14.Resisting Temptations

Edited by: Bub3loka

130 AC

Jon Stark

He awoke, feeling weak and stiff—more stiff than weak. His eyelids were as heavy as lead, but he pushed them open, only to be greeted by a familiar ceiling and darkness. But the darkness did not hamper his vision at all, for he could see every detail of the rafters above.

It was not the weirdest thing that had happened to Jon, so he just shrugged and accepted it. His hand was already reaching for Skyfall, finding the sword sheathed beside his bed. It brought him more relief than words could describe. Not only because of the feeling of safety the sword brought, but also because Ser Alfred had been considerate enough to notice his habits and leave the sword where it should be.

But Skyfall had changed. The pommel was now a black wolfhead facing one side and a dragonhead on the other, hewn from a single piece of dragonbone along with the hilt and the guard, if wrapped in white shark leather.

A wolf and a dragon. Whoever had hewn this pommel was more right than they knew, but Jon still felt loss—It was as if the last memory of Longclaw and Ghost were now gone…forever.

After stretching the stiffness out of his body, he tugged Skyfall free of its sheath. The balance was perfect, but it felt too light in his fist despite the feeling of weakness and hunger that crept through his body. His limbs had also gone thin, and his body gaunt. There was still some muscle underneath, but all the fat had melted away. Perhaps he would have been skin and bones if not for Vermithor’s sorcery.

Urged by the rumbling in his stomach, Jon pulled on a tunic, some breeches, his leather boots, and made to leave his room.

Only his careful tug on the door handle ripped it off as if it were made of charcoal. Jon blinked at the handle and squeezed. The wood gave in beneath his fingers with a crunch. But it was definitely solid wood. There was no pain in his fingers or joints. Jon had somehow grown stronger, he knew. And just like the ability to see in the dark, this stank of magic.

If he was so ridiculously strong now, while feeling sluggish and weak and hungry, Jon struggled to imagine how he would be if he were rested, well-fed, and in proper fighting condition.

Vermithor’s fiery amusement rumbled across his mind.

An aggravated sigh escaped his lips as he cautiously made his way downstairs to the kitchen to fill his belly. But apparently, the sound of the handle breaking had awoken Ser Alfred Broome; he came out with sword drawn in one hand and a lit lamp in the other.

“You’re awake, Lord Jon,” the knight stated, blinking at him with surprise as he hastily sheathed his sword. “It’s been half a hundred days, and we thought you would not wake.”

“Tell me what has happened,” Jon ordered, squinting at the sudden light. “Talk, while I grab something to satiate my hunger.”

“The Triarchy’s fleet attacked Dragonstone and Driftmark…”

Jon had seen it all happen from Vermithor and Saltbeak’s eyes in one of the rare moments his mind had awoken, but he remained silent and listened as he cautiously grabbed one of the smoked cods hanging in the cellar and greedily bit into it. Jacaerys Velaryon and his dragon had perished, as was written in history books. But not because of a mistake from the prince, but because his dragon had become tired after hours of flying and spewing dragonfire, and the exhausted drake had struggled to stay skyborne, allowing the ships below to hook it down with a grapnel—a piece of knowledge he had gleamed from Vermithor’s mind. Another difference was that Silver Denys, that deceitful headsman, had managed to master Seasmoke, and Alyn Velaryon had mounted Sheepstealer. Silverwing remained unclaimed, but more because Vermithor jealously guarded his mate more than anything else.

The most surprising matter was that Rhaena had come nearly every day until a sennight ago when her visits suddenly halted. Daemon’s daughter was a pleasant company, but her presence here could raise troublesome questions. Had she finally departed to stay out the rest of the war in the Vale, as per what was supposed to happen?

Jon shook his head. What was meant to happen would happen regardless of his meddling. His knowledge of the future—past had already slipped away, for his presence had created too many ripples.

Some things might have changed, but others remained the same—Rhaenyra had already taken King’s Landing. The castle of Dragonstone was now nearly empty, and Jon could fish in peace once he dealt with the nuisances gathering at Ashcove that Ser Alfred told him about. “A handful of envoys, Lord Jon.”

Joining the Dance… it was something Jon had entertained. Fishing left ample time for contemplation, after all. It was an option that had weighed on his mind for moons now. The truth was that he didn’t care to involve himself with either side. They wanted too much and offered too little for the risk that joining either side offered.

A title of knighthood he disdained? Vague promises of paltry land?

By the end of the year, half of the Seven Kingdoms would loathe and fear the dragons, the lords included, and even if the betrayals did not happen and the Blacks won decisively, coming out as a dragonrider would throw him into a dangerous game of intrigue and backstabbing. And for what?

To help a vain, overproud woman who had already shown no qualms about disposing of him for expediency?

The Red Sowing had passed, but Jon did not regret missing it. In the Dance, dragonriders were cheap, their loyalty cheaper, and their lives worthless. It was not that he feared death, but he would rather fight for something worthwhile. Someone worthwhile.

The cunning old dragon rumbled in agreement in his mind as he swept through, plucking one more of Jon’s goats from the enclosure outside.

The horn of ale he had just drank from was crushed in his hand, drenching his sleeve. Ser Alfred Broome only looked more impressed, almost envious even.

Exhaling slowly, Jon just shook his head and continued eating slowly, while fiddling with the fishbones and the bronze spoons, trying to get the hang of his newly gained strength without breaking anything. He really needed to get this under control lest he cripple someone by mistake.

One fish did not satiate his empty belly, and three whole smoked cods and half a loaf of bread had disappeared before Jon no longer felt hungry. The sluggishness in his limbs was also mostly dispelled, but the feeling of weakness lingered.

Dawn soon came, and his household was quick to awake. All of them were glad to see him well, even if Aethan looked vexed at the bronze spoons now tied into knots. Sighing, he slowly but carefully untied the knots and pulled the spoons back straight when he saw two new faces.

“Who are you two?” Jon carefully regarded the two boys, nearly men, who had a hint of the North in them, who looked at him as if he were Barristan Selmy reborn. It almost made him uncomfortable.

“Harrold Cave, Lord Jon,” the first introduced, bowing deeply.

His fellow mirrored the bow. “Name’s Clayton Pyne. We’re your squires, my lord.”

A pair of clawmen. No wonder they reminded him of Northmen, for it was known that the clans of Crackclaw Point still clung to much of the Old Ways despite falling under the purview of the Seven. The two squires had to be relatively important clawmen, too, for the Knight of Red Cave to send them off like that. Possibly his sons or nephews?

“Alfred, explain.”

“Training them was the cost for the weirwood cutting you desired, my lord,” came the curt reply. “I thought that two extra hands wouldn’t hurt, and the lads are as dutiful as they are eager.”

