21.Ethereal Pursuits

259 AC, the Riverlands

The Wandering Bastard

It took time for a lord to find out when riders sent to patrol ‘disappeared’. If the lord’s lands were vast enough, some patrols could ride around for days, even weeks, before returning. It was far more likely that a passing traveller, vagrant or some merchant would find the corpses and bring word of it to the nearest holdfast. From there, they would send a raven to the lord if they had one, and a rider to bring the word if they didn’t.  

If it were another patrol that found them, Jon could ambush them. He was confident enough that any group under six or seven would be easy pickings for him, especially when he could turn their horses against them. Eight steeds were still something he could command with some effort, though it was half a struggle to do so at the same time, and he still had Shadow and the owl in the sky to weigh on his mind. 

If it were a vagrant or some traveller who found the place, Jon would allow them to bring the word to the nearby holdfast… and ambush whoever came. If their numbers were too great, he’d strike at night or when they split up, of course. A master skinchanger was least afraid of being tracked down by hounds or chased down by knights and riders on horseback. Catching him would be a pipe dream, as long as he was careful. If he wanted to, he could go to their stables and free the destriers and the other steeds with none the wiser. Or make them riot, leaving an utter mess. He could turn the hunting hounds against their master as he did with Bolton; he could draw whichever raven came in or out of the Crossing to come to him first, and so much more.

With House Frey in the open and Jon in the shadows, he could conjure endless mischief for them. And the more cunning of it didn’t require him to show his face or take action in person. Though Jon would not go too far. Stirring trouble for House Frey was a given, but he would not stoop so low as to ruin the livelihoods of hapless smallfolk.

Yet, for good or ill, the gods had decided to grant good fortune upon House Frey.

The place where the Frey men had decided to camp was secluded enough, and with the sky growing dark and overcast the next day, rain pittered on without stop until nightfall. Any travellers were weary of the rain and hurried to some inn in the village a league and a half away, where they’d sleep in a crofter’s barn for a handful of pennies. When darkness gathered and the downpour died down, the crows descended to feast on the corpses, and Jon used his mind to scatter them away. But then came vultures, a pack of hungry wolves and a stubborn old bear, eager to feast on the man-flesh, and he gave up on it.

A skinchanger could control a beast, yes, but he could not truly change its nature, no matter his skill.  

When dawn came, the encampment no longer looked like a place that had been attacked by a bandit but by savage wild beasts, with chewed-out limbs and half-eaten carcasses strewn across the ground. Sighing, Jon went back to the encampment in person and removed the final clue that might give something up—the sliced rope that had been used to bind the horses. The steeds were let loose, running freely in the grassy meadows by the nearby streams.

The feasting wolves glanced at him, their snouts glistening with crimson, but once they saw he would not fight them for food, they paid him no further heed. The bear gave him a dark snort, dragging away one of the torn legs stolen from the wolves, while the vultures only glanced at him with their beady yellow eyes. The murder of ravens he had first chased away was perched across the nearby trees, cawing up an angry storm at him.

Without further ado, Jon took the coin pouches he had previously left untouched, though it made him feel dirty. A sigh tore from his throat as his fingers groped through the purses. They were too light, too thin. While it did not surprise him that Walder Frey wasn’t paying his men handsomely, he had hoped for more than two dragons and a dozen silver stags.

Still, that alone was more than enough to last him for moons on the road with the occasional stop for a soft bed at some inn. ‘Gods,’ he thought bitterly. ‘I’ve turned into a brigand.’

Killing men over a feud was one matter, but pilfering their coins was another entirely. 

The matter weighed on his mind, and the two stolen pouches felt like rocks on his soul. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he told himself. ‘House Frey doesn’t need that paltry sum of coin as much as I do.’

It didn’t make him feel much better. A bolder man would claim it was his rightful spoils of battle, but so would brigands. It was a small consolation that he had not killed the Frey men for their coin. In this, Jon knew he was on the wrong side of the law. 

When Jon returned to his own encampment, he was met with the still-awake Tormund, a wide smile threatening to split his face.

“I caught a horse!” Tormund proclaimed, motioning to a rather familiar courser that was sprawled on the ground, sleeping between their garrons. “There are two more of these big, handsome beasts wandering around, but they run too fast.”

