I cannot begin to express how sorry I am for this chapter. Both for how LOOOOOOOOOOONG it took to pull out, and for the change in...something...that has morphed it into something I didn't originally intend. Nothing in the story has really changed; this chapter is pretty much standalone. That doesn't mean its useless, but its pretty...different from what I've written so far. You're gonna read it anyway, so don't say I didn't warn you if things seem off. :P

Needless to say, real life has been a bitch, and my treasured free time is already dwindling as I type so the next chapter probably won't come much faster, but likely not slower either. Actually, parts I had intended for this chapter have been ONCE AGAIN moved to the next. So I wont be able to keep my promise about explaining just what the hell is up with Asha until the next chapter. Good news though is the next one will likely be very short, about 5000 words, and then after that we get back to Robb again, whom I've missed SO much.

To all the survivors who are still checking up on this fic after so long: HELLO AND SO SORRY! I'm definitely not giving up, as I still see that ending in my head and I want so much to get there. This chapter has just been horrifically hard to write, and I can;t imagine any other chapters being as difficult, so hopefully no more half a year hiatuses. God that hurts to type.

PS: THIS CHAPTER HAS NOT BEEN BETA'D. I didn't even read through it in my mad dash to get it out, so expect LOTS OF MISTAKS. Hopefully it will become more readable when my BETA takes a crack at it (assuming she's still around...)

Brave New World

"Look Jon! A tourney! A tourney"

"I see it Jon," said Jon Snow to Jon Umber, with a hint of exasperation in his tone. Truly, it wasn't the Smalljon he was cross with, but with the way he was bouncing up and down on his long-suffering mare, you would think he had never seen grown men plowing each other with wooden sticks before. Then again, growing up in the icy nothingness of Last Hearth, he probably had never seen a tourney before.

Well, neither had Jon. And maybe in another world he could enjoy it with his oversized friend. But there was something about holding pretend-fighting matches in the midst of an all too real war that grated just a slight bit on his nerves.

Maybe he was finally becoming a Hand after all.

The Smalljon stood on the stirrups to get a better view of the tourney grounds, which was still a quarter of a league away. His horse's knees nearly buckled from the weight. "Who do you think would win, Jon? I hear the Knight of Flowers has almost never lost a joust, but Lord Randyll Tarly skewered three stormmen with a single lance during Robert's rebellion. You think he could do that with a tourney lance?"

"I don't know Jon. Perhaps you can remain there and see, while I talk to King Renly and hopefully salvage this war," Jon spat, unable to stop. "In fact, why don't you enlist with Renly's army? I heard he holds a tourney thrice a fortnight." He regretted it as soon as the words left his lips. His temples throbbed with the beat of the drums from Renly's camp and the cheers of the hundred thousand soldiers, and the lack of mead in the last few days was making him testy. He was no better company without the drink, it seemed.

Instead of looking hurt as he was wont to do, the Smalljon regarded him sourly. "You're just mad because you look stupid."

Jon's impending apology evaporated as he gaped at the insolence. "How dare you. It's not my fault Edmure is wide at the shoulders." And really, where does he get off insulting my clothes, when he likely stripped his off a baby mammoth?

"You didn't have to wear them. You could have worn Robb's, since you're both the same size. Why not wear his?"

Jon paled. "That's…that's because…" Because I threw Robb's clothes into a muddy pool somewhere near Riverrun on account of an angry fit, he as he still valued his male pride, he saw no reason to share that, so he merely said, meekly, "Because I thought Edmure's clothes are more appropriate for treating with kings."

The Smalljon wasn't buying it. "So you like having the Tully trout jumping out of your tunic, do you? That's good. Our rivermen were happy to see it."

Cringing, Jon looked down at his chest. Is it that obvious? He and his squire had spent half the morning trying to make him presentable, but with Edmure's attire the only fancy wear available, it was a choice between working around Edmure's girth or going back to Riverrun to fish out Robb's clothes. Surprisingly, his squire knew how to work needle and thread (with obvious chagrin), so they didn't have to resort to the latter. The Tully sigil embroidered on each breast was a problem though, and they only had a single direwolf pin to cover them with. So he looked very much like the trout and direwolf's bastard.

Lady Catelyn would tear out her eyes if she could see me now…

For all that though, the result wasn't a complete disaster. The silver of the Tully fish blended quite well with the Stark colors, and was thankfully more prominent than the blue and red background. And no one would ever need to see the parade of trout on the shoulders or the fact that the waistband of his breeches was designed for a healthy ale gut, so long as he kept his cloak and belt on. Surely that wouldn't be too difficult.

The Smalljon was still waiting for an answer, and he had none to give. So he stuck his nose in the air and did his finest impersonation of a highborn twit. "I'm the Hand of the King, and I can wear whatever I damn well please. Drop this subject this instant, or I will ship you back to Last Hearth in fetters." He kicked his horse into a gallop, listening to the Smalljon's hearty laughter recede as he sped on ahead, his standard-bearer laboring to follow while balancing his banner. Hopefully that performance had gotten his friend's mind off his clothes. It was usually fairly easy to distract the Smalljon, so he didn't have much to worry.

While he slowed into a canter to allow his party to catch up, Jon wondered why they cared at all. What did it matter what sigil he wore? He was neither Stark nor Tully, while his king was both. The Smalljon tended to forget details like that. Everything would be easier if he could just rip the whole thing off and present himself before King Renly naked, eliminating all confusion.

They had finally entered Renly's territory when the Roseroad became flanked with tree stumps. The most fertile land in the Seven Kingdoms was a barren wasteland for miles around. Beyond the ravaged forests was Renly's kingdom: a nation of tents and banners and black smoke, bordered and divided by the Mander. A warm southron wind tumbled through Jon's freshly oiled hair while slapping his nose with the combined stench of horse, cooked meat and human waste. And I was just starting to like the constant smell of roses and honeysuckle too.

At the back of his mind he could sense Ghost sniffling at the air a distance away, in between a grove of splintered trees. Ghost had been trying in vain to search for game, but the Baratheons and Tyrells had hunted the land clean. The lack of fresh meat soured Ghost's already bitter mood, which of course had a toxic effect on Jon's. Times like these he regretted their connection.

Ghost had been distant since his return from the Riverlands. Nymeria's rejection still weighed heavily on his soul, making him snappish and irritable. He had nearly torn the Smalljon's hand off when he had tried to pet him, but thankfully he was made of stronger stuff than most humans and merely laughed, thinking they were playing a game.

Now they had both been rejected by their siblings, a fact that seemed to magnify their shared sensation. Jon didn't much enjoy feeling pain from two perspectives, especially on some nights when he awoke cold and shivering, as if he had just been sitting under pounding rain, yellow eyes all around him. He wondered what sort of dreams Ghost had. Probably of a room in Riverrun, and a bed where his brother's arms surrounded him. Jon thought that warmth would never leave him, but then his brother removed his arms, so as to place the crown on his auburn curls...it was so cold…

A distant boom like crashing wood and the ensuing roar of Renly's subjects jerked him back to reality. The Smalljon was cringing beside him. "That sounded like it hurt," he said, and Jon stared at him blankly before he realized he was talking about the joust. "I hope that wasn't Lord Randyll giving that blow, or someone is going to need a new throat." When Jon failed to give anything more than a grunt, his friend continued. "It's a shame Lady Asha couldn't be with us now," the Smalljon said, eyeing Jon carefully. "She would have wanted to see a tourney, after all the leagues of rolling hills and shallow streams."

Jon's eyes narrowed. This was becoming a pattern with him. Anytime Jon seemed noncommittal, the big oaf would then use the opportunity to bring up Asha Greyjoy, as if that would somehow cheer him. And it wasn't just the Smalljon either, but Jon's entire retinue kept giving him knowing glances, even the ones who staunchly despised Asha. It was funny, and extremely annoying, how a haircut could change their perceptions like that.

"We can't force her to come. She's not well," was Jon's automatic response. And anyway, it was true.

"Really," grumbled the Smalljon. "When you say she's not well, do you mean when she…um…"

The Smalljon was trying so hard not to ask about his last encounter with Asha that he was nearly purpling from the strain. Everyone seemed to have their own version as to what happened before Asha ran out of his tent in tears and he had stopped drinking. The canvas walls were thin after all, and northmen were never known for keeping their voices down. Fortunately none of them had stumbled onto the truth, or anywhere close to it, but all he could do was grit his teeth when they began painting him as a lover so inept that he made a woman cry, a "fact" that quickly reached consensus. It took all his willpower to convince himself the snickers were preferable.

Although, it wasn't what was said that truly worried him, but what was not said…and by whom. Only one man had not piped up to laugh at him that night. The one person who probably did not find the whole situation all that humorous.

"I'm sure you know her best…I mean…no one else but you did…uh…" the Smalljon stuttered, which was so alien to him that he started banging at his head to try and get the words out. "I'm not making any sense right now…um…did you…uh…did you…ask her to go to the tourney? No that's not it…"

His friend was losing his mind, and he was the cause of it. Jon wanted nothing more than to reveal everything, to say that it wasn't what he thought, that he had not betrayed the only friend he had left in the Seven Kingdoms.

Instead Jon ignored him, keeping his face directed at the nearing tourney ground, hand tight around the reins. He wasn't going to say anything unless he was asked a direct question. It's not that he wished to keep things from his friend, but he suspected that Asha might feel otherwise. Though…if he was honest, they both had lost themselves that afternoon, breaching a door that neither of them had wanted opened. He still did not understand what had lain on Asha's side of it, but he did try to find out.

"How did you find me?" she had said earlier that day, her words slurring. Five empty bottles lay strewn around her legs with one still sloshing in her hand, her back against a wide oak. At least she had the presence of mind to lean on the side away from their camp, so no one would find her. Or at least she hoped.

"Ghost is back," he said, looking down at her and mentally cringing. Oh gods. It's like looking at a mirror. "It wasn't hard for him. All he had to do was follow the ale."

Asha directed one bloodshot eye at Ghost, who was relieving himself on a bramble. "Oh. I had wondered what that smell was. I thought it was you," she cackled, which caused the stream of ale to miss her mouth by inches. The bottle was long empty before she realized what had happened. "Fucking hells. That was my last one…"

Jon hissed in annoyance. "You mean to tell me you've drunk through my entire stash? Everything you stole?"

Asha rolled her eyes and groaned from the pain it caused. "Don't flatter yourself by calling that little box a stash. I've put away more bottles when I was twelve. And if you didn't want anyone to take them, you should have hidden them better." When it finally sunk in that she was all tapped out, Asha scooped up a bottle at random and hugged it to her chest. His favorite Blackwood stout, which he had been saving for a special occasion. Jon could have cried.

He shook off the urge to slap her…especially since he should be thanking her. He had intended to hurl his entire cache into the nearest river anyway, though it seemed Asha had thought of a more convenient place to dump them into.

