Chapter 141 — A Princess and a Sellsword (Part 1)
Podrick's question caused Jalabhar Xho's hands to freeze in midair.
The sudden inquiry also drew Sansa's attention. Having eaten her fill, she turned her head toward him, curiosity shining in her clear blue eyes.
During her time in King's Landing—back when she had still been free, when her father Eddard Stark was still Hand of the King to King Robert Baratheon—she had once seen this dark-skinned man from the Summer Isles.
Curious about this foreigner whose appearance was so different from the people of Westeros, Sansa had asked other noble girls about him. From them she learned that Jalabhar Xho was supposedly an exiled prince from the Red Flower Vale.
As for why a prince of the Summer Isles had come all the way to the capital of the Seven Kingdoms and taken up residence in the Red Keep, the story went that he had come to petition King Robert Baratheon for gold and swords—aid to reclaim his homeland.
A prince from another land… asking the king of the Iron Throne for help?
For Sansa, who had grown up in the North, such a tale had sounded strange and exotic.
Naturally, she had been curious.
But the stories she heard were mostly speculation, half-truths passed between bored noble girls. None of them were nearly as exciting as the romantic tales of knights and ladies she had once adored.
Now, after everything she had experienced, Sansa was no longer the same naive girl.
What she truly wanted to know now was this:
Why had this exiled prince chosen to follow Podrick Payne?
Why invest his hopes in him?
---
Jalabhar Xho clearly hadn't expected Podrick to ask so bluntly.
The hand frozen in the air remained stiff for several seconds before he relaxed again. He tossed the bones and scraps he had gathered into the fire, which crackled loudly as they burned.
"Lord Payne," he said quietly, "do you know my homeland?"
The flickering firelight illuminated his face. Because his dark skin blended with the night, Podrick could only see the faint outline of his features shaped by the red glow of the flames.
Podrick glanced at the Summer Islander prince's attire—the chainmail he wore, and the luxurious feathered cloak draped over his shoulders, woven with red and green.
He nodded… then shook his head.
"I know a little. Only the rough idea of it," Podrick admitted.
"But you can tell me more. I imagine we have plenty of time tonight."
He lowered the dagger he had been using to pick his teeth and shifted into a more comfortable position.
Truthfully, most of what Podrick knew about the Summer Isles came from late-night conversations after certain… encounters with Alayaya and her mother Chataya.
Unfortunately, he remembered very little of the actual geography.
What he remembered far more clearly were the… unusual details.
Temples of love.
Gods and goddesses of beauty, passion, and fertility.
And the belief that intimacy between men and women was sacred—a form of worship, a shared act honoring the creators of life.
All in all, it sounded like a very appealing place to Podrick.
So he focused his attention and listened carefully as Jalabhar Xho began to speak.
---
"My homeland, the Summer Isles, lies south of Westeros in the Summer Sea," Jalabhar said slowly.
"It is a lush archipelago made up of more than fifty islands."
"The three largest islands, from north to south, are Walano, Omboru, and Jhala."
"Between Walano and Omboru lies a bay we call the Sea of Laughter. Between Omboru and Jhala runs the Indigo Strait, through which many merchant ships travel."
"The capital of the Summer Isles, Lotus Port, as well as the towns of Last Lament and Tall Trees Town, are all located on Walano."
"My home lies on Jhala Island," he continued.
"There are two great valleys there—Red Flower Vale and Sweet Lotus Vale. My city, Teakhead, stands there as well."
"Beyond those three great islands, the Summer Isles also include Deer Island, Bird Island, and many smaller islands besides."
The fire crackled softly as Jalabhar spoke, the night deepening around them while the story of a distant homeland slowly unfolded.
Jalabhar began describing his homeland in careful detail, regardless of whether Podrick and Sansa Stark truly wished to hear it.
Fortunately, the night was long, and after a full meal there was little else to do. So both Podrick and Sansa listened with genuine attention.
As Jalabhar spoke, the image of an island chain rising from the middle of the sea slowly took shape in their minds.
Sansa, listening closely, could not help asking a question.
"In your homeland—the Summer Isles—are the people there all like you?"
Her curiosity was innocent. The firelight reflected in her clear blue eyes, making them shine like stars yet to appear in the night sky.
Jalabhar Xho smiled.
"Yes, Your Grace—the Princess of Winterfell, Lady Sansa Stark."
He had changed his form of address unexpectedly, calling her by a title no one present had used before.
"Princess?"
Sansa blinked in surprise, pointing at herself.
"You mean… me?"
"Of course," Jalabhar replied matter-of-factly. "Your brother is King in the North. If that is so, what else would you be but a princess?"
His words made Podrick glance at Sansa as well. He had never considered the matter from that angle, but Jalabhar's reasoning did make sense.
And in truth, the title of Princess of Winterfell carried far more dignity than Jalabhar's own claim of prince.
An exiled prince.
A princess in flight.
And a rather inexplicable knight.
Around the campfire sat three people whose identities were strange enough on their own—and stranger still together.
Strangest of all was that both the prince and the princess seemed to place endless hope in that knight.
Podrick couldn't help thinking to himself:
For this moment, I feel like the hero of some old legend.
He chuckled quietly and shook the thought away before joining the conversation.
"Jalabhar is right," he said lightly. "Sansa Stark, you could certainly be called a princess… though perhaps a princess in distress."
His teasing carried no malice, but Sansa immediately blushed bright red. She lowered her head, her fingers twisting together nervously.