Jon glanced at the horse and let out a long sigh.

“Most lords mark horses belonging to their house, Tormund,” he said, motioning to its leg, where a faint twin-tower brand was still visible. “At least those powerful enough to have their own stables to rear warhorses for their own use. Any man not of House Frey caught riding or selling such a horse will be considered a horse-thief.”

Tormund’s auburn brows knotted together as he studied the sleeping destrier. 

“Can’t we just brand the beast again, covering the previous mark?”

Jon opened his mouth to decline, but the words just couldn’t leave his tongue. The looted pouches hung heavy on his belt. 

“We can,” he said, shoulders sagging. If he was going to rob the Frey outriders after slaying them, he might as well do it properly. “I’ll help you catch the other two coursers tomorrow.”

‘This was the first and the last time,’ Jon told himself. ‘I can kill for vengeance, kill for honour and righteousness, but not for coin. Never for coin.’

Jon settled on the nearby rock, resting his chin on his fist. 

Was it the theft of coin that bothered him, or the dispensation of justice and judgment he had no right to levy upon these men? 

He looked hard into his soul, and he looked deep as Brynden had taught him, and then he knew it was just an excuse he meant to fool himself to pursue personal satisfaction, not even vengeance. This Walder Frey and House Frey were innocent of the wrongdoings Jon pinned on them, and had yet to break Guest Right, let alone kill the unborn Robb Stark at his unborn Uncle’s Wedding. 

They all wielded the capacity to do such a vile deed, and yet…

“All men have both good and great evil in their hearts,” Brynden had once told him. “It’s the choices we make that define us.”

His sleep was still uneasy that night, as he tossed and turned in his tiny tent for hours. What would the old man think of his deeds here? He’d probably say something like ‘Death is but an end. Whatever reasons you had for taking a life, the dead are gone and cannot bring themselves to care. What matters is if the death in question serves you well enough to justify the risk of killing.’

Eventually, he managed to rest for a short while, though his dreams saw him fighting against a wave of shapeless fiends. Some fell down from the sky, others crawled out of the river. They were not hard to kill, wearing no armament and wielding no arms, but were numerous and kept coming to disturb his rest with dogged fervour. Jon couldn’t quite remember why he was fighting them—other than that they wanted to kill him—but his dreams rarely made any sense, so he didn’t think much of it. In fact, the moment he awoke, the details washed away from his mind like a cup of ale spilt in the river.  

The morning saw him stiff and weary, with his body aching and limbs heavy as if he had swung his sword for real the whole night. Unlike him, Shadow stood guard by the edge of the camp, sprawled on the ground with tongue lolled out, without a care in the world. Weirdly enough, his previous restlessness had drained away, and he was filled with an odd sense of satisfaction that usually only came after a good duel or a fight.

Had he truly fought during the dream?

Jon scoffed at the thought and soon put it out of his mind. His thoughts on the matter of last night cleared. Yes, he was doing this for personal satisfaction, not true vengeance. This was Walder Frey and his brood, aye, but not the same Walder Frey and his ilk who had killed his brother. It was indeed petty to hunt down men for offences they had yet to give, and it was not just at all, but the clarity of his goal alone brought him a solace of peace. He would still hold true to his vow and never kill for coin like a sellsword or a brigand. 

He still bent the two coursers grazing two miles by the small woodland to his mind, bringing them in to be reined in by Tormund. His squire was already lighting a fire, preparing the bronze shield-shaped brooch he had won in a wager at Castle Black to use as a new brand. 

But with the coursers by their side, the danger in loitering around the Frey lands heightened. A new brand might conceal the twin towers of Frey, but that didn’t mean the steeds wouldn’t be recognised.  

He could still proceed with his current plan, though it would require some adjustments and caution. A part of him was tempted to go another route. The horses were yet to be branded and could be returned to House Frey. He could bring back the remains of the men he killed while playing the innocent traveller, and even a tight-fisted man like Walder Frey would grant him some reward. 

From within the Twins, it would be easy to find a chance and arrange for the old weasel to meet a mishap. Such a plan would require Jon to break bread with the vile man and keep his courtesies tight and his lies sharp. But it would be a cold day in the seven hells before Jon Snow broke bread with a Frey.  

