The news was all around the court almost as soon as it had happened. Most events here made it to the gossip mill fast, although in this case, it wasn't like anyone involved had bothered to keep their voices down. As far as Ren had heard it - from, but not limited to, a serving maid, stable boy, several squires and Renly Baratheon himself, who had been laughing about the matter in a courtyard - the Hand had resigned, right before the furious king ordered (yelled) his dismissal, in protest against killing Aerys Targaryen's exiled daughter, pregnant with a Dothraki horselord's child.

Ren understood where his uncle was coming from. It wasn't pleasant to consider the murder of a young girl, a similar age to his sister Aileen, let alone a girl who was with child. Daenerys Targaryen had not yet proven to be a threat, though her very existence was dangerous to the Baratheon crown.

He also understood Lord Stark's distaste at sending a nameless assassin to do their dirty work for them. Ren would feel a similar way if it were up to him. He wasn't sure if that was a Northern principle, or one learned from all the people he'd grown up with. Jaime was another one who would insist on swinging the sword himself, although that was more a matter of pride than one of respect. Both men's motivations - ironically, considering they hated each other - were a matter of honour.

Despite all this, the girl had to die. It wasn't a nice or easy solution, but it was a practical one. Daenerys might not be a threat yet, but who knew where they would be in a year, five years, even ten? Ren would go and stab the girl in the heart himself if it eliminated the possibility of forty thousand Dothraki screamers crossing the Narrow Sea and wrecking havoc, destroying the Seven Kingdoms like they had wiped out so many civilisations in Essos, killing and raping for the sake of it, blood for the sake of blood. And as his mother would say, the Targaryen's blood itself was tainted with madness and cruelty, fed by power and unfit to rule. His mother was not an unreasonable woman, and had good reasons to hate. No dragon would ever sit the Iron Throne whilst Rosennis Stark lived, that was for sure.

But what was done was done. Robert would send assassins after the Targaryens regardless of his friend's views, as Lord Stark was Hand of the King no longer. Which, to Ren, was a blessing, given the nature of what the man was investigating. It would end in chaos one way or another. Best that didn't happen whilst Sansa, Arya and Morganna were caught in the middle of it. Ren had enjoyed having his family here, strange as it had been to have his two worlds collide, but now it was increasingly a risk. If he was alone, it would be fairly easy for him to slip out of the city unnoticed if it came to it, but it wasn't so easy with an entire household and three young, highborn girls. Once his family were shipped off back to Winterfell, far out of reach, then let the whole court implode.

Ren had learned not to rely on court gossip, so had gone to try to find his uncle, to ask him himself what had happened. It couldn't have just been a simple argument to have the King removing his closest friend from office, the one person save perhaps Renly and Loreon who Robert actually gave a shit about in this place.

Upon arriving at the Tower of the Hand, though, Ren was surprised to find that none of the Starks were even there. Arya was in a dancing lesson; he was still surprised not only that his tomboyish cousin had agreed to these lessons, but that she was actually enjoying them, going for hours every day and talking excitedly about her dancing master every time he saw her. Sansa as with the Septa and her friend from Winterfell, the dark haired steward's daughter, Jeyne. And Morganna was with the Princess.

It was Lord Stark's whereabouts that troubled him now, however. His uncle had supposedly left the small council chambers in a fury, the King's angry words at his back, and should be here, wound up and making preparations to leave for the North as soon as possible. But he wasn't anywhere to be found. Whilst searching the tower for any trace of Lord Stark, the heavy book on the desk in the Hand's solar couldn't help but catch his eye. It was hardly light reading, even if you enjoyed books, which his uncle did not. An odd thing to keep out. Out of curiosity, Ren glanced at the cover. The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, by Grand Maester Malleon. Well that looked absolutely anything but interesting.

With nothing to do but wait for his uncle to come back, Ren opened the book part way in, turning a few pages. It truly was just a description of every single member of each Great House; their name, when they lived, who they married, and their appearance. Gods, why anyone would dedicate time to reading - let alone writing - this book was beyond him.

Although...

