19.The Die is Cast

130 AC

Baela Targaryen

The Chamber of the Painted Table saw a war council again, and now it was no longer as empty as a sept when the whores offered bargain nights. This time, even Baela was invited.

The killing of the Usurper had won her the favour of many. Some hailed her as a kingslayer, though others whispered behind her back. “Kinslayer,” they would murmur, but never to her face.

Accursed was the kinslayer.

Baela did not feel any different, though. Jon had said Aegon had perished by her hand, but in truth, it felt surreal. Distant and unrelated to her. She had seen the Usurper slump on the saddle, but there was no sadness or guilt, only relief and a smidgen of joy.

In the end, Baela tried not to think of Aegon and his hateful, puffy face.

She looked around the Painted Table.

Clement Celtigar, the new Lord of Claw Isle, who had arrived here last evening to swear fealty to Aegon but bent the knee to Jon instead, was having a glaring contest with the Boggs and the Hardys. Old feuds were hard to forget, Baela reflected, even though both sides shared a common enemy.

They looked one insult away from drawing their swords or axes and fighting it out there and then. The only thing staying their hands was Jon Stark’s presence. The Northman’s gaze was cold, colder than the snow and the icy wind outside, and could chill a man’s courage on the spot.

But for all his daring, the Northman’s steely confidence never truly approached recklessness. He spoke little and did even less, but when he did, it was all well-thought and with deep meaning.

“We should strike now, Your Grace,” her grandfather urged.

The lines on Corlys Velaryon’s face had grown deeper, his wrinkles had doubled since he had left for King’s Landing all those moons ago, and the flame of ambition in his eyes had dimmed. It was still there, but it was subdued by loss and failure. Was it turning his cloak the second time that broke him so, or the treason where he had helped the Usurper’s men chop off Rhaenyra’s head?

Baela did not know, and she was not sure she cared. The anger of being pawned to the Usurper like some prized mare was still fresh, even though the man in question had died.

Corlys Velaryon had been on the Greens’ side only a few hours earlier, and now, he was eager to serve Jon Stark. Anxious to prove himself useful and loyal, especially after having tried to kill the Northman once.

In contrast, the newly crowned king was pensive and not in any hurry to act. He waited until his squires filled the cups set along the table with wine and ale before speaking. “Tell us of the situation in King’s Landing first.”

Jon’s face was as readable as the stone gargoyles over the battlements.

Baela’s eyes flicked to the dark crown. It sat well on his head. It was no golden circlet set with gemstones, no ornament for feasts or pageants, but an ugly, spiky thing of dragonbone and bronze inscribed with First Men runes. “It is hewn in the likeness of the crowns of the Northern Kings,” Rhaena had explained when Royce offered the crown, “who had prized duty, justice, and valour beyond all else.”

Perhaps Jon Stark had the right of it. The king needed to be dutiful, just, and valourous—those qualities had won over the clawmen with ease, not the threat of dragonfire. That and generosity. Was that all it took to win the hearts of men? Greatness of the heart, a strong sword hand, and the willingness to use them.

There had to be more to it, but Baela did not know what that ‘more’ was.

“King’s Landing is half a wreck,” Corlys said, gaze growing distant.

Did he still miss that bastard boy he claimed for his grandson?

“The city gates have yet to be repaired after moons of rioting,” he continued after a heavy sigh. “Corpses are still carried out by the cartful each day, and the royal power and prestige have never been lower. Only Criston Cole remains from Aegon’s kingsguard, and half of his courtiers didn’t survive when Rhaenyra took the city; the other half is out of favour after defecting to her side. Only Tyland Lannister remained loyal, yet the man is a half-blind cripple and a eunuch besides.”

War was an ugly thing, but Baela only felt relieved at the words. The fewer enemies there were, the easier the fight would be, right?

“What of the Reach host that holds the city?”

“Denys the Betrayer has been granted a mighty host over fifteen thousand strong to pacify his new domain and deal with the coming Northmen, though Ser Criston Cole is in charge.” Corlys paused, looking hesitant. “They left quite quickly, over half a moon’s turn ago.”

“They are probably approaching Harrenhal by now,” someone murmured.

“May both vile wretches burn in the Seven Hells,” Baela spat. “The day when the kingmaker and the betrayer meet a grisly end cannot come any sooner.”