When he had come to his senses after her barbering, she had already ridden away with all his vintages in tow. For some reason she had left her merry band of ironborn behind, and none of them would say where she had gone. Not even after the Smalljon had threatened to spit Qarl the Maid on his greatsword, a threat he would have readily gone through with had Jon not stopped him. In the end, and after three search parties, all at the Smalljon's insistence, it didn't seem her men were all that concerned for her whereabouts, so Jon didn't see any reason to be concerned either. Clearly she had just needed time alone.

"Come on," Jon said, nudging the woman with his boot. Alone time was over. "We're going to see King Renly, and I could use your birthright." She needed to change first though. She was still wearing the same leathers she had on when she fled the camp days ago. The same leathers she had worn when she sheared him.

She cracked an eye open. "You want me to accompany you to your royal get-together? Are you joking?"

Jon blinked. "Well, no. But when you say it like that, then maybe I should have been."

Asha sighed, which also caused her to wince in pain. "Have you any notion the sort of trouble we'll all be in if my father finds out where I am? The only reason he hasn't ravaged your precious North already is because I seem to be missing, the only heir he has left." She raised the stout to her lips, letting off a 'dammit' when she realized again that it was empty. "And if this King Renly sees me in your company, what's to stop him from assuming the ironborn and the Starks have lain in bed together? Good luck trying to get your alliance after that, stupid bastard. Fortunately for the North, I have business at present, and have no plans to return home as yet."

What business, he nearly asked, but he had an inkling she wouldn't respond. Anyway, he had other mysteries in mind.

In truth, he had already known most of that, as he had given the consequences of her presence much more thought than Robb ever did when he thrust her on him. But…

She must have seen something in his lack of surprise, as her lips curled up like a cat. "But you already knew all that did you? So why are you here, Lord Bastard? Have you come for retribution? I hate to spoil your fun, but I don't possess much of a beard right now." Her right hand went to her belt and clumsily pulled out one of her knives. The blade's edge quivered five inches from Jon's nose, more from the ale than actual fear. "Go on. Do it. But be considerate. I happen to like this cut."

Jon swatted the knife away and it fell to the ground in a quiet thud. She made no move to retrieve it. Her gray eyes, so similar to his but darker, were strangely lucid. Expectant.

"Why?" he said.

That one word hung between them like a curse, and with every moment the questions raced through Jon's mind, only adding to the silence. Why did you help me? Why are you still here? Why did you cry? Why didn't you kill me, even though you wanted to and I deserve it? Why did you almost kiss me? Why didn't you kill me?

Their eyes remained locked for a long time, and for a moment Jon thought she was going to answer, but in the end she glanced away, and that was that. "Go to Renly, Jon Snow," she whispered, all signs of drunkenness gone. "I can't give you what you want. And it seems…you can't give me what I want either. There's no point…no point at all. I'm such a weakling."

He wanted to say that she wasn't weak. That she was the strongest woman he had ever met – not that he knew many to compare her to. But he doubted she would have heard him even if he did. She was back in her secret world again, and the door was shut and barred.

After a while her gaze returned to him, and her expression was as sharp and obstinate as it had ever been. Her hair was an unwashed bird's nest, her skin smeared in grime, her clothes tattered and reeking of vomit. But she exuded a strength and confidence that drew all attention and was her own kind of beauty. Jon had never noticed that in a woman before.

"They will lie to you, Jon Snow," she said gravely. "Renly and his courtiers – they will hook you like the fish you are, cut you open and strip out your bones. And worst of all they will make you think it was your idea, laughing as you flounder and bleed. Let's be honest Lord Snow – you are far too honest. You might have proven yourself in the battlefield, somehow, but in a king's court you will never be more than prey, because that's just who you are. A bit of advice. Take it or shit on it. I care not."

Jon frowned. He had never denied that making him Hand was the stupidest thing Robb had ever done; even worse when it was his first decree as king. But there was something rankling about receiving political advice from a Greyjoy. "Why do you know so much about how a court works? You don't seem like much of a lady to me."

To any other woman (save Arya) that would have earned him a slap. But from Asha Greyjoy he only got a grin; wide, lewd and completely Asha. "I learned from the best. My father has lied to every lord and lady who were ever seated in his watery halls. Since his head still hasn't been put on a pike – not one of Robert and your father's brighter notions – I assume he's very good at it."

Jon could think of no argument to that. The more Jon heard of Balon Greyjoy, the more thankful he was that Asha chose to reap vengeance on him personally instead of leaving it to her father.

With an exhausted sigh, Asha leaned back heavily against the tree and shooed him away. "Move along now. You have an appointment to make, and you still need to get changed. I'll be staying right here. Perhaps I'll learn how to make mead from tree sap…."

Jon's emerging smile fell once again, confused. "What? This is what I'm wearing."

Asha cocked her head, staring at his clothes with disbelief. "Either I'm still drunk, or you're actually dressed like a fish. Forget his courtiers, Renly will bone you himself." Her laughter followed him long after he stomped away.

"…so just what is wrong with her? Tell me at least that much," the Smalljon's conflicted voice broke through his reverie, and he remembered where he was.

"The pox," Jon said suddenly. His friend had asked him a direct question, and he blurted out the first thing he could think of.

The Smalljon gaped at him in shock. "The pox? She has the pox? That's why she's been hiding from us? But…how?"

Jon raised an eyebrow. Did he really need to explain the process? "How would I know? She probably got it from Qarl the Maid." He felt a little bad for lying yet again, but he also felt some satisfaction, after she insulted his attire.

The Smalljon's entire face scrunched up in deep thought, which he maintained for several seconds before deciding that he wasn't satisfied with Jon's answer. "But you…you were with…in the tent…and if she…then…Jon you have the pox!"

Before Jon could react to that absurd outburst, a group of riders brandishing Baratheon and Tyrell banners trotted up to them, revealing themselves as knights of King Renly. Jon didn't care to argue when one of the knights corrected him after he introduced himself as Hand to King Robb, saying that there was only one true king. He envisioned having to endure many more such tedious arguments as the days went on.

The ancient stone bridge where Bitterbridge got its name was one of the landmarks of the South, so Jon would have liked to see it at least once. Unfortunately the structure was buried so deeply inside Renly's host that he gave up trying to find it, even with his eyes following the Mander. It must have been nearby though. Most of the power of the Stormlands appeared to have been segregated on the eastern side of the river, while the strength of the Reach had crossed on over to the west. Those were just some of the things Jon's mind dwelt on when about to treat with a king.

But why bother himself over bridges? There was a tourney to watch.

The escorts lead them towards the wooden palisade that ringed the castle's tourney ground. Thousands of shouting bodies and their horses blocked their path, but that was nothing a moody direwolf couldn't handle. Soldiers gaped at Jon and Ghost in wonder as they passed, even the ones who had been thrown off their mounts. Sometimes Jon needed to remind himself that direwolves were a novelty in most places, as he had gotten used to soldiers taking a fierce pride in their wolves.

The simulated carnage wiped all thoughts of Asha from the Smalljon's mind, who cheered as loudly and enthusiastically as the rest of them, despite not knowing who any of the combatants were. "By the old gods the Lotus is going to lose an arm! Look out! Now the Milkmaid's fallen off his horse! The Eagle Lion Beast will not soon forget that. Oh the Moon and Suns smashed his shield. Isn't this exciting Jon?"

Jon grunted. Though he had never seen a tourney before, he was certain it wasn't that. Apparently the joust had devolved into an all-out melee a while ago. Broken pieces of tourney lances, mail and even an entire breastplate littered the ground where the remainder of the fighters fought. A knight with a griffin sigil and a splintered shield lay unconscious, dragged away by his squires. Horses became optional at the end as the last two combatants wrestled each other in the mud.

It was a close fight until the cobalt knight rolled atop the rainbow knight and pushed a dirk against his face (a sight that made Jon shudder, his own neck stinging in remembrance), ending the match. The cries of dissatisfaction that erupted as Cobalt helped Rainbow to his feet were deafening, made no less puzzling by shouts of "The Beauty! The Beauty!".

It all made sense when the cobalt knight removed his helm and…revealed a woman. The masses laughed and jeered at the sight. Jon could barely contain his disgust. Here was possibly the strongest fighter in Renly's army, able to defeat man after man in fair combat, and all her accomplishments were rendered worthless on account of her sex. Even the Smalljon let out a gasp of astonishment, and Jon resisted the urge to hit him. Asha is a woman too you dolt! And she's better in a fight than any of you! Perhaps it was good fortune that she hadn't come after all. Her and the Mormont sisters.

A surpassingly handsome, smiling man in a bright green tunic with a golden circlet around coal black hair descended the gallery to congratulate the winner. Renly Baratheon didn't seem to care that the cobalt knight was a woman (even if she did overtop him by a few inches), fixing a rainbow cloak about her shoulders that brightened her face like nothing else had. It appeared that Renly had formed his own kingsguard, judging by the six other men in rainbow cloaks behind him. The number included the Knight of Flowers, which Jon recognized after taking a good look at his sigil. They were clearly of the same age, though Jon wasn't happy to admit it with how Loras Tyrell was sulking. More like wilting.

"I will present you to the King, my lord," said the escort, beckoning him to follow.

Jon was about to do just that when a large, meaty hand grasped his forearm. "Jon, I don't think it's a good idea for you to see King Renly," the Smalljon whispered into his ear. "What if he catches the pox? We'll all have hells to pay."

Annoyed and quite baffled, Jon tore himself from the Smalljon's hold and glared at him. "I do not have…the pox," he hissed. There were a hundred thousand men about them and only one needed to hear. "And even if I did, you can't catch the pox by talking." Really, what had gone into him? He found himself missing the truncated conversations about Asha.

Somehow that made the Smalljon look even more worried, and, for some reason, revolted. "I know that, but…there are rumors about King Renly and…maybe he'll want to do more than just…he's a king after all so…um…"

As much as Jon enjoyed listening to his friend when he got like that, he really didn't have time to indulge him at that moment. "We'll talk about this later." Or not. He kicked his horse and sped away before the Smalljon could call him back. Hopefully there would be a dancing bear at the feast and his friend would forget all about their "chat".

As they made their approach, Jon realized that everyone was staring at him, most notably the nobles sitting at the gallery. They were like a flock of exotic birds, all in different ages and sizes and not one of them wore the same garments as the others. Different sigils, mostly of animals or plants, gleamed on their richly clad breasts, and Jon learned with a start that he didn't recognize half of them. If only he had studied southron sigils more closely with Bran and Maester Luwin. Perhaps he could whisper to his squire if he needed help.

For the moment he dispelled those worries from his mind. Only one sigil mattered right now, and at least he recognized that one.

The escort was quick to dismount and kneel before his king. "Your Grace, I have the honor of presenting you Jon Snow, Hand to Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell."

"That's King Robb, ser. Of Winterfell and Riverrun. Lords can't have Hands," Jon corrected, stumbling from his horse to dirty his own knee. He hoped bowing his head was sufficient to hide his blush, after it caught on how stupid the last point sounded.

