artys had welcomed the wolf without hesitation, even ensuring that Ghost had proper food and space to roam the castle grounds. The wolf had become something of a symbol—Jon Snow's direwolf, Lord Artys's squire.
One morning, after the training had concluded and the three squires were helping to put away the wooden swords, Ser Steffon called them over.
"Come," the master-at-arms said. "Rest a moment. There is something I wish to show you."
They followed him to the training yard's edge, where a group of soldiers were being outfitted with new armor and weapons. Each man wore a small metal plate hanging from his neck on a leather cord—a kind of tag, Jon realized. On each plate was inscribed a name and a number.
"These," Ser Steffon said, gesturing to them, "are something his lordship has implemented throughout his sworn men. Every soldier, every man-at-arms, receives such a marking. A name and a number."
"For what purpose?" Olyvar asked, practical as always.
"For organization. For knowing who each man is. For ensuring that when a man is injured or killed, his family can be informed. For accounting for provisions and supplies." Ser Steffon looked at the soldiers with something approaching affection. "Most of these men cannot read. They view these tags as blessings from their lord. Holy relics, almost. Something that says: you are known, and your liege cares about you. You are part of something greater than yourself."
One of the men—a grizzled veteran with a scarred face—saw Ser Steffon looking at him and straightened, touching his tag with something like reverence.
"That is what separates a great lord from a merely competent one," Ser Steffon continued. "Lord Artys understands that men will follow you unto death if they believe you see them. That he knows their names and that their lives have value to him."
Jon understood, in that moment, another layer of why the soldiers and even common folk in Gulltown viewed Lord Artys with such devotion.
Later that day, as they rested between training sessions, Ser Steffon settled himself on a bench and gestured for the squires to sit.
"You should know who your lord is," he said simply. "Do you know how Lord Arryn got his name, the Fighting Falcon?"
Hoster leaned forward eagerly. Olyvar settled in with the composure of one who loved a good tale. And Jon found himself equally attentive.
Ser Steffon himself carried the symbol of R'hllor—a red cloak and badge of fire that pinned it. He had converted to the faith years ago, and there was a reverence in his voice when he spoke of the Red God's work.
"I was there," Ser Steffon began, his voice low and steady. "Two years past, when we rode toward the Bloody Gate with Lord Artys. A small party—just a handful of knights and men-at-arms. We thought ourselves secure enough."
The knight's scarred face grew distant with memory.
"We were ambushed on the road," he continued. "The way narrowed as we approached the mountains, and suddenly arrows were falling upon us like rain. Tyroshi crossbows—expensive, deadly weapons. Men were screaming, and the horses reared. And Ser Harrick—who had guarded the boy since he was two years old—threw himself across Lord Artys to shield him with his own body."
Steffon's jaw tightened at the memory.
"Eight or nine arrows pierced him like a porcupine, and he died shielding his charge. Two arrows struck Lord Artys himself—one in the thigh, one through the left arm. I thought he was dead. We all did."
"What happened?" Jon asked, unable to contain himself.
"What happened," Ser Steffon said slowly, "is that the boy rose. He tore the arrow shafts from his own flesh, snapping them at the wound. Then… then he began to run."
Olyvar's eyes widened. Even he, trained in courtly knowledge, seemed transfixed.
"The men we were fighting were no clansmen," Steffon continued. "They were Tyroshi sellswords—mercenaries with good armor and expensive crossbows. But when Lord Artys entered those woods…" He shook his head slowly. "I have never seen anything like it. I swear by the Red God, I saw him catch a crossbow bolt in the air and stab the crossbowman with it. He tore a man's hand clean off at the wrist, and then the boy took the stump and drove it down another man's throat."
Hoster made a small sound of horror.
"Skulls were crushed like eggs," Steffon said quietly. "Men were slammed against trees with force enough to crack bones. One fellow tried to run, and Lord Artys threw a spear through him—clean through his back and out his ribs. When it was done, perhaps two dozen men lay dead in those woods, and the boy stood among them, soaked in blood."
