"Ten thousand is a bit high," The Dornishman said, glancing over his shoulder toward an approaching serving girl.

Closing his mouth, he smiled politely as she reached their table, unburdening her of her load. "We'll be fine, thank you." He whispered, his smiled broadening as a blush crept up the girl's neck, finding purchase on her cheeks.

"Course, milord." She returned quietly, scurrying away more quickly than she'd arrived.

For a long moment, Jon merely watched her over Ser Arron's shoulder, waiting until she turned the corner and disappeared from his sight to turn his attention back to his companion. "You were saying?"

Taking a moment to settle himself, the Dornish knight took a moment to replenish their cups, pouring a good measure for each of them. Jon thanked the man, then watched as he drank deeply from his cup, clearly lamenting the loss in momentum that the serving girl caused.

Had Jon not prepared for their meeting, he might have been swayed by the man's words, of 'idle curiosity' and 'honor for his homeland.'

Ser Arron Qorgyle was a charming, handsome man. Tall and lean, with skin that wasn't quite as dark as the only other Dornishman he'd met, but dark enough to be called exotic, Jon could understand the appeal. Even he had struggled to focus with his eyes – as blue as the summer sky – focus on him. He could only assume that this was why the man assumed Jon would trust him.

Chuckling mildly, brandishing a forced smile, Ser Arron seemed to have recovered. "Right to business? I like it." He countered. "As I've said, the Mountain's armor is more of a passing fancy, in truth. He murdered the Princess Elia, and for that I desire vengeance, like any good Dornishman would." He reminded him, hoisting the jug once more and refilling his cup. With a subtle glance he eyed Jon's own, untouched as it was. "It's just not worth the coin, boy."

At that, Jon laughed. It was a good, long, throaty laugh, unlike any he'd had since traveling south; like the ones only Robb and Arya had managed to pry from his lips.

When he was done, he looked to Ser Arron once more, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Forgive me, good ser." He said, chuckling slightly as he tried to focus his thoughts.

He thought of all that he'd learned in preparation for their meeting, placing bits and pieces of knowledge in the proper order. When he was done, he took a deep sip of his ale, allowing the bittersweet flavor to wash over him. "Why are you here?" He questioned, watching as the knight's face twisted into a mask of confusion, barely marring his beauty. After a long moment, he rephrased the question. "Why are you at the Hand's Tourney, in King's Landing? You spoke of your desire for vengeance a moment ago."

Flustered, the lordling sputtered out something he couldn't quite make sense of, even with his close proximity. The word 'I' was definitely part of it.

Smiling, Jon continued on. "Do you know why I approached you, my lord?" He questioned, allowing him the honorific, despite his status as a second son. When Ser Arron shrugged nonchalantly – all pretense of pleasantry forgotten – Jon continued. "Because you were desperate."

He watched as Ser Arron's jaw tightened, wondering if his teeth would give before his anger. "You presume too much, bastard!"

Not for the first time, Jon found himself doubting all that he knew. So much for Dornish tolerance, he mused as he suppressed a smile. "I speak of what I know." He said simply, taking a long, steadying breath before making his gambit. "You're a second son of a relatively powerful family – not as powerful as your neighbors, but powerful enough."

As he spoke, he gauged the man's reaction to his words, and while his eyes didn't soften, nor did they harden. "You're a fair tourney knight," he continued, "winning a few titles in smaller tourneys, but coming up short in broader lists, like those for Prince Joffrey's name day and the tourney held for Lord Stark.

"Put simply, you stand to inherit nothing, and as such would make a fine husband for Prince Doran's unwed daughter." He said, watching the man's posture shift. He was no longer hostile, but curious. He wanted to know how Jon's tale would end. "But you're not the best prospect. Lord Yronwood has several sons, making his house an obvious choice for consort. If he meant to look beyond the Red Mountains, there are also Lord Tyrell's sons – of which he has three – several unmarried marcher lords and many others with more acclaim – and that's just below the Blackwater." He recited.

"I assume you're nearing your point, boy!" Arron Spat.

Smiling amicably, Jon nodded his head. "You need an advantage," He offered, placing a hand to his chest, "which I offer you."