A fisherman did not need squires.

But then again, a fisherman did not need a knight either, but Jon had taken in Ser Alfred Broome regardless. Could he fault the man for picking up two squires?

Jon’s nose wrinkled as soon as he stepped outside. The earthly smell of farm spiced by salty sea wind outside was overshadowed by the faint stench of rot and sulphur. It didn’t take him long to find the source—Cannibal’s head was displayed near the house, nestled between two small mountains of dragonbone and dragonscale that Ser Alfred had salvaged with much assistance from Ashcove’s smallfolk.

“Flies and maggots are yet to attack the head, and it rots slowly even in the sun,” Ser Alfred explained, covering his nose. “And well, we didn’t want to move it just yet because it kept the unwelcome visitors away.”

“Bring me the weirwood cutting,” Jon ordered. Aethan brought the familiar branch that was kept in a clay pot filled with earth.

“Thousand apologies, Lord Jon,” the greybeard said, regretfully looking at the wilting leaves that had turned a dull red colour with their edges drooping lifelessly. “No matter how I watered it, it couldn’t catch properly. Even the finest manure only slowed down the wilting.”

“You did nothing wrong, Aethan. It’s the weirwood that is oft picky, and cuttings rarely take root unless you know a few tricks.”

Jon unceremoniously grabbed the pot and marched towards Cannibal’s head. Then, he dumped the contents of the pot straight into Cannibal’s empty eye socket. The weirwood branch shivered, and the leaves rustled despite the lack of wind.

His household gasped fearfully as the wilting leaves visibly livened up, returning to their bright crimson. Jon could already feel the stench of rot receding. The dragon’s flesh and brains would become suitable sustenance for his new weirwood to take root properly.

“Father above,” Ser Alfred muttered, clasping his hands in prayer, while Aethan made a hand sign that those who followed the Seven used to banish away evil.

“It’s just a weirwood, there are many still in the South and have been around for a very long time” Jon explained, but that didn’t seem to assuage their fears at all. “Just forget it, I’ll take care of it now. Harrold, Clayton, grab the bucket and the fishing effects, then your training equipment, and follow me.”

“Isn’t this too soon, Lord Jon?” Aethan asked cautiously. “Perhaps some further rest might be prudent—”

“I’ve rested for nearly two moons already,” Jon countered. “It’s time to stretch my limbs a bit.”

Ser Alfred wordlessly followed him, while the two squires scrambled to grab what he ordered, and Jon kept his pace deliberately slow so they had time to catch up.

Not five minutes after Jon had departed, he was waylaid by a sizeable crowd.

“A handful of envoys, Alfred?” Jon snarked.

The Broome knight had the decency to blush as the clamour finally barred their way.

“It’s Jon Stark!”

“It’s him!”

“The Dragonslayer has awakened!”

Proud faces and fine garments of silk and cotton would have betrayed their origins even without the sigils. The burning tower of Grafton of Gulltown. The mermen of Manderly of White Harbour. The crossed keys of Locke. The red salmon of Mooton of Maidenpool. The rusty anchor of Melcolm of Old Anchor and many more houses, mainly from the Vale, but Jon could spot more than a few Riverlanders, Crownlanders, and the occasional Northman dotted in between, all Houses that stood with the Blacks. Then, there were a far smaller group of men who looked like they had never wielded a sword in their lives, and their choice of bright, gaudy garments outed them as Essosi—probably men from Pentos, Braavos, and Lorath.

In the very back, Jon gleamed a band of merchants and craftsmen—probably members of some of the Crownlands’ many guilds.

A giant of a man with a greying mane of hair, towering by over half a head over everyone else, pushed his way through the crowd. A Royce, judging by the bronze shield on his tabard.

“Greetings, Jon the Dragonslayer!” his voice boomed as he came to the front, much to the chagrin of his fellow envoys. “I am Lord Gunthor Royce of Runestone!”

Jon exhaled slowly. A lord. A lord had come to visit him, and not just some petty lord of a minor house, but the Royce of Runestone, one of the most powerful lords in the realm, second only to the Highlords who ruled over a whole kingdom. Jon had read of Gunthor Royce, the one who they called the Giant of Runestone, a lord who had participated in the Arryn succession war, but a few words on an old parchment could hardly compare to seeing the man in person.

“Well met, Lord Gunthor.” Jon bowed slightly, as appropriate when meeting a powerful lord, unrelated to him. “How may I be of aid to the Royces of Runestone?”

“Hah, finally a forthright man, not some long-winded lickspittle!” Gunthor Royce rubbed his stubble and gazed at Jon. “Boy, how about you wed my daughter—”

“Not interested, Lord Royce,” Jon immediately declined. “I am sure she is the Flower of Runestone, a beauty worthy of a kingdom, but alas. I do not plan on holding lands or titles, and I do not intend to fight in the war. I only came here to fish.”

Many of the men looked visibly disappointed at his declaration. But it was for the better that Jon announced his intentions now, lest they have some undue expectations of him later. It was a lie, of course. Jon did not mind holding titles, but they had to be big enough to match Stannis’ offer. At least a kingdom and a princess for a wife to entice Jon away from the pleasant life he had found himself. And preferably in a way that would not let Jon get ‘discarded’ once he outlived his usefulness.

“A pity,” the Royce lord sighed. “But not unexpected. Then, would you be amenable to parting with some of your dragonbone and dragonscale?”

Now, the whole crowd quieted, listening eagerly. So that was what they were after?

“What would you need dragonscale for, Lord Royce?” Ser Alfred asked from the side. “The stuff might be sturdier than steel, but it’s nearly thrice as heavy, impossible to use for shields and armour.”

“A nice dragon scale to hang in my solar and a second one for my Great Hall, of course,” Royce replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m more than willing to leave you well-compensated for it, Stark.”

“Are all of you here for the dragonbone and dragonscale?”

The crowd murmured out an almost shame-faced agreement, but the Essosi were far bolder and direct in their proclamations.

Jon felt a headache forming. At least they were here to make the request politely, instead of trying to steal or loot the stuff. But this had to be the protection of the Stark name. Coupled with the acknowledgement by the previous king, it made him someone people would not be quick to offend. Of course, there were those who would not hesitate to resort to less than honourable means or did not care about offending House Stark or the memory of Viserys Targaryen, which meant that Jon would do well to dispose of the troublesome ‘trophies’ as quickly as possible.

The value of dragonbone and dragonscale was almost priceless, for House Targaryen greedily hoarded the remnants of their priceless dragons, and only on rare occasion would they sell one or two pieces for some ridiculous price or give it away to as a gift.