"Were they truly sellswords?" Olyvar asked. "Not clansmen?"
"That's what made it worse," Ser Steffon said. "The ringleader was a man with gold teeth, a Tyroshi lilt to his speech. He'd been hired to kill Lord Artys. These nobles and their games—someone meant to see our lord dead." Steffon's expression hardened. "Lord Artys kept him alive long enough to learn who sent him. Then he broke the man's neck."
The squires sat in stunned silence.
"There was another time," Ser Steffon continued. "We traveled to Myr—the Free City across the Narrow Sea. Lord Artys had a purpose there: to purchase glassmaking slaves, craftsmen of great skill. The Guild of Myr did not wish to see them leave the city and take their knowledge elsewhere."
He paused, his voice growing quieter.
"They sent the Pale Dogs against us. A mercenary company, nearly a hundred strong, painted like snarling dogs, armed with everything from curved arakhs to crossbows. We were being herded back to our ship with the slaves in chains when they emerged from the warehouses."
Hoster's eyes were wide. "A hundred men?"
"At their head," Steffon continued, "was a Dothraki screamer of unusual appearance. An albino—pale as death itself, with eyes like fresh blood. And in his hands, he wielded an arakh of black metal, rippling like liquid shadow. Valyrian steel, a blade beyond price."
Jon listened to the tale with rapt attention. He had only been fighting with wooden swords until a few moons ago, when Lord Artys was doing deeds worthy of songs.
"Lord Artys ordered me to take the slaves to the ship," Steffon said. "Told me to leave no one behind and to sail if he did not return within the hour." Steffon's voice grew quieter. "I took the slaves aboard, but I remained on deck to watch. I saw…"
He trailed off, searching for words.
"I saw him charge into that company with a poleaxe like he was the Warrior himself. The first man's chest caved in under a single swing, ribs exploding through his leather. He moved like water and struck like lightning. Scythe through wheat… aye. He was surrounded by ten men at once, and they died trying to bring him down. The Pale Dogs broke and ran like cowards before one man on foot."
"And the Dothraki?" Jon asked.
"The albino Khal charged at him on horseback, with that fancy sword of his. Their duel lasted perhaps two breaths—I counted them. I have never seen someone move so quick. Lord Artys caught a swing on his poleaxe, twisted it, and drove the hammer into the Khal's ribs. The man fell from his horse. When he got up and charged again, Lord Artys simply drove the spike of his poleaxe straight through the man's chest. The point burst clean out his back in a spray of blood."
Steffon leaned back, his expression solemn.
"When it was done, he took the Valyrian steel arakh from the dead Khal. Had it reforged by a master armorer in King's Landing, reshaped from the curved Dothraki form into something new—a sword he named Talon. The blade in his scabbard was won that day in Myr."
Jon found himself staring at the sword that hung at Lord Artys's side whenever he wore it. A beautiful blade, silver-bright with hints of black ripples through the steel, unmistakably Valyrian, like his father's Ice.
"And the Burned Men?" Jon asked. "How did they come to serve him?"
Ser Steffon's expression shifted, became more reverent.
"The Burned Men are followers of R'hllor, the Red God of the East," Ser Steffon said. "I am also a follower of that true faith, and I know their devotion. They came to the Vale under the priestess Melisandre, a woman of great power and mystical knowledge. The mountain clans of the Vale had long plagued the lowlands with their raids and their savagery."
He gestured, encompassing the Vale and all its lands.
"Lord Artys, together with Melisandre and the Burned Men, cleansed the Vale of those clans. They brought the fire of R'hllor to bear. The false gods were swept away, and the Red God's faithful took their place. The Burned Men wear red cloaks and red gambesons, marked by the sacred fires of their faith—burns upon their flesh, their identity, their devotion to the Lord of Light. When you see them move through Gulltown, understand that you are looking upon men touched by divine purpose."
Ser Steffon paused, his voice becoming quieter.