"No hands? Then what will they use to shove lemoncakes in their mouths? Our cooks will be grateful for the rest." King Renly guffawed, taking the rest of his court with him. Even the larger lords chuckled along, chins juggling. "That was just a jest, my lord. Don't look so sullen. Come on, up with you." Renly hauled him to his feet with one surprisingly strong arm, eying him while he dusted his breeches. "So you are the illustrious Jon Snow, brother to the King in the North himself. To be true, I imagined that you were taller, with more meat in the chest and arms. And battle scars. And an eye patch. With an axe filed from a mammoth's tusk strapped to your back. Any of the things we had envisioned of the man who crippled the Kingslayer."

Gasps erupted all around, the king's words starting a fresh wave of pointing and whispers. But Jon was mostly numb to the attention, reeling from shock. How did he know?

King Renly at least had the grace to look sympathetic, as befitting one so highborn. "We've known for quite a while Lord Snow. Cut off every man's tongue, but a raven can still tell the tale. Why don't you take it as a compliment? Your people were so proud of what you did that they could not wait to share it with the rest of the realm. Although, we had no idea that you were made Hand." Jon could not muster the energy to respond to the backhand, but Renly gave him no pause anyway. "I did pray for your sisters when I heard. When we tear down the Red Keep and put every Lannister to the sword, I promise to deliver them to you or your brother personally." No matter what condition we find them in, his tone said. "I will even arrange profitable marriages for them if they wish. Our victory will provide no shortage of highborn heroes."

Clearly Jon was supposed to respond to that, but he couldn't stomach anything beyond: "Thank you, Your Grace."

"Oh where are my manners," Renly said, finally noticing the cluster of guards and flatterers that stood at his back like a shadow. "There are many introductions to get through, but it would bring me most joy to present you to the first knight of my Rainbow Guard, the Knight of Flowers himself, Ser Loras Tyrell. You look so much alike, I was almost shocked. Surely you'll get along well. Now where is…"

Several shrieks went up from the king's right, the crowd dispersing in fright. One of Renly's guards pushed the king away, sword drawn. It seemed Jon had already made Ser Loras' acquaintance…through Ghost.

"Get this damn beast away from me!" the First of the Rainbow Guard shouted, pulling his colorful cloak away from Ghost's curious teeth. A mailed foot kicked out, nearly connecting with a snout.

Jon disliked him instantly.

The king was quick to calm his knight, whispering a quiet word into his ear before setting his attention to his "attacker", against the warnings of his guards and lickspittles. Luckily Renly made a much better impression on Ghost, kneeling down to eye level to "address a noble beast as it deserved" and play with his fur. When his silly cooing earned him a lick, that was enough for the rest of the court to come closer and admire Ghost themselves. Renly shared to them the tragedy of Lady's death, and the madness that must have consumed Cersei to slay such a majestic creature. He vowed again that he would make Cersei pay for that crime, and though it was likely horseshit, it raised Jon's respect for him considerably.

More introductions were made after that, and Jon's brain nearly sputtered out from all the names. He kissed one hand after another, the Queen's in particular lingering in his memory; soft, small and fragrant and so unlike another woman's whose hands he'd seen too much of.

"Now that's done, I'll be honored if you and your companions join us for dinner, Lord Jon," the king said, beaming at him as if they were old friends. He had certainly grown fond of Ghost, bending down to ruffle his fur. "And I'll have the cooks prepare a whole aurochs especially for you. Rare and swimming in its own bloody juices, just how we like it." Jon had to clamp Ghost about the neck to keep him from throttling the king in gratitude (which could easily be construed as an assassination attempt) while Renly laughed. Once Ghost settled down Renly regarded Jon. "You must be exhausted. Why don't you freshen up and get changed? The feast won't be for a while yet."

Jon was ready to correct him, but after opening his mouth he thought it easier to just keep it shut. What was the point? Perhaps he really should just traipse around naked.

The king turned to his newest protector, looking up at her without any semblance of shame or discomfort. "Brienne, please escort the Hand to his tent. One of the vacant ones around the pavilion. See that he is attended to."

"At once, Your Grace!" she said with enthusiasm, but Renly had already wandered off with Ser Loras by his side, talking amiably with his highborn followers who trailed behind him like ducklings. They were discussing about the winner of the archery competition and whether Renly should award him a holdfast in the westerlands. Apparently most of the castles in Lord Tywin's lands had already been quartered off as prizes in previous competitions.

While Jon listened to their conversation trail off into the gallery, he did not miss the lingering gaze that Lady Brienne leveled on their backs. Her shocking blue eyes were large and heartbreakingly honest, filled with an almost childlike longing.

Oh, so that's how it is. Jon had wondered what would possess a woman, even one as gifted and capable as Lady Brienne, to join a kingsguard knowing she would be reviled. Perhaps she really did not realize the full implication of what she was doing, but by her manner she didn't seem bothered or even surprised by how she was treated, so maybe that wasn't true. But judging from that look, maybe the culprit was that one insidious parasite that made them all happily do stupid things and make fools of themselves for no hope of reward…

Love.

Jon felt sorry for her, even though he couldn't understand what she saw in him. Then again, he probably couldn't think of one good, won't-send-him-to-the-gallows reason for why he loved Robb the way he did, but at least he wasn't Loras Tyrell.

"With me, my lord," said Brienne lifelessly, snapping out of her stupor faster than he left his own. "You don't need to ride ahorse. It's not far, and there's a stable nearby." Without another word she turned about and marched off in huge strides, without so much as checking to see if he was following. At least she wasn't ingratiating. Jon waved over his squire and his companions, bidding them to follow before pulling his horse along by the reins.

Most of the spectators had dispersed upon the completion of the tourney and returned to their duties, which didn't include much besides playing with their swords and harassing the camp followers. They also had plenty of time to hurl insults at Brienne as they passed, though they were more hesitant and less aggressive outside of the palisade. Jon figured that was either due to the rainbow cloak swaying from Brienne's broad shoulders, or Ghost. Though Brienne didn't give them so much as a glance, Ghost was not averse to startling them with a red glare every now and then.

Lady Brienne was a woman of very few words, even in comparison to himself. Jon was fine with that, but there was something troubling about her dark silences. Even complimenting her for her victory got him no more than a hollow "you are kind to say so". In a bizarre realm fermenting inside his head, he found himself comparing her to Sansa.Perhaps because she was so courteous, and she wore armor as naturally as Sansa wore gowns. As strange as that was, it made it easier for him to rationalize Brienne fancying Loras Tyrell. He was sure Sansa would have adored him too, as he was handsome, lithe, fashionable, and a complete shit.

He thought back to Brienne's triumph over Loras Tyrell, how she had whipped out a dirk and pressed it against his throat. Perhaps that had been a display of affection? It brought a hot flush to his cheeks to think that had been Asha's intent when she did the same to him. He would have to talk to a woman long enough to ask them why they were so befuddling one of these days.

Brienne left them by a large tent standing in the shadow of the King's pavilion, which itself was larger than Howland Reed's Moving Castle, twin banners of crowned stag and golden rose dancing like carpets at its head. He could spot more modest-sized tents in the vicinity, each trying to out-lavish the other with its banner; the Tarly huntsman, the grapes of Redwyne, and the fox of Florent, to name a few. He was in impressive company. His tongue already felt heavy and knotted at the thought of speaking to any of them.

At the moment Jon was just grateful to get out of the relentless southron sun. Before he had even ducked through the flap, servants appeared bringing tubs of steaming water to soothe his aches and platters of bread, cheese and fruit, more food than he had even seen in the last few days. He would never get used to this treatment, no matter how often he was subjected to it. But that didn't mean he couldn't take advantage of it.

As he lay back on the complimentary Myrish rug and listened to his men unpack their baggage and settle into their own quarters outside, Jon mentally readied himself for the night ahead. Even though it was futile to think he could secure an alliance in just one day, he still wanted to get it over with as quick as possible so they could go home. That was futile too. There was little chance the war would just sort itself out and Robb would be ready to bring them all home once Jon made it back to Riverrun. There wasn't even a guarantee that Robb would return from the west at all, but he gave that thought no opportunity to take root.

From what little interaction he'd had with King Renly, the man appeared easygoing. Jon could see no reason for him to outright reject the possibility of an alliance, especially when it was entirely to his benefit. No doubt he would wish to keep governance of all Seven Kingdoms, but Robb may not have any trouble relinquishing his crown if it meant Joffrey's head in a bucket. Or at least the old Robb would not. This new King Robb was alien to him, and Jon couldn't begin to guess his mental process. But the Hand did speak with the King's voice, right?

Damn it all. Robb might prove more problematic than Renly, now that he thought on it.

As for Renly himself, everyone said he would prove much easier to deal with than his brother Stannis. But they also said Stannis was brutally honest, and would reject him without preamble. Did that mean Renly was dishonest, and would string him along with jests and promises? How much of that charming smile was just for show?

They will lie to you, Jon Snow. Renly and his courtiers – they will hook you like the fish you are, cut you open and strip out your bones.

Jon ran a hand down his face. He never thought he would miss being a bastard in Winterfell. I shouldn't be here. This isn't me. I'm not made for these intrigues. With a heavy sigh, he looked down at his chest. And speaking of fish…

It was hopeless. Renly had provided food, carpets, and candles deftly carved into exotic creatures, but no clothes. He was tempted to slip into Ghost and go snooping in one of the larger tents, but he doubted any other animal but direwolf would be an improvement over trout. He wrapped the cloak more tightly about his upper half and prayed that that would be enough to save the north from destruction.

Jon exited the tent to find the setting sun, smothered as it was in smoke. Most of his party was missing, out in the less refined section of the camp and enjoying the constant festivities. Jon thought they had earned it for getting him that far. He noticed the Smalljon was gone too. Perhaps he had found the dancing bear.

"Are we ready to attend the feast, Lord Hand?" said his squire, dragging along Jon's horse; freshly fed and lathered.

"I suppose there's no use prolonging it. Let us be off then…lad." He really would have to learn the boy's name one of these days. Though it wouldn't be good sense to ask him directly. He at least knew that much diplomacy.

The feast was held in the great hall of Bitterbridge, which Jon learned belonged to a Lord Caswell. It was modest as far as castles went, but after three months of rain and bare earth, it was practically a palace to Jon. The great hall wasn't near large enough to seat all the fighting nobility of the Reach and Stormlands, but somehow they managed it whilst lining the walls with chairs so the less important guests could eat off their laps. Jon was seated in a place of high honor next to the queen, with Loras Tyrell at the king's right. The Highgarden siblings looked so much alike that they were like twin bookends, holding the king in place. Perhaps in some abstract way that was true.

The feast was so rich in song and debauchery that it was as if it didn't occur every time Renly's host came across a dwelling. Pipers and fire dancers walked along the aisles. Maids dropped their dishes more often than not when they were pulled unto a lord's lap, laughing and serving their treats. All the trestle tables still managed to remain full though, and when a dish was in short supply it was quickly replaced by a fresh batch. Jon wondered if these people had looked outside and saw how much just one of these feasts cost. It annoyed him even further to imagine that Robb was probably gnawing on dried rations somewhere, living off the stores they had stolen from the Lannisters before burning their fields, and then scurrying off before they got caught.