But now, a dragon corpse was in the possession of someone else, and not just any dragon, but a wild one that the Targaryens did not control. Judging by the greed in the eyes of the Essosi envoys, if he haggled properly, Jon could probably get thrice the weight in gold as payment for the scales and bones.

Even more wealth would doubtlessly attract the greedy and the ambitious regardless. The Dance itself was in the swing of the war, where both sides burned through gold like the watch burned through firewood in the coldest days of winter.

“There’s no need for payment,” Jon drawled out. “Let it be my gift to you all. There’s plenty of dragonbone and dragonscale to go around for everyone.”

“You want nothing in return, Jon Stark?” one of the Essosi asked, aghast. His accent was similar to that of the Pentoshi merchants Jon had met. “But that’s not how this works! We are not beggars here for alms, but honest merchants here, from a long lineage of traders that stretches back to the Freehold!”

For all of his bluster, he did not look reluctant to accept a ‘gift’. Though, Jon would have to at least know where his gifts were going.

“You there—the Braavosi man,” Jon pointed out to the gaunt man cloaked in purple who proudly carried a golden token of the Iron Bank on his chest. “From the Iron Bank, I presume?”

“Pyetro Prestayan, representative of the Keyholders at your service, Master Dragonslayer,” the man said, bowing politely.

“I assume a man like you has a way to verify that everyone here is who they claim to be?” Jon asked. It would be improper if he started handing out gifts to enemies of the crown.

“That I do, Dragonslayer.”

“I’ll let you have three dragon bones if you help me ascertain the identity of the men here.” Jon took a look towards Ashcove. A peek through Saltbeak’s eyes showed him the villagers were toiling with piles of wooden planks stacked up to the side, probably salvaged from all the wrecked ships from the Battle of the Gullet. “If you insist on really repaying me, just promise to return the favour in the future should the chance arise. Nothing that would put your honour or family into trouble, of course.”

“Granted!” Royce’s voice boomed, making many flinch. “A man of honour and righteousness, hah! But surely you must desire something else, Jon Stark?”

“If you’re so eager to help, grant me this boon—a granary for this village, filled with food to tide the poor folk here through the winter,” Jon said. “And perhaps a choicer selection of cattle for myself. No more than a hundred and fifty heads.”

His herd of goats had gone dangerously thin after Vermithor had eaten his way through it, and now was the time to replenish it. With the power and wealth of these eager envoys, he could finally get sheep, even cows and aurochs, expanding the types of cheese he could make. And Sheepstealer was in King’s Landing now, and wouldn’t pass by to steal any sheep Jon procured.

“Hah, a generous man indeed!”

“A true Stark,” a plump Manderly knight added, face jubilant.

A few heads of cattle were nothing for the factions and Houses represented here. In fact, it could scarcely be counted as a paltry offering.

Many looked awed by his generosity, while others were baffled, or even disdainful. But none spoke against it, for they got to benefit. It was doubtful Jon would ever see any of those favours repaid, but he didn’t care.

Aside from the skull, a few dragonscales and dragonbones that he would keep for personal use, Jon considered hoarding too many rare items a bane rather than a boon.

After all, everything had already changed, and the future was uncertain.

But one thing was for certain. He never felt more at peace when just… giving back and toiling here. There was something almost magical in how seedlings bloomed and grew with time and care. Something inside Jon stirred with Ashcove’s growth when the hope and joy came to the people’s eyes, when there had been only numb acceptance before. Death and destruction were easy to inflict, Jon knew. He was a master at it. But it left him hollow, angry, and never satisfied. But this… he could get used to this life.

Peace and quiet fishing. It was a better life than slaughter and war.

He had no brothers and sisters and cousins to worry about, and had not made any enemies.

The Dance would also pass, Jon mused. Kings and queens came and went, and so did wars, regardless of whether Jon fought and killed. Was it not better to just… enjoy the peace and avoid silly conflicts that did not concern him?

A draconic snort echoed in his mind, as mocking as it was thunderous. Vermithor clearly disagreed. For some reason, the Bronze Fury thought his peace would not last.

Saltbeak came as soon as Jon caught an eel. But the pelican had changed. Most of its feathers were ruffled, and it looked thinner.

Jon’s gaze flicked to the sky. Flocks of birds could be seen streaking to the south, seeking warmer lands. It was no wonder; the days had grown shorter, the nights longer and colder. He could feel Saltbealk’s desire to join them—even the nightly chill unsettled the pelican. But the bird had stayed here, waiting for him.

“Go,” Jon said. The pelican reluctantly looked at the bucket of fish before taking to the skies, streaking southward.

It grew smaller and smaller, until it was merely a dot that disappeared into the horizon, and Jon did not look away until it disappeared.

The Battle of the Lakeshore was the bloodiest battle during the Dance of Dragons, seeing tens of thousands of dead in a matter of hours. It seemed that the Blacks’ bold tactics were winning against the superior numbers of Westerlanders led by the overcautious Lord Humfrey Lefford.

It was a daring manoeuvre to give battle, considering Ser Criston Cole and Prince Aemond were waiting in Harrenhal.

Just as the Lannister men were forced into the cold waters of the Gods Eye, Vhagar swooped from above, drowning the bold Rivermen and Northmen into rivers of devilish red dragonflame.

It was said that it was Lord Lefford sending an envoy on a fisherman’s boat through the Gods Eye to alert the Prince Regent of his situation after his ravens had been killed by the Riverland’s marksmen who saved the day for the Greens.

Yet not many called it as such, considering the losses. It was a slaughter for both sides.

By the end, scarcely anyone had survived. No more than a thousand half-drowned Westermen, and a part of the Black lancers and knights who had managed to flee in every direction.

Five hundred of these Westermen were left to recuperate and hold Harrenhal while Prince Aemond Targaryen decided to punish the Riverlords for supporting Rhaenyra. First was House Tully—Riverrun was soon torched into slag as a warning to those who defied the Greens, the once beautiful castle melted into an unliveable ruin of charred stone. Prince Aemond continued to scour the Tully lands and their landed knights, and sent ravens to summon each Riverlord to Harrenhal to bend the knee or burn.

From the Black host, only Alysanne Blackwood, Lord Roderick Dustin, and Lady Sabitha Frey managed to survive, and attempted to rally the routed horse with their meagre forces and try to get the other lords to raise more men. Facing Vhagar’s wrath and the extinguished House Tully, the Riverlords were reluctant to squeeze their lands for another muster. Many Riverlords and their families started keeping only a token garrison manning the walls, keeping their entire households in dug-in underground shelters to avoid death by dragonflame and meeting the tragic fate of House Tully.

