13.Fleeting Fame and Fading Glory

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

Rhaena Targaryen

Surprisingly, Ser Alfred Broome had convinced the angry crowd that sheer numbers would not make a difference and had only requested those good with a sling, harpoon, or bow to join him, totalling a dozen men.

The mutinous Pyne and Cave squires were barred from joining. “Your parents entrusted me with your safety, and I shall not allow you to follow me into a dragon’s lair on the first day.”

The two stayed behind with much grumbling, overeager for glory. For a good moment, Rhaena was tempted to join, but one glance at Lyonel told her he would never agree. Sighing, she buried the idea deep in her heart.

“What are your names?” Rhaena asked after the remains of the reluctant crowd dispersed.

“Aethan, m’lady,” the steward said, dipping his head respectfully.

“I am Harrold Cave, Your Grace,” the burly red-haired boy answered, still gaping at her face. To be in awe was a common occurrence when those who saw the Valyrian features for the first or hundredth time, renowned as the most beautiful in the world.

“I am not a princess,” Rhaena corrected absentmindedly.

The other boy, shorter but no less stout, puffed up his chest. “And I am Clayton Pyne, my lady. Our fathers decided that learning under a warrior like Lord Jon would do us a world of good.”

Apparently, that had been the price for the weirwood cutting inside the room, a pale branch that looked like bone with five-pronged crimson leaves that looked like bloody hands clawing out. They were the sons of the Knights of Red Cave and Pinefort, and as thick as thieves, for their mothers were twin sisters. It was not strange that the usually half-wild Clawmen would admire a skilled warrior like Jon Stark to the point of sending two sons to squire underneath him.

None of that soothed the worry in Rhaena’s heart, though. She knew that despite his carefree yet prickly demeanour, Jon Stark was a man of unmatched boldness and valour, but no warrior had slain a dragon since the Age of Heroes. Countless men had tried, only to be forgotten, but those who had succeeded were immortalised in the tales.

Davos the Dragonslayer, Selwyn of the Mirror Shield, and Galladon of Morne were no less famous amongst even the lowliest of smallfolk than Aegon the Conqueror. Each one of them had lived in the age before the Andals had crossed the Narrow Sea, when the Valyrians had yet to master dragons.

Yet Jon had taken it upon himself to attempt such a deed for her. She could not think of any other reason. Not to impress her or anything so mundane, but quite possibly retaliation for attacking them so treacherously.

Rhaena did not know if she felt gladdened or frustrated. Despite Jon Stark’s stern words, she had come to appreciate the warmth hiding underneath the cold mask he liked to display. His presence brought her a feeling of safety and calm, and she didn’t want to lose either.

“Does m’lady want a meal to fill her belly while waiting?” the old greybeard inquired, eyeing the silent Ser Lyonel Bentley with caution. “Waiting can get tiring while hungry.”

Sighing, Rhaena agreed, following the old man through the door. The interior of Jon Stark’s home was tidy, but quite smaller than what she was used to. The serving of roasted fish with honey sprinkled with herbs and surrounded by rings of fresh onion and slices of cheese made her salivate.

The cook knew what he was doing—the taste was different from what she was used to eating in Dragonstone, not necessarily for the worse. The two squires who had stolen glances at her earlier were banished to eat in the kitchen by Aethan.

Rhaena’s mind wandered, however. The waiting and the uncertainty of the unknown slowly became unbearable. If she knew Jon Stark had died, she could mourn him and grieve openly, and if he were alive, she would joyfully celebrate. There was that mysterious connection he had with Vermithor, which made the whole thing all the more confusing. If two dragons had fought around the Dragonmont, everyone would have seen and heard it from afar, but no such thing had happened.

Now, the only thing she could feel was dread of the unknown. Aethan busied himself around the house, and the two squires were promptly put to help in the kitchen by the scarred cook, who would look more at ease as a stern master-at-arms swinging a sword and an axe rather than a ladle.

Overwhelmed by the feeling of restlessness, she found herself leaving the house and wandering across the nearby farmland. Neat rows of green cabbages, leeks, turnips, onions, and a small herb garden were penned in by a fence, while draft horses, goats, geese, and chickens roamed in the surrounding hills, which were also rented by Jon Stark. Two farmhands were mowing grass and rolling it up to dry for hay fodder.