The mere mention of the man who killed her father angered her. Fury bubbled beneath her skin, simmering but unable to find an outlet. Denys the Betrayer was far away, and Seasmoke was not a dragon Baela could kill. Yet she was not the only one angered. The Betrayer’s name was a curse upon the clawmen’s tongues, and the kingmaker was no less reviled. Even Rhaena, usually gentle, had her jaw set tight with anger at the mention of their father’s murderer.

“Their time will come, Princess Baela,” Lord Royce reassured before draining his cup of wine. His arms, however, moved with a swiftness she did not expect from a man they called the Bronze Giant, placing carved figurines of swordsmen and a dragon on the giant map over where the Riverlands border was supposed to be. Once he was done, he frowned. “But will a treacherous wretch like Denys be willing to place himself under the command of a mere knight?”

“Cole is not just a knight, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and the Hand of the King,” the Sea Snake explained patiently. “And the betrayer is a sly, cunning man with more patience than most. All smiles and courtesies, Denys the Betrayer knows when to be subservient and when to be domineering. He is no fool either and will not act out of line until the Riverlands are pacified, his domain is secured, and he is sitting behind the walls of his promised castle.”

“That would have taken some time, I’d wager,” her sister said, lips curling in disdain. “Riverrun is little more than blackened stone and scorched earth. Barely a ruin and not a worthy one at that. And what of Alicent’s brood? Do you truly believe Aemond will suffer this… filth to hold power? To keep a dragon? He’s not one of us.”

Rhaena had found herself a man and a dragon, and with them, she had found her confidence. Her gaze had grown as sharp as her words.

“Not one of us?” Jon snorted, amusement dancing in his eyes. She almost regretted that his chiselled body was hidden under the padded surcoat and the long, heavy-looking fur cloak. “No more than Alyn and the Betrayer were one of you when Jacaerys gave them knighthood when they mastered a dragon. No more when they bowed their head and agreed to serve.”

“It would not be well looked upon to slay the man who handed them victory,” Royce reasoned wisely. “But appearances aside, I do not doubt that the Betrayer will be dealt with harshly once he offers a slight to the crown or steps out of line—but not before. The Riverlands might not be that great a boon. How much time will a rootless man spend dealing with his belligerent bannermen? His dragon will be leashed and muzzled not by chains but by obligation.”

The reassurances did nothing to extinguish her anger. Little Aegon, slain like some thieving street rat. Her father? Betrayed and roasted alive in his own chambers.

How could she just forget?

How could she just forgive?

Before, vengeance had given way to survival, but now… now Aegon the Usurper had died by her hand, and the tide had turned. But his death did not quench her thirst for vengeance. Her anger was not like a bonfire, burning out bright and strong and quick, but the weeks had reduced it to a simmering flame, low but never fading.

“I want him dead,” Baela growled. “Him and the damned kingmaker and the Kinslayer. I want their heads to line the spikes next to the Usurper.”

“Their time will come,” Jon reassured. “War and battle cannot be rushed unless you want to end up in an early grave. But the absence of Cole and Denys the Betrayer in the city makes our work easier. What of Aemond?”

“He took flight to Banefort shortly after Denys left,” her grandfather said. “He should be there now, I believe. The Kinslayer was more than eager to set base there and burn his way through the rebellious Iron Islands while the Hightower and Redwyne fleets clear out the Ironmen from the western shores.”

Lord Royce dutifully moved the largest dragon figurine into the Westerlands, facing directly towards Ironman’s Bay. Even Baela could see it, then. Most of the green forces were out of the Crownlands.

“Now is the time to strike,” the Sea Snake urged, tapping his cane at King’s Landing. “With Denys the Betrayer, Aemond, and Ser Criston Cole moving to deal with rebels, only Prince Daeron is left in the city with a small garrison to keep the peace. Such an opportunity cannot be missed.”

“And His Grace must trust the word of a turncloak and oath-breaker like you?” Ser Bennard Cave spat, all but glaring at her grandfather.

“It is Rhaenyra who betrayed me first, Ser Bennard,” was the cool but firm response. “And any vows I have given to Aegon the Elder died with him.”

“Bah—”

“Enough!” The king’s cold voice cut through the tension like a knife. Then, his heavy gaze settled on Corlys for a heartbeat before moving to Ser Bennard, both squirming soon enough. “Save the fighting for later—we’ll have plenty of enemies to kill. Sharpen your swords and polish your armour if you’re that eager. We depart for King’s Landing tomorrow at noon. Any questions?”