Meanwhile, after a heavy disagreement with the Prince Regent on how to proceed further, Ser Criston Cole and his host, which had absorbed the surviving Westermen, moved south to meet with Lord Ormund Hightower and Prince Daeron Targaryen….

Excerpt from ‘When Dragons Danced’ by Archmaester Abelon

The Rogue Prince, King’s Landing

Otto Hightower had been hanged the day the city fell, much to Daemon’s delight.

They had held King’s Landing for over a month before Rhaenyra finally deigned to act beyond cleaning the Green supporters from the city. The loss of three children had turned his wife angry and vengeful, but her previous indecision still lingered, as if taking the Conqueror’s City and sitting on the Iron Throne had drained all the strength from her body.

“After the Battle of the Lakeshore and the Honeywine, we have no army on the field, Your Grace,” Lord Bartimos Celtigar said. “And the Greens have two—three, if we count the Stormlanders dealing with the Vulture King.”

The Celtigar lord was old, his blonde hair streaked with grey and white. He was thin and callous, both in body and character, and his wealth was only second to the Sea Snake.

Daemon scoffed. “Baratheon is just a boisterous coward who doesn’t dare fight dragons. Besides, armies matter little when dragons fly in the sky. We have five dragons, and they have two.”

His eyes flickered towards his wife. Rhaenyra still looked as pale as a ghost, and the bags under her eyes had turned nearly purple as she struggled with nightly terrors, but she had found her strength now, as her eyes were full of fire and blood.

“Summon the North and the Vale’s banners,” Rhaenyra commanded. “It’s time they bled for me as they promised.”

Jarod, Gerardys’ acolyte, hastily scribbled down her orders—the young man had been taken with them to King’s Landing to fulfil the duties of a maester, since that old bag of bones Orwyle could not be trusted. If only Gerardys had not stubbornly remained on Dragonstone, claiming that ‘he was sworn to the castle, not the crown’.

Despite taking King’s Landing and watching Otto Hightower choke like a common brigand on the noose, Daemon did not feel satisfied, for the war was not going well. He had lost a son to the thrice-cursed Triarchy. His little Viserys—gone, slain by the Essosi. His remaining son, Aegon, had been left a shadow of his former self, a frightful boy who had witnessed his dragon perish. It angered Daemon more than anything else. The Triarchy would regret making an enemy out of him again.

But first, the Hightower spawn had to be dealt with. Aegon the Elder had given them the slip, and so had his remaining whelps, despite Rhaenyra’s efforts to the contrary.

The kinslayer and Vhagar, however, continued to pose a threat. She was an old, cranky dragon, but no less dangerous for it, and Daemon could see that they all feared her.

“Darry has also burned, and only a boy—now the new lord survived—by hiding in the vaults with his mother. We’re going to lose the Riverlords at this rate,” Corlys said, face unreadable. “With the Tullys all dead, the Riverlords are slowly crumbling under Vhagar’s dragonflame. Prince Aemond must be dealt with if we want the Northmen to be able to join the fight. They’re just sitting ducks without a dragonrider to protect them; they would not even make it past the Neck before Prince Aemond turns them to cinders.”

“Vhagar!” Rhaenyra all but spat the name. She balled her meaty fist so tightly her knuckles turned white. “They have been a thorn in my side for too long. If the gods had justice, the Kinslayer would have been struck down by lightning long ago!”

Just the mention of Aemond was enough to drive her to anger. But then again, Rhaenyra had been quicker to anger after little Visenya’s death. In one year, she had lost four children.

“I’ll go and deal with them,” Daemon said. “We have three thousand swords from the Narrow Sea Houses and the thousand men led by Mooton, Brune, Celtigar, and Crabb to cover my advance.”

News had just arrived earlier that they had retaken Rook’s Rest.

“Cole’s scouts will spot your host from afar,” Lord Bartimos Celtigar pointed out. “You will lose the element of surprise.”

“We’re not sending another host to the Riverlands,” his wife decided, voice tight. “It will take you weeks to march to Harrenhal, leaving my city nearly undefended. Hightower and Daeron are already nearing Tumbleton, and Ser Criston Cole would probably join them soon. Daeron might be young and green, but Cole and Ormund are old, cunning foxes that ought not be underestimated.”

The name of the Cole knight was still spoken with bitterness. Of all the Greens, Rhaenyra hated the Kingmaker the most.

“I’ll take Ser Denys with me, then,” Daemon offered, his lips curling. Silver Denys might have been knighted, but he couldn’t wield a sword to save his life. At least he followed orders well and was half-decent on dragonback after Jace had tutored him. “Caraxes and Seasmoke should be able to deal with Vhagar easily. With you and Alyn holding the city, the youngest Hightower boy and his blue drake won’t be able to threaten you before we return.”

“It might take some time,” Corlys cautioned, face tired. “According to Lord Dustin, Vhagar rarely lingers around Harrenhal, busy trying to burn and cow those who refuse to bend the knee to the Greens.”

“We’ll fly to Maidenpool first, then, and search along the Trident.”

“Very well, Daemon. Start preparing, but you shall not move before we receive word from Lord Mooton, lest you fall into an ambush like Rhaenys did.” Rhaenyra’s purple eyes roamed through the councillors with a hard glower. “And I want my crippled half-brother found. The one who brings me his head will be richly rewarded. How can a half-crippled dragon and a crippled man not be found by a whole army’s worth of men!?”

Corlys coughed, also looking quite concerned. “Larys Strong has been running the spies in the city for over a decade. The Clubfoot is as resourceful as he is elusive—”

His wife erupted with fury, interrupting the Sea Snake with a snarl, “I don’t want excuses, damn you!” The shadow of anger passed as soon as it appeared, and Rhaenyra’s face turned into an unreadable mask as she spoke again, voice calm, “I want results, Corlys. You too, Daemon. Have that spymistress of yours finally earn her keep instead of slithering around the brothels and sowing distrust!”

“What exactly should the reward be?” Celtigar, the hoary copper counter, asked. “The treasury is empty, and we can scarcely gather enough coin to pay the paltry number of warriors and gold cloaks in our city.”

The gods were laughing at them. Poverty had hounded their steps since they had wedded. Neither Rhaenyra nor Daemon had much patience for copper counting or sifting through books and ledgers, and Dragonstone was the poorest lordship in the Crownlands, not enough to sustain a family of dragonriders. They had relied on Corlys’ generosity, which had dried out after Hull was sacked and High Tide had been looted.

“Well, raise the taxes more,” Rhaenyra drawled. “I appointed you as a master of coin to make sure I have the gold I need, Bartimos, not to flounder around blindly. Or must I appoint another, more capable man?”