Shaggy had grown and now had four smaller guard hounds trailing behind him as they lazily shepherded the goats around without a care in the world.

The dogs were blissfully unaware of the danger their master was in. Was this why they said ignorance was bliss? Or was it perhaps confidence?

‘The farm was peaceful,’ Rhaena realised. The commotion and excitement that she had grown used to in Dragonstone were replaced by the sound of goats and geese; the grim, dark walls of fused stone and the ever-present smell of brimstone by greenery and earthly smells.

When the sun crawled towards the west, Ser Lyonel stirred.

“We must return before it gets dark, my lady.”

“I’ll wait,” she insisted.

“They might not return tonight, m’lady,” Aethan said grimly. “You better return to your castle and rest. They might not return at all if they have gone after the Cannibal.”

“Do you believe Lord Jon will fail?”

The steward sighed. “I want to believe he will slay the black Kin Eater. But I am too old to suffer flights of fancy and bold dreams. Perhaps my lord has managed to succeed, but I have seen too many bold knights and warriors claim the same before, yet none returned.”

A bitterness coiled like a snake in her belly as the reply only heightened her worries instead of soothing them.

“Then… why are you waiting here?” Rhaena prodded.

“Because it’s my duty,” was the calm reply. “Your knight is right. You should go back before it gets dark, m’lady.”

Reluctantly, she eventually decided to return to the castle.

Jon Stark

He woke up, greeted with the choking stench of sulphur and brimstone, and his limbs were enveloped in a blanket feeling like flesh. Jon barely suppressed the nausea bubbling in his throat and groaned as his whole body felt bloated. It was as if hot coals were simmering underneath his skin, and his blood was on fire—his skin felt raw and sensitive; just lying on the ground was agony. His mouth felt like one big bruise, his lips were chapped, his throat had never felt so dry, and he couldn’t feel his tongue or teeth. Even his belly felt like it would burst from heat, as if he had swallowed a lump of molten iron.

Worse, his mind felt sluggish.

Cracking his eyes open, Jon was greeted by darkness. Despite the complete absence of light, he could see quite well in the darkness of the Cannibal’s chest. More precisely, the hole he had carved into it. His hand eagerly searched for Skyfall’s handle. He found his sword stabbed into the walls of the fleshy cave, but there was something wrong with it. A glance had him grimace—the stone wolfhead pommel was half-melted, and the leather wrapping around the hilt was gone, leaving half-rotted oak behind. The blade itself looked slightly different, having darkened to the colour of inky black, while the grey ripples were now a faint silvery colour.

It felt no less sharp to the touch, so Jon just ignored the change.

His limbs felt as if made from lead. After a bit of struggle, Jon managed to stand up and grimaced as he stumbled out of the Cannibal’s chest. Most of the hole bore the smooth cuts of dragonsteel, but the bottom where he had woken up looked like it had been savaged by a pack of hungry wolves, and any traces of the heart were gone.

Jon vaguely remembered eating Cannibal’s heart, but surely he couldn’t have devoured a raw organ the size of a pony alone?

Worse, the meat was black and looked and smelled half-rotten already, not something that would ever be edible.

Groaning inwardly, he dragged his sluggish body to Cannibal’s head to retrieve his spear, only to find it on the ground by the bony head. The castle-forged steel spearhead was gone; only the half-melted base remained and was half-rusted. Jon’s skin crawled as he saw the funnelling holes in the rocky floor, precisely where he remembered the Cannibal’s blood dribbling down, as if the steaming substance had eaten its way through the stone.

Jon had not only drunk from it, but bathed in it. No wonder he felt so… weak and ill, as if a gust of wind could topple him. Had he slain the dragon, only to sign his demise in slow agony afterwards? He had the terrible premonition that he had fallen victim to fell magic he didn’t understand.

The connection with Vermithor was more alive than ever, whether because Jon had finally acknowledged the dragon or something else. A rumbling snort echoed through his mind. The Bronze Fury clearly thought otherwise—whatever was happening to Jon was a good thing, more than anything else. Jon didn’t feel good at all, though. The feeling of joy at slaying Cannibal was dampened by the weakness and nausea threatening to overwhelm him.