The wine appeared to be endless as well. No one's goblet was ever half full, as if a magic spell kept them permanently supplied. It was a wonder how they even marched at all in the morning.

The smell of grape and cloves twisted Jon's stomach, so much that he swatted away the goblet they had set for him. Just looking felt like a crime. But a fresh chalice had found its way beside his plate while his back was turned, making him jump. Renly's servants were well trained. It was probably easier to just ignore it. As long as none met his lips, he wouldn't have to become a weepy madman.

While he piled his plate with potatoes and pheasant wings, Jon had a distinct feeling he had forgotten something, but then instinct drew his attention to the end of the table and he spotted Ghost gorging on an entire aurochs.

"It took a lot of effort to find that aurochs, Lord Hand," Renly said above the din and over his wife's bosom. "Deer are more numerous in these parts, but I don't care for the symbolism. I'm not a religious man by any means, but I'm particular with appearances—as you may have noticed—and the sight of a direwolf feasting on deer…well, that wouldn't help with morale." He laughed, which predictably triggered a chain of laughter from those around.

"Ghost is grateful for your generosity, Your Grace,' Jon said. "Though we're both a little disappointed you couldn't spare some lion."

Renly roared at that, which also sent everyone else into sobbing fits, grown men clapping Jon in the back and praising him for his wit. He felt a little off-put by their enthusiasm.

Once that had died down and Renly went back to Ser Loras, Jon could finally focus on his food. He tucked into his plate with a little more gusto than he had intended. All shame was forgotten though once the potatoes were shoved in his mouth, and he could almost feel the butter melting on his tongue. Unintentionally the flavors of a mildly cooked aurochs flooded into his spiritual mouth, and he groaned. Neither of them had eaten so well in a very long time. He slowed down once the guilt finally set in. He had just criticized Renly and his sluggish war machine for stripping the land bare while Robb starved, and here he was stuffing his mouth like a glutton. Tomorrow he promised to return to horse jerky and dried fruit again, but tonight he figured he had earned the right to forget himself a bit.

He was too busy ballooning his cheeks with beef stew, spiced squash and roast mutton to notice the Queen looking at him until he reached for a slice of pumpkin pie on her side. "Hello. I don't believe we've really met. I'm Margaery."

If he opened his mouth right then, a partially digested feast would have fallen unto the Queen's lap, which was a one-way trip to exile. He turned away and forced the bolus down his gullet, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. He blinked wetly at the prospective queen of the Seven Kingdoms. "Your Grace. Jon Snow. Hand."

The Queen giggled at his plight. "I am so grateful to have someone genuinely new to talk to. These slow marches through my father's lands have been awfully dull. Not to mention I've always been much more fascinated with the North and all who dwell there. Oh, and please, call me Margaery. We are of an age, you and I. My brother would say different, but we are really just children. Let the adults compare the size of their titles while we babes laugh at their folly."

Once the agony in his throat had subsided, he cast the Queen a genuine smile. "You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that, Your…Margaery."

She giggled again, the mirth reaching her large brown eyes. She had a heart shaped face and shimmering brown hair that bounced along her fair shoulders. Her smile was sweet and pretty. It lacked the deadly bite that Asha's always bore, or the coyness of Ros and Ellys'. It was just…pretty. Free of guile and pretense. He thought he could tell her anything…not that he ever would.

"So you are King Robb's Hand. It must be difficult, taking your father's place in these dark times." She reached for his bad hand, and though he couldn't feel it she knew her grip was firm. "It saddens me that I never knew the man. It's appalling what Joffrey did to him, especially after he confessed."

"My father was not a traitor, Your…Margaery," he said, trying to suppress the coldness from his voice.

"Oh? I always thought so. Robert always spoke fondly of him when we supped together. I don't need him to tell me though that Lord Eddard would have been a far better Hand than that vile Imp."

Jon didn't know how to respond to that. He found himself caught in an odd position where he naturally wanted to assert that his father would have been the greatest Hand who ever lived, but he also wanted to defend his friend, Tyrion. Seeing no compromise that wouldn't reveal he was chummy with a Lannister, he simply changed the subject. "My brother is fighting as hard as he can to avenge him. What do you know of the war, Margaery?"

The Queen retracted her hand and shrugged, which seemed a little too dismissive for his liking. "Absolutely nothing. I barely even know where we're going. My function is simply to look pretty and bear my loving husband plenty of black-haired children. Though truth be told we haven't really gotten started on that front, if you know what I mean." She giggled, her nose tinged a light red. She had been taking an increasing number of sips from her crystal goblet. "In short, I leave those matters to my husband."

And who does he leave them to? Jon made a cursory glance around the room, and realized he had not seen the striding huntsman of Tarly at all since their arrival.

She pinched his thigh, wringing his attention back to her. "I'm afraid I know embarrassingly little about the North. My father would rather have me tour Braavos than go past the Neck. 'There are lizard lions and bog wraiths', he says, "and the North is too big and you could get crushed by a block of ice and we'd never find you'." Margaery made an impatient noise and rolled her eyes. "As if that could ever happen."

Jon chuckled. "Actually, that's a more common mode of death than you would think."

"Really?" Margaery pushed away a half-eaten bowl of raspberry soup and rested her head on her hand, watching Jon with interest. "Tell me about the other modes of death, Jon. Or just about the North. I want to see it in my head."

Jon leaned back against his seat, deciding where to start. "Well, it's pretty much everything you've heard. Its large, cold, more snow than you know what to do with. And in some places you wouldn't find a holdfast in hundreds of leagues. But there's beauty too. I've never been, but they say the Wall will take your breath away. And the glass gardens in Winterfell is the only place I know where the blue roses glow. Sometimes they don't even bloom at all, and no one really knows why. Maester Luwin says they only appear when the summers are long, but he's not really sure. When they do come, they are so tough that you can roll around on them and not break a petal. That's what my sister Arya did when she first saw them, Sansa screaming at her to leave them alone. How she cried about the thorns." Jon snickered at the memory.

At that moment he couldn't even see Margaery anymore, his mind's eye covered by images of Winterfell. "Winterfell…there's no castle like it. Water from the hot springs flow through the walls you see, and sometimes I even thought Winterfell was alive. When my father got angry—some dispute with his bannermen—it felt like the entire castle became hotter, as if Winterfell itself felt his rage, their hearts as one. But I know now that was just some stupid childish fantasy. Robb clogged me in the head when I told him, and then we went back to playing. That day the snows got so thick that we made snowballs in the parapets. Each of us would command one side of the gate, and every time Fat Tom walked under it we would throw snowballs at his bald head. He never guessed where they were coming from. Fat Tom is dead now though, so I guess he'll never know…"

Suddenly Winterfell crumbled around him, and once again he was back in the South. There was moisture in his eye, and he dabbed them away with a finger. How embarrassing.

Margaery was not laughing at him though. "That's a lovely story, Jon," she said, her voice thick. "You will have to take me to see Winterfell someday. My father never has to know."

Jon nodded, unable to say more. He knew that would never happen, but that didn't mean he couldn't be polite.

Margaery snapped her fingers and a maid rushed to her side, a steaming goblet in hand. The Queen offered it to Jon. "Here you go. The best from the Arbor. None of that swill they're making you drink."

"Thank you, but I really shouldn't. The swill is enough for me."

"But I insist."

"Alright…" He had once heard that denying a queen twice was tantamount to stabbing her with a dinner fork. Reluctantly, he took the goblet and tipped it against his closed lips, conscious of her stare. When he was "done" he sat the goblet down where she couldn't reach or see it. "That was good. Such a rich combination of flavors."

"You think so? All we ever drink in Highgarden is Arbor gold or Arbor red, so I haven't really noticed." She took a long pull off her crystal chalice, licking her lips when a red bead ran down her chin. She scooted her chair closer to Jon's, so much that their knees were touching. "I've always wanted to ask another northman this, but as you can imagine they are few and far between this far south. What are your thoughts on the Knight of the Laughing Tree?"

Jon could smell the Arbor on her sweet breath. He could think of no way to forge some distance between them without offending her and getting himself thrown in a dungeon. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree? Who is that?"

Margaery squinted at him. "The Knight of the Laughing Tree. The mystery knight in the Tourney of Harrenhal? Surely you've heard of him."

Jon shook his head. "Sorry, I really haven't."

She crossed her arms and pouted at him, obviously perplexed that he had no clue what she was talking about. "That's odd. I thought every northman knew of that story. It was actually Robert who told it to me, and said it was Lord Eddard who told him, who was told in turn by some crannogman in the Neck. Who did he say it was? Lord Howler? Or was it Lord Howling? Lord Towel...?"

"Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch?" Jon guessed, leaning in with sudden interest.

"No, I don't think so. But never mind that! So, the Knight of the Laughing Tree. I know something about the North that you don't! How exciting!" She clapped her soft little hands to show it, brown eyes aglow. "So, let's begin with the Tourney of Harrenhal. Surely you know of that, at least? It was only the greatest tourney ever held in the Seven Kingdoms. Oh to have been born twenty years ago… Anyways, the entire realm had come to attend. They say the number of guests was so great that every single room in Harrenhal was occupied, and the steward even died from the strain of assigning them all. Some say his spirit still wanders the halls to this day, searching for rooms still vacant. Frightening! But anyway, the only one who was not there was King Aerys himself, due to some quarrel with his Hand. But that doesn't matter. What matters was that Prince Rhaegar was there, as well as his wife, Princess Elia of Dorne, and Lady Lyanna Stark, the woman he would then crown the Queen of Love and Beauty. The scandal that must have been! Surely you know of her? I take it you're both related."

Jon nodded his head vigorously. His attention had piqued to dizzying levels at the mention of Rhaegar and Lyanna, and he had a feeling that what she was about to say was extremely important. He was probably going to be tried for treason for invading the Queen's space.

Thankfully she didn't seem to mind. "But forget that, I'm trying to tell you about the Knight of the Laughing Tree. So there was this crannogman. He was very small, wore no emblem and came to Harrenhal on a boat—all these things made him a very enticing target to three no good squires. They stole his adorable little frog spear, threw him to the ground and mocked him whilst kicking him in the stomach. Boys can be such pigs. Then out of a veil of pure white light came Lyanna Stark! It was at this point in the story where Robert regaled us at length as to the extent of her beauty, but I won't bore you with those details, especially since she's your aunt. Suffice to say she shooed them away with a tourney sword and tended to the poor little crannogman's wounds. There was still a problem though: the little bog man was still missing his spear and Lady Lyanna was very cross about that, but that will be addressed later. I want to tell you something Robert never told me, though I'm sure he knew it well, poor man. A servant in my father's service was there at the tourney, and she saw all. Well, almost all. You must promise not to breathe a word of what I'm about to tell you to anyone!"

Jon thought his head was going to fall off from the nodding.