Ren flicked back to the Baratheon chapter. The realisation of why Lord Stark had picked this book out was not a welcome one. Barely noticing that he was slowly sinking down into the chair - there was probably some sort of rule against a bastard sitting in the Hand's chair, but no one was there to complain - Ren turned to the beginning of the chapter and quickly flicked through each page. The names of long-dead lords and ladies flew past his eyes, forgotten as soon as he read them, but it was impossible, once you were looking for it, not to see that every single person born into House Baratheon was listed as 'black of hair'. Gods, I was right.

Gowen Baratheon had married Tya Lannister ninety years ago... their son had black hair. Even earlier than that, a Baratheon girl had married a Lannister lord... their three sons and one daughter were all black-haired. Every single example, going back to Aegon's conquest and the formation of House Baratheon, whenever a Baratheon had married a Lannister, the children always had jet black hair, and usually blue eyes.

Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon were the only exception. Ren's own closest friend was living proof of the Queen's adultery. Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were not the King's children.

What to do now? On the one hand, Joffrey, despite only being thirteen, was a cunt who would drive the kingdom into ruin if he ever became King. The little shit had made countless mocking comments and insults about Ren's mother, and lack of a father - not to mention what he said to Loreon, his own brother (or cousin, really) - and Ren truly wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. The viciously satisfying irony that the supposed Prince was a bastard himself hadn't escaped him.

On the other hand, Tommen was nothing like his elder brother. Ren liked Tommen. He'd all but taught him to use a sword, seeing him grow from a chubby little crybaby, bullied by his brother, into a boy more doggedly determined than most, who had reasonable skill with a sword and had learned to stand up to Joffrey. Myrcella, too, was nothing like her twin. Ren didn't know her well, but by all accounts (well, Morganna's) the Princess was witty and clever, with a bold, adventurous streak. If Joffrey went down, so did his brother and sister.

Ren had no idea what the King would do to them if he knew they weren't his. It could be anything from sending them to Casterly Rock to live out their lives in peace and quiet, to sticking their heads on pikes on the walls of the Red Keep, next to their mother's. Either way, their lives would likely be ruined.

It would be easy to go to Lord Stark and tell him what he knew. His uncle would doubtlessly go to the King. The link would be made with Jon Arryn's death - surely the Queen had him killed for investigating the children, as who else would have reason to want an old man dead when he was nearing the end of his life anyway? - and the Lannisters would fall from grace in court and Westeros itself.

And that would surely mean war.

Ren had made his mind up already. It was better to have a bastard (in every sense of the word) on the throne than have the respective fury of Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon tear the kingdom apart. For now, he would keep quiet. Although his uncle must be close to figuring it out himself. He had the book, he'd seen Robert's bastards, and there was surely more he knew that Ren didn't. The only reason Lord Stark hadn't seen it already was because he'd been distracted with managing Robert's kingdom for him, as well as every other thing that had come up since they got here. But now he was Hand no longer. Which meant Ren's task now was to stop him working out the truth before they returned North, which they inevitably would, and soon.

He should write to his mother, again. Someone more important than a newly made bastard-knight should know, and he trusted her not to do anything rash. Who else could he trust to do the same? Loreon? Ren wasn't sure. Whilst he could normally restrain his friend's more impulsive tendencies, this was hardly a normal situation. If Cersei's children were all bastards, that did make Loreon the heir to the Iron Throne. He was the King's eldest son, born from two powerful noble houses - the same house as the Queen - he was strong, capable, charismatic, loved by the commons after all those tourneys he'd excelled in, and even somewhat experienced in real fighting given the number of petty bandits groups they had gone out to dispel as squires to members of the Kingsguard.

Loreon would make a better King than Joffrey for sure. That didn't say much - a decomposing, severed head would be better than Joffrey - but he would also make a better King than his father. Ren knew that Loreon liked Robert, respected him as a warrior even though his skills had gone slightly to seed in the last few years, but he knew his friend well enough to see the looks of disdain in his eyes when his father got blackout drunk in public, or blew off his responsibilities as King to cavort with whores with little to no discretion, or steadily plunged the throne into more and more debt with all the money he spent on tourneys and feasting. Loreon took after his father's family in looks and temper, but he was Lannister enough to have ambition, forbidden though it might be; those quiet thoughts that he could do it better if someone, at some point, gave him the chance.

And, likewise, Ren felt himself be tempted.