At least he could move with some struggle, even if sudden movements made his insides twist, and the molten ball of iron that settled in his belly still felt like it came straight from the depths of the Dragonmont. Jon was not looking forward to the descent down the mountain. Finding Skyfall’s scabbard on the floor, he sheathed the sword and dragged his weary legs towards the cave’s entrance. According to Vermithor, he had slept through the remaining day, the following night, and noon had passed a while ago. Hopefully, Aethan was not too worried. Jon tried to slip into Saltbeak to check up on the former fisherman, but his mind felt heavy and lethargic, almost like sloughing through a quagmire of the Neck, and he failed to make the connection.

Sighing, he took one last glance at Cannibal’s carcass.

The hunter in him wanted to salvage at least some of the dragonbone, but he barely had the strength to move, let alone strip flesh and dig out bone from a carcass the size of a hill. No, he was too thirsty, sick, and worn out to do so.

The chance to return and take his hard-earned spoils later would come. A bow hewn from dragonbone was said to have no equal in the world, and as a warrior, Jon was naturally interested in such a thing. The scales, too—perhaps he could have a smith or a tailor fashion them into armour.

As he made his way out of the cave, Jon wondered if he should speak of his feat.

He shook his head vigorously, deciding against it. Fame and glory were fleeting and not something Jon was interested in, more so when it would involve the scrutiny a dragonslayer would probably come under during the Dance. Perhaps in the past, when he was young and green, it would be his greatest pleasure to brag to his family and tell them tales of his heroics, but here he had no such urge. He proved himself last night, and the only one who needed to know would not tell others…

For some reason, his mind was filled with fiery draconic amusement.

Suddenly, he heard cautious voices from the outside. They were distant, but Jon could hear them clearly.

“He should be here,” it sounded like Ser Alfred Broome. “I saw his cloak outside.”

Surely, Jon was imagining things. What would the Broome knight even be doing here? Jon had not told anyone where he was going.

Figures appeared at the entrance of the cavern, about a dozen of them, faces filled with grim resolve. Jon blinked, unsure if his eyes were deceiving him. He could feel his naked body being caressed by the breeze, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Look!” a younger voice pointed at him, filled with awe. “He killed the Cannibal!”

Jon could hear his plans to remain in obscurity crumble somewhere in his mind.

“He killed the Maneater!”

“Dragonslayer!”

“DRAGONSLAYER!”

The dozen men rushed at Jon, who could only croak a weak raspy, “Water?”

Someone placed a flask of lemonwater to his lips, and Jon greedily gulped the contents, soothing his raw throat.

With Ser Alfred Broome’s presence here, Jon no longer worried about the descent down the Dragonmont and allowed exhaustion to take him.

Rhaena

Rhaena’s sleep was short and fretful, but she did not expect to be awoken by her handmaid at the crack of dawn.

“Ser Alfred Broome is at the gates, requesting your presence with utmost urgency, m’lady.”

The words awakened her. Alyssa helped her put on her riding gown and threw her black travel cloak over her shoulders. Rhaena tried to wake Baela to no avail—her sister would not wake early even if the world was ending, especially after she had spent the day out flying until she and Moondancer were too tired to do anything but rest. Shaking her head, she rushed out of her room without even combing her hair, not caring one whit if she looked like a scarecrow or not. It was unladylike, but her desire to keep to propriety was easily outweighed by the need to know what happened to the stubborn Northman.

The castle had yet to stir awake, so nobody of import saw anything anyway.

Ser Alfred Broome was indeed waiting by the gate, carrying a large, bulging sack.

“Ser, what happened to Lord Jon?” Rhaena asked urgently. “Is he well?”

“Lord Jon succeeded in slaying the Cannibal,” the knight said with forced calm, and she could feel her heart soar. However, the next words extinguished her joy. “He suffered no wounds, even, but he’s… unwell. I have come here to beg assistance from Grand Maester Gerardrys.”

“Slay the Cannibal, you say?” one of the guards at the gate scoffed, reaching for his sword. “Stop trying to deceive the Lady Rhaena, Broome, and begone!”

Ser Alfred’s face darkened. “Are you calling me a liar, Belis?”

The guardsman spat. “Aye, I name you a liar and a cheat, who was kicked out like a dirty dog for being worthless by Her Grace, completely unworthy of your knighthood.”