"The Vale men do not love the Burned Men. They fear them, truth be told. But they are fiercely loyal to Lord Artys, their true lord, the one they call Steel Storm. They understand that under his rule, the Vale is strong and safe. The mountain clans no longer prey upon the lowlands. Order has been established where chaos once reigned."
"They will follow him unto death and beyond," Ser Steffon said quietly. "And in the coming troubles, that loyalty will be more valuable than gold or silver. For they believe he is touched by the Lord of Light himself. And I… I believe they are right."
Three days later, in the cool darkness before dawn, Jon found himself summoned to a private chamber with Hoster and Olyvar.
Lord Artys stood by a window, sapphire eyes fixed on the slowly lightening sky over Gulltown. Ser Steffon was present as well, his scarred face unreadable.
"The three of you have performed well," Lord Artys said, not turning from the window. "Your service has been noted and valued."
Jon felt something bloom in his chest. Praise from Lord Artys meant something genuine and true.
"There are matters of grave consequence coming to the realm," Artys continued, finally turning to face them. His expression was serious, almost grave. "Last moon, when we were in Winterfell, I learned that Prince Joffrey Baratheon was killed by poison. The court believes the Dornish are responsible for his murder."
The words struck Jon like a physical blow. Joffrey dead? Murdered? Was it not a fall from a horse?
"This knowledge is dangerous," Artys said. "It is not yet widely known. But when word spreads—and it will spread—the realm will convulse. The King will march. The great houses will turn their attention to war. And the Vale must be prepared for what comes next."
He stepped forward, and his sapphire eyes moved between each of them—Hoster, Olyvar, and finally Jon. When he reached Jon, he placed his hand on Jon's shoulder—a firm grip, warm and genuine.
"I place my trust in you," he said simply. "All three of you. You will speak of this to no one. Not to other squires, not to family, not to servants. You will train harder than you have before. You will prepare yourselves. Because when His Grace calls upon us, the Vale will be ready, and I will need men I can trust absolutely. Can you be those men?"
"Yes, my lord," they answered in unison.
Artys placed his other hand on Hoster's shoulder, then moved to do the same with Olyvar.
"The realm has known a long summer and a bountiful peace," Artys said quietly. "I fear it is coming to an end. The Vale will not be directly threatened, but we must be prepared for contingencies. The roads must be finished. The fleet must be expanded, and the granaries must be filled. Your training will be rigorous. When the time comes that I need swift service from you, you will perform without hesitation or question. Understood?"
"Understood, my lord," Jon said, and the others echoed him.
As they turned to leave, Jon felt the weight of it settling on him—not as a burden, but as something he had been honored to accept. Lord Artys trusted him. Trusted him enough to share secrets of great consequence.
It was more than Jon Snow had ever imagined possible. He would be fighting alongside the Fighting Falcon in Dorne. Jon felt terrible to be looking forward to war, where he would win glory and make his father proud. He had read all about the exploits of young Daeron; now even a bastard like him would have a chance for honor.
The wedding preparations dominated the household as the days passed. Ser Brandon Grafton was to marry Lady Elisa Redfort, a match that had been arranged moons prior and was now being prepared with considerable ceremony. The wedding itself would take place within a fortnight, but before it, all the major lords of the Vale were being invited to Gulltown to witness the occasion.
Jon carried messages between the stewards and the kitchens, between the lodging masters and the visiting lords' representatives. He arranged accommodations, ensured that sufficient supplies would be available, assisted in the myriad small details that made such a gathering possible.
And everywhere, he saw the evidence of the Vale's transformation. The warehouses being constructed to handle increased trade. The naval expansion continuing even as the preparations for the feast progressed. The warships taking shape in the shipyards—vessels designed for warfare, for protecting the Vale's coasts, for projecting power across Westeros if necessary.
The Burned Men moved through the castle sometimes, carrying supplies or performing whatever tasks Lord Artys set them to. They were frightening to behold—warriors dressed in crimson cloaks and red gambesons, their dark skin bearing the marks of ritual burning, some with portions of their faces scarred by sacred fire. Their eyes burned with religious fervor and barely concealed bloodlust.