“I have a query, Your Grace,” Corlys asked, voice measured. “Why fashion your crown after the crowns of the Northern Kings, and keep the name Stark? With a dragon to your name and King Viserys’s legitimisation, you can claim yourself a Targaryen, picking up Rhaenyra’s cause and attracting far more men to your banner. Perhaps even take on a Valyrian name to bolster your legitimacy?”

Jon Stark’s frown deepened.

“The name Jon was given to me by the man who raised me,” he said coolly. “And I do not rebel because my claim is stronger than Aegon’s. Nor did I point my sword at his men because I believe in the righteousness of Rhaenyra’s cause—if that were the case, I would have joined her while she still lived.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. Then, he continued, voice steely and without any room for doubt or question, “No, Lord Corlys. I claim the Iron Throne because I find Alicent’s line unworthy of it. I lay my claim to the Seven Kingdoms because the challenge came to my doorstep with blood and steel. Because I can rule better than they do, not because I take a false name! Call it a second Conquest or a second Landing if you must, but the truth remains, and I shall not hide behind empty rights or false legitimacy; I have none but my sword and dragon.”

A heavy silence settled over the Chamber of the Painted Table. A declaration of naked ambition, but Baela knew otherwise.

“If that is all, I shall take my leave—we have a ceremony to prepare for.”

With that, the king turned, throwing the long fur cloak over his shoulders like a shaggy banner of white and black. It was done decisively, like everything else to the Northman—he did not glance back, leaving them all to stew in silence.

All such ambitions for crowns would have fallen short without the dragon, but she suspected the Northman might have done the same even without Vermithor, perhaps under the guise of making Rhaena queen.

But there was something else. Baela still remembered the mule of a man who refused to be pried away from his fishing and paltry living. Surely… a mere attack did not change him so drastically?

It was almost like a child was throwing a tantrum after having his favourite toy taken away. A very dangerous child, throwing a tantrum that might just break the realm.

Baela didn’t care, though. With Jon Stark and Vermithor on their side, vengeance was now within reach.

“Why must all the Northmen be so stubborn?” Corlys lamented, rubbing his face.

“Stubborn?” Royce snorted. “You fail to see His Grace’s wisdom. He might be King Viserys’s eldest son, but he wishes to step away from the failures of his predecessors. Or perhaps it’s respect for his father’s last decree that he keeps his bestowed name—a reason more honourable than most.”

Many of the clawmen nodded, and even Clement Celtigar looked convinced.

“Uncle Viserys was a great king,” Baela protested, though not as fiercely as she would have a year prior.

It was her grandfather who replied, face growing pensive.

“Viserys was certainly better than most, and his reign is remembered fondly, but that’s it. If he were a great king, the realm would not have been drowned in fire and blood the moment he perished.” The Sea Snake paused, clearing his throat as if expecting anyone to gainsay him, but even Baela could offer no retort. “I see it now. He could keep the name Stark out of fondness and always name his children Targaryen, far better than what Rhaenyra planned to do.”

It sounded so simple, yet Baela felt it was not that straightforward. But if the realm was ready to accept Jacaerys as a Velaryon for king after he had mastered a dragon, Jon Stark should have no trouble. The dragon and the blood were what mattered, not the name.

Baela glanced at her sister, finding her gazing outside the window at where the Bronze Fury and Silverwing frolicked over the skies, looking lost.

The royal wedding was a hasty affair but no less odd for its briefness. Ruddy torchfire danced in the darkness, struggling against the darkness of the night.

It was a cold night, but Baela had already had a cup of mulled wine to warm her bones. Dragonstone’s walls warded away any winds, making the chill easily bearable, even though the snow reached above her ankle and crunched underneath her feet.

When Baela entered Aegon’s Garden at twilight, she didn’t know what to expect.

Nothing could prepare her for Vermithor swooping over, gently dropping a weirwood tree in the centre of the garden. The tree was like a pale giant crowned by a canopy of red; its five-pronged leaves were undaunted by the cold that had seen all other trees grow naked. Twisted roots were nestled inside a dark skull nearly five times the size of an ox—the Cannibal’s skull.

The most sinister part was the face carved onto the bark; its visage looked like it was laughing mockingly, crimson sap weeping from the lines that etched it across the bone-like surface.