“Let us not quarrel,” Rhaena proposed anxiously, but both men did not seem to heed her words.

“I take my orders from the queen and her appointed castellan, m’lady,” the other guardsman said, face grim. “You should head inside while we deal with this scoundrel.”

Ser Alfred Broome merely laughed. It was a mocking, sharp sound that pricked at your ears. This was the first time Rhaena had heard him laugh, and she had known the knight for nearly a decade.

“Open your eyes and take a good look, you bloody fools!” Ser Alfred declared boldly, dropped the sack on the ground and whipped it open, revealing a gigantic green eyeball the size of a grown goose. Black pus still oozed from a wound in the vertical pupil. “Do you know what this is?!”

“A dragon’s eye!” Rhaena gasped, then her nose scrunched up at the scent of rotten eggs. “And… and only the Cannibal has green eyes from the unclaimed dragons.”

“I am within my right to challenge you curs to a duel for besmirching my honour, and not even Queen Rhaenyra would be able to object,” Ser Alfred bit out harshly. “But unlike you, I shall not show such an unsightly display before the Lady Rhaena, should you apologise immediately!”

She groaned inwardly. Knightly honour and etiquette were things that could be a matter of life and death, and every knight and lord had the right to defend their name against slander at the tip of their swords. But she had seen Ser Alfred train with Jon and knew the knight had only grown more dangerous as of late, and the two guardsmen at the door did not stand a chance.

But a duel would require witnesses and perhaps even a septon to officiate. It would also waste time, and if Jon was unwell, any delay from receiving proper care by a healer could prove fatal.

“Apologise at once, Belis, Gerren,” Rhaena ordered, not bothering to swallow her irritation. “What are you waiting for? Do you want me to report this to Ser Robert Quince, or even my royal stepmother?”

The two guardsmen muttered an apology in fright, and Ser Alfred Broome squinted his eyes, but eventually gave a curt nod as a sign of acceptance. It seemed he also had a sense of urgency.

Thankfully, Grand Maester Gerardys was awake. Rhaena didn’t even have to try to convince the old man, for Jace had caught wind of the commotion, and seeing the green eyeball the Broome Knight was proudly displaying to everyone he met, he ordered, “Let us go and see what ails him, then.”

The words were spoken softly, in a way one would speak of family instead of distant strangers. It seemed that Jace also thought he was Uncle Viserys’s son.

Before noon, Rhaena suspected the whole of Dragonstone would know the tale of Jon Stark the Dragonslayer.

“Wait, I must know what disease has taken hold of the brave dragonslayer if I am to bring the right medicine to treat him,” the Grand Maester said as he patted his bag of herbal concoctions and medical instruments.

“It’s a fierce fever, and he hasn’t woken ever since,” Ser Alfred said sullenly. “He had bathed in the Cannibal’s blood, and we saw the heart had been devoured. The local hedgewizard claims he has no idea what to do, and even purging his stomach had no effect.”

The maester’s room grew deathly quiet.

“That fool!” Gerardys exploded, red-faced with anger. “Who believes these children’s tales about magical powers!?”

“What do you mean?” Jace asked, confused. “Everyone knows the tale of Galladon of Morne and Ser Davos the Dragonslayer!”

“And they’re just that, Your Grace. Tales twisted through a few retellings too many,” was the aggravated response. “Perhaps inspired by that barbaric old First Man ritual about devouring the heart of your first hunted beast at those ancient coming-of-age ceremonies. Of course, it’s not that simple. When Quicksilver fell to the Black Dread in the Riverlands, many smallfolk and knights were eager to bathe in its blood and taste a piece of its heart. The lucky fools died quickly, but the unlucky ones suffered in slow agony for days until the Stranger took them, for dragon blood is toxic, and its sulphuric flesh is as dangerous as any poison.”

“Can you save him, Grand Maester?” Rhaena asked anxiously. “You’re the finest healer in the realm!”

“…I can try,” Gerardrys nervously tugged his chain. “But I cannot give any guarantees, Lady Rhaena. By your words, more than a day has passed—the most opportune time to act was right after he was found. Now, the outcome is in the hands of the gods.”

Horses were arranged, and Jace rode out with six knights and a dozen outriders, Ser Lyonel Bentley, Ser Alfred Broome, Rhaena, and Grand Maester Gerardys in tow.