Timett son of Timett was the worst of them—a lean, tall warrior who was rumored to have put out his own eye. Jon avoided him whenever possible. If he would do that to himself, Jon shuddered to think what he would do to his enemies. He was the head of the Burned Men; it was rumored that Lord Artys meant to ask King Robert to raise him to lordship.
The Vale men—the common soldiers and most of the knights—did not love the Burned Men. Jon had heard murmurs of fear when they walked through Gulltown's streets. But none could deny it was the Burned Men who played the largest part in the purging of the mountain clans.
House Grafton still ruled Gulltown, but Olyvar had gossiped to Jon of discontent simmering behind their courteous smiles. The young lord had begun imposing himself upon their lands, holding court in Gulltown and ruling the Grafton domains in all but name. It chafed them sorely, though they dared not say so aloud.
For all their wealth, the Graftons could do little but grumble. They had paid dearly for siding with the Mad King, and House Arryn now held them fast. Their liege was Lord Arryn, son of the beloved Jon Arryn—Hand of the King, the king's former squire, and husband to a princess of the realm. Against such favor, the Graftons had no choice but to eat the excrement and praise the taste.
Jon heard Olyvar's whispers and weighed them carefully. Artys ruled fairly and justly, and whatever the Graftons muttered, his presence in Gulltown brought order and prosperity to the Vale. Bruised pride was a small price for peace, and Jon had little patience for lords who mistook privilege for right.
It was evening, after the day's duties had been completed, that Jon found himself summoned to Lord Artys's private solar to refill the wine cups.
The solar was comfortable, decorated in sky blue and white. Princess Myrcella was present, as she often was in the late afternoon. She had taken to reviewing household accounts and discussing gossip with her husband. But today she looked more radiant than usual.
"Wine, Jon," Artys said, not looking up from the documents before him.
Jon did as he was bid, filling the cups. Myrcella's was nearly empty as well, and he filled hers with the same care.
"Thank you, Jon," she said warmly.
It was a small thing—a lady thanking a squire for filling her cup. But it was a kindness that Jon noted. The princess did not treat him with indifference or scorn. She treated him with the same courtesy she would extend to any member of the household.
He was about to leave when Myrcella reached over and touched her husband's arm, drawing his attention from his documents.
"Ser," she said, her tone carrying a note of friendly mockery as she addressed her husband. "I have visited with Vaera this morning."
Artys looked up, his sapphire eyes narrowing. "And what did the priestess say?"
"That I am with child," Myrcella said simply. "The child will be born in some six moons."
Artys set down his quill slowly. His expression underwent a transformation—surprise, yes, but more than that. Joy, fierce and genuine, mingled with something more complex.
"Myrcella," he said, his voice warm, tender. He rose from his seat and crossed to her, kneeling beside her chair and holding her hand.
"You are certain?" he asked.
"Completely certain," she replied. "Vaera examined me with care. 'Tis why my tummy has been troubling me."
Artys took her hand carefully, almost reverently. "You are well? You have suffered no complications?"
"I am perfectly well," Myrcella said, squeezing his hand. "Vaera says it is a sign of excellent health and a strong child."
Jon stood very still, acutely aware that he was witnessing something profoundly private. He should leave. But neither of them had dismissed him, and he was uncertain whether moving would draw unwanted attention.
"A child," Artys said softly.
Artys raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, the gesture full of reverence and love. "Thank you, my sweet," he said.
Myrcella smiled warmly, her golden hair catching the candlelight.
She glanced toward Jon then, seeming to notice him for the first time, and her expression warmed further.
"You can go, Jon," she said kindly. "But you may tell Hoster and Olyvar when you see them next. This is good news—the Vale will have an heir soon. That is something to be celebrated."
"Yes, my lady," Jon said, and he bowed deeply to them both before turning to leave.
As he walked through the corridors of the castle, Ghost padding silently beside him, Jon felt very happy for his liege.