It was a dangerous thought. If he could find a way to bring down Joffrey, ensuring Tommen and Myrcella wouldn't be killed for it, and minimising the chance of a war, then who knew... Loreon was as much Tywin Lannister's grandson as Joffrey was. And if Loreon was King, Ren would be able to advance far further than he ever could have hoped to.

However, orchestrating such a situation without starting a war would be nigh on impossible. Once again, Ren was thinking ahead. He quickly penned a letter to his mother, hoping his uncle wouldn't miss a sheet of parchment, and got up from the Hand's chair, setting off to find Jaime so it could be sent without any prying eyes. No one could read this, he couldn't risk giving it to Pycelle. It was stupid enough writing it down at all, a death sentence if he was caught, but if he didn't get any more advice on what to do with this information he was likely to follow his own ideas, and his worst, more ambitious instincts were already nudging him towards a course of action that was almost certainly the wrong thing to do.

Jaime wasn't at the training yard, nor the White Sword Tower, and when Ren asked his fellow Kingsguard Ser Arys Oakheart if the knight was on duty that afternoon, he was given a negative answer. A passing serving maid had stopped, then, and to his surprise told him that Jaime had packed a bag. He was a Kingsguard and the King was here, where in hells would he be going? Ren went to investigate the stables, only to find that Jaime's horse was gone. He asked a stableboy about it, who had told of how half an hour ago the Kingslayer had stormed down to the yard in a rage, yelling for his horse to be saddled and taking over himself when it took too long. Near two dozen Lannister men had been with him, all armed and armoured, with saddlebags of packs and provisions.

What the hell was going on? With a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ren returned to the Tower of the Hand, speeding up when he saw a flurry of activity around the base of the tower. Two men were being carried up the narrow stairs by Stark guardsmen, both unconscious. A dozen or so goldcloaks hung around the base of the tower.

"Hey," Ren got their attention, walking over. "What's happening here?"

"High lords quarrelling. The lion bit the wolf's tail," One of them chuckled, until his companion elbowed him in the side pointedly.

"That's the Hand's bastard, Martyn," He muttered. "You know, Snow. The one that won the melee,"

"Shit," Martyn swore eloquently. "No offence meant, Ser,"

Ren just waved him off, not even bothering to correct him when he said Lord Stark was his father.

"What happened?"

"It was Lord Littlefinger what called us," One of them said. "We found Lord Eddard in the gutter, his horse fell in the fighting and crushed his leg. A few of his men got in a bad way too, though no one dead, mind," A few familiar Winterfell men were being tended to a few feet away. "So we took 'em all back here. He's alive, but I don't envy him that broken leg,"

"Why was there a fight in the first place?"

"Thought you'd've known?"

"Clearly not,"

"Ah. Well it was the Kingslayer what did it," The man grimaced, and Ren's face darkened. "I know one of the whores in that brothel, she was hanging out the window 'n heard him saying something about his brother. Think Lady Stark took him prisoner. Obviously the Kingslayer didn't like that,"

Ren was silent for a moment.

"Thanks," He turned away abruptly, anger building inside him.

"Aren't we getting no coin for this?" One of the men grumbled.

"No," He walked away towards the entrance to the tower without another word.

"You won all that money in the tourney," One of them yelled after him, but he ignored them.

Ren was angrier than he had been in a long time. He went not to his uncle's chambers, but to the guards quarters, where Jory Cassel had been laid out on his bed, one of the other men cleaning and bandaging his wounds. He truly wasn't in a good way, but was able to speak, and upon Ren's asking, told him exactly what had happened, which also explained exactly what Lord Stark had been doing outside a brothel. Visiting a young whore to see her child, an infant girl, with a head of dark hair. His uncle was getting closer and closer to the truth.

Jory finished with telling of the fight, of the Kingslayer's order to get past the Stark men by any means necessary. They were lucky no one had died. Jory half expected the Kingslayer to order them all killed, to get them out of the way.

"Why was Lord Stark trying to stop him from leaving?" Ren asked.

"He threatened Lady Catelyn," Jory winced in pain as he shifted slightly. "She's taken the Imp prisoner, and the Kingslayer didn't take well to that,"

"And then he just left," Ren asked in a low voice.

"Fled," The man's voice was hoarse, his bandages blood-soaked. Hopefully his wounds were better than they looked. Ren knew some men could survive horrific injuries with few consequences, whilst others died of apparently minor ones.