They rode fast and hard and arrived in less than an hour. It was still the earliest hours of the morning, the air cool and the grass covered with dew.

Jon was laid on the table inside, his muscled body completely naked save for a single towel that covered his privacy. His skin was red like a cherry, all his veins were bulging black like angry serpents, and soft steam arose; the rise and fall of his chest was faint, as Aethan and the cook toiled around him, trying to cool the body with two wet rags.

“Move aside!” Grand Maester Gerardys barked, pushing the two aside. He hastily emptied the contents of a glass vial into Jon’s mouth, massaging his throat to help him swallow, and fished out a thin, silvery knife that Rhaena knew was far sharper and tougher than its appearance suggested. “I’ve administered a powerful purging solution. Now, I’ll try to draw some blood, and if he’s lucky and the gods smile upon him, some of the toxins will be purged.”

Then, he carefully grasped Jon’s forearm and lowered the knife towards one of the bulging veins. Rhaena couldn’t bear to watch and looked away, only to whip her head back when the Grand Maester started cursing.

Gerardys looked absolutely irritated, as the knife in his hands was pressing down on Jon’s skin, but to no avail. The Grand Maester pressed harder against the skin, putting all his body’s weight behind.

He picked up the knife and scowled. “Useless junk—the blade’s edge rolled. I need to get a new bloodletting knife.”

“Use my dagger,” Ser Lyonel said, taking out his pricking knife from his boot.

“Fool! That one is tainted and has to be cleansed with boiling water or vinegar before it’s of any use—”

“I have vinegar here,” the scarred cook said, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen before returning with a wooden cup filled with a sour-smelling liquid and a piece of clean linen dipped into it.

“Let’s see, then,” the Grand Maester muttered after carefully wiping the knife with a soaked linen rag.

Then, he again went over Jon’s arm and pressed the blade’s tip to his bulging vein. He puffed with exertion, his face slowly turning red as his breathing grew laboured, yet he kept pushing harder and harder.

The dagger snapped with a clang, and the Grand Maester tumbled onto the floor.

Aethan hastily helped the Grand Maester up, while Jace picked up the tip of the dagger that had fallen nearby.

“Looks quite dull. You can use my Valyrian steel dagger,” Jace offered, handing the dagger with a dragonbone hilt his royal mother had gifted him for his fourteenth nameday. “Its edge and tip won’t dull, and it definitely won’t break either.”

After a minute of huffing and puffing, the Grand Maester finally managed to sink the rippled tip into Jon’s skin, drawing a little blood. He cautiously licked it and frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Rhaena asked fretfully.

“Nothing,” Gerardys finally replied after muttering to himself for a moment, breathless and confused. “After so long, the toxins should have reached his veins, but it hasn’t. I don’t believe blood-letting will help much, in this case.” He turned to Aethan. “I will leave you with five doses of my most powerful purgative potion to be administered once a day.”

“Will he live, Grand Maester?” Ser Alfred asked.

The Grand Maester wiped off the beads of sweat from his face and returned the dagger to Jace, sighing.

“It’s hard to say.”

“Can’t you do something more?” Jace demanded.

“I’m a maester, Your Grace, not a sorcerer. And I’m afraid even spell-singers, shadow-binders, or warlocks will not fare better than I. Ordinary poisons can be defeated, but dragons are creatures of magic…” The Grand Maester nervously tugged his jewelled chain. “He’s not getting worse, which is a sign the body is fighting the affliction. If he survives long enough, he might recover. Or he might not, remaining unconscious and slowly wasting away because his wits have been cooked by the vicious fever or has suffered some other fatal magical affliction—I cannot say with any certainty.”

Aethan and the cook wordlessly grabbed their wet rags and returned to wiping their master’s steaming body, while Jace and his retinue left.

Rhaena lingered for a while before eventually following her cousin outside, feeling numb. Gerardys, visibly tired and irritated, already rode off on his spotted dray, muttering something about, ‘damned magic’ and ‘foolish superstitions’ under his nose.