Lord Celtigar hastily bowed his head. “I can do it, Your Grace. I swear on my good name that you will not want for gold soon. Ser Tyland Lannister will doubtlessly sing where those scoundrels hid the royal treasury soon—my personal torturers are working on him day and night.”

“They have been working on the poor lion for a moon now, and all they got was screams,” Daemon mocked, and watched with amusement as Bartimos’ face turned a dark shade of red. Chuckling, he stood up and bowed to his wife. “Anyway, I will leave to prepare myself, Your Grace, my lords.”

As he left the dreadfully dull small council meeting, he could hear his wife’s angry roars echoing behind, “Send out more of my knight inquisitors, bring me the heads of my grasping half-brother and his damned whelps and punish any who aided them—”

Daemon spent the next hour sipping on Arbour gold from the royal cellars, for the Greens had taken away the gold, but they had left the wine behind. His dastardly nephew loved wine as much as he loved women. Rhaenyra and the city had made him slothful, as he struggled to find the will to wake up at dawn and keep his body and skills sharp in the yard.

Was it the flush of opulence and the army of willing servants and endless delicacies the crown could muster, Daemon wondered?

But the last year had been fruitful. The defeat at his bastard nephew’s hands had wounded his pride more than he cared to admit, and was one of the main reasons he had spent his time in Harrenhal putting himself back into proper fighting shape. Daemon could claim he was more dangerous now than he was twenty years ago, even if age had worn down his endurance irrevocably. He was almost tempted to ditch the war, fly to Dragonstone, and test himself in another bout.

Almost. But as much as he wanted to act whimsically as if he were still a young man, he could not, for the stakes were high. His presence here alone strengthened Rhaenyra’s cause greatly. Daemon knew his wife was no warrior, and didn’t inspire great loyalty in the common men-at-arms and the rest, who were not bound by stringent oaths of fealty to her cause. Should he suddenly go to Dragonstone without due cause, many might take his leave as flight, desertion, and even see their fighting spirit and loyalty waver at such an important moment.

Alas. Perhaps he could summon Jon Stark instead? But no, nothing short of Daemon’s arrival in person would move that stubborn mule from his fishing.

As he was lost in contemplation, Mysaria slipped into his room for a cup, looking tired. Age had seen Lady Misery turn fleshy, and she was a shadow of her younger self, much like Rhaenyra was, but still pleasant to the eyes. The blood of Valyria was special like that, having the ability to bring beauty where others would have turned into something too unsightly to look upon.

“The inns are filled with bards singing praises of the generous dragonslayer—the secret son of King Viserys, in one breath and comparing his bastard look with Crown Prince Joffrey’s colouring in the other. The streets are filled with rumours about how Her Grace has ordered to have the queen dowager and Princess Helaena whored out in a brothel,” she reported glumly. “The city welcomed her with joy and happiness, yet the fickle smallfolk have turned fearful after so many executions and witchhunts, as they call it, and the knight inquisitors are met with fear and distrust.”

“The Clubfoot’s doing, no doubt,” Daemon allowed. “You have yet to catch him?”

Mysarya laughed. It was still a pleasant tinkling sound, caressing his ears. “He lingers in the city like a stubborn maggot on a rotten corpse. But he won’t evade me for long, now that the City is ours and the Iron Throne is behind us.” The last word was like a purr, as she slipped her hand, already tugging on his belt.

Daemon felt the throes of lust creep into his mind and body, but gently grabbed her wrist. Rhaenyra might have allowed such dalliances as long as they remained out of her sight, but his mind was supposed to be on his coming task. Facing Vhagar.

“You look tense, my Prince,” she whispered, gently slipping her arm from his grasp and standing up. Then, she sauntered behind him, and he felt a pair of hands sink into his shoulders as Mysaria leaned in close enough that he could feel her hot breath ghosting on his neck. “Let me help you relax, Daemon.”

“I am not opposed,” he whispered. “But surely you have come to me for something more important than mere hearsay? Or was this just an excuse to come for some fun?”

“There’s a letter from your daughter that I took from that cowardly acolyte,” Mysaria said breathily. “She’s complaining that Ser Robert Quince forbids her from visiting that Dragonslayer out of fear of impropriety.”

“Tsk, the fat old knight has grown presumptuous,” Daemon tutted. “Telling my daughter what to do and what not to do. I suppose I’ll have to send a letter scolding him—”

Mysaria hungrily claimed his lips and unclasped his belt, and he gave in to his desires.

Rhaena, Dragonstone

Jace and Viserys’ deaths only made her feel numb, and she had only cried for one night. Was it because she had grown used to grief?

She was six and ten now, considered a woman grown before gods and men. It was a momentous occasion in the life of a maiden, nearly as important as her wedding day, yet the celebration was far more meagre than the one they had last year. This time, even her family was absent—all gathered in King’s Landing. The worst blow came when her grandfather had proclaimed that bastard Alyn as his heir, taking Driftmark away from the twins. But nobody had spoken up for Rhaena or her sister, for the bastard of Hull had mastered a big dragon and was crucial in the war.

Their grandmother would have never stood for such impudence. But Rhaenys Targaryen was dead.

Robert Quince had thrown a small name day feast for the two sisters, but the meagre courses failed to appease their indignation. It felt like he was trying to rub salt on the freshly opened wound instead.

Just as she began losing hope, a reply arrived from her father. And it had been nearly half a moon since she had sent the letter. Rhaena only regretted not thinking of sending it earlier.

“Prince Daemon has allowed you leave to pursue a dragon freely, and also to visit the dragonslayer at your own discretion,” the irksome castellan announced as he entered the ladies’ parlour, his meaty face looking as if he had swallowed a lemon as her sister giggled with amusement to the side. “Ser Lyonel Bentley will accompany you as usual. But I would advise a measure of caution—at least wear a hooded cloak, Lady Rhaena.”

Ser Lyonel gave her a resigned nod. He was one of the few knights remaining on Dragonstone despite his significant skill with the sword, doubtlessly too ashamed to go to King’s Landing after his previous failures. He was also the only knight whose loyalty Rhaena could confidently claim to be to her before anyone else. After all, he was the one who had agreed to slip her letter to Gerardys after Baela had also been barred from leaving the Sea Dragon tower without a minder after being caught playing a kissing game with one of the squires. It also put an end to her sister’s ‘stone hurling practice’ in the garden.

“So eager to visit your lover, sister?” Baela asked sourly once the castellan left the lady’s parlour. “Going to kiss the dashing knight after he has finally woken?”

“You know Jon is not a knight,” Rhaena huffed. “Neither is he my lover.”

“But you wished he were.”