No one knew what thoughts had taken hold in her mind. With her chin tucked against her chest, she murmured weakly:
"I… I'm not a princess."
Podrick reached out and gently patted her on the head.
"Don't belittle yourself, Sansa. With your lineage and your house, you're far more legitimate than Joffrey and the rest of them."
"We both know the truth about them. After all… it was your father, Lord Eddard Stark, who insisted on that truth—and in doing so, made the sacrifice he believed was best for his children."
The mention of her father made Sansa's heart suddenly stumble.
The shy embarrassment on her face faded into sorrow.
Podrick didn't press further. He had said enough—just enough for her to understand that the world was no longer the same as it once was.
Then he turned back to Jalabhar.
"Go on," Podrick said. "Continue."
"Yes, my lord."
Jalabhar straightened, withdrawing his gaze from Sansa and focusing on Podrick again.
"In truth, while the capital of the Summer Isles is Lotus Port, each island has its own ruler. In the Common Tongue, their titles are translated as prince or princess."
Podrick raised an eyebrow.
"You mean to say that you were meant to rule your homeland—the Red Flower Vale?"
Because of the way the Common Tongue translated things, Podrick had always assumed Jalabhar was simply a prince—perhaps a diplomatic envoy sent abroad by a king.
Hearing this explanation surprised him.
Jalabhar's smile turned bitter.
"The larger islands of the Summer Isles often have many rival princes competing for power. In our history, the islands have only been unified under a single ruler six times—and never for long."
Podrick silently summarized the situation in his own mind.
Small temples breed noisy spirits. Shallow ponds breed too many turtles.
Having grown up in a world shaped by powerful centralized states, he understood what Jalabhar meant.
Still, history everywhere followed similar patterns.
"Then you lost that competition?" Podrick asked bluntly.
Jalabhar's smile became even more strained.
"You are correct, Lord Payne."
"Our wars are very different from those on your continent. Because of our religion and customs, warfare in the Summer Isles is highly ritualized."
"In truth, it resembles a grand melee in a tournament more than an actual war."
"Warriors fight on battlefields chosen beforehand and sanctified through ritual. Priests sometimes even determine whether the field itself is auspicious."
"The weapons we use—spears, slings, wooden shields—are largely the same as they were five thousand years ago."
"The goldenheart bows and long arrows we possess are reserved only for foreign enemies. Our religion forbids their use against our own people."
"So these 'wars' rarely last more than a day. And they never harm anyone except the warriors themselves."
At that point Jalabhar paused, glancing at the surrounding darkness.
The land they traveled through bore the scars of war.
Refugees. Burned homes. Ruined fields.
They had seen it all along the road.
"In our wars," he continued quietly,
"no crops are destroyed, no homes burned, no cities plundered."
"No children are harmed. No women are violated."
"In fact, women sometimes fight alongside men on the battlefield."
"And even a defeated prince is not executed or tortured. He is simply required to leave his homeland and live the rest of his life in exile…"
"Just as I have."
Jalabhar did not hide his unease as he spoke.
He knew very well that he was being given only one chance.
By asking such a direct question tonight, Podrick had made his position clear—this was an opportunity.
Whether Jalabhar could seize it would depend entirely on his sincerity.
During his years in King's Landing, he had realized that King Robert had never truly intended to help him.
The king simply kept telling him to return next year.
Even after Jalabhar had become a familiar figure at court, the Iron Throne had shown no real interest in aiding him.
Everyone in King's Landing—including the king himself—treated him as little more than an amusing curiosity.
The only other man treated similarly was Thoros of Myr, though the red priest at least received more respect than Jalabhar ever had.
Now the Seven Kingdoms were in chaos.
If Jalabhar wanted to reclaim his homeland, he needed a new path.
And that was why he had abandoned both Lannister and Baratheon alike to follow a man barely half his age.
In Podrick Payne, he had seen something.
Hope.
Perhaps even a miracle.
"I want to return home, Lord Payne," Jalabhar said sincerely. "I believe you can help me. That is why I chose to follow you."
Podrick rubbed his chin, lips pressed together, a faint smile forming as he studied the man before him.
After a moment he asked,
"And what makes you think I can accomplish something even the Iron Throne could not?"
Without hesitation, Jalabhar replied:
"The Iron Throne could do it, my lord… and so could you."
Even Sansa sensed the strange tension forming between them.
Having recovered somewhat from her earlier emotions, she watched Podrick carefully, wondering what decision he would make.
"Why?" Podrick asked with a grin.
"I have no lands. No gold. No army."
"As you can see, I'm nothing more than a knight without even a lord to serve."
"That's the polite way of saying it."
He spread his hands dramatically.
"If I didn't even have my weapons and horse, you could call me a beggar and you wouldn't be wrong."
Podrick laughed.
Jalabhar laughed as well.
The tension around the fire suddenly eased.
Sansa glanced between them in confusion.
"But you possess the power to gain all those things whenever you wish," Jalabhar said.
"And you possess the heart of a true knight."
As he spoke, Jalabhar produced a piece of soft chamois leather and offered it to Podrick.
It was perfect for polishing weapons.
Podrick still held the dragonbone-handled Valyrian steel dagger he had used earlier while preparing the food—and afterward for picking his teeth.
He glanced at the cloth but didn't take it. Instead, he raised his eyes to meet Jalabhar's gaze.
"And even if I could help you…"
"What exactly could you offer me in return?"