Jon Stark was already there, waiting for her sister, with Blackfyre on his belt and the black crown on his brow. He already looked more regal than Rhaenyra ever could, with a silver-lined doublet of rare blue wool and a regal black cloak. The wedding cloak was divided. The left half had a white direwolf head with red eyes, while the other half had the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen facing away, a subtle declaration of his origin, though none knew what the white wolf truly meant.

To his side stood a very uneasy septon—the same man who had officiated his trial by battle over a year prior. This was supposed to be a mixed ceremony before the Old and the New Gods.

Ser Alfred Broome was like a white shadow, standing quietly to his side, together with four shaggy hounds that could be mistaken for shadows the way they stood still and quiet.

The Claw knights arrived first, men who lorded over a keep or were champions of a clan with their sons and brothers and cousins. Then, there was the lone Clement Celtigar and Lord Royce with a small retinue of his own, including three men who belonged to Houses Coldwater and Shett. Even Aethan was here, shuffling uncomfortably in his ill-fitted silks; the man had risen from a common fisherman to a royal steward within a single day.

“The sky is clear tonight,” an older knight she didn’t recognise said. “A good omen for a happy marriage.”

They were all solemn, waiting in silence for the bride to arrive.

They didn’t wait long. Rhaena came, escorted by their grandfather. Her sister was like a vision, clad in a dress of white silk, and her hair glowed like molten silver under the moonlight. She looked dignified then, with the slender golden crown of Visenya Targaryen atop her head and purple eyes that sat like amethysts on her fair face. A black cloak was clasped around her shoulders, with the three-headed dragon fluttering like a bloody banner with each step she took.

Baela felt a pang of jealousy stabbing in her heart then, but pushed it down. She was supposed to be the first to wed of the two sisters…

There were no prayers here, no boring sermons or ceremonies. Corlys merely left her sister to the king’s left, with only the old septon between them, and stepped away, but not before removing the cloak from her shoulders.

For a heartbeat, her sister shivered; her dress, while impressive, could not ward away the cold of a winter night. Then, Jon removed his cloak and clasped it over Rhaena’s shoulders.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my king and husband,” Rhaena spoke, her voice hoarse. For half a moment, her sister looked uncertain, but it was replaced with steely resolve so quickly that Baela might as well have imagined it.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Jon declared, his voice thick, “and I take you for my queen and wife.”

Then, he pulled Rhaena close and kissed her deep and long in a way that made Baela flush, especially as her sister returned the kiss just as eagerly. There was a stab of envy somewhere in her chest, but she tried her best to ignore it and act happy for her sister.

The septon raised his wooden staff high, crowned with a small crystal that every septon seemed to possess.

“Here in the sight of gods and men,” his voice quivered as he threw a glance at the heart tree. Then, at Lord Royce’s pointed look, he cleared his throat and hastily continued, “I do solemnly proclaim Jon of House Stark and Rhaena of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them!”

Baela let out a breath she did not remember holding. It was done.

Her sister was now married. Jon swept her into his arms and led the procession towards the Great Hall. She barely remembered anything besides dancing, feasting, drinking, and even bawdy singing until her grandfather called for the bedding.

Rhaena was lifted by a sea of hands eagerly pulling away her clothes and tearing off her dress while carrying her to the wedding chamber. “Careful now if you don’t want to lose a hand,” Corlys threatened as he trailed after the crowd. “This is my granddaughter and your queen that you’re touching.”

Jon was similarly carried away, not by knights and lords, but by the serving women and the scullery maids. Baela, further emboldened by the wine, joined in the fun, pulling off his belt. She even copped a feel or two, and her previous envy returned. Yet no matter how bare he was, the king was squeezing Blackfyre’s scabbard like a drowning man grasping at a straw, the sword raised above, out of reach of any grasping hands seeking to discard it.

Baela’s envy only thickened once the newlyweds were left stark naked inside the bedchamber, and soon the sounds of lust and love and pleasure echoed through the door.

The Dragonslayer

He awoke the moment dawn came like it always did.

His eyes settled over Rhaena, seeing with clarity in the darkness. She was his wife now.

He had never planned to get married before. He had not planned to claim a crown either, but here he was, having taken both steps with boldness and daring. But he did not regret it.

“How does it feel to wake up a queen?” Jon asked his drowsy wife first thing in the morning.