Margaery grinned conspiratorially, her eyes darting from side to side, though it was clearly just for fun. But she did make an effort to lower her voice while still being heard over the noise. "One night, Prince Rhaegar played a song so beautiful that Lady Lyanna wept. If my father's maid is to be believed, everyone and the stable boys were bawling, including herself, by the time the Prince set down his harp. But none were moved quite as profoundly as Lady Lyanna. It took her ladies half an hour to calm her down. She even earned the stares of Princess Elia, and they were less than friendly. It must not have helped much when her husband crowned Lyanna, so…"

As Jon listened to her gossip, questions he hadn't asked about in a long time surfaced once again. A song? It made her weep? Could it be…that song? He patted at his chest, but of course the burnt letter wasn't there. He hadn't been carrying it around since his first and last battle in the Whispering Wood, and was probably sitting cold and forgotten in his luggage along with the crushed up blue rose. Rhaegar's words came back to him in broken pieces, but he still remembered the essence of what they meant. The song made her weep…it can't be a coincidence.

Margaery was still going on with her tale, not noticing that Jon's attention had skipped. "…I can't begin to imagine how you must feel about Prince Rhaegar. Stealing Lady Lyanna and then starting a war. But, in spite of all that, don't you think how tragically romantic it all is? That he was so desperately in love that he stole a woman he knew was betrothed to another, while he was wed himself? It's so sad." She clasped her hands to her breast and blinked up at the ceiling, eyes dreamy and moist, as if trying to imagine that she herself was being kidnapped and killed whilst a mad prince warred with her family. "Doesn't that just make your heart ache, Jon?"

"Yeah…" Strangely enough, he didn't know what he felt about it. There was no question that Rhaegar's actions had been monstrous and selfish, and the damage he'd done to the Starks was irreparable. But why couldn't Jon hate him? Blame him? The Starks were his family, right? So why did he only feel…sorrow?

Maybe it was because if Rhaegar had not done what he did, his father would not have come south and hence—he would never have been born?

But all those lives…Lady Lyanna's…that's not a fair trade at all!

"Oh, I did it again. I keep diverting the story. Blame a woman's heart…Jon? You look sad again. I'm so sorry." Without warning the Queen took his dead hand again, the squeeze ghostly and insignificant. Her eyes were wide and contrite. "I shouldn't have said anything about your family."

Jon parsed through her words in confusion. "What? Oh, no. It's not your fault, Your…Margaery. My mind went to places it…shouldn't have, all on its own. Please, continue with your story."

Her pretty little lips widened, and inexplicably he felt calmed. "Alright. Don't fret anymore, for this tale has a happy ending. Remember those three squires I mentioned? Well, their knights entered the lists. They were of House Haigh, Blount, and Frey, if I recall. They were doing quite well too. At least, until the mystery knight appeared. That's right, it was the Knight of the Laughing Tree!" Margaery exclaimed with flourish, and Jon smiled at her display. "No one quite knew what to make of him. He was short—just like the crannogman—and his armor was comprised of odd bits and pieces that were ill fit on his small frame. A helm too big for his head hid his face. But his most striking feature was the image of a weirwood with a laughing face painted on his shield, and that was how he got his name. Against the castle's scoffs, he challenged each of the three knights, and won each round. All he asked in return for his victories was for the knights to discipline the squires who wronged the little crannogman and for the return of his spear. Can you now guess who the Knight of the Laughing Tree was?"

Seconds went by in bated breath, before Jon realized the question wasn't rhetorical. Sweat was trickling down his neck, which was probably due to the fire dancer walking around the dais, twirling his flaming batons in dazzling formations that impressed no one. He had probably been performing the same routines since Highgarden. Jon looked away from him and said, throat dry, "the crannogman?"

Margaery smiled, but did not confirm his answer. "That seems to be the common opinion. But you know what? Robert thought—and I agree with him—that it was actually Lady Lya-"

"What are you two whispering about?"

They both jumped, and for good reason. The king had just shoved his head into their little space, looking between the both of them suspiciously.

While Jon's heart was still racing, his mind rifling for an excuse to explain their proximity, the Queen had long since recovered, flicking her hair behind her shoulder airily. "Just ancient history. And we were having such a good chat about it too, until you joined us. Are you jealous, my love?"

Jon blanched. Is she trying to get my head lopped off?

Surprisingly the king didn't appear the least bit concerned that his wife had been in snogging distance with another man, which was probably attributed to the fact that he was bleeding drunk. His face was beet red, dark blue eyes dilated and out of focus. His hair had gotten impossibly tousled and his crown was skewed and practically hanging by an ear. The top two buttons of his tunic were undone, which was likely a response to the sudden heat.

Renly gave his queen a calm smile to match her own. "Not at all, star of my sky. Loras just wagered that Ser Willem couldn't fit his head in a turkey's arse, and he did, so now we're trying to think of something else for Loras to fit his head into, with the stipulation that it not damage his hair." The king blinked, his expression far-off, as if trying to remember what the conversation was about. "I was just checking if you and our guest were enjoying yourselves." He blearily faced Jon, nearly collapsing unto his wife's lap in the process. "Are you enjoying yourself, Ser Hand?"

"Uh, yes. Of course, Your Grace. Her Grace has been excellent company."

The king bobbed his head—crown hanging on for dear life—already losing interest. "Very good, very good. Carry on then!" And with that he turned back to his companions, just in time for the arrival of four of the kingsguard heaving a massive roast boar between them. Ser Loras loudly sputtered that he had changed his mind. Renly declared that either he keep his vow or lose his cloak, to a round of drunken laughter.

Jon found himself snickering at their folly. The queen on the other hand did not find them so amusing. Her gaze was impassive, almost heated as her eyes bore into the king's back. Jon looked away, as he was probably seeing something he shouldn't have. Before he could excuse himself to escape to the privy, the queen's fingers pinched his shoulders a little harder than necessary. "So, what were we talking about?" she said, her expression wild and a somewhat frightful.

"Um…you were about to reveal who the Knight of the Laughing Tree wa-"

"Oh yes, of course. What are you doing here?"

The random question threw Jon off guard. "Your...Your Grace?"

"Why are you here? Surely you didn't come all the way here just to sample our cooking," she demanded, her manner bordering on confrontational.

When did this become an inquisition? Jon thought. How much could he say to her? He only planned to deal with the king, not with his wife. But he feared that if he didn't tell her what she wanted to hear, she would exercise her royal right to claw his face off. "I'm…my brother wishes to ally with King Renly…"

Margaery glared at him with a severity that was inexplicable. "I see. You're here for an alliance. Of course you are," she said coldly. And then just like that, the smile materialized back unto her face, and she was the bubbly little queen he had first met, brown locks bouncing on her dainty shoulders. "Why didn't you say so? I'll be glad to help you!"

This transformation was as puzzling as the previous one, so his response was, "what?"

"I said I will help you! Who knows the king better than I? I'll make it so he wouldn't think to reject you." She clasped both of his hands in hers and bounced him along, her exuberance disturbing. Jon was too flabbergasted to form a reply, let alone an enthusiastic one.

"Alright, first things first," she plowed on, without giving either of them an opportunity to breath. "You're so tightly wound. You have to open yourself up, Jon! Well, not completely, for that will be obscene, but enough to let some air in." Her fingers dove unto his chest, giving him no chance to protest.

This was the second time a woman had assaulted and lain hands on him. Did he exude a scent that made women treat him this way? However, he did recall Theon doing something like this as well…

She tugged open his cloak and paused when she caught sight of the Tully patterns, but she just shook her head and resumed her actions without comment. She must have felt him stiffen when she began fiddling with the buttons of his tunic, for she chastised, "Don't soil yourself. It's just the top two buttons. My husband is very perceptive to how people present themselves. Bundle yourself up and he'll think you have something to hide. How will he share his plans with you then?"

Vaguely, Jon could understood her logic, but… "Does it really matter to him so much what we wear?"

The queen paused from her worked and stared him down like he was a slow child. "Has my husband, at some point today, made a snide remark in regards to your clothing immediately upon meeting you?"

Jon wanted to argue that he did not, that no king could ever be so petty, but he knew better. "Point taken."

She smiled at his wisdom and backed away after successfully exposing his collarbone. She looked him up and down with scrutiny, tapping her lips with a finger. "It will have to do"

By 'it' do you mean me? "So, am I now presentable enough to discuss politics with the king, Your Grace?" he said sarcastically, his chest puffed out with fist against his waist, giving the situation the gravity it deserved.

"Not quite," muttered the queen. "You first have to offer him the second thing he values most after fashion…flattery!"

"Flattery," Jon said flatly.

"Of course! He loves to be buttered up. Especially when you talk about his hair. Oh it's quite fortunate that you have brown hair. He never could resist the color. It's one of the reasons he chose me to be his queen, don't you know? When we kiss, he likes to wind my hair around his finger while his other hand sneaks down my back and... Oh but you don't need to hear that. Sometimes I think it's revolting that we show our love whilst there are eyes upon us, but I can never say no…"

Jon was nodding along sedately, but inside his head he was screaming himself hoarse. Was this really the way to win favor with a king? Compliment his hair? He had expected to discuss policies, governance, mutual benefits, concepts he hardly understood himself but was willing to take a stab at. More and more he was starting to wonder how much help Renly was really going to be to them. Was he going to flatter Joffrey to his death? If he was truly serious about this war, shouldn't his one hundred thousand already be outside the gates of King's Landing by then?

The queen of course was ignorant to his mounting doubts. "Alright, what else…oh yes! You should praise his leadership."

That caught Jon's attention. Finally! Something that makes sense. "How would I go about doing that?" He really needed to know, as he hadn't seen anything from Renly as yet that resembled leadership.

"Oh no not his leadership," Margaery said, as if it was obvious. "No, no, he's very modest about his capabilities, as far as ruling goes. He hates it when people make him out into something he's not. You have to talk about your capabilities."

"My capabilities?" Jon echoed, confused. "Which are?"

"Which are? Are you saying you're entering into this alliance empty-handed?" Margaery splayed out her hands and shook her head sadly, as if disappointed in him. "What are you going to offer us, Jon?"

Jon pretended that her reaction did not squeeze his heart into a pitiful, quivering mass. "Oh, um, well, our armies, for one, and the eternal friendship of the enti-"

She stopped him again. "No, what are you going to offer us?"

"Me? Just me, singular?"

She nodded.

The conversation was sliding back into incoherence again, but Margaery did know the king best. Jon considered his answer. "Well, as I'm sure His Grace is aware, I am quite new at this, so the only thing I can say that I personally can offer is-"

The Queen cut him off once again, something that was beginning to annoy Jon severely. "I'll tell you what you have to offer. Tell him that you like to be on top of things," she said, hovering her hand over the other hand, an apt visual representation. "Tell him you like to take control. The King prefers not to make the decisions himself. It makes him feel secure when another takes the reins and directs him where to go. Tell him that."

Jon was shocked. "Truly? That's not a very good attitude for a king-"

"Secondly," the Queen interrupted excitedly. "You have to offer him more than you're willing to receive. Give him land, give him armies, give him everything, and don't ever make him think that you're only interested in his title and assume he has all. Consider that he has needs as well, and he'll never say no."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I can't promise any of that! I have to consult with my brother fir-"

"Lastly, say that you prefer to enter these things slowly. Renly Baratheon doesn't like to be rushed. The longer you prolong, the better, and make sure that he knows that you will wait as long as it takes for him to make good on his end. Patience and delayed gratification will make him see that he has a good friend in you."