"Fled," He echoed the word. Blood was pounding in his ears, as he turned to leave.

"Don't you go doing anything stupid," Jory warned him.

Ren ignored him. He looked in on Lord Stark, who was still unconscious in bed, leg bent at a horrific angle as Grand Maester Pycelle tended it, and dosed up on enough milk of the poppy to knock out a horse. Sansa and Arya were at his bedside, tears running down both their cheeks although Arya tried to hide it when he came in.

"I knew the Kingslayer was no good," His cousin said accusingly, at him, jumping up with anger twisting her young face. "I knew it. Look at what he did to father!"

Ren had no answer to that, just placed a hand on her shoulder and watching his uncle for a few moments. "He'll need to let that leg heal properly," He said eventually. "Make sure he doesn't get out of bed too soon and damage it permanently. You look after him, both of you," It wouldn't do much, but hopefully his daughters fussing would delay Lord Stark's progress in finding the truth at least a little.

Winterfell's steward, Vayon Poole, was in the Hand's solar, working on some papers. He looked up as Ren entered, with a curious expression. "Ser Renan. Can I help you with anything?"

"I know it's not my place," Ren started. "And I cannot tell you why, so forgive me. But Lord Stark and his household can't stay in King's Landing,"

The steward's eyebrows shot up, incredulous. "Lord Stark had mentioned in passing, the possibility in the near future of arranging a ship to take Ladies Sansa, Arya and Morganna to White Harbour. Though he said nothing of himself, nor the rest of the household. Are you proposing we bundle him onto a ship whilst he is unconscious?"

"Yes," Ren said. "I know you think I'm mad, but it is too dangerous for any of us to stay here much longer. You know that Lord Stark has been investigating Lord Arryn's death, and - "

"If you know something important, Ser, then it would be best that you share it," Poole said, rather more cooly.

He bit back his frustration. "Of course I know something, or else I wouldn't be begging you to arrange a way out, but it is not information I can share with just anyone. My mother would firmly agree with me, if she were here, and would doubtless be making arrangements herself,"

"But Lady Bolton is not here," Poole said. "And I serve Lord Stark. I can see you are genuinely troubled - " He ignored Ren's derisive snort. " - so I will start making plans for a ship for the young ladies and their septa. In the case that, when Lord Stark awakens, he can send them away as soon as he likes. But I will not go behind his back in the way you are suggesting. I would lose my position,"

That was better than nothing, but still not enough. "I can see you will not listen to me, and I can't say I blame you. But please, just take the warning. Arrange a ship for the entire household. You don't have to use it, until Lord Stark wakes up, but you will be grateful for it if things take a turn for the worse,"

Frustrated, he left the steward to his papers. Ren headed straight for his sleeping cell, gathering everything he owned into a pack. A warm cloak, two extra sets of clothes, his knife, blankets, waterskin and his prize money. Ten thousand gold dragons. He had invested a good portion of it already on a decent set of armour, a pair of sturdy boots, a new longsword and shield, and a good horse of his own with saddle and bridle, all of which should last a long time and would doubtlessly serve him well. It had used up a considerable portion of the gold, which was fortunate now, as he could take the remainder with him.

Hopefully he wouldn't be robbed and left for dead in a ditch. His new purchases were high quality, but plain enough to pass by unnoticed. The sword was unadorned, a simple blade with a dark scabbard. The armour was plain, as was the shield, and the horse's tack was practical, hardy but not flashy. The small amount of gold he had left was placed in the hidden pockets in the lining of his clothes, boots and pack. To any thieves, he would look like too much effort to rob, for too little reward.

Ren made his way to the stables. He passed a burning brazier in one of the courtyards and drew the hastily scrawled letter to his mother out of his pocket, carefully placing it into the fire and staying to ensure it burned to a crisp. He'd be telling her the news himself, soon enough. Hopefully by then the entire Stark household would be on a ship to White Harbour, if not already at Winterfell waiting for him, and he wouldn't have to.

His new horse was a fine animal. He had liked the one he had ridden before, but that was taken from the stables of the Red Keep for the journey to Winterfell and technically belonged to the King. This one was his. Many knights preferred to ride stallions, but Ren preferred mares. He had chosen a female palfrey, of reasonable size at just over sixteen hands, but fast, agile and with good stamina. Not quite a trained destrier, but he would not be able to afford one of those, and she good for what he needed her for. He saddled the horse himself, strapping his packs to the saddle, along with his sword.