“Gerardys calls the old tales foolish and ignorant, yet Jon Stark’s skin broke two daggers and only surrendered to the sharpness of Valyrian steel.” Jace’s face was solemn. “His skin is definitely stronger than iron, possibly even bronze. Your father always told me the grey rats scarcely understood magic and feared it more than most. I’ve seen purgative potions used before, and this one did not seem to work one bit either.”

“You think Jon will perish, then?”

Jace rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. A sly smile spread across his face. “Is someone growing fond of the valiant Northman?”

“I—” the denial was stuck in her throat. Rhaena could deny it, but it would be a lie. How could a young maiden like her remain unaffected by a handsome knight who had saved her twice? Well, he wasn’t a knight, but he was no lesser than any knight and quite dashing despite his scars. Or maybe because of them. Was there another lady who could boast that a brave warrior slew a dragon for her sake?

“Yes,” Rhaena admitted quietly. “I am indeed growing fond of Jon Stark. Is it a problem?”

Jace blinked, clearly not expecting such bold and honest words.

“I think not.” He hummed softly, throwing one last look at the house. “His lineage is not lacking on either side, and he has valour and skill in spades. Your father, however, might not be so… amenable to such a match. If Jon claims a dragon, then there will be no problem. But he’ll have to overcome his affliction first.”

Jace then mounted his destrier and left along with his retinue, leaving Rhaena and Ser Lyonel behind.

A pair of distant shadows soared through the sky, and this time, Rhaena didn’t fear the Bronze Fury’s presence. Mostly because she was almost certain Vermithor had bonded with Jon Stark, and was circling above, as if to protect his rider.

But if they were truly bonded, why didn’t the Bronze Fury join the fight against Cannibal? Why had Jon acted alone? Was it because he wanted to avoid scrutiny? Stay out of the war?

After her declaration before Jace, the anxiousness in her chest didn’t exactly lessen. Yes, she was fond of Jon Stark. The words felt right on her tongue. But Rhaena was too shy and craven to do something as bold as confessing. What if Jon didn’t like her? He had not glanced at her chest or face with desire even once.

Was she actually ugly?

For the next few days, Rhaena prayed in Dragonstone’s small Sept. She visited Jon’s house every day, but there seemed to be no improvement for the better or the worse. Would his mind really be scrambled by the fever as Gerardys claimed? Or was the Grand Maester an ‘Old fraud and a bloody cheat,’ as Aethan cursed, because even the purging potions had proven inefficient?

In the next sennight, she was proven right. The tale of Grey Ghost’s sad ending and Cannibal’s demise had spread far and wide—her handmaiden even told her that the servants believed Jon Stark had tamed Grey Ghost and went after the Kin Eater in a blind rage after the drake had been eaten, fuelled by the previous whispers of being King Viserys’ byblow. Yet Jon Stark lingered between life and death, and they merely shook their head in regret or dark amusement.

At least she knew with certainty that Ser Lyonel had not spoken of the events that day, for her presence remained a secret.

Ser Alfred Broome had recruited a few villagers with promises of mutton and cheese and climbed back to Cannibal’s lair to claim the dragon’s bones for his master. On the fifth day, three dozen villagers even managed to drag down the draconic head and place it in front of the farm’s ramshackle gate as a grisly trophy.

The Red Sowing continued, but all who attempted to claim Vermithor or Silverwing were roasted alive on the spot by the Bronze Fury. Her grandfather had brought over a pair of silver-haired, purple-eyed brothers. Alyn and Addam Waters, sons of a bold woman captain from Hull, supposedly sired by Laenor.

“The other servants say they’re Lord Corlys’s bastards instead,” Alyssa confided to Rhaena one morning. “Because he didn’t dare even acknowledge their existence while Lady Rhaenys still lived.”

Rhaena could see why the rumours had spread. After all, why would her Uncle Laenor’s bastards look like he did, even though their mother had brown hair and dark eyes, yet his trueborn sons looked nothing alike despite being sired on a Targaryen Princess?

But she remembered her grandmother’s advice and did not voice her suspicions or unhappiness because it would question her royal stepmother.

Addam Waters had almost managed to approach Silverwing before the Bronze Fury swooped in and swallowed him whole before spitting a mangled corpse out. Then he flew towards the harbour and set one of the Velaryon ships on fire. Many in Dragonstone whispered that the Conciliator’s spirit still lingered in Vermithor, and he was angered with Corlys’s overgrasping ambition. Many believed it, considering the harbour had plenty of other ships and the dragon only targeted the one flying Velaryon colours.

