19. The spark

259 AC, The Riverlands

The Wandering Bastard

Only once they passed the great causeway of the Neck and the horses set hoof into the Riverlands did Jon Snow feel at ease. A part of him had yearned to stop at Winterfell, to try and enter his former home and meet his grandparents, who were about his age now. Yet Jon knew all too well now was not the time. Any bonds of kinship they had would not be recognised, aye, but he could have still stopped for that promised reward.

Yet, it was something else that gave him a sense of urgency. 

Bolton outriders had chased after them with dogged persistence through the whole North, sparing no expense to capture him. They meant to simply drive him to exhaustion by sheer numbers and means, forcing him to squander Rickard’s reward on new horses. He had lost the chance to claim the larger reward for saving Lyarra in Winterfell for it, too. Jon had turned away from the kingsroad, passing over rivers and hills—yet the Bolton men all followed after him like they had something to prove, as if it were a matter of life and death. Perhaps it was—though not for Jon—knowing the mouth that had given the order. 

He had only managed to lose the stubborn tail in the foggy barrow hills after three days of rain and fog. In this, his colouring betrayed him. Worse, it made him stand out like a sore thumb. While the white hair could be dyed or hidden under a hood, the crimson eyes were far harder to hide, and both were unnatural—thus easy to remember by all those who saw them.

“You could’ve been a lord,” Tormund muttered, voice laden with disappointment. “A man with a whole castle! Now the coin is all but gone, and we’re left with a pair of old garrons again.”

Jon shuddered, remembering Sygra’s pale blue eyes filled with disdain. A part of him was angered, but he swallowed it—anger had only led him astray. A beauty prettier than most, and yet, she was all rotten on the inside, just like all the other Boltons. Their coupling had been more of a savage fight that had left his back bloody from Sygra’s claws, and if someone were to claim Lady Bolton was a wildling, he would believe it. She had incited the whole thing and tried to fight him as if victory would mean she had stolen him. 

Briar and even Nala—the actual wildlings—were gentler and more womanly.

“Some lordships are not worth having,” he said darkly. “Just like some castles are too dangerous to own.”

Tormund rubbed his stubbled chin, though the russet of the budding beard made it look like his face was dipped in rust. “I wonder if I can find myself a woman who comes with a nice, stout castle and a vast woodland to hunt in.”

Jon threw his squire an amused look. “Wooing a ruling lady is no mean feat.” 

“You made it look easy enough,” the boy said, puffing his cheeks. 

“Even the flayed maiden wouldn’t have spared me a second glance if I didn’t save her by chance. Perhaps if she had ruled her lands for a few months, she might not have cared even if I saved her a dozen times. Some things, you can seek out a lifetime and fail to find, only for someone blessed with great luck to stumble upon them by chance.” 

Tormund fell deep in thought. “Must be the snow-cursed hair and the pretty face,” he muttered under his breath, but Jon heard him regardless. “And now my arse is sore from all that riding.”

Jon’s mouth twitched, but he only urged his garron on swiftly. 

His thoughts returned to the events at Last Hearth. Perhaps a lesser man would jump at the chance of such an arrangement. Being a consort to a lady was an easy way to power and influence, and Jon was not averse to such an arrangement, yet he had seen what true marriage was about, and it had nothing to do with disdain and scheming…

Mayhaps things would get better if he agreed to bow his head and accept the offer, no matter how demeaning its tone.

But he had more pride than to lower his head like that, and more sense than to suffer a wife who saw him as nothing but a bastard to be conquered. If anything, Jon preferred not to think of House Bolton anymore, be it that fiendish thing that called itself Lord or its daughter. Surely enough, if the tree were rotten, the fruits would be no good.

“Doesn’t this land ever end?” Tormund asked, looking around the grazing pastures dotted with sheep, auroch and goat and the occasional field of wheat. “I liked the endless green and gold well enough, but my eyes get tired of it after a while.”

Jon’s lips twitched. “It does, but not here. We’re in the northern Riverlands now. Name me the strong Houses here.”

“Frey, Mallister, Vypern—”

“Vypren.”

Tormund let out a snort. “Same thing.”

“Imagine someone called you Torund all the time,” Jon said lightly, and that shut his squire up. “Getting a man’s name right is a matter of respect, and getting a House name right even more so.”