There was a new intimacy between them that had been absent before, one not merely a product of physical affection. No, it felt like Rhaena’s last qualms had melted away, and so did his. Each wife had to obey her husband in all things, be loyal, help his endeavours in all ways she could, and give him heirs. Every man had to shield his wife from all harm, keep a roof over her head, and bring food to the table.

It was not a union of love but reliance and necessity. It was not strange for love to fruition in such cases, but such fleeting feelings were a luxury many could not afford. Jon hoped for love in this marriage of convenience, a true, deep affection like the one Eddard and Catelyn Stark had enjoyed, not merely youthful lust and raw attraction that had already existed between the two.

“Sore, but satisfying,” Rhaena whispered, latching onto his chest under the covers. She was slender, almost as light as a feather in his arms, and Jon had to be very careful not to break his wife—a real possibility with his newfound strength. Even after the eager bedding that saw her silver hair turn into a tangled mess, she looked no less comely than before in the darkness. “I—I didn’t know such things could be done. You seemed insatiable as a beast and quite… experienced in this.”

The last words were spoken with a hint of uncertainty as his now-wife sought his gaze.

“I had a lover once—it feels like another life,” Jon admitted. “She was half a demon with the bow, with a sharp tongue, and bolder than most men. She taught me a woman’s touch and then some more. Though what we had was sudden, it was more of a desperate thing while trying to survive.”

“Much like us, then,” Rhaena murmured. “What happened to her?”

The corner of his lips twitched with amusement as his wife tried to sound nonchalant but failed terribly.

“Watched her bleed out in my hands eight years ago,” he murmured. “I haven’t had another woman ever since.”

“Oh—apologies.” Rhaena looked flustered. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Jon had not lacked suitors after Ygritte’s passing.

Many had tried to catch his eye in the south. Stannis’s pet bastard, they called him, the stag’s left hand. Half-wild yet as courteous as any knight, many a maiden hoped to grace his bed, and even more lords wanted to offer him their daughters. Jon had declined them all. They had lusted for Winterfell, for Rickon’s seat, who was young and easily disposed of, and entertaining any of them would have seen his sword waver and resolve crumble. A lover, or a woman, would have seen him fight for himself and his future children first, and this was why the black brothers took no wives and fathered no children.

Just one night with Ygritte had been more than enough to make him think of desertion, of leaving the Watch, fleeting chances of success had not even passed through his mind.

But none of his siblings were born here, and they might never be born with the line of Tully extinguished by dragonfire. While Jon mourned them and what could have been, he no longer needed to swing his sword for others. Now, he would fight for himself, and he would fight for his wife and their future children.

“I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t want you to know,” Jon said, not unkindly. “There should not be any secrets between husband and wife, none that can come between their union.”

It felt hypocritical of him to say such words, especially since he intended to keep a small secret and take it to his grave. The future that would never be… and what could have been.

A part of Jon had marvelled at Lady Catelyn’s ability to suffer his presence in Winterfell. An unknown bastard of a woman whom her husband loved dearly. It was a small miracle that the two had grown to love each other with such a challenge at the very start of their union.

“I… thank you,” his wife said, smiling softly in a way that tugged on his heartstrings.

“Do you regret it?” he prodded. “Marrying me and choosing to fight.”

Her eyes hardened like two cold gems. “No, I have no regrets. Aside from maybe… not doing this earlier. If only I gathered my courage to claim Silverwing before and maybe… maybe—”

“What if King Viserys had wedded another woman instead of Alicent?” Jon countered. “What if Aegon the Elder had not taken a crown upon his head? What if Rhaenyra had instead married her half-brother for the peace of the realm? What if Silver Denys had not betrayed your father? They all did what they did. Do not dwell on what-ifs, could-haves, and would-haves—the fate of the world does not rest upon your shoulders.”

“I… thank you.” Rhaena gave him a brittle smile. “I am still a novice dragonrider, though. Silverwing might be obedient enough, but I fear my lack of experience in the sky might prove dangerous in the coming battle. I fear that when the moment to fight comes, I will falter—out of Alicent’s children, Daeron is the one I have no quarrel with.”

“Do not fret. If things go well, you must do no more than fly Silverwing above the city, scaring our foes with the she-dragon’s presence alone.”

Then, the bell by the nightstand was rung to summon servants who brought a change of garments and started fussing over Rhaena. Even the blood-stained sheets were taken as proof of their coupling, much to his wife’s chagrin.