Ser Arron scoffed. "For ten thousand gold?"

"When was a lordship ever purchased so cheaply?" He countered. "Give Prince Doran a symbol of vengeance. Ingratiate yourself with him and his daughter, all the while nudging him into the right direction."

For a moment, Ser Arron seemed sold. "And if I don't have ten thousand dragon?" He asked, desperation seeping into his words.

Jon smiled. "Then settle your bill at a later date, my friend." He returned, reaching across the table to clap man upon his shoulder, bringing his hand back to grasp his cup. "In truth, I wanted to know your measure. For now, all I ask of you is fifty gold and the promise of a favor at a later date."

An incredulous smile spread upon his face, as he let out a short, boisterous laugh. "Fifty dragons and a favor?!" He all but shouted. "You are truly a giant amongst men, Jon Snow."

With promises of payment and delivery to be made at another time, the two parted ways.

As he made his way onto the street, the sun had just begun to climb over the city's walls, washing the rooftops further inland in golden light. He moved further into the darkness, toward the shining castle on the hill.

As he walked, ignoring the curious eyes of the early risers as he trudged his way through the city streets and narrowly avoiding mounds of shit and rivers of piss, he stumbled upon a small child at play.

The occurrence itself wouldn't have been strange, had it not been for the fact that he was certain he'd seen the child before.

Feigning ignorance, he continued on until boy was out of sight, taking another few steps before breaking into a sprint and hiding in a narrow alley.

As predicted, the boy scrambled past the alley moments later, taking the street on the opposite end. The better to watch me, he though as he crept through the alley, emerging on the street behind him in time to watch him slip into another alley.

He followed the boy, eventually coming to a stop behind him, silent as the grave. For a long moment, he watched the boy look for him, content to amuse himself with the subtle bobbing of his head as he searched the street, allowing his mind to run wild. It wasn't until the child made to leave that he pounced, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. "Move and I gut you." He said, watching as the boy trembled.

Patting his pockets, he found a knife, a jar of ink, a quill and half-a-hundred sheets of parchment.

Slamming him against the wall, he held the parchment to his face. "Who do you serve?" He asked.

In response, the boy simply shook his head, grabbing at Jon's hand in an attempt to pry himself free.

Slamming him against the wall, Jon felt a pang of guilt. The boy looked to be of an age with Bran – younger even. Bran doesn't carry a dagger and follow me around, a voice in his head whispered. "If you don't tell me, I'll drop you from the top of the wall." He threatened, jerking him once more for effect.

To this, the child shook even harder. He began to make gestures with his hand: pointing to Jon, then moving two fingers along, like a man walking, then to himself, before pointing toward the Red Keep.

It was clear that the child wanted him to follow, but he still wasn't certain he should.

After a long moment, he settled on a compromise. "Alright." He agreed. "But if your intentions are less than honorable," He whispered, taking up the boy's dagger and releasing him, "you die first."

With that, Jon followed the boy the rest of the way to the keep.

When they neared the end of the Hook, the boy led him to a door, above which a sign bearing a large golden rose nestled within a tangle of black iron thorns rested. Above and below the relief of precious metals, carved in a rounded, enameled block of wood, were the words black and thorn, leading him to believe that was the name of the establishment.

Pushing the door inward, the boy placed a finger to his lips, cautioning Jon for silence. Inside, the sound of metal pots clinking could be heard from a small corridor to their right, revealing it to be a kitchen.

They crept along in silence, making their way through the main aisle, toward an empty hearth near the heart of the hall where the boy stopped. Pointing near the base of the hearth, to small handle built into the stone, it was clear the boy wanted him to do something.

"What?" He whispered, shrugging his shoulders. "You want me to pull the handle?"

The boy nodded vigorously, making a motion as though he were pulling a load from a low hanging shelf, with a face of concerted effort to match.

"Alright!" He hissed, gesturing for the boy to stop. Shooing him away, he pointed toward the entrance. "Stand right there. If you move, you'll regret it."

Raising his hands in the air in a placating gesture, the boy took several steps back, watching as Jon crouched before the hearth, sliding his hand into the heart of it and taking hold of the handle.