Jon was gaping by that point, too horrified and bewildered to speak—not that Margaery would have let him get a word in if he could.

The Queen snuck a look at her husband, then stood, giving Jon an encouraging grin. "My brother is about to stick his head up a pig's arse. Now's your chance." She reached for his dead hand again and gave a useless squeeze. "Good luck, Jon. I look forward to having our Houses bound. Perhaps not by marriage, but by a bond that will not be easily severed. Please consider taking me along when you go up North. Now if you'll excuse me, I must retire to my chambers." She called into the back wall and one of the Rainbow Guard came to escort her away to her room.

Jon watched them disappear up the stairs, and all Jon could think was, what in the hells? That had been one of the strangest encounters he had ever experienced. Were highborn girls always so touched? He couldn't recall even Sansa being so incomprehensible. And why was she so certain she was never going to see him again? He had only just arrived.

He sighed, looking down at his plate, the food barely half-eaten. For some reason he didn't feel hungry anymore. More and more he just wanted to go home.

Looking to his left, Jon could see Renly drinking from his gold chalice in between bouts of laughter. Ser Loras was beside the table, bent over and steeling himself to shove his head into a boar's hindquarters. His brothers in the kingsguard and a number of young lordlings (and a few ladies) stood all around, cheering him on.

Jon slid into Margaery's vacated seat. He may as well take her advice, and there would probably be no better time than then. "Excuse me, Your Grace?" he called, not too close and not too far from his royal neck.

The King spun around like he had been struck by lightning, but his expression calmed when their eyes met. "Oh, hello there." Renly narrowed his eyes. "You're not my wife."

Drunk. So bloody drunk. Perfect time to negotiate an alliance. "Um, yes—I mean, no, I'm not. Queen Margaery left to her quarters some time ago."

Renly followed his words like Jon was telling a sad story. "Yes, I figured she would. Never could stand these functions for long. Oh well, there's nothing for it." He rubbed at his eyes and for a moment Jon was afraid that he was dabbing away tears, but then he removed his hands and regarded Jon like he was just seeing him. "So, how can I help you?"

Jon subconsciously picked at the thread of his breeches, more nervous than he had ever been in his life. The fate of Winterfell rode on this discussion. "Actually, I was hoping we could negotiate an alliance between our kingdoms, to create an even stronger force that will surely topple the Iron Throne." His heart was frantic. Had he laid it on a little too thick? It may have been dramatic, but it was no less true.

He had no idea what Renly thought of it, for it didn't appear he had even heard. He was already making to turn away. "I have some important business to attend to. Loras and the boar…someone has to judge the victor…"

Jon had to stop him. He wanted to scream at him that Joffrey would wipe them all out if they didn't band together. That Tywin Lannister would crush Robb if they didn't come to help. That Casterly Rock would put Winterfell to the torch. Renly had to listen!

He had many things to say, but all that came out was "I like your hair!"

That stopped him. Renly gave him a hard look that betrayed no emotion. "What did you say?"

"I said…" Jon cursed every god in existence for making him resort to this. So he bit out, every word a torture, "I. Like. Your. Hair."

The King stared at him, not blinking, and Jon was afraid he had broken him and he had just made a monstrous fool of himself, but eventually a dreamy smile crept up his cheeks that was equal parts encouraging and alarming. It's the drink doing that. It has to be, Jon told himself. But it was welcome, as long as it meant Renly was interested. "You do, do you?" the King purred. Actually purred. "What do you like about it?"

Something was wrong here. Jon could feel it in his bones. But he had no choice but to trudge and use it to his advantage. "Uh, its…" He actually looked at Renly's hair, immediately feeling like a pervert. "It's…very black. And straight. My own hair is curly though…and brown…" Jon punched his own thigh, a sign that his body was rebelling against the words that were leaving his mouth.

"I know. I've noticed." Renly fingered a lock over Jon's ear, making him shiver. "It's very familiar. Just like…"

"Lady Margaery's?" he supplied, his body stock still while Renly twirled his hair.

"I suppose so," he muttered dazedly, taking back his smooth, decidedly feminine hand so Jon could breathe again.

This was getting him nowhere. He slammed his fist against the table, causing the sliver to clatter and a pheasant leg to roll off his plate. He wasn't sure why he did that now. Probably to catch that infuriating man's attention, or probably just to vent some frustration. It seemed to have worked for the former, as the King was blinking at him, startled. "Look, Your Grace. Yes, you have fine hair, but what I'm really interested in is your authority. I mean…" Jon took a deep, long breath, bracing himself for the nonsense that was about to come spewing out. "King Robb and I, if you join yourself with us, we promise to get right on top of things."

Renly blinked even harder. "Wait, your brother, the Young Wolf? He's not here is he?"

"No, of course not. But I think I speak true when I say that he's very determined, driven, and while stupidly stubborn most of the time, that only means he won't be reluctant to exert his authority in order to get what he wants…" No matter what anyone thinks… "If you join yourself to him, he'll be so on top of things you'll never have to think. As will I, if you prefer." He wasn't sure if he was painting Robb, or himself, in a good light, but Margaery had said that was what Renly wanted to hear. Also, the King had not called his guards to take away the madman, so perhaps he was on the right track. "And if you agree to this, King Robb and I will not hesitate to…pull the reins."

"Reins…" the King murmured, eyes heavy lidded.

"And we promise, anything you desire, we are at your mercy. We have much to offer you, and we require nothing in return right away aside from your presence." He involuntarily cringed after saying that. He would have to have a long talk with Robb if Renly ever took that part to heart.

Renly appeared catatonic, though his chest was clearly moving—and rather quickly. Jon decided that was a cue to keep going.

"And…" He tried to remember what else Margaery had told him to say. "Oh, right. There is no pressure, Your Grace. We are willing to hold out for as long as you deem necessary. Your pleasure is our highest concern, and we of the North are nothing if not patient and selfless." That wasn't entirely true, but his lips were planting so firmly against Renly's arse it didn't really matter what he said anymore. Asha told me to watch out for their lies, and yet I'm the one spewing horseshit. I'm a Hand at long last. "Well, Your Grace, what say you?"

Renly coughed into a fist. "Are you certain your brother is not present?"

For the good of the realm Jon held back his temper. "No, Your Grace."

Renly sighed, as if it was such an unfortunate loss. "I see. He'll have his chance when's he's available. But you make a very impassioned proposal, Lord Hand. You and your brother must want this…alliance…very badly," he whispered, sneaking his hand into Jon's left. He could feel the pressure. "How can I ever say no?"

Jon was much too distracted to realize or care that Renly was tracing his fingers against his palm. I did it? He said yes? After I said all that crock? He said yes? He could barely comprehend it.

"Why don't we discuss the finer details in my pavilion?"

Renly could have invited him to dance naked into a vat of lizard lions and Jon wouldn't have had the presence of mind to deny him. "Anything, Your Grace!"

That made the King smile obscenely for some reason, but Jon was given no opportunity to contemplate it as Renly rose from his seat unsteadily. He gave a passing glance to his knights' shenanigans—Loras had finally gotten his head inside the boar and was attempting to stand—before looking to the other end of the table. "Lady Brienne!"

Dutiful to a fault, the azure knight came at once. Renly nodded to Jon and excused himself from the table. Jon followed him out, but not before directing a fond glance at Ghost, who was napping beside the bones of an aurochs.

The cool night air was like a balm against Jon's skin. The fire dancer had made an already hot, cramped space into a furnace. But at least he had kept the food warm, from what little Jon had tasted of it.

They took the same path that led back to Jon's tent, which he remembered was only a hundred yards away from the Royal Pavilion. He thought it was passing strange that Renly made quarters in a tent while Queen Margaery slept inside the castle. It was probably just because girls are averse to lying on hard earth.

They made the trek in silence, while stopping every now and then so the King could acknowledge each person that bowed to him, trading words and laughs. Say what he wanted of Renly, but there was no doubt the people loved him. It didn't matter if they were his bannermen or had ridden in from Oldtown, every man that had joined his cause worshiped him and would fight to make him their king. Jon couldn't imagine him winning over all the families in the Riverlands who'd lost their homes and fields to the war, but if he could manage it perhaps he was meant to be king.

As garrulous as he was—even to the washerwomen—he gave Jon little attention during their walk. Perhaps he was saving all he wanted to say for their discussion at the tent. Jon did notice him giving him quick glances, but they were over so soon he wondered if he had imagined them. Renly had a somewhat nauseous expression on his face. Maybe he was still drunk.

Lady Brienne was as talkative as always of course, walking at a respectable distance behind the two men, the metallic clank of her armor the only sound she made.

Jon heard the laughter and a loud roar before he spied the source. On the side of the path were a number of his northmen and some of the rivermen, all pointing and laughing at a display that was very hard to miss. The happiest bear Jon had ever seen was lumbering on two legs while singing what sounded a growled version of "Bear and the Maiden Fair". A man with a colorful beard—probably Tyroshi—that could have only been his trainer looked on with amusement. Once the group caught sight of Jon and the King they fell to their knees while exclaiming "Your Grace" and "Lord Hand"…except for one person.

"Jon!" they both shouted in unison.

The Smalljon was perched on the bear's shoulders, looking for all to see like the bear's oversized cub. After the shout he lost his balance and rolled to the ground, his landing greeted by a round of laughter. The Smalljon got to his feet and threw Jon a worried gaze as they passed by. Jon should have ignored him, for he looked just long enough to see him mouth the words "the pox".

Jon, disgusted, mouthed "shut up" and paid him no more mind. The roars of the bear followed them to the Royal District.

"You walk in very amusing company, Jon," Renly said suddenly. The words were not unkind.

"Don't mind the big one, though. He has the pox."

The King looked at him like he was joking—or perhaps crazy—but to his credit he did not ask.

The Royal Tent was as massive as Jon remembered; big enough for five dancing bears and an entire circus troupe. Jon could see the silhouette of two giant banners fluttering fifty feet above. Lady Brienne held the flap open for them as they slipped inside. "You may remain without my lady," the king said to his knight. "At no "

The interior of Renly's tent was exactly how Jon had imagined it. Elaborate Volantene carpets covered the floor in mosaics depicting tigers and elephants in fierce battles. Candelabras hung from poles crisscrossing the ceiling, bathing the room in an orange glow and setting the various colored glass ornaments lining the shelves into dances of color. In contrast to the rich atmosphere, a conference table lay at the center of the pavilion with the map of Westeros stretched out on its surface. To the side stood King Renly's battle armor, which could easily have been half his weight. Now that Jon had seen it with his own eyes, it seemed Renly was planning to go into war after all.

To the side, half concealed by pink silk curtains lay an emperor-sized bed.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," Renly offered without looking at Jon, unclasping his cloak and throwing it unto the bed.