“A proper lady does not have lovers or dalliances, lest she wants to invite trouble onto herself,” she reminded pointedly, and her sister had the decency to blush. Those were her grandmother’s words, but Baela had rarely paid attention to most lessons. “But I would not mind if we were to wed. There are worse husbands than Jon Stark.”

The idea had settled in her mind since Jace had spoken about it, and Rhaena lacked the courage to chase it away.

“Neither Father nor Stepmother will allow it, though,” Baela said, pouting as she threw herself on the plush daybed and groaned as her legs kicked in the air in frustration. “We will probably be betrothed to Joff and little Egg next, and will become old crones before we know a man’s touch! Haaaah, I miss Jace!”

“That didn’t stop you from kissing the squires,” Rhaena chided.

“It’s precisely because I miss Jace that I kissed the squires!” Unable to deal with her twin’s antics, Rhaena shook her head and quickly made for her quarters to get a change of riding garments.

The castle and the yard still felt dreadfully empty, just like the day Rhaenyra had left. Only a token garrison was left to guard the castle, and the queen had taken most of the household to King’s Landing. The sky above was overcast with clouds, and rays of sunlight speared through the gaps, illuminating the surroundings. Even the sea had grown stormy, and Rhaena’s face grew numb from the cold wind, forcing her to pull her hood down, tying its straps. By noon, she was already at Ashcove.

For some reason, the village had swelled nearly twice in size in the forty days she had not visited.

The dilapidated mess of weather-worn buildings swarmed with men and women now. The piles of wooden debris from the ships salvaged from the Battle of the Gullet had lessened, and old buildings were refurbished with new mud bricks and wooden planks. Many new buildings had risen, one of which looked like an inn, and two more like guildhalls. A band of burly workers who looked nothing like the villagers were eagerly toiling on a building that looked like a granary.

The crooked streets were swarming with people, and the old, half-rotten wharf was replaced by three wooden piers, around which three trade cogs were anchored.

“What happened here?” she couldn’t help but ask. A few familiar faces from the crowd definitely recognised her despite the cowl covering her face—or at least Ser Lyonel Bentley, who had passed through here with her dozens of times.

“The generous wolf lord gifted most of the dragonbone and dragonscale to those lordlings and Essosi magisters who came to purchase them, in exchange for some aid to us poor folk here,” one of the nearby fishermen explained, shaking his head in disbelief. “The guildmasters, too, got their share of gifts, and now everyone is overeager to visit Ashcove. The brewer’s guild has already opened an inn and a brewery, and fields are being tilled for barley.”

“Everything grew better once Silver Denys left,” a gaunt greybeard spat. “Bad seed, that one—and not cause he’s claiming to be from Maegor’s get. His pa was a swindler, and Denys was no better, but now that his brood has left for Braavos to find Fat Jeyne a husband, life here quickly turned for the better. Ah, why didn’t Aeron leave, to finally get rid of the star of misfortune on us?!”

“You shouldn’t speak badly of a dragonlord’s kin, old coot,” an old woman came over, pulling the man’s ear as she dragged him back into one of the dilapidated huts.

Rhaena rubbed her face tiredly. Was this so-called Fat Jeyne so hideous that she would struggle to find a husband here even after her father had mastered a dragon?

“The merchants from Gulltown, Pentos, and White Harbour have already purchased houses to be repurposed into warehouses,” another greying washerwoman continued, looking somewhat excited. “And they’re already planning to raise a bordello here…”

It took Rhaena a heartbeat to understand the Myrish term, and she sniffed disdainfully then spurred Chestnut away. If Jon were awake, surely he had taken refuge at his usual fishing spot.

Lo and behold, he was there, and something in her belly fluttered at the sight of him. Jon sat on a rocky pier beside Ser Alfred Broome over a pair of fishing lines as the clawmen squires whacked at each other with blunted swords on the shore. Still bare-chested despite the cold brought by the well-advanced autumn.

How many hours had she gazed at his sleeping form, unmoving beyond the rise and fall of his chest and praying he would wake?

“Ah, it’s the lady Rhaena,” the two squires quickly noticed her as she dismounted, leaving Lyonel to guard the horses.

“Harrold, Clayton,” she greeted with a nod as they bowed deeply, eagerly leading her towards the pier.

Ser Alfred Broome pulled away his line and descended from the pier, his face sour as usual, but he looked like a scarecrow with the wind messing his well-combed hair into something that resembled a bird’s nest, and his cloak was damp with seawater.

“He bid me invite you for a private talk,” he muttered unhappily. Rhaena did not take offence, for nothing seemed to make the Broome knight happy. “Be cautious. The rocks are slippery.”

Why was she not surprised that Jon had noticed her presence without glancing her way even once? Or that he had chosen a good place for a private talk, for the sound of the sea would drown their voices?

Rhaena climbed up the pier that was wider and taller than she remembered, as if some giant had meticulously stacked boulders in his boredom, the smallest of which was over half her size. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her after being confined inside for over a moon. The waves angrily crashed against the rocks, sending droplets of water in every direction, and the two dozen yards that separated her from Jon Stark felt like a mile with her slow and cautious steps. Up close, she could see Jon sitting on a weathered plank of wood, doubtlessly from one of the wrecked ships that had washed ashore since the battle of the Gullet.

Just as she was about to reach his side, her foot caught in the crevice, and she fell forward face-first, her hands flailing helplessly.

The pain never came, as Jon twisted, catching her in the last moment, more of a hug than anything else. The pair of strong arms felt nothing like Baela’s embraces. In fact, Rhaena decided she liked this far more.

“Be careful, Lady Rhaena,” Jon chided, his voice melding with the rhythmic beating of the waves. Rhaena, however, was lost in his eyes, which were the prettiest shade of grey she had seen. “Are you not going to let go?”

Rhaena realised she was holding on to the Northman, and heat rushed to her face.

“My apologies,” she muttered, reluctantly letting go and sitting on the makeshift bench.

Jon Stark frowned at the waves, his brow creased with frustration. “I lost my fishing line. Ah, no matter. I heard you visited me almost daily while I was infirm…”

His words hung in the air, letting her answer the unasked question. The Northman looked at her expectantly, and for the first time, Rhaena received the full attention of Jon Stark; no longer did he treat her like a stranger or a passerby. And by the gods, his gaze was intense, and Rhaena felt her stomach tie itself into a knot.

“I had a few queries, Lord Jon,” she began, swallowing her apprehension. “I would be grateful if you could dispel a few of my doubts that have lingered in my mind for so long.”

“They must be quite important queries to bring you to my doorstep every day,” Jon noted, his face more amused than affronted at her overly polite phrasing. “Ask, then, and I shall do my best to answer.”

“Did you claim Vermithor?”

Jon’s face turned into a stony mask, completely still and bereft of emotion. “What made you think so?”