To his surprise, the entrance opened easily. His experiences from the Red Keep had soured him on secret doors – many of which were rusted shut or difficult to move. This door seemed well maintained, making barely a sound as he slid it out of place, revealing a small stairwell into the dark flanked by a pair of torches held securely in sconces riveted into the wall.

Glancing back to the boy, he reached forward, dabbing the cloth-wrapped torch with his finger, finding it slightly wet to the touch. Taking the flint and striker from a stool near the hearth, he lit one of the torches. "You can lead the way." He offered, extending his hand into the darkness, waiting for the boy to pass him by.

As they descended, he pulled the hearth back into place, he followed the child into the darkness. For several minutes, the pair made their way through the tunnel, which he could only assume was a straight line toward the Red Keep.

His assumption was proven correct as he came to a small iron door, close in size, shape and design to one he'd seen before, when he'd first met Varys, along with several times since.

Holding the torch to the boy's face, he looked him in the eyes. "You're one of Varys' followers?"

The boy nodded.

That was the only indication he gave as he turned to the door, opening it and allowing Jon to enter.

Inside, the eunuch stood near the center of the Targaryen depiction, offering a small smile. "I apologize for the theatrics, but you can never be too sure who's listening." He said.

"True," Jon returned, stepping further into the room as the door shut behind him, "though I nearly murdered your boy."

"I am certainly pleased that you showed such restraint." Varys returned, moving closer. "I have news of the riverlords." He said, parting his dagged sleeves to proffer a slip of parchment. "They've arrived in the city, along with an assortment of smallfolk – victims of Amory Lorch and his 'brigands.'"

Jon didn't need to read the parchment. He'd seen as much earlier in the day, from the eyes of an eagle flying over the crownlands.

In truth, he'd been monitoring their progress since Varys came to him with news of Ser Amory's assignment. "And your girl was with them?" He asked.

The Master of Whispers nodded his head. "I sent her to meet the on the road, three days ride from here. She'll claim to have lost her kin and her virtue to the brutish man, complete with a manticore clasp."

Jon was skeptical.

It all seemed to simple; too convenient. Why would a man – with every intention of remaining inconspicuous – carry something so telling a brooch bearing his family sigil?

"And you're certain she can convince them?" Was what he asked.

With a small titter, Lord Varys gestured to the ceiling above them. "Let us hope!" He answered, ignoring the Jon's heated glare. "If that is all, I'm afraid I must depart. The time for court is fast approaching, and I'm expected to attend."

Fighting the urge to sigh with displeasure, he nodded his head to the man, moving toward the door he knew would take him to a small cellar near the gardens. Before he could pull the handle, an unsettling thought – one that had been nagging at him since he came upon the little spy – urged him to stop. "The boy," he said, still facing the door. Turning his head to meet the man's eyes, he asked a question he was almost certain he wanted no knowledge of, "he cannot speak?"

To this, Varys merely stood there. No smile. No clever retort. Just a mask of stone. "He has no tongue." He admitted, narrowing his eyes at Jon. "None of my little birds do."

Turning away from the Master of Whispers, he fought the urge to retch.

"This bothers you." Varys said. It wasn't a question. Jon's reaction had been evidence enough of his discomfort.

"No." He lied, more to himself than Varys, as he pulled the door to and disappear through the door, hastening through the corridor and emerging near the outer edge of the garden, ignoring the queer look he received from a man he assumed was a gardener as he made to exit the storehouse.

Stepping into the morning air, he stood in the doorway for a moment, allowing the warmth of the sun to wash over him as he breathed in the cool ocean breeze.

It only lasted a moment, as he knew what needed to be done, and more importantly, he knew it had to be done now.

Assuming the riverland party was the first to be heard, he might have already missed a crucial moment – the path to the gardens being more cumbersome than necessary. With that in mind, he jogged toward the Great Hall, sprinting up the stairs that led to the upper gallery.

Wading through the press of knights and ladies and lords, he slowly made his way to one of the corners from which he intended to watch the proceedings.

Gazing down upon the assemblage standing before the Iron Throne, he was certain that his earlier assumption was correct. He'd missed something.