Tormund had a love for chatter that was not easily extinguished, no matter how tired he grew. The night came, and they made camp, and the wildling boy would not cease his idle talk, speaking about the land, the weather, the people, and asking questions. Even though his patience was sorely tested at times, Jon explained it all as honestly as he could, while fletching his arrows and carving new shafts. A marksman could never have enough arrows.

Once everything was set, Jon threw Tormund a wooden blade and whacked some discipline and footwork into his thick head.

On the second day in the Riverlands, they found a passing peddler to sell the hides of the three lizard-lions he had killed in the Neck and purchase some supplies and goose feathers in return. The swamp beasts were the largest game that was not subject to poaching laws south of the Gift, and only because few of those who dared venture into the crannoglord’s domain survived. It was not the crannogmen that guarded their marshes jealously (though they did), but the many dangers lurking within the swamps, from poisonous frogs and bog vipers to the monstrous lizard-lions hiding in the murky waters. With the weeds and the bark of swamp trees, each more poisonous than the next, the scarcity of drinkable water and clear pathways, the Neck was a true land of peril, the graveyard of many an army. 

For a skinchanger like him, the land held no secrets. Each beast could serve as his ally, every bird and frog a guide, and there were no surprises.

“Wher’re we goin’ now?” Tormund asked with a yawn.

“King’s Landing,” Jon said. “The heart of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

The boy cocked his head. “Heard the bridge lord has plenty of sons. Perhaps one of ‘em has a name-day soon?”   

“You greedy brat.” Jon let out a bark of laughter. “Not everyone is as generous as Lord Umber, and most only raise feasts and hunts and tourneys for the birth of a son or when one of their boys reaches the age of majority.”  

Tormund clicked his tongue. “Tight-fisted misers.”  

He was not wrong. Walder Frey was known to be niggardly, cowardly, and quick to seize any opportunity for profit.

As they rode on, Jon’s eyes studied the surrounding lands. 

They were prosperous, better than anything he had seen in the Manderly or Dustin Lands, and the very air here was warmer, softer, missing something that Jon had taken for granted in the North or Beyond the Wall. 

The Riverlands, with their many river valleys, were known for their fertile lands, second only to the great bounty of the verdant Reach. These, in particular, were Frey lands, stretching from the kingsroad to the Green Fork and then some. Some were ruled by the Lord of the Crossing, while others by their knightly vassals and minor lords sworn to the Freys. Just like he rode here now, his brother would have once ridden at the helm of a Northern host, trying to save his uncle and father, only to be forced to choose between battle with the old Lion of Lannister and a costly passing through the Crossing. 

The thought of the future-past made him forlorn. 

He had already cut the male line of Bolton short, killed one of those vile traitors who would turn their swords upon his kin. Even now, when they had yet to commit the sacrilege of breaking guest right at a wedding and slaying their own king, the Freys were not known for their valour or honour. Perhaps… perhaps he could do a repeat here of what had happened to the Flayed Man. Walder Frey was no fiend like Bolton, but from what Jon knew of the man, he was no less insidious, if in a different manner.

Jon discarded the idea. Unlike the Boltons, the Freys were a fruitful House, all too fruitful, and getting rid of all of them will be a tall task and twice as perilous. But he was already here, and could he just… forget it all? But perhaps removing the chief weasel would be prudent. It would certainly satisfy his craving for vengeance.  

They turned west at the road junction. The deeper into the Riverlands they went, the more inns and villages they saw to the point that even Jon grew numb to it. The roads were full of travellers, peddlers eager to sell their wares, farmers looking to exchange their produce, work hands, vagrants, the occasional hedge knight or a hedge wizard selling some potion or a remedy, and even wandering septons, looking to preach or bless a newborn in exchange for some food or room for the night. 

The land was packed tight, too tight compared to what he was used to. In three days of travel, he had seen more inns and more travellers than from Castle Black to the Neck. The woodlands were small and thinned, and everything was dominated by green hills for grazing and golden fields of budding wheat. Prosperous. ‘Warmth ushered in life,’ he mused. Yet it was harder for Shadow to remain hidden and out of sight for it, but not impossible. The black-furred direwolf was as cunning as any man, even without Jon’s help and guidance.