“My father taught me that dragons are proud creatures, only caring for their rider and no other,” she explained, her nervousness returning with full force. “That day, when Cannibal attacked, Vermithor showed up to chase him away. Yet the Bronze Fury showed no fondness for me when it rejected my attempt to claim him. It can’t be Ser Lyonel—his courage against dragons is less than mine, which logically leaves you as the person the dragon came to protect.”

“Quite an astute observation,” he said, neither agreeing nor denying. “And what if you were right and Vermithor has indeed claimed me?”

Rhaena noticed the twist in his phrasing and frowned. But it only confirmed her suspicions, for it was what her Father had always said. The dragon claims the rider as much as the rider claims the dragon.

“Then, I would ask you why you have not stepped forward to claim it openly,” Rhaena continued, feeling far more confident.

Jon sighed. “And go and follow the orders of a woman who tried to kill me out of expediency instead of administering justice? I would rather fish in peace.” The Northman certainly could hold grudges, but Rhaena did not fault him for it. Then, he rubbed his face tiredly. “Tell me, what do you think shall happen to Alyn Velaryon and Silver Denys should they survive to the end of the war?”

“…I don’t know.” Rhaena just blinked in confusion. That never even crossed her mind—the end of the war seemed so impossibly distant, as if the bloody affair would never end. “I would wager they would get some land as promised, or even a lordship, if they proved themselves further.”

“If both Silver Denys and Alyn survive, two new noble houses that have mastered dragons will exist to contest the power of the Iron Throne like House Velaryon did for decades.” His voice was calm and distant, as if narrating an old story. “Today’s friend would turn into tomorrow’s enemy, for it would be easiest to squash as soon as the fighting ends. The wounds of the war would still be fresh, and the victor would naturally want to avoid a repeat of the struggle, the loss, and the danger. Perhaps an accusation of treason or something just as damning here or there, before either of them could set roots and build up connections.”

Rhaena’s blood chilled. “But Jace had promised, and surely the fighting would stop—”

“The late crown prince was either more cunning or more foolish than anyone thought,” Jon said, chuckling softly. “But his promises had died with him, regardless. Did not the Velaryons give King Viserys countless headaches, only because they commanded dragons as the Targaryens did? Did this bloody war not start only because both sides claimed to be masters of the sky?”

Jon was right, of course. An aggravated sigh escaped from Rhaena’s lips.

“Then, why did you claim a dragon, then? And do not pretend that you did not, Jon Stark.”

His face soured. “It was Vermithor who did the claiming,” he said reluctantly. “Do you think I want the damn beast eating his way through my goats?”

Rhaena blinked before bursting out in giggles; it was such an unexpected yet also plausible thing to happen, considering what she knew of Jon Stark. Once the laughter started, it couldn’t stop; It felt like forever until she finally managed to calm down.

“I did notice that you never told anyone,” Jon continued. “Otherwise, Rhaenyra would have sent a band of knights to bring me to Dragonstone to swear fealty to her or lose my head. I suppose I owe my freedom to your silence.”

“You did save my life twice, my lord, so you owe me nothing, and I do not wish any harm to come to you.” Rhaena, feeling uncharacteristically bold, declared, “Especially since my heart has been moved by your valour.”

Jon Stark closed his eyes. “I suspected, you know. The way you kept coming by my side, regardless, and the glances you kept throwing my way when you thought I wasn’t looking. I hoped such thoughts would pass, that it was but a childish fancy from a young, star-struck maiden, but here you have come to confess instead.”

Rhaena could only lower her head, her heart clenching. “Do you find me ugly, my lord?”

“On the contrary, Rhaena. I find you gorgeous, too gorgeous, and herein lies the problem,” was the cool reply. “If I were a lesser man, I would give in to my baser desires and take you here and now. Yet, if I were to bed a woman, I would rather she be my wife. But a fisherman cannot claim the hand of a dragonlord’s daughter.”

The words made her heart soar, and then it crashed into the ground, smashing into a thousand pieces.

“Do you think you can hide your connection to Vermithor forever, my lord?” Rhaena asked while cursing fate. “Sooner or later, someone is bound to notice, and wouldn’t it be better that you come out with it on your own terms? Perhaps a clash in the future could be averted, should you bind yourself to House Targaryen through marriage…”

“Let us not be hasty, then,” Jon raised his hands, sighing. “I have my pride, too. I would not mind serving Rhaenyra Targaryen despite her attempt to dispose of me if she were a ruler worthy of my fealty, not merely a woman who lays claim to the throne because she thinks she deserves it. Yet everything before me speaks otherwise. Half a year—your royal stepmother holds King’s Landing now. Let us see how well she rules it, and we can talk of this again.”

His tone suggested that he did not believe Rhaenyra would fare well. There was steel in his voice, and Rhaena knew that his mind would not be swayed. His word was given, and she was torn between admiration and regret.

“And what if my father decides to give my hand away meanwhile?” Rhaena prodded.

“Then, we were not fated to be,” Jon said. “If such a thing were to happen, I shall remain a hapless fisherman, spending my life on these shores until the day I die. Or perhaps I’ll grow bored of this land and travel the far corners of the world, for there would be nothing to bind me to House Targaryen.”

“That’s not romantic at all,” she said, feeling tired.

“It is you who confessed, Rhaena, and as such, courtesy dictates that you court and pursue me as appropriate,” Jon said, his lips twitching.

Rhaena grew bashful and smacked his shoulder playfully, only to grimace in pain. “Gods, are you made from rock?”

“Something like that,” Jon said, looking a tad weary. Then, his face turned so deathly serious that Rhaena gulped. “I will admit I have grown fond of you, my lady. But fondness will not make me rush blindly into a disadvantageous situation that might very well doom me to a swift demise or a lifetime of struggle and killing. Daemon, Corlys, Rhaenyra, Joffrey? They mean nothing to me.”

A surge of anger soared through her chest.

“If you very much want to be left alone that badly, I can leave and never return, Jon Stark,” she ground out. “I have my pride, too.”

“It would be your right,” he acknowledged. But there was a sliver of sadness in his voice. He was not a heartless brute, after all. “I can help you claim Silverwing if you wish. With me nearby, Vermithor will let you approach the she-dragon. Go and fight yourself, if you’re so eager to bring about bloodshed and destruction across the realm.”

Gods, she was tempted. Flying a dragon was everything Rhaena had ever wanted, and Silverwing was the best choice she could ever dream of. But could she fight? Could she burn and kill? The thought of blood alone made her feel weak in the knees, and violence made her stomach lurch. She had nearly fainted when she saw Stormcloud piteously bleeding out.