One of the men – a squat, keg of a man with a bandaged head – added his voice to the chorus, just in time for Jon to hear. "They rode down my 'prentice boy. Chased him back and forth across the fields on their horses, poking at him with their lances like it was a game, them laughing and the boy stumbling and screaming till the big one pierced him clean through."

As the man shrank back into the crowd, another stepped forward, different from the rabble. From the gallery, he named the man Raymun Darry, judging by the plowman embroidered into his cloak. Beside him was a girl, middling height for a woman and well fed from the curves of her hips and breasts.

Lowering his head to whisper into her ear – words of encouragement, no doubt – he gestured for her to move closer to the Hand. For a long moment, she merely swayed on her feet, front-to-back, then front again.

When it was clear that she had no intention of speaking, Ser Raymun stepped forward, clearing his throat. "My-"

Before he could speak his next word, the girl beside him released a harsh, throaty wail as she fell to the floor. Ser Raymun moved to catch her, but he was not fast enough. The sound of her bare knees colliding with the stone floor. As she knelt, wail and bucking in the arms of the Darry knight, the entire court stood watching, captivated by the scene that was unfolding.

Then she spoke.

Barely a whisper at first, swallowed out by the whispers and groans of the assembled gentry, her words became louder, forcing the crowds surrounding her to calm, creating a wave of silence with a peasant girl as the focal point. "Why?" She sobbed, shaking in the knight's arms as he helped her to stand. "I don't understand. We didn't do nothing to nobody." She continued, her voice both potent and shaky in equal measures.

It was only then that he realized she was the mummer Varys had spoken of. Glancing around at the gathered nobility, it was clear that she was worth the coin.

"Jon." She said, choking slightly as the words left her lips. "Marge. She…" She sobbed, nearly collapsing once more.

This time, Ser Raymun was prepared. "They was just –" She paused, retching onto the crimson carpet of the Great Hall before falling into her own mess.

As the hall descended into chaos, Lord Stark trying and ultimately succeeding in pacifying the gathered citizenry, Jon took the time to look about the hall. From his hidden alcove, he observed the faces of the assembled nobility, taking note of the general sympathy the girl seemed to elicit.

"My lord." A soft voice drifted over the now silent crowd, drawing his attention to the dais, where the wizened old maester was trying to speak. Lord Stark nodded for him to continue. "While I do feel for this child, who has seen much suffering indeed, I have heard no proof that these are the action of anything other than well-armed brigands."

To this, the riverland lords all seemed to lose hope, grumbling amongst themselves as they shifted anxiously.

"Grand Maester!" Ser Raymun shouted, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room once more as he straightened the girl against his side, walking her toward the dais. "This child brought something of note, torn from the cloak of one of the brigands." He said, making it clear to all that he held little belief in the Grand Maester's theory.

Turning to one side, his voice reaching as many of the assembled masses as possible while the girl still clutched his side, he continued. "This girl was a survivor of one of the first villages sacked by these brigands!" He shouted, casting a hand toward Pycelle, marking the ridiculous suggestion as his child. "We found her a week from the city, half-starved and bare-foot, but insistent that she must see the king. Even after I offered to take up the torch in her stead, she persisted; said she wanted to look the His Grace in the eye, and know that justice would be done."

Snorting slightly, Lord Baelish seemed amused by Ser Raymun's testimony. "I dare say we're all very intrigued, my lord. I, for one, would certainly like to see this proof."

Ser Raymun nodded, making a display of coaxing the girl to open her hand.

As her fingers slowly unfurled, revealing a mess of scarred flesh and dried, caked blood to all in attendance, a small silver object – though its features would be unknown to others – was revealed. "I took it off him when he –" She said, shaking like a leaf as though the memories had begun flooding back to her.

Gently, Ser Raymun took hold of the clasp with a length of cloth before making his way toward the dais. Lord Varys met the man in the middle, bringing the clasp to Lord Stark to examine.

For a long moment, the hall was deathly silent, save for the shallow breaths of those in attendance.

"What is it, my lord?" Lord Baelish questions, leaning into his father.