"Where are you going?"

He turned to see his sister stood behind him, peering over the stable door with narrowed eyes. He hadn't heard her approach. If he had, he might've hid behind the horse. Morganna was the last person she wanted to see, as she would ask the most questions and would be the hardest to placate with half-answers and assurances. And his sister would let everyone know where he was going and what she thought of it.

"Away," He went back to fastening buckles and straps.

"Good timing," Morganna said sarcastically. "Uncle Ned hasn't even woken up yet,"

"He won't be awake for days at least," Ren had seen his injured leg, and hoped for his uncle's sake that they kept him knocked out with milk of the poppy for most of the week.

Morganna looked unimpressed at the deflection.

"I'm going north," He relented. "Winterfell, or the Dreadfort, depending where mother is. There's a message I need to deliver,"

"Can't you write?" She looked skeptical. "It takes two months to ride there,"

"It took two months with an enormous wheelhouse and enough supply wagons to feed an army," Ren corrected. "A single rider heading up the Kingsroad on a fast horse? I could cover at least forty miles a day and be there three weeks,"

"And what's so important you can't just write it down?"

"None of your business," He took his horse's reins, leading it out into the yard as Morganna opened the stable door. "Although, I have a favour to ask you,"

"Presumptuous of you," She crossed her arms.

"There's a book, on Lord Stark's desk in his solar," He said. "A thick old book, about the lineages of the great houses, you can't miss it. I need you to return it to Maester Pycelle before our uncle wakes up," He should've done that himself, really, but it gave her something to do that would hopefully placate her a little.

"Alright," She seemed unperturbed by act itself, but clearly still found his motives confusing. "That's it, is it? You're running off without a word to anyone, the same day our uncle is attacked in the street - by your Ser Jaime - to deliver some mystery message to mother that you won't tell me about?"

"Yes," Ren said, tightening the girth again and checking the weight was distributed evenly so as not to injure the horse. "Try to keep Lord Stark in bed as long as you can, remind him that he must rest his leg properly for it to heal. And try and get Sansa away from Joffrey,"

"No need to ask me twice," She muttered. "Well, try not to get yourself killed, I suppose. What have you done with your prize money?"

"Spent most of it," He gestured to the horse stood beside him.

Morganna turned her attention to the animal for the first time. "She's beautiful," She wore the same small smile their mother had when she saw a horse she liked. His sister didn't often resemble their mother much, but this was one of the few times they looked alike. Morganna ran a hand down the horse's neck. "She needs a name, I know you won't have given her one,"

"She's a horse, not a child," Ren shook his head. There was a reason most knights did not name their horses; it made it harder to not get attached. "Now, are you going to let me go, or are you waiting for me to ask you to come with me?"

"Would you let me come with you?"

"Not a chance,"

"Fine then," Morganna pulled a face at his blunt response, giving an overly-exaggerated curtsey that would've made Sansa's Septa proud. "Goodbye then, brother," She looked up with a grin. "I'll tell Sansa and Arya you wished them a heartfelt goodbye too. Give my love to everyone back home,"

"I hope you don't mind if I leave your father out,"

She laughed at that.

"I'll see you when you come back north. Lord Stark isn't Hand any more, so it shouldn't be long. If you go by sea, you might even get there before me,"

His sister hugged him then, tightly, resting her head against his chest. She was definitely taller than she been only a few months before. He hugged her back for a few seconds, before stepping back, swinging himself up into the saddle and tightening the girth again.

"Goodbye, Ren," She gave him one last smile.

He nudged the mare's sides, raising a hand in farewell as he set off out of the yard.

The first time he had been through the city gates, he had been leaving King's Landing behind. Ren had been born in the city, which he often forgot. Although then he wasn't even two years old, strapped to his mother's chest as she rode beside her brother, Lord of Winterfell, to find their lost sister. Of course, he didn't remember any of that. Didn't remember Lyanna, didn't remember the Mad King, nor his mother watching him die.

This time, he was a knight himself. Ser Renan Snow rode out of the gates of King's Landing, heading north. 

*

Edited November 2024