Her grandfather was angry, but there wasn’t much he could do against a dragon.

But it seemed the Sea Snake had not given up on the thought of having his final ‘grandson’ claim a dragon. But with over twenty brave men and women perishing, the Sea Snake had resorted to a more cunning approach. Alyn had found a small, skinny thing with brown skin and a foul mouth called Nettles, taking her as his personal handmaid. Nettles claimed that Sheepstealer could be tamed by feeding him sheep.

Her grandfather only listened to her boasts because Rhaena had mentioned that she had almost claimed Grey Ghost with fish.

Only a week and three scores of sheep later, on the first day of the year 130 after Aegon’s Conquest, Alyn Waters successfully claimed the vicious Sheepstealer, and her grandfather requested that he be legitimised, and the Queen graciously allowed it.

Nobody else claimed a dragon, but Seasmoke and Sheepstealer were enough for Jace to consider his goals complete. Rhaena even saw the new dragon up close; it was nearly as big as Caraxes, but quite thinner and an ugly shade of brown. Yet Sheepstealer’s claiming gave a few more men the courage to try to master Vermithor, only to meet a grisly end—the Bronze Fury was even more ruthless and impatient to anyone who approached him or Silverwing, finally convincing any daring fool to give up.

Rhaena could only watch numbly as Jace personally tutored Alyn and Silver Denys in High Valyrian and flew together with them around Dragonstone. While the former headsman had some proficiency in the language, Alyn of Hull did not. Hot, ugly envy rose in her chest each time she saw the dragons soaring above Dragonstone, and they were often joined by her sister riding atop Moondancer. Rhaena found herself riding towards Ashcove and Jon’s hamlet more often. Thankfully, his fever had started to break, but he had yet to wake. Busy with the two dragonriders under his wing, Jace had seemingly forgotten about the Northman or perhaps had written him off for dead, but Rhaena had not.

Contrary to what the Grand Maester claimed, he did not waste away quickly but had turned slightly leaner for a bedridden man. Aethan would drip fresh milk with herbs and honey onto his tongue meticulously every day, which shouldn’t have been enough to sustain an infirm man, but it somehow was.

Every few days, Vermithor would swoop in and snatch one of Jon’s goats, much to the distress of Ser Alfred Broome and the amusement of Rhaena. Owning a dragon was an expensive endeavour, it seemed.

The villagers looked even thinner by the day, and the fish soup Aethan gave to any hungry villager was also thinner, for Ser Alfred had far poorer luck fishing on his lonesome, and they had started to stockpile for the coming winter.

“Won’t the smallfolk starve?”

“Some might,” Aethan said. “The queen’s war tax is too cruel. I reckon those who struggle will start moving toward Driftmark, Hull, or even Crab Isle. Many have already done so, and only the most stubborn and oldest ones linger here.”

Rhaena begged her grandfather to lower the smallfolk’s dues, and he promised to bring it up at the next small-council meeting.

Even Seasmoke’s new rider visited once, but turned around once he realised Jon had yet to wake.

The days were otherwise pleasant. A familiar pelican that Rhaena definitely remembered attacking her tongueless Velaryon cousins often perched on Cannibal’s head. The black draconic trophy was the only thing that stood out like a sore thumb here, but Rhaena didn’t like to look at the ungainly sight because it reminded her of that scary day. Or because it stank up everything within thirty paces of rot and sulphur.

The quiet was again broken by the sound of steel clashing, as Ser Alfred Broome mercilessly drilled the two Clawmen squires nearby with a tourney blade. Their flesh was more bruise than skin, with only their faces being spared.

When she asked him why he was far too stern with them than the master-at-arms of Dragonstone, he would say, “Can’t have a Dragonslayer’s squires be lacking in training. At least I keep their faces free of bruises; can’t have them looking like beaten thugs either.”

“You don’t seem worried, Aethan,” Rhaena said, basking in the sun on the bench outside Jon’s house.

By her side, the greybeard looked as calm as a crab as he stuffed his pipe with some weird mixture of dried herbs.