On the third evening, Jon decided to camp by an abandoned well by the roadside. “It’s haunted by a ghost,” an old, hunchbacked crofter warned them as they neared. “It’s bad luck to sit there.”

“Ghosts?” Tormund scoffed, his chest puffed out with pride. “Who’s afraid of that?”

The old crofter shook his head and limped away.

But later that evening, when the distant groans carried into the night, Tormund was the first to jump to his feet and roar out, “Who is it?!”

Silence was his answer.

Jon let out a sigh as he stirred from his small tent. Shadow was still sleeping soundly in the shrubbery near the horses, so there was no danger. 

“Can it be truly a ghost?” His squire’s face was twisted with fright. “Quick, call Shadow and let’s run!”

Closing his eyes, he cast out his mind further and further.

“It’s not a ghost,” Jon said flatly. “Just a man fallen into the bottom of the well.”

“Let’s leave swiftly anyway,” Tormund muttered quickly, eyes darting around the dark.

“And leave some poor sod on the button of the well?”

“What if he’s dangerous?” the boy insisted. “Perhaps he’s there for some queer kneeler reason.”

Shaking his head with exasperation, Jon rose, making his way to the ‘haunted’ well. It took an hour to fish the man out of the bottom, though not because he was particularly heavy. The man was all skin and bones, his ragged garments were a soaked mess, and his haggard face was covered with a brown tangle of hair and beard, but bright purple eyes peeked out from beneath.

Despite his thin frame, once Jon pulled him up, he was quick to stand on his own feet, if with the help of a gnarled stick.

“Many thanks, benefactor.” His voice was so hoarse it sounded like the scraping of two stones against each other. “This one is known as Daeron.”

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

Another restless night saw Rhaella make her way to the royal tourney grounds on the banks of the Blackwater Rush. It was ill-mannered for any members of the royal family to miss the king’s tourney for no good reason, and she had nothing better to do today. Melony was nowhere to be found again, not even in the library, so Rhaella was accompanied only by Joanna and Branda today.

It was the second day of the games, and the sky was clear blue in every direction, nearly perfect for a tourney, if not for the fierce wind blowing from Blackwater Bay. The ground was still damp from yesterday’s rain, but the royal stewards made sure any unevenness and holes from the previous day’s games were stomped out, packed tightly at night and covered them with a thin layer of sand.

The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped above the royal box, massive in comparison to the banners of myriad colours below it. Their number was imposing, but the only ones of importance were the pierced sun of Martell and the golden lion of Lannister, the rest belonging to lesser houses from the Crownlands and the Stormlands.

By all rights, the crowned stag of Baratheon should have been amongst them, but her cousin was here as a contestant, eager to take part in the squire’s melee, not as the heir of Storm’s End.

The lord and ladies amidst the noble stands were fewer still than the banners fluttering above, her grandsire’s tourney failing to draw in as many lords as he had hoped. Most of the spectators were smallfolk from the nearby villages and the citizens of the city, merchants, crafters, and the retinues and kin of the many knights eager to win any smidgeon of glory. Where the lords had failed to come in the desired numbers, knights had over-delivered. Most were eager for a chance to catch the royal attention or perhaps even find themselves a position of honour. The rest had caught a sniff of the coming conflict and were here to whet their appetite for violence on the tourney ground.  

“The archery alone had nearly twice as many participants as the coming melee,” Jenny told her as the herald began announcing the squire games. 

“Even though the winner’s purse is merely a tenth of the joust?”   

It was her uncle who replied.

“Twelve hundred golden dragons is no small sum for most common men. Enough to buy a good manse in the city and last a smallfolk family for generations and then some. Many knights and lesser lordlings were drawn by it alone, though it was still a clawman who won.”

Duncan was clad in a black arming doublet with crimson dragons threaded across the cuffs and rims, even though he wouldn’t take part in the official melee, only the joust tomorrow. Out of the House of the Dragon, only Duncan entered the lists, much to Aerys’s chagrin. Rhaella’s gaze flickered to her brother, whose face was just as stony, his arms crossed, and his whole being as still as a statue in his seat. Aerys was eager to joust, eager to test his mettle in the squire’s melee like Steffon and Tywin had, but he was denied both.

As the sole son and heir of Prince Jaehaerys, any danger was too much of a risk. 