“The Queen’s sister requests an audience.” Ser Alfred’s muffled voice came through the door just as Jon had donned his tunic.

Jon quickly finished pulling on his tunic and shared a look with Rhaena; his wife looked as baffled as he was.

“Let her in,” he allowed, clasping Blackfyre’s swordbelt on his waist.

Baela came in, looking half-tired and half-irritated.

“I would speak to my sister and good brother,” she all but demanded, glancing at the servants. “Undisturbed.”

After a moment of hesitation, Rhaena waved away the handmaids, and Ser Alfred promised not to let anyone near the door.

“Here we are,” Jon said. “Just the three of us. Say your piece, Baela.”

“Why did you make my sister queen?” she asked, tilting her head. “I’m the eldest one between us two and no worse in looks.”

“Baela!” Rhaena was aghast, her face paling. “How can you say such a—”

“I am not angry,” her sister hastily added. “I’m just… curious. The question was lodged in my mind, and I could barely get a wink until I passed out from too much wine. I knew the two of you had grown close, but….” Baela trailed off uncertainly, looking more awkward by the word.

‘I do not want to wed Daemon Targaryen with teats—or spend my whole life wrangling with a quarrelsome wife with a fiery temper,’ Jon thought. ‘A wife had to be dutiful and kind and know when to show restraint, and a queen to be twice as good—traits lacking in Baela.’

But he left his thoughts unsaid lest his good-sister feel slighted.

Instead, he said, “You remind me of my dead cousin who was my sister in all but name.”

It was a truth and one that did not burn upon his tongue.

“It’s normal to marry your sister in the House of the Dragon,” Baela huffed but no longer looked as irritated as before.

“Yet I was not raised like this, and my name is Stark.”

“There are still two of us,” Baela said suggestively, taking a bold step forward. “Just like my sister, I have a dragon. You can take me for a wife just like the Conqueror did. My sister will be your Rhaenys, and I will be your Visenya.”

For the first time since he had met her, Rhaena looked murderous.

It was like a dragon had awoken in the otherwise gentle maiden; her purple eyes blazed with anger as she glared at her sister, looking ready to strangle her on the spot. This was not just a meek and helpless maiden like Sansa was, he then realised, but the daughter of Daemon Targaryen.

“Because that ended so well for those three siblings,” Jon rebuffed with a long-suffering sigh as he squeezed his wife’s shoulder in reassurance. “Your wits are muddled by the wine, Baela.”

“It was a jest,” she hastily said, waving her hands frantically. “Don’t take it too seriously.”

Rhaena’s face softened slightly, but Jon was not so easily deceived. If he had agreed then, he suspected the maiden would have jumped at the opportunity.

At that moment, he started pitying Baela’s future husband. The man, whoever he was, had a fight on his hands he could never comprehend.

Truth be told, the suggestion was not terrible. It kept all the dragons in the royal family, provided he did win the throne. But for good or bad, the idea died before it could be born. Some things were not meant to be.

A man can own a woman, or he can own a knife, but no man can own both.

Baela merely burped nonchalantly as if the previous words had never been uttered. Or her hangover was terrible enough that she did not care—her breath certainly stank of wine.

“Anything else you want to discuss?” Jon prodded carefully.

“If you won’t wed me too,” she began, giving him a brittle smile. “Why not send me northwards?”

There it was. Perhaps that had been her plan coming into the wedding chamber all along.

“And what will you do there?”

“Support your kinsman, lest he and his army turn into roast by Denys the Betrayer,” Baela offered, smacking her puffy lips. “Or before he agrees to terms and bends the knee to Alicent’s whelps.”

“What if you encounter Seasmoke?” Rhaena asked with a mixture of worry and anger. “Uncle’s dragon is much bigger and older than Moondancer.”

“Much slower, too. I am a kingslayer now, did you forget?” Baela chuckled, but there was bitterness to it. “I will run circles around the Betrayer and burn him from above once he grows tired.”

“Very well,” Jon finally agreed after several minutes of silent musing. “I will ink down a message for Lord Stark.”

Rhaena looked ready to protest but swallowed her retort.

Baela quirked an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“I can’t stop you if you wish to depart that badly, not after I’ve left for King’s Landing,” he explained, not bothering to hide his irritation. “An envoy with a dragon will drive my message home, making it far easier to sway House Stark. But I will not let you leave before you’re sober and rested, which means tomorrow at the earliest. Do you think you can find the Northern host?”

