Once, he had been a happy child, the son of a blacksmith in an idyllic farming village, high in the hills. But then the brigands came: Outlaws, looters, deserters from one of the Kingdom's many wars, and in a matter of moments he lost his father, mother, older sister and infant brother, in a nightmare of fire and steel. The other villagers tried to take him with them to safety, but the boy pulled a red-hot piece of iron from the forge and went after the attackers. He killed his first man that day, aged only eight.

Young Jon became a wanderer, tagging along with the rest of the refugees, until one night at an inn. He spilled a soldier's drink, and the furious man decided to beat the boy sensely to teach him a lesson – but lost a mouthful of teeth in the process. The soldier's commanding officer, seeing the simmering rage and native brutality of the child adopted him as a kind of mascot and dog's body for his regiment, the Royal Falcons. That was how Jon gained his first taste of military life.

Years later, he came to lead his own mercenary company – Death's Electors. With their all-black banner and fearsome reputation, they were highly paid, respected, and dreaded by all who dealt in war. Often they marched in King Edward's name; just as frequently they sold their services to rival nations or rebel lords. Recently, however, the company has fallen on hard times. Since the passing of the king, a wary truce has fallen on the region, as rival powers wait with bated breath to see whether the Kingdom would fall into anarchy and feuding. Finding it hard to pay his men, Jon has reluctantly had to take on a special commission: the protection of the new queen's life.

Jon Falkonius is every inch a veteran. A bear of a man, he has the shoulders of a blacksmith, the arms and waist of a swordsman. Scars network his frame, including one that runs like a tear-path down from his left eyesocket. When he speaks, his voice is gravel and thunder, with an undeniably commanding tone that can issue orders from across a chaotic battlefield. His eyes are fierce and brooding, his hair close-cropped. He looks utterly foreign in a civilised court, and would rather wear leather and steel than silk.