Princess Loreza tittered from her left, though the mirth didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Your father and Uncle already recruited Quickdraw Jayce and many other archers who distinguished themselves before anyone else could even approach.”

Rhaella frowned. Had things grown bad enough for a princess of Sunspear to come and poach talent from royal tourneys? Or was this merely the infamous Martell boldness?

Not quite a failure of a tourney, but not the success her grandsire had hoped for, then. The decades of his rule had turned too many lords against him, though not openly, but amongst the smallfolk and knights, Aegon the Unlikely was still beloved and carried no small measure of prestige. A Martell of Sunspear could hardly compare.

The squire’s melee began, and the clangour of steel and wood and grunting of men filled the air as young men and eager boys rushed forth, swinging swords and axes and spears at their competitors in the arena. Rhaella watched the struggle for a while, but her interest in boys and young men whacking each other soon dwindled. Even though she understood the importance of martial excellence and the role of tourneys in the kingdom, violence was not something she took relish in. 

Her gaze roamed across the royal box. Most of it was full, and even Maegor’s Tanner wife had come, sitting at the edge and nearly out of sight. Princess Loreza aside, her mother had brought along two of the fastidious hens she called ladies-in-waiting today, too. But the seat beside Aerys was still conspicuously empty.

Loreza traced her gaze and leaned in to whisper, “They say the little lioness woke up with morning sickness.”

“A child?”

“Not necessarily,” the Dornish princess said. “Confirming such matters is not done with haste. From what I gathered, Lady Genna only missed her moonblood by a week so far. It’s hard to say if the seed shall take until you’ve missed your moonblood two or three times, especially while so young.”

“Will a babe be dangerous to cousin Genna?” Joanna asked, her face filled with worry. 

Loreza gave the golden girl a soft, indulgent smile. “No more dangerous than any other thing, little Anna. It’s been over two years since Genna first flowered, so she has no more to fear in the birthing bed than any other young woman. And it can be just a simple delay in the moonblood—while uncommon, it is not a cause for worry.”  

Rhaella couldn’t help but nod along, and even Joanna eased into her seat. That was in line with what her grandmother had taught her in the matter. And if anyone knew about the trials of the birthing bed, it would be Loreza, who had survived two miscarriages and five births, more so than most. 

“Where’s our wayward cousin?” Her brother’s cool voice carried from the upper row. “He never missed a tourney.”  

“He hasn’t missed this one either.” It was Uncle Duncan who replied. “Look at that squire with the red brigandine.”  

Aerys cocked his head. “Maegor fighting? He’s doing better than expected.”

Rhaella’s gaze finally found Maegor, clad in red and taller than most squires, and her mouth twitched. Better than expected. Her usually slovenly cousin was getting whacked by… a Farring and a Bulwer; his sword was nowhere to be seen, and he was huddled behind a shield, enduring all their abuse. 

“Is Maegor even considered a squire?” Rhaella inquired.

“We’re not so petty to bar a prince of the blood entry if he wishes to fight.” Uncle Duncan clicked his tongue. “Poor little Maegor has yet to grow out of his youthful folly, it seems. Ah, he’s out already. Even the finest blademaster in Yi-Ti failed to teach him the most important lesson in swordsmanship: do not let go of your sword.”

Aerys snorted, and Rhaella failed to stop her lips from curling. There was hardly anyone more miserable in the whole field. 

In contrast, on the far side, Steffon and Tywin had banded together, one clad in gilded plate and the other in dark and yellow suit of lobstered armour, mercilessly ‘killing’ their way through the Frey and Reyne squires.

Slowly but surely, most contestants were knocked out or yielded, and the fighting piped down as those remaining were winded and in many cases—bruised. Chatter, bets over the winner, and commentary about the fight rippled around her, but she didn’t pay much attention. 

Rhaella’s skin prickled then. She felt someone watching her—and it was not a normal gaze. She allowed her thoughts to drain from her mind, letting her subconscious guide her. Her gaze was drawn to the commoner seats on the far side, across the arena. Amidst the sea of drab grey, brown, dull yellow, and muted green smallfolk wore, one thing that stood out like a sore thumb. A cloaked figure in inky black slid across the overflowing benches like a black wraith, and a crimson mask peeked beneath her hood. The eyes were too far to see, but she was doubtlessly looking right back at her. 