“You’re a cruel man,” Rhaena uttered, feeling utterly paralysed with indecision.

“It’s easy to make grand promises when sending others to kill and die, is it not?” Jon smiled wanly. “It’s not the same when you get the chance to be the one doing the killing and the dying. Perhaps your royal stepmother will be kind to you, and won’t call you to fight one of the biggest dragons in the world for her.”

His gaze was a bit sad, but Rhaena couldn’t help but feel she was being seen through completely.

“Are you not willing to fight for me?” she asked hopefully. “A prince’s daughter, a dragon, and a castle after the war—what more can you want?”

“You can’t promise me a castle, Rhaena,” was the wry reply. “Such rewards are given under the purview of the man or woman sitting on the Iron Throne, and even the late prince Jacaerys only promised to make dragonriders landed knights with humble estates no larger than a village or two. And I would admit that I am a greedy man. If I were to take a castle and lands, they must be amongst the best in the realm, to abandon what I have here. Can you promise me that?”

The best in the realm. Highlord—that was what Jon said he wanted. Yet the words were not filled with ambition or desire, as if he were just repeating something rehearsed long ago.

But Rhaena knew she couldn’t make such promises—be it holdfasts or big castles, they were all out of her reach. It was a question of whether she herself would ever be able to be a lady of a castle now that Driftmark had been stolen, let alone in a position to give out lands or holdfasts to others. And his appetite was big—he wanted to be a highlord, not merely a petty landed knight or minor lordling.

“If you come forth with Vermithor, it should be possible,” she said hesitantly.

“But if I get so much, wouldn’t Silver Denys and Alyn want a boon just as big?” he countered. “The only thing this would achieve is ousting me as a dragonrider.”

Rhaena swallowed heavily. He was right.

Jon continued, voice so soft it almost disappeared into the rumbling of the waves. “Forget about castles and lands and titles for a moment. I am not averse to fighting. I do not fear death, Rhaena, but if I fight and kill those who did me no wrong, I want to fight and die for something I believe in. You want to claim a dragon, the ultimate purveyor of destruction and death across the land, regardless of whether the rider is a man or not, yet you lack the spine to wield it. I have a dragon, yet I’m afraid that once I mount the dragon and start killing, there’ll be no end to it.”

Rhaena simply looked numbly at the Northman. There was no deception in him. He was calling her a coward, too. And perhaps she was a coward. She wanted a dragon, but she did not have the stomach to kill even a rat, let alone men and women.

“Perhaps…” her voice broke, but she continued, “perhaps we’re not fated to be, Jon Stark of the North.”

“Your cloak is soaked by the seawater—you should return now, lest you want to fall with a cold.”

“Is this it?!” Rhaena balled her fists and glared. “Are you chasing me away, Stark?”

“I could probably tell you what you hope to hear.” His voice was languid, unhurried in the same way the Northman never seemed to hurry anywhere. “Whispered honeyed promises in your ears that tug on your heartstrings, lead you along, and maybe even pluck your maidenhead and wed you. And then what happens when the castle of lies crumbles under the weight of truth?”

The words stabbed in her heart, but then, they were genuine. They were genuine, for Jon never cared about lying. Worse, they preserved her honour—even in rejection, he thought of her. Rhaena didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

“Do you not see a future where the two of us can be together?” she hiccuped, trying to fight off the tears. “We could elope. I will take dragonsaddles from Dragonstone, and we can fly across the Narrow Sea with Vermithor and Silverwing and take refuge far away from this war!”

“And you would abandon your sister and brother?” Jon asked gently. “What about your father? Driftmark? Fleeing to Essos will merely see us in a different kind of struggle, one wholly unfamiliar but no less deadly. Let me give you another offer. Forget about castles and ladies and lords and dragons. Come, wed me here before the sept and the weirwood, and live like a fisherman’s wife, bereft of most worries and comforts afforded to nobility. Are you willing?”

Rhaena opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was a lady of the realm. A prince’s daughter, from the noble line of the Conqueror and the Forty. ‘One day, you will be the Lady of the Tides,’ her grandmother once said. “And the whole power of House Velaryon shall be at your fingertips. The most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, second only to your twin sister.’

Truth be told, she liked Jon’s little manse and the surrounding farm. It was calm. Yet it was merely a pleasant retreat from her worries on Dragonstone, nothing else. The idea of abandoning her station to become a fisherman’s wife, even if the fisherman in question was rich and powerful and handsome, was inconceivable. It went against everything Rhaena was.

It seemed that Jon saw through her thoughts, as he sighed. “Enough of this charade. I see you’re thinking with your head, not with your heart now. It might be better for both of us if we just… went our own way. I appreciate your feelings, my lady, but we want different things.”

He was not wrong, she realised.

Rhaena left, feeling heartbroken. Ser Lyonel followed her awkwardly as she kept sobbing. Even the gods were mocking her, for halfway on the road to the castle, it began to rain.

The days grew shorter, the weather worsened in the following three moons, and Gerardys declared that fall was dwindling and winter was imminent. Rhaena, having given up on claiming a dragon, rarely left her quarters. Baela, of course, quickly found out and consoled her while cursing the “Damned Northern Mule” at every opportunity. “I should go and burn his house with Moondancer for making you cry!”

The words chilled Rhaena to the core, and it took a whole lot of convincing to dissuade her sister from such foolishness.

She even considered ousting Jon Stark as Vermithor’s rider out of spite, but quickly decided against it. Despite everything, he had saved her twice now. And Rhaena knew he still cared about her, but not enough to fight and kill, no matter how bitter the thought made her. Craven, some might call him for baulking in front of the fight, but would a craven go into a dragon’s lair on his lonesome and slay the beast?

Thinking of Jon Stark only made her angrier.

Yet despite Rhaena’s sorrows, the days kept turning, and the war turned crueller still.

Word of Maelor’s demise arrived. The death of Alicent’s grandson resulted in the brutal sacking of Tumbleton by the Hightower host as the situation in King’s Landing deteriorated by all accounts. Apprehension arose in Rhaena’s heart. The Velaryon fleet ferried an army of ten thousand Valemen into King’s Landing and set out to block Hightower’s advance on the city. Meanwhile, her father and Silver Denys were hunting for Vhagar and his kin-slaying rider.

Just as Rhaena thought the war was turning in their favour and would end swiftly, her world crumbled with the latest raven from King’s Landing.

Silver Denys had turned his cloak, ambushing Caraxes while he had been hunting outside Maidenpool with the aid of Vhagar at night. Then, the two dragons had turned their sights on the seat of House Mooton, bathing it in dragonfire until dawn. None had survived amidst the ruins that had been melted into brittle slag—not even bones could be found from the ruins.