“Without a doubt,” came the fearless reply.

“If you go, you will only stay there as an envoy and a deterrent for Seasmoke.” Jon held her gaze until Baela nodded. “Your dragon is too young to fight against armies. Moondancer’s scales are too soft, too thin, and probably still vulnerable to arrows. So leave the fighting on the ground to the Northmen and the Rivermen.”

“I will,” Baela said, face growing solemn.

Then, an awkward silence fell between them as the two sisters looked at each other. The earlier words had been forgiven, but they had not been forgotten, Jon knew.

His wife’s mouth quivered, and then she sighed, stepping forward.

“I won’t forgive you if you die, sister,” Rhaena said, pulling her sister into her embrace. “And behave.”

A queen’s generosity and some kindness to spare! Jon could only nod inwardly—he had chosen the right sister as a wife.

Shame crept up Baela’s face, and her eyes grew heavy with guilt then. It seemed she wasn’t entirely heartless.

“Thank you,” Baela murmured, burying her face into her sister’s neck. “And… and I-I apologise for earlier. I truly didn’t mean it. I-I thought we could stay forever like this… you know, our betrothed kept on dying, so it wouldn’t be that strange if we remained together until death.”

“I forgive you, sister.” His wife’s voice was as soft as silk as she stroked her twin’s curls. Then, something dangerous, darker, and possessive crept into her tone as her smile chilled. “But only this once—you won’t find me as forgiving again.”

His plans were thwarted at the very beginning. The moment Jon set foot on a ship, he felt a terrible premonition. The kraken was still waiting for him, he knew, eager for vengeance.

The Bronze Fury refused to help him with the titanic squid, playing deaf when Jon mentioned it, and the king knew that was his revenge. And gods, what a revenge!

The dragon had grown even more cunning. If Jon could not travel by ship, he would have to fly on dragonback…

The worst thing was that the kraken itself was no less crafty. It dared not resurface with dragons soaring above. Jon himself would struggle to kill the beast in the deep sea unless it resurfaced. But would it resurface when its tentacles were long and could probably topple any ship or boat Jon boarded with ease?

In the end, he decided to fly with Vermithor, travelling at night.

It was not a chore, for Rhaena accompanied him. First, they flew to Driftmark, where they kept practising in the air and getting used to the cold, for the paltry handful of hours of flying on Dragonstone had scarcely been enough to master it. Jon was used to far colder places than this, and the skinchanging connection always fed back Vermithor’s emotions, so the practice was mostly for Rhaena to adjust. Two days later, they departed from the castle, catching up to the fleet.

Jon landed north of the city on a rocky island two leagues from the shore and swam in the shallow waters alone to avoid the risk of Vermithor being spotted. As previously arranged, a band of twelve Clawmen were waiting for him.

Storming a city was a bloody affair. Sieges were just as dangerous, and that was why Jon would do neither, especially as it would give time for the dragonrider in the Red Keep to fly and give him battle in the skies.

He walked into King’s Landing without a hitch, not as an invader or a conqueror, but as a confident visitor who paid the gate fee. With an expression that said, ‘I am meant to be here,’ nobody stopped him for questioning. It helped that his face was not widely known, and his claim to kingship had not yet reached King’s Landing.

Lord Royce and his men, the clawmen, Lord Celtigar, and even Corlys’s men each openly entered the city through different gates throughout the day.

There was a risk to this tactic.

If one of his men were a traitor and informed their enemy, the danger would be immense, forcing him to fight amidst the city streets that could serve as natural choke points. Yet no such thing happened, and Jon found that the tension in his shoulders eased. Should they be found and accosted earlier by the Reachmen, Rhaena and Vermithor would not be close enough to assist them just yet. The Bronze Fury and Silverwing had remained back, perching on a small rocky island fifteen miles deep in Blackwater Bay.

Jon had over twenty-five hundred swords with him today; the Velaryon forces consisted of the bulk of his host but came without bearing any distinctive heraldry. In truth, it was a pitiful host, but far greater than he had hoped for and the city was not well-defended either after falling twice in the last year. The men at the gates were a handful of newly recruited gold cloaks, as green as summer grass and timid as rats. A few hundred men-at-arms from the Reach were stationed in the city’s barracks, and the Red Keep had an even smaller garrison to hold it.