No matter how much Jon loathed it, that was the swiftest and most insidious way to kill Walder Frey. And yet… he would still be a guest under the Frey roof, and killing his hosts would be sacrilege. But Jon was no Frey to do something that vile, even though he was tempted by the idea for a long moment.

There was still a third road for him. He could still turn away, turning his steed on the road to King’s Landing instead of lingering here. That was the safest choice by far, considering he still carried Dark Sister on his person, even though its hilt and pommel were wrapped in old linen. Perhaps it was the most prudent choice, too, allowing himself to leave old hatreds behind in a world that would not be.

And yet… Jon couldn’t bring himself to make that choice.

Just as he was seated on a mossy rock, pondering and weighing his options as he propped his head up with his hand, his owl tugged on his mind. 

A raven was fluttering along the Green Fork, with a small strip of parchment tied to its leg, heading upstream towards the Twins. The owl struck with its wings, frantically chasing it, but while owls were silent hunters, they were quite slow in flight, while ravens were swift, agile birds, and this one was no different. With each heartbeat, the distance between them lengthened. 

Clearing his mind, Jon cast out his senses, trying to grasp the bird. It was just at the edge of what his consciousness could reach, and he reached out. The raven’s mind was more stubborn than most, and it resisted. A frown settled on Jon’s face, and he put everything into it, forcing his way into its mind.

The bird flew out of his perception a heartbeat later, but the attack had been made. The raven faltered, falling headfirst into the ground, its mind reduced to a scrambled mess, while Jon’s head began to throb. 

A few minutes later, the horses began to neigh, stomping nervously with their hoofs, and it became twice as hard to keep them calm. Shadow rushed over with a wagging tail, spitting out a slightly chewed-through raven in Jon’s hand. 

“What’s that?” Tormund asked curiously as he held his brooch over the fire with an iron poker. 

“A letter to House Frey,” Jon said, scratching his direwolf behind the ear. Before long, Shadow gave his hand a lick, glanced at the uneasy horses for a long moment, and dashed away into the nearby woodland. “Speaking of, I still haven’t found the time to teach you your letters and sums.” 

Tormund made a face. “Those squiggles and lines just make my eyes cross over, and my head aches for hours. I’d rather shovel horseshit.” 

Jon’s mouth twitched. “The foolish are easily duped, Tormund.”  

The boy puffed up like a peacock. “The man who can dupe Tormund Bearsbane hasn’t been born yet!”  

“Bearsbane?” 

Tormund just nodded, face solemn. “My ma used to tell me that every man of renown must have a mighty name to go with him.”

“How quaint.” Jon cocked his head. “Yet I can’t recall you slaying any bears.” 

“I helped you take down that beast back in the haunted forest,” Tormund coughed out, lowering his eyes.  

“You certainly helped me skin it,” Jon said, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. Young or old, Tormund was still the same boastful bag of air. “Best put away all your thoughts of gaining glory on a lie from your mind. Set yourself instead to honing your skills at arms and sharpening your wits, for the day may come when the gods offer you a chance to rise, you’d have the means to seize it.” 

Tormund nodded with a thoughtful frown.

“But would such a chance ever come?”  

Jon gave him an idle shrug. “Only the gods can say. All we may do is hone ourselves and be ready. For men such as us, born without a noble name to shield us, there’s no surer road.”

His thoughts drifted to that great ranging where he had brushed with death all too often. How many nights had he gone to sleep, not sure if the next dawn would be the last he had seen?

It had taken all of his skills and cunning to see himself through, and no small measure of luck, and even then, that had barely been enough. He could remember too many moments where, should his sword skills have been worse, should his wits have been half a heartbeat slower, he would have long been dead.

After a long moment of silence, he added softly, “A wise old man once told me it’s a great shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength his body is capable of.”

Tormund bobbed his head. “Must’ve been a clever man.”

“His name was…” Jon’s throat tightened, and he almost choked on the feeling surging in his chest. “…Brynden,” he managed with some difficulty. “He was not only clever but strong and wise in equal measure. I wouldn’t be half the man I am today without his guidance.”

‘I wouldn’t be alive, either.’

Shaking his head, Jon’s attention settled back on the raven in his hand; it was larger than usual, one of the rarer breeds reared for carrying larger messages and flying further. No wonder it resisted him so well. He pulled out his dagger, nipping the string that held the large scroll tied to its leg with a swift swipe. The seal was in blue wax, once again etched with the hateful twin towers. 