Seemingly drawn from his thoughts, Lord Stark turned to face the Grand Maester. "A manticore clasp."

The hall descended into chaos once more; Grand Maester Pycelle making declarations on behalf of the westerland knight, the riverlanders demanding retribution, the gallery gossiping amongst itself and the Lord Hand and gold cloaks shouting and fighting to restore order.

As the hall quietened, descending into haggling between the riverland retinue and the small council – led chiefly by Pycelle – Jon gazed through the high windows of the Great Hall allowing his mind to wander.

In recent days he'd grown too comfortable with deceit. Since meeting the queen, he'd misled his father repeatedly, used magic to advance his own agenda and taken a life under false pretense. No matter how much he attempted to justify his actions, he knew in his heart that Lord Stark would not see it his way.

Before he could think further on this, the moment he'd been awaiting had arrived, drawing him from his thoughts.

"Lord Eddard!" The knight shouted, emerging from the side of the hall, wading through the crowd with all the grace of a well-practiced dancer. "I beg you the honor of acting in your place. Give this task to me, my lord, and I swear I shall not fail you."

At this, Lord Baelish giggled. "Ser Loras, if we send you off alone, these brigands will send us back your head with a plum stuffed in that pretty mouth of yours. Lord Tywin is not the type to suffer weakness, and I'd imagine his men know it."

"I do not fear Tywin Lannister," Ser Loras said arrogantly.

He watched as his father called forth a motley of men – Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr among them – giving them instructions to deal with these western raiders. With a general consensus that the knight in question was Ser Amory Lorch, given the descriptions provided by those in attendance, the knight was then stripped of any incomes, lands and titles – much to the chagrin of Grand Maester Pycelle – and summoned to pay for his crimes. To the surprise of Ser Loras' – and no one – his name was not mentioned; a fact that he was acutely aware of.

"Lord Eddard, what of me?" The knight questioned, confusion coating his words.

Eying the man in the way he'd looked upon himself and Robb their whole lives, his father spoke, shattering the young knight's ambitions. "No one doubts your valor, Ser Loras, but we are about justice here, and what you seek is glory." He looked back to Lord Beric. "Ride at first light. These things are best done quickly." He held up a hand. "The throne will hear no more petitions today."

As the masses slowly made their way from the hall, Jon followed the progress of the beautiful, sullen knight as he flowed through the crowd, a shell of his former self.

With great haste, Jon moved through the crowd of the upper gallery, making his way to a set of stairs that would see him to his goal, descending them three at a time.

As he came to the doors of the great hall – monstrosities of timber and gilded bronze – he surveyed the crowd, finding Ser Loras distractedly moving through the press, further in.

With great difficulty, he waded against the flow of the crowd, placing himself in the knight's path. As he inched closer and closer, Jon steeled himself preparing for the pain he knew was to come. Intentionally, he collided with Ser Loras, knocking his forehead against the temple of the slightly taller man.

As both fell to the ground, forcing the crowd around them to part, Ser Loras looked to him, anger flashing in his honey brown eyes. Before he could speak, Jon began to say his piece. "Gods, man! That's one tough skull!" He said, showing a good-natured smile as he made to stand, extending a hand to the ser. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

Replacing his scowl with a polite smile of his own, Ser Loras took the offered hand. "Only my pride." He returned, eliciting a rough chuckle from Jon.

"Well, for the sake of your pride, and your head," Jon returned, raising a hand to Ser Loras' brow, "it appears I owe you a drink." He said, tilting his head slightly – a subtle gesture for Loras to follow. "You can tell me what's got you in such a mood?"

Reddening in the cheeks, Ser Loras shoved his hand away. "And what makes you think I'm in a foul mood?"

"I know these things." Was his simple reply.

For a long moment, the Knight of Flowers considered him, seemingly weighing his options.

"I must decline, I'm afraid," He said, setting his heart to beat with uncertainty, "but I have a fantastic vintage, if you'd care to join me."

And join him he did, as they made their way to Sr Loras' chambers, speaking of family, the sword and every man's duty to their people.

Foreshadowing of an upcoming chapter...

There won't be a Loras T./Jon S. pairing, if that's what you're thinking.