And it was the green boys and the greybeards left to garrison. The warriors and the veterans had been taken with Criston Cole and Silver Denys to subjugate the stubborn lords around the Trident.

“With the Blacks defeated, most of the army that was not deemed useful was dismissed to save on expenses,” Corlys had explained.

King’s Landing itself looked like half a wreck. Most of the streets were filled with remnants from broken carts, planks, torn-up rags and discarded garbage from the riots and the city’s second fall. Some buildings had been reduced to a charred wreck, and many shops and inns had been looted in the chaos—whether by the victorious army or the rioters, Jon could not tell. Countless houses were abandoned, showing no signs of life. Others were filled with squatting vagrants.

The stench was not half as bad as it would be two centuries later.

The scarce smallfolk inside the city were weary, fleeing at the first sight of swords and steel. Most of them looked just as desperate and painfully thin as the destitute folk at Ashcove before the granary had been built. Fear and hatred peering behind a dirty face were a common sight in every alley; many were reduced to begging, and merchants had yet to return to the city in numbers.

Only a few guilds and establishments that could afford to hire sellswords for protection had survived—including the Cheesemaker Guild, where Jon spent the night, passing for Joth’s good brother.

The next day, they had positioned their forces unmolested, and the battle of King’s Landing began at dawn. Even this timing had been deliberately chosen after careful consideration. Most patrols and sentries swapped at dawn, and Prince Daeron would certainly be asleep or just waking up in the Red Keep, far away from Tessarion and the Dragonpit.

It wasn’t much of a battle when your enemies were scattered and unprepared.

The Red Keep’s gate opened at dawn.

When they did, the Sea Snake’s captains led in a small retinue, taking control of the gate and cutting through the sleepy sentries, buying enough time for Jon and Corlys to rush inside with several hundred men. Most of the garrison had just been woken and were far away in the barracks. As always, Jon was at the front, swinging Blackfyre at any foe that crossed his path. The men behind him only grew more fervent as they followed in his wake.

There was no better way to bolster the men’s morale and fighting spirit than fighting beside them.

At the same time, Royce and the clawmen were tasked with the assault on the city gates. An easy fight, considering they were attacking said gates from the inside. Silverwing and Vermithor circled above, roaring and sending the rest of the city into panic. With a nudge of his thoughts, the Bronze Fury swooped down, turning the city’s barracks into an inferno and killing the hundreds of Reachmen supposed to be the backbone of the city’s defences. Corlys had arranged for two thousand mariners from his fleet to join the battle once the Mud Gate had been opened.

Everything went without a hitch. With Jon at the helm, they swept through the outer courtyard so quickly that the enemy couldn’t lift the drawbridge into the inner yard. Then, they met stiffer resistance, but the enemy was outnumbered and unprepared, falling like wheat to a scythe under Blackfyre and the Velaryon’s finest warriors.

Then, a silver-haired youth no older than five and ten rushed out with two scores of knights with a sword in hand. The warriors by his side were all clad in heavy plate, bearing the heraldry of Hightower, Cuy, and Beesbury, all dangerous.

“Prince Daeron,” Corlys whispered, looking troubled. “The best of Alicent’s sons.”

“And my enemy,” Jon said.

“Who dares attack the Red Keep?” the young prince thundered, undaunted despite Jon’s numbers. “Explain yourself at once!”

“Jon of House Stark, here to present his claim to the Iron Throne!” he declared loudly for all to hear so they could die with peace of mind, knowing who killed them and why.

The reply stunned the prince for two heartbeats, but it was enough. Jon took the javelin Clayton handed him. Then, in one smooth motion, he twisted his body like a whip, hurling his weapon with all his strength.

Whatever rebuke Daeron the Daring wanted to give died on his tongue as the javelin poked through his raised shield and skewered through his cuirass, killing him on the spot.

It was a pitiful end for a dragonrider to die away from his dragon before he could even have the chance to fight back. Tessarion was chained at the Dragonpit right now, too far away and unable to help her rider. But war was never a matter of fairness but of victory.

“Charge!” Jon roared, leaping into the faltering line of knights. Within the hour, King’s Landing fell. With the threat of Vermithor and Silverwing looming from above, Alicent Hightower had ordered the remaining men in Maegor’s Holdfast to surrender by noon.