And the oddest thing that made her chest tighten was that nobody glanced her way, not even once. 

“…Who do you think will win, princess?” Loreza was saying.

Rhaella shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said absentmindedly. “But can you see that black-cloaked figure moving in the far stands there?”

The Dornish princess followed her pointed finger, and a frown settled over her dark face.

“I don’t see anyone wearing black there.” Her tone grew playful. “Perhaps you saw a brother of the Night’s Watch?”

Rhaella pointed at the middle of the seats. “But the figure is right there, wrapped all in black with a red mask. Just between the third and the fourth row. Don’t you see it?”

“There’s just the usual smallfolk crowd there,” Joanna said earnestly, blinking her green eyes right at the black wraith. “No figures cloaked in black, nor anyone with a red mask that I can see.”

Rhaella felt her throat tighten and her hair stand on end. “…Branda?”

The Stark maiden leaned forward for a long moment, studied the seats on the other side and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t see it either. Are you well, princess?”

“I… don’t know,” she muttered. “Perhaps I need to rest my eyes for a moment.”

Rhaella leaned back into her seat and closed her eyes. She sank her mind into the two ravens perched nearby and flew over. She peered through their beady black eyes, studying the crowd-filled benches, but spotted no black-cloaked figure.

When she cracked her eyes open again, she blinked at the seats. Apprehension bubbled within her throat. There was no black-cloaked figure now.

Was her mind playing tricks on her?

No, she couldn’t have imagined it; the senses of a skinchanger were too sharp for such things.

There was something else at play, something… unnatural.

Rhaella’s fingers fiddled with the hem of her sleeves as she shuffled in her seat, unable to find her place even as the squire’s tourney was entering its final stages. Prince Maegor was nowhere to be seen on the field. Steffon eventually got knocked out; Tywin lasted a bit longer before he was overwhelmed by a burly clawman from House Crabb. Just as a Massey and a Staunton squire remained, the crowd on the edge of their seats as their blunted tourney swords clashed for dominance, Rhaella heard a scream. 

It was distant at first, a pained shriek of fright, though nobody seemed to notice—their attention was set on the clash below. Then the shrieks grew louder, and more voices joined in, each one louder and more pained than the last, until Rhaella clutched her ears.

“Are you well, Rhae?” Loreza was looking at her with concern.

“Not really,” she forced out. “My head is dizzy. I think I’ll retire for the day.”

The sound was gone, and yet, when she rose and turned to leave, the corner of her eye caught the black-robed figure with a crimson mask again. Rhaella abruptly spun around, but all she saw was a sea of brown and green and yellow garments instead.

Her hair stood on end.

Heart hammering against her ribs, she ignored the odd looks her kin gave her and left the royal box with all the grace she could muster. For once, she was grateful for Ser Gerold’s silent presence, shadowing behind her.

Gods be good, she was frightened.

“Are you well, Rhaella?” It was the king’s weary voice, coming from the side.

As usual, Ser Duncan was hovering by his side, a tall, silent shadow cloaked in white.

She forced a smile on her face. “I’ll be fine, Grandfather. You look a bit pale yourself.”

His hand pressed against his belly. “I ate too many oysters last eve, and now my greed is coming back to haunt me.”

Rhaella stifled a laugh as her grandsire rushed to his tent with none of the royal dignity a king ought to display, doubtlessly eager to find relief at his chamberpot. 

The sea of tents surrounding the arena was lively. Contestants were already preparing for the true melee, and the squires that could still walk attended to their knights. Vendors had pitched their stalls at every corner, and more than one band of mummers and puppeteers and fools had come to perform, eager to earn some coin.

Rhaella’s footsteps paused, and she allowed herself to linger on some of the performance for a long moment before shaking her head. Here, away from the clangour of the games, she found herself breathing easier and her mind clearer. The feeling of doom that weighed over her heart lessened, too.

Surely enough, tourneys were no good. Perhaps it was the presence of so many souls in one place, eager for violence, eager for glory, that messed with her senses earlier. Her gaze drifted to her white shadow.

“Do you wish to enter the lists, ser?” she asked.

Ser Gerold Hightower was a fierce warrior and the second-finest swordsman in the kingsguard, surpassed only by Ser Duncan. Though perhaps not anymore—Ser Duncan the Tall was nearing seventy, and age had melted away much of his strength and vigour. But she knew in the future, the White Bull would rival Ser Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy in skill at arms, though his fame would never come close to theirs.