“There’s a roof above my head, food in my belly, and the fighting is far away from here,” was the dry reply. “There’s not much to worry—aside from Vermithor’s occasional pillaging. Even the Bronze Fury is more sensible than the damned Sheepstealer, for he targets the older bucks and does, so we can swallow it if with some indignation. The ducks and chickens are healthy and untouched, the crops are growing well, so we won’t starve.”

“And yet, I see all those lords and knights in Dragonstone every day, each grim-faced and worried and looking far more miserable than you do, for the war seems not to be going that well,” Rhaena murmured.

“Time keeps moving and the seasons keep changing regardless of who sits on the Iron Throne, m’lady,” Aethan said as he eyed the clear blue sky, puffing a cloud of acrid smoke from that worn-out pipe the Pentoshi merchants loved to sell. “The weather is calm, and I like it this way. Even the gods are smiling upon us—this is the warmest autumn I’ve seen.”

Rhaena could see it in Aethan’s eyes. He didn’t care if it was Rhaenyra or Aegon who would sit on the Iron Throne. To him, neither made any difference. Just like the kings didn’t care about the smallfolk, the smallfolk didn’t seem to care about their kings. But he was wise enough not to speak it aloud, lest his words be mistaken for treason.

Jon had chosen his steward well. Contrary to what many lords and knights Rhaena had heard claim, smallfolk were not a bunch of dirty simpletons, and even a former fisherman like Aethan was not without his wisdom.

“The weather is indeed pleasant,” Rhaena agreed softly. “Yet I can’t help but think this is just the calm before the storm.”

130 AC

Elsewhere,

In Harrenhal, everything was solemn. Daemon Targaryen had been in a foul mood ever since word of the Red Sowing had arrived, and how lesser mongrels had been allowed to claim dragons. And when the dragonrider was in a foul mood, the Harrenhal household suffered. The garrison was drilled for hours to no end, and the servants were punished for the lightest misstep, but the soldiers gritted their teeth and endured the drills because the Rogue Prince was training hardest of them all.

The beginning of the new year had not dispelled the gloom that had taken hold of the castle, as no festivities were held due to the ongoing war. Yet things changed with the arrival of a raven from Dragonstone.

“Dragonslayer?!” The Rogue Prince guffawed, his purple eyes not leaving the letter. “The gods must be laughing. My brother’s bastard son with some wolf maid was the only true dragon he sired! Castellan, prepare to vacate the castle at once.”

“Why, my prince?”

His lips curled in disdain. “Ser Criston Cole is marching on us, accompanied by Vhagar and Aemond the Kinslayer. The Lannister Army is marching this way from the west, already nearing Acorn Hall. Doubtlessly in an attempt to pincer our forces, but you’ll move to strike them first—I hear these self-proclaimed Winter Wolves have almost arrived.”

“Where will you be, My Prince?” asked Lord Frey fretfully.

“Away. Facing Vhagar right now is unwise, both for you and me, especially if another dragonrider is lying in ambush,” he mused. Dragons mattered the most here, Daemon knew. Armies with only soldiers could be easily dispersed by a single dragon, and it was not worth the risk to linger here and suffer an ambush by Vhagar. What if Aemond flew here while Daemon was asleep and Caraxes was chained to the ground? The Red Wyrm would stand no chance.

And if Caraxes were left unchained, he would undoubtedly fly off for a hunt, leaving Daemon just as vulnerable. No, he refused to be a sitting duck in Harrenhal.

Word of Jon Stark’s feats soon reached Winterfell, too, and Cregan Stark was said to have merely said, “Since he’s bold enough to slay a dragon, he is indeed the line of the direwolf. The last to even propose such a thing was Brandon, a Snow of Winterfell.”

In King’s Landing, Otto Hightower, who was no longer Hand but was acting as a steward to the Red Keep, still effectively ran the city. With Aemond proclaiming himself Regent, the new Hand leading an army in the field, and Aegon terribly wounded, the burden returned to his shoulders. But the previous power he had wielded was gone, and none of the royal councillors listened to him anymore.

A part of him felt amused when Larys Strong brought word of the demise of Cannibal and the bold dragonslayer who had felled the black dragon. It brought hopes into the hearts of many who supported Aegon and the Greens—dragons could be killed even by bold men, and Rhaenyra’s draconic advantage could be overcome by boldness.