Jon didn't know where to start. Almost everything seemed comfortable. He settled on a plush couch that was shaped into the form of a swan. He ran his fingers across one of the wings, which served as part of the backrest. It was a thoughtless action, but it served to occupy his body while his mind busied itself with the terms of the alliance. In all his ingratiating, he had tipped the North squarely in the light end of the scale. That didn't mean he couldn't inch some things in their favor now that the king had, for all intents and purposes, agreed. But first, more harmless flattery was in order. "Your Grace, if you don't mind me asking, where did you f—"

A hand pushed him back into the cushions, and one of his first instincts was to level a badly coordinated punch. His arm stopped dead though when he saw it was the King on top of him, eyes wild and chest heaving. "When I said 'make yourself comfortable', I meant with your clothes off," he purred, tracing a finger along the fish pattern on his breast. "Show me what a northman really looks like without all that fur."

An extremely small, irrational part of Jon's mind screamed, do you dislike my clothes that much? The rest of his mind though, the parts that were aware of what was happening, which he didn't want to give any attention to, but threatened to overwhelm him anyway, merely thought, what what what WHAT?

"Why do you look so surprised?" the King breathed against Jon's neck, making him shiver. Or was that convulse. "I know you said that you'd prefer to be 'on top of things', but I just couldn't wait, and it seemed you needed help getting started." Renly ran a hand up and down his thigh, and it was a testament to how stunned Jon was that his immediate reaction wasn't to kick that hand away and stomp on it. "Worry not. I prefer to have my 'reins' pulled myself. Most men never get to ride a king…" Renly's lips descended upon Jon's, and all he wanted to do was explode and take Renly with him.

"I KNEW IT!"

Jon's face got a slap of hair with the force of Renly's head turning at the new visitor. Jon blinked rapidly before he could see who had joined them, and it was none other than Loras Tyrell, First of the Rainbow Guard. His expression was crazed, air flowing hot and angry out of his nostrils, his appearance made even more frightening by the brown mess that covered his face and hair. Clearly he had finally gotten his head out of that boar.

Jon expected Ser Loras to do several things. He expected him to wrench Renly away from his perverse hands and behead him right there for daring to lock lips with a married monarch. Or, turn right around and let his king get on with his business. Or, slit his own throat, and perhaps die with the dignity of never having to see that scene again. What he did not expect him to do was…

"HOW MANY HAVE YOU DONE THIS WITH?! TRAITOR!" Ser Loras shouted, his tone furious but his face heartbroken, all his fury directed at…Renly. In what Hell had Jon found himself in this time?

Metal footsteps ran into the tent. "Forgive me, Your Grace. He just ru-" Lady Brienne froze as solid as a sapphire statue when she caught sight of Jon and Renly, entangled. Jon didn't think eyes could get that big.

Renly rolled off Jon at last and stood up looking twenty years older. For someone who had just been ready to take Jon's manhood, he seemed extremely tired right then. "Loras, you don't under-"

"Don't you dare give me that! I'm not a child who wouldn't understand what I saw! You made sure of that yourself! And on that couch!"

That was when Loras fully noticed Jon, leveling him with a glare that should have melted the skin off his bones. Unfortunately, it only made him leap off the couch, skin crawling.

Loras rounded back to Renly, his eyes watering. "Dammit. You promised me I was more than that. And after we did it on my cloak…" His quivering hands took hold of his rainbow cloak, holding it like a lover. "You said that was binding…as good as being wed…"

Jon's head was spinning. He thought he was going to retch. How had he not seen any of this?

Renly looked crushed. "Loras, please, you really don't get it-"

"STOP LYING!" Loras pulled out his sword.

That was when Lady Brienne snapped out of her horrified daze. "NO!" She grabbed at Loras from behind trying to pin his arms, but he broke free and smashed her in the face with the hilt. He turned his rage fully on her, raising his sword in the air and preparing for a slash.

The King moved to stop him, but Jon was too fast for him. He caught Loras' wrist with his left hand in a powerful grip. "A knight never harms a lady," he hissed, gritting his teeth.

"Let go!" Loras screamed desperately. "This cow needs to learn respect!"

"I crippled the Kingslayer with this hand," Jon whispered so only Loras could hear, close enough to smell the boar stuffing. "Do you really want to lose yours trying to hurt a girl?" He gave his wrist a good squeeze, feeling bone slide against bone.

Ser Loras dropped his sword and made a sound that was a good impression of Arya, jumping away from Jon and cradling his wrist against his chest.

"Are you alright, my lady?" Jon said to Brienne. A drop of blood slid from her likely broken nose, glistening in the candlelight. Her face revealed an agony that was disproportional to her injury. That made Jon's own blood boil with renewed anger. He hurled a glare at Ser Loras, who flinched from him in fright. "Is this how you treat a lady who fancies you?" he shouted.

Complete silence. Everyone gave Jon strange looks, as if he had gone mad. The most severe came from Lady Brienne, whose face had reddened from pink to flaming scarlet. "I thank you for your assistance, my lord," she said, voice quaking. "But I would appreciate it if you did not spread hideous lies about me." As if it was involuntary, her gaze swung slowly to King Renly, her eyes reenacting the look Jon had spied earlier that day.

Oh, he thought, feeling like an utter fool. Have I been wrong about everything?!

Loras saw where her eyes were directed, and used that distraction to mouth off—after inching as far away from Jon as he could. "Yes, she fancies him. Always has. It's the only reason she even cared about joining the kingsguard. I bet he's already fucked her too as a second prize."

Renly let out a long-suffering sigh at the accusation, gazing at Loras like it was painful. "Brienne has never lowered her dignity to one such as I. So let go of your petty hatreds and leave her be. I'm the villain here." The king turned his look at Jon, but his words were still directed at Loras…his lover. "Please, leave me. I have things to clarify with the Hand."

Ser Loras bristled. "That's it? After what you did, you're dismissing me?"

"I will explain all to you soon. Just trust me."

"Trust? You had my trust!" Ser Loras wrenched the rainbow cloak from around his neck and threw it on the ground. "That's where my trust is now. You can have it back."

The knife twisted in Renly's gut, and it showed plainly on his face. "Fine. Don't trust me. But I will come to you, whether you want me to or not. And…I do love you."

Loras scowled and spat on the cloak, grinding it under his heel before turning around and shoving past Lady Brienne to duck out of the tent. One of the candles blew out when he left.

No one was capable of saying anything for a while, content to just stare at the floor and hope it would consume. King Renly was the first to realize that would never happen, so he drew a blank stare at Brienne and said, "Lady Brienne? Please?"

Brienne returned the look. "At once, Your Grace," she said curtly and bowed out of the pavilion as well. There was no indication that she was still outside.

Renly fell back into the swan couch, burying his face in his hands and looking like he had aged another few years. He unveiled his face and laughed, dark and bereft of humor. "I suppose I'll never know if the North is really 'patient and selfless'."

That was it. Jon looked down at the pitiful man who called himself king with all the loathing, confusion and rage he could summon. Unfortunately, that brew did not translate well into language. "Why did…how did…why did you…what is…"

Renly sighed and leaned back against the backrest, his head right under the carved swan's neck. He looked up at Jon patiently. "There's much to talk about tonight. I'll start with what I'm sure is causing you the most distress right now. You were just the latest pawn in my wife's game."

Jon 's legs grew weak. It was just as he feared, but there hadn't been any time to really let the suspicion bloom. He sank down to the floor, his bottom landing on one of the many cushions strewn around the pavilion. He needed to ask, "Why?"

The King shook his head, gazing at Jon with sympathy. "She has nothing personally against you. This is just her revenge, for all the wrongs I've done to her. You are the fourth man she's tried to send into my bed. She prepares them with some speech to supposedly catch my attention, then has them drink from a chalice she's had poisoned with some mind dampening concoction."

The chalice! And she tried to make me drink that right after I told her about Winterfell! Margaery Tyrell had played him like a lute, but fortunately his motivation to resist his own weakness had saved him from an even more shameful fate. Another debt to lay at Asha Greyjoy's door.

"I still don't know where she gets it," Renly went on. "My beautiful wife is a master at acquiring things she shouldn't. I would think she stocks up on tansy if she wasn't so desperate for my seed…"

Jon couldn't believe what he was hearing. He hated Renly. He hated Margaery. He hated the South and he hated being Hand. But most of all he hated himself for thinking any of this was shocking. "I came here to negotiate an alliance…" Jon mumbled blankly. "I came here to help my brother's country. And you just made me into a fool, dancing to your tune as you laugh."

Renly sounded guilty, but Jon couldn't bear to see if he actually was. "Jon, nothing was ever going to happen to you-"

"You just said she sent three others to your bed! You let this happen so you could play this twisted game!"

"No, that's not-"

"I'm leaving," he announced, tripping over his own feet in his rush to put on his cloak, which he couldn't remember removing. This was a mistake. All of this was a mistake. I'm not made for this. This was how his father had lost his life, trying to do his duty in a cage full of snakes. None of them were interested in mending Westeros, only in furthering their own selfish ambition while backstabbing each other. And Jon had been caught right in the middle of their petty squabble. No more.

"Jon, please sit and listen."

Renly tried to take his forearm, but Jon pushed him away. His arms were shaking, and he couldn't put the damn cloak on. He threw it over his shoulder and stomped to the entrance.

"As King of the Seven Kingdoms I command you to sit down!"

The order froze him in his tracks, a mere foot away from the cold wind outside. Suddenly, Jon remembered where he was. He was in the center of an army of one hundred thousand men. Renly could shout in any direction and have him arrested, and there would be nothing anyone could do about it. And even if he was allowed to leave, what would his men think about fleeing in the dead of night, just after arriving at their destination? The North would mock him for a craven as well as a bastard. And what would Robb think? Would he sympathize with him for being played by a young girl? Would he care that Renly…touched him?

No, he certainly wouldn't care about that.

Jon took a deep, shaky breath.

Already Renly was apologizing. "I'm sorry for that. My brother Robert always had that ready when he didn't get his way… I have no right giving you orders after our hospitality turned out so poor. You have my blessing to leave if you so-"

Jon spun around and marched past the King—who had stood up and moved after him at some point—and dropped unto a cushion, arms crossed and eyes leveled at Renly. "Explain yourself."

Renly blinked at the change of events and nodded, returning to the swan couch with hands clasped. Even though his eyes were bloodshot and lined with exhaustion, his skin pale and wrinkled, and it looked like his hair had not been held down in over a day, he was still the most handsome man Jon had ever seen. And yet the memory of his touch only brought him only revulsion. "Well, the reason nothing was ever going to happen to you was because…" he began, looking away in embarrassment. "…because it never happened. I never touched any of the men my wife sent me. Though it always got close."

Jon felt himself softening at the answer, but he couldn't bring himself to forgive this man just yet. "Why?"

He let out a breath, clearly hoping he didn't have to explain that far. "Because up to a time it came all too clear that they weren't Loras."

Jon opened his mouth before closing it again, not knowing what to say. Obvious pain racked the King's youthful visage as he said Loras' name, making it impossible to deny his sincerity. It was really as simple as that. He's not the one I love.