“No,” was the cool reply. Ser Gerold’s eyes remained vigilant, studying the surroundings for any sign of danger. “The kingsgaurd are sworn to win no glory.”

Rhaella stifled a chuckle. “That has hardly stopped white cloaks from winning glory before, and no king has ever begrudged them for it. After all, every shred of glory and valour they gained only enhanced the prestige of the Iron Throne—”

“Coushin!” It was a most annoying and familiar voice, but it lacked its usual slickness. 

Sighing, she turned to be greeted with a swollen mess of a face, bruised black and blue, with his lower lip busted and swollen, turning his usual smile into something pitiful and ugly in equal measure. It looked no different than a pig-head with a wig of silver-splattered hair. 

A peal of laughter slipped from her lips, and then another and it turned into a flood, until Rhaella shook with mirth. 

Even Maegor let out a snort of laughter. 

“Laff all y’want,” he slurred, voice thick with exasperation. 

“Why’d you ever enter the tourney, cousin?” Rhaella wheezed out.

“Wanned t’see how it’s like.” He gave her a puffy smile, revealing a bleeding lip. “I even beat that Thorne cuntsh good. Not… gonna watch th’ ‘night melee?”

Beating someone he disliked with his own hands? Or sword, to be more precise. No wonder her cousin was so happy. 

“I’ve had my fill of clamour and crowds for the day,” she said. “All that noise makes my head ache.”

Her eyes slid to the gaunt yet broad-shouldered figure behind Maegor, the man the Northmen had claimed was dangerous. Rhaella could see it now—he hadn’t twitched a muscle since they had started talking, and stood as still as a statue. But when he moved, it was silent and smooth, like the flowing water.

“This ish Tian Yin.” Maegor winced as his hand motioned to his guard… or was it a companion? Didn’t Uncle Duncan call him a blademaster?

Tian Yin’s almond-shaped eyes were always narrow, and his cheekbones were high and sharp, as was said to be the features of those living in the far east beyond the Jade Gates. His skin seemed a hue halfway between copper and bronze. Head shaved clean, though tattooed with odd black and white fish symbols chasing each other’s tails, surrounded by triangles that made her head dizzy. His armour was an odd thing, small interlocking rectangular plates riveted together in a queer way, and his belt was heavy with wicked knives of all shapes and sizes.

But the oddest thing had to be the long, curved sheath. It was not as curved as a Dothraki’s arakh, but not nearly as straight as a normal sword. 

His black eyes stared at Ser Gerold without blinking, and the white cloak seemed to be no less tense, as if he had recognised a dangerous foe; both warriors had hands hovering over the pommel of their swords, ready to draw them at a moment’s notice.

Her hair stood on end again. Just the slightest spark, and she had no doubt that live steel would be drawn and blood would be spilt. She couldn’t even say who would come victorious—or if there would be a victor at all in this confrontation, and it scared her.

“Farewell, cousin,” Rhaella said quickly, giving Maegor one final nod before walking away.

For once, he had not been a nuisance, not sneering, drinking, or leering at everything with a pair of teats. Maegor Targaryen was almost normal—despite his crude and undignified manners and words—though it had taken quite the beating to see something decent coming out of him. Perhaps her cousin should have been beaten far earlier—a few dozen times, and he’d become the most pleasant man in King’s Landing.  

“How dangerous was that warrior?” she asked once Maegor and his protector were out of sight. 

Gerold’s response came in an instant. “Very. The man has the eyes of a seasoned killer, the stance of a veteran warrior, and his hands are doubtlessly soaked with the blood of many.”  

“Most knights and men-at-arms are killers, ser.”

“It takes more than a murder or two to have such a cold, bloodthirsty gaze. And the unknown only makes his danger greater. I watched Maegor’s fighting in the arena closely, and it’s an odd, foreign style with a curved blade, unlike anything practised on this side of the Narrow Sea. The prince, barely a clumsy novice, had used its novelty to knock down two foes.”  

Rhaella hummed, turning over the matter in her mind. This was new, too. Maegor should never have found such a dangerous aide, and his name would have forever been forgotten after his demise at the Tragedy of Summerhall. It was no secret that her cousin was still bitter that her grandsire had stolen the Iron Throne from him. Any man would harbour a grudge for the severance of his blood inheritance. 