Renly continued. "I knew it was Margaery's doing as soon as the first one landed haplessly on my bed and told the truth in a drug fumed haze. I never confronted her. I just let her do what she pleased if it makes her feel she has power."

Power? he thought, baffled. How can a queen need more power?

"You must be asking 'how can a queen need more power?'." The King correctly read his puzzlement, smiling sadly. "Think about it, Jon Snow. I, her husband and soon-to-be King of the Seven Kingdoms, is in love with her brother. The fact that she is not yet with child is no accident. In my naivety, I had thought she was happy to wait, that she had accepted that I did not love her. Or perhaps I only fooled myself into thinking those things. The truth was the sight of Loras and I together…I can't even fathom her pain."

"When we kiss, he likes to wind my hair around his finger while his other hand sneaks down my back" she had said…of Renly and Loras. Jon couldn't help feel a slight twinge of sympathy for Margaery. When he and Robb were betrothed, he didn't spare one thought for the prospective Lady of Winterfell, immediately feeling sorry for himself. Perhaps it was yet another blessing that he had been sent away.

Renly released a deep sigh and clasped his hands about his knees, his expression somewhat lighter than before. Perhaps he was just waiting to talk all along. "I am really sorry this happened to you, Jon," he said with a crooked smile. "If you had only been a woman, none of this would have ever happened and perhaps we would be on our way to becoming one kingdom now. Not to say this is your fault. I just never expected she would cast her eye on you." Renly cast his eye on him, as if looking for whatever it was she had seen. He shifted in his seat. His gaze still made him uncomfortable. "She only ever used her spell on minor nobles. I just did not expect…" He shook his head ruefully. "Or maybe I did. There's probably a part of me that wished to be caught, so these games can end. She always planned for Loras to find me like that. And now that he has…" Renly closed his eyes, letting out a long breath.

Jon didn't know how to comfort him, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to. So he remained where he was while Renly dealt with his loss. He had already been there before after all.

After a while Renly opened his eyes again and regarded Jon with contrition. "I really hope you don't think too badly of us."

Jon spared him a small smile, just a little. "It can't get worse."

Renly chuckled, and it was as if some of the years chipped away. He even hazarded to look playful. "You know, I've been wondering. You are taking the truth about my relationship with Loras surprisingly well. Is it because you're…?"

There was no way to misconstrue his meaning, and Jon flinched despite himself. "Are you asking if I'm…if I'm…" Gods, how do I even say it?

Renly's grin spread wide. "No need to say anymore. The truth is written plain in your startled face."

That made his cheeks burn even hotter. He couldn't believe he was found out like this, and just from talking.

Renly patted his shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself over it. It's nothing you did. Though perhaps it is. I actually have a very bad sense for my own kind. Margaery on the other hand…" Renly saw Jon's eyes go wide at the name. "Yes, Margaery has a very good eye for these things," he said warmly. "It was actually her who first knew that Loras was…that way, even before he himself did. She would introduce him to one boy after another that she felt was good enough for Loras, and each time he would just stare blankly, wondering what she expected him to do, or challenge them to a spare. He was never the sharpest tack in the box."

Jon smiled, knowing where the story went. "And then you and Loras met."

"Yes," he said, smiling blissfully, reminiscing. "We met, and…he just knew. I won't claim its anything special on my part. It was probably just the right time. Margaery couldn't have been happier." It was as if all the happy memories came to a halt at that point, as Renly's joy instantly soured. "Robert died not long after that, and I made myself king…and her queen. She could never know then the sorrow it would bring her, so happy she was for the night. And then she found out we had conspired to offer her to Robert. She will never forgive me for that."

The conversation had sailed back into dark territory, and Jon could think of no words to make things lighter. He had never expected he would have this kind of talk with King Renly. It was almost surreal. It made him almost want to talk about Robb…about the many things that weighed heavily in his heart that he could share with no one…

Sadly, Renly was also having similar thoughts. Renly asked him, trying to lighten the mood, "Are there any boys close to your heart, Jon?"

The question immediately ground his brain to a halt.

"Though, from that little charade you played for me in the dining hall," Renly chuckled, surely remembering the horrid speech Margaery advised him to give. "I'm almost hoping it's your brother. Mind the blasphemy."

Jon couldn't stop it. He drew in a breath so sharply that it sounded like a whistle. No one could make a sound like that in response to a jest.

Renly knew it, too. He stared at Jon, his mouth hanging open. "No…"

Jon stood up, unable to stay still, his heart beating as fast as a hummingbird's. His feet trailed between the lions and the elephants, back and forth. All his secrets had been blown right into the open. What did he have left that wasn't held firmly in a strange king's hands? What was stopping Renly from exposing him and Robb's perversity to all and sundry? What in the seven hells had he done?

Vaguely, beyond the ringing in his ears, he could hear Renly standing behind him, saying soothing things. "Oh you poor man. I never…I'm so so-"

Jon rounded on him. "Don't you pity me!" he shouted. "Don't you dare pity me!" There was no use holding back the tears then. Everything returned with the force of a stampeding mammoth. Everything he'd been suppressing since he rode from Riverrun and had been clouding ever since with drink. His hand was gone. His father was dead. His sisters were missing, and likely dead as well. Robb didn't want him anymore.

Strong arms encircled him, and the warmth was so nice he couldn't bring up the strength to push him away. Renly just held him, not saying anything while he let himself go on his shoulder.

And that was how they stayed, Renly rocking Jon slowly on the Volantene carpet, candelabras flickering above them. Jon didn't how much time had passed when his eyes finally became dry and crusty and he regained the energy to move himself out of Renly's hold. "Thank you…" He couldn't look Renly in the eye. It was bad enough that he had lost control of his emotions, but in front of Renly Baratheon himself. What he wouldn't give for the tigers on the floor to come alive and swallow him whole.

He was unconsciously lurching away. To where, he did not know. Somewhere where he wasn't completely exposed. As always, Renly had other ideas though, gripping him tightly by the shoulders and looking straight into his eyes. Renly's expression was so full of compassion, it was all he could to not start up again.

"Jon, when I take my throne, I will likely be branded a heretic," he said, voice thick with resolve and conviction that clashed with the pessimism of his words. "Do you know why that is?"

"What are you talking about?"

He continued without pause. "Because, as things are, there will never be a future for me and Loras," he explained, as if that made more sense. "When I take my throne, he will always be out of sight, even less than a common whore, for kings always have whores. But I want a future where I have him by my side in broad daylight and not fear losing my right to rule, or my life. Do you know how I can make that possible, Jon?" Renly did not wait for a guess. "By ending succession."

For a moment, Jon thought he had misheard him. "End succession?"

"Yes, at least succession as we have it. I'm only talking about the Iron Throne, of course. Lordships, and hence my support, cannot exist without their families. But what of Westeros? Who's to say that one man's spawn, and his spawn's spawn, are the only ones who should be kings? We've had more mad kings and incompetent kings than we've had good kings, and why should the people suffer for them?" Renly went on, his eyes alight with excitement. "The people should have the right to choose what monsters to put on the throne, and if they're smart, no monsters at all. There are some righteous fools right at this moment twaddling about how Stannis should rule and not I. But do they love Stannis? Do they look forward to his dominion? He will thank them for placing him on the throne and then execute them for all the men they killed to get him there. The land will have another tyrant, and aren't we already sick to our stomachs of tyrants?"

Jon's mind was spinning with all the concepts that were suddenly being hurled at him. One point in particular stuck out to him. "But…if children don't have to succeed…then that means you…"

Renly nodded, his enthusiasm mesmerizing. "Yes, I will not have to marry. I will need no heirs. Whoever succeeds me will be whoever the people think should succeed me. Margaery will never have to suffer by being married to me. And Loras…" He left the rest unsaid, but it was clear whatever fantasy he had imagined was very pleasing to him.

Jon felt a tad more practical. "If you are so sure of this, why haven't you declared yourself wed to Loras already?"

And that had sobered him, but Renly had already returned to the earth before Jon had finished. "Because I'm not stupid, Jon. For these changes to happen, I need to be king first, and to do that I must first play by the rules already set out and not scare my subjects away before I had even begun." Renly released Jon's shoulders, pacing around the room, his energy boundless with his ambition. "I understand that I may never live the way I wish. Perhaps I will have grandchildren before anything ever happens. But I know that if I don't make the first step, no one ever will, and we will be overrun by usurpers and evil bastards, and no man will think to stand against due to the poison that is rights."

Jon frowned. He did not bother pointing out the irony of Renly using his own rights as a Baratheon to begin a system without rights. But Jon couldn't deny that there was something…appealing, about his philosophy. "Is anyone supporting this idea of yours?" he had to ask.

"What do you think I've been doing this entire time?" Renly said. "I've not only been building my army while I make my leisurely way through the South, I've also been talking to lords and ladies, helping them see my point of view. Some scoff and call my notions blasphemy, some take a more critical opinion and don't see the profit in my system, some couldn't understand why things had not been that way sooner. Especially the women, when I pointed out that they will be able to rule themselves as queen." Renly faced Jon, their eyes meeting. "And even a bastard can rise high, Jon."

Jon scoffed. "As if I will ever wish to be king."

"No, but in time it won't be just the Iron Throne. Soon even lords will be chosen, such as if a family line dies out, then they will have no choice. Some will simply adopt this system because its preferable."

Jon shook his head, unable to grasp it. A word where he could rise high. But hadn't he already risen high? He was the Hand of a King, after all, what more could he wish for? Perhaps something he wanted for himself, and not a role that was thrust on him so he would disappear? Robb never found him his place in the world, but if he could seek that himself…if the onus of being a bastard would become obsolete…

Renly stood in front of Jon, a fire burning inside his eyes that was impossible not to be captivated by. "Jon, in this world, you will be free to love anyone you choose, without having to worry about all these silly things like birth and heirs and, someday, even sex."

It was just too good to believe. A world where he did not have to worry about his birth? A world where Robb did not have to worry about heirs? A word where a king did not need a queen? Was that a world where they both could live in, together?

"I don't have Robert's strength, or Stannis' brilliance, but this is what I have, Jon. Do you still wish to make an alliance with me?"

Before Jon could even begin to form an answer, a man burst through the tent flap, panting for breath. "Your Grace! Riders, from Storm's End! Stannis has the castle besieged! And he's calling himself king."

I know this chapter is bound to be polarizing, as things did get a *little* heavyhanded at the end there. But this chapter has less to do with gay rights than exploring an aspect of a character I thought was conceivable. Renly's ideals, and really his character beyond how lolgay he is, isn't really elaborated much in canon, so I thought I had some room to work in. The thing that stood out to me in the beginning was his natural tendency to spit conventions in the face by robbing the crown from Stannis, so I thought as far as crazy idealists go, Renly would fit the bill. I'm just getting tired of characters in this series vying for the throne for no better reason than they can. Surely one of them wants to actually achieve something? But if anyone thinks I'm trying to further an agenda, that's fine. There are worse agendas than love one can further, right? :)

If anyone hates it THAT much, it won't play significantly in the rest of the series. It was never meant to. I just wanted to give Jon something to think about, besides doom and gloom. At least for a little while.