A scoff tore from her throat. It was Bloodraven and the lords of the Seven Kingdoms who had decided the matter of the crown, and her grandsire played no part. And yet Maegor did not dare begrudge them, saving his hatred for Aegon instead. In the end, no matter how dangerous and capable a helper he had found, one man could change nothing.

Even if he somehow managed to abandon his philandering ways for good, it would be of no use. The more exceptional he grew, the more the king would suppress him. 

But this was not a matter she ought to concern herself with. Perhaps her departure for Sunspear was a good thing. 

The further away she walked from the arena, the lighter her footsteps grew. The prickling at the back of her neck dwindled until it was completely gone. A frown settled on her face. Surely her decision to leave King’s Landing wouldn’t avert the looming danger?

She had considered Sunspear seriously before, but never to this effect. Never had it made her so calm. Why would the sense of doom and danger go away now?

Or perhaps, the danger wasn’t in the city or the Red Keep itself?

Could it be…?

She froze, her feet coming to a halt.

“Princess?” Ser Gerold gruffed.

She hesitated for a long moment. “Give me a minute, ser.”

Closing her eyes, she dove into the skin of her swiftest raven, and the closer she flew to the tourney grounds, the more her feathers stood up on end. 

Something was wrong. Dread pooled in her belly. 

She perched on a lower pole, fretfully studying the seats, the royal box and the knights lining up for the melee below. Nothing was out of place. 

Where was the danger coming from?

A cool, silky voice speaking in High Valyrian came from behind her.

“You’re looking at the wrong place, princess.”

Rhaella jumped in fright, twisting her feathery head only to see a pair of wet, mismatched eyes peering at her from behind a lacquered crimson mask. It was a woman’s lithe figure with a full chest, narrow waist and shapely hips, though not even an inch of flesh could be seen from the folds of the black cloak.

“Yes, I sense it too,” the mysterious woman hummed. “Something is amiss. Fate has shifted too far, and yet it matters little. What a queer thing.”

She reached out her hand, and the princess was too stunned to move. And all she felt was a wave of tingling heat when the gloved fingers passed through her feathers, as if she were not there.

The figure shook her head, moving her hand away. “Look underneath.”

Rhaella furiously struck her wings, fleeing as fast as she could. But the sense of looming death remained. She wheeled around, glancing at the pole. The cloaked figure was gone. 

Her small raven heart beat so hard it threatened to burst out of her chest. The herald below announced the beginning of the games, and the din of fighting and cheers of the crowd rose from the tourney grounds. Look underneath. 

Underneath what? The ground? The wooden stands?

Spreading her wings, Rhaella looped around, looking for anything out of place. Thrice she went around the stands, circling the crowd and failed to find anything of note. Just excited spectators, be they common of birth or noble. Her sight alone was not enough. She dove deeper, trying to catch that sense of impending doom, trying to find its source. 

Nothing. Frustrated, she dove, descending towards the back of the royal box. The sides were nailed together with planks, but she snuck beneath the gaps, where the supporting wooden beams—twice as thick as a man’s thigh—held up the platform above.

The clamour of the crowd grew distant and dull, but she heard a faint hissing instead. Her eyes widened as she saw a black corded rope wrapped around the base of the wooden beams, its end disappearing into the rough earth. 

But it was burning, its sizzling spark moving swiftly like a fiery dart along its length. The ground around looked loose, as if someone had ploughed it recently. However, there was a faint green sheen to it. Moss? Grass? Something else? She tilted her head, looking at the fiery rope with caution. It was unlike anything she had seen before—ropes could burn, yes, but not like this, never like this.

Before Rhaella could react, the sizzling spark reached the ground.

For a long moment, the world held its breath. And then the earth itself groaned, and a sea of searing green erupted, engulfing the wooden structures in an instant. Rhaella turned to flee, but the flesh-melting heat washed over her a moment later.

Author’s Endnote:

Kaboom. But not quite. Wildfire isn’t explicitly ‘explosive’, but fire under pressure definitely is. Chronologically, Jon’s PoV happens a few days after Rhaella’s PoV, but I decided to swap the order for narrative tension.