Some Frey bringing word far from home to his head of house, then. Was it just a word of concern between kinsmen, or perhaps something… more sordid? A secret plot?

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jon broke the seal, while the raven disappeared into Winter’s maw. The letters were clean and orderly, clearly written with great care and attention.

Father,

I write to you with great concern this day. It was a bitter and costly struggle to get the royal acolyte to allow me a raven to the Crossing, but recent events have forced my hand. 

A great tragedy has fallen upon the peoples of King’s Landing and the House of the Dragon. On the king’s nameday tourney, the royal box erupted with wildfire like a volcano. The sound itself was terrible, as were the shrieks of the dying and the mournful wails that came after. Hundreds perished that day, and many more were wounded. The Seven smiled upon my brothers, and only Jared had his leg wounded by a flying splinter. He cried like a little babe when it was removed, but the acolyte said the wound would mend within a sennight’s time.

The king was absent at the time, surviving the explosion, but Prince Jaehaerys, Prince Duncan, their wives, and the queen fell that day. Lord Thorne, Staunton, Cressey, and Buckwell, the king’s staunchest supporters, perished, too. The deaths that would haunt the Iron Throne the most are the Darry and Baratheon heir, along with Princess Martell.

The king’s grandchildren lived, too, though rumour is Prince Aerys’s legs have been crippled, and Princess Rhaella has fallen ill from sorrow. The whole city is in grief, and the king is mourning; the royal court is gutted, but I believe this is a chance.

The king is alone, with only the Lord of Casterly Rock left from his close allies, and we, as close friends of House Lannister, can fill the void that’s left in court. Perhaps even rise higher. Word is that only three great pirate lords of the Stepstones still resist Blackfyre and his Band of thieves, and once they fall, Maelys the Monstrous will set his sights on the Iron Throne. 

This is a chance I find prudent to seize, Father, and my brothers and I all urge you to act. 

We stand together!

—Your faithful son and heir, Ser Stevron Frey

Jon frowned, his eyes darting across the ink again and again. But no matter how much he read through, the words stayed the same. 

This was unlike what he remembered from Maester Luwin’s lessons. The Tragedy of Summerhal was supposed to happen about this time of the year, where the Unlikely would attempt to hatch dragon eggs with wildfire and lose not only his life, but much of his family in the green inferno, not… whatever this was. And the letter mentioned a close alliance between the Iron Throne and Casterly Rock. Such a thing could only mean ties of blood, and thus a marriage between the direct line. Had Prince Aerys married a Lannister? Or had Princess Rhaella married Tywin Lannister instead?

Your presence here alone has shifted fate.

Jon remembered Bloodraven’s words all too vividly, but the difference here was too vast, too sudden, and too far from his presence and actions.

It was true that all things in the world were connected in inexplicable ways, but the sheer suddenness of this change caught Jon by surprise. With Lord Bolton’s death and the changed tragedy of the royal family, everything he knew of the future-past was now in question.

Now, he was venturing into uncharted lands.

Or perhaps this was not his doing, not the ripple of his existence. The Dreaming Eye, Bloodraven’s master and Jon’s rightful grandmaster, had mentioned… beings sneaking through the cracks of the firmament.

Jon shuddered despite himself.

His eyes glanced back to the carefully inked words. As loath as he was to admit it, Stevron Frey was not wrong.

“Tormund,” he called out. “Saddle the horses.”

“I ought to brand them first,” Tormund murmured, eyes set on the brooch left in the burning coals, now a dull red, barely distinguishable from the surrounding embers. “Everything is almost ready.”

“Do it swiftly, then.” Jon massaged his temples, hoping to soothe the pulsing ache. “Once you’re done, we’ll ride hard.”

That finally caught the boy’s attention. “I thought you were planning something here.”

“My plans just changed.” Jon cast the letter into the fire and watched the flames slowly spread across the parchment, burning slowly until only ash and glowing cinders remained. “Now, we’ll go to King’s Landing with all haste. Times of great turmoil have come to the realm, and with them, the chance to rise high and go far. Now it’s time to see if we have the fortune and the skill to seize it.” 

For good or ill, three strong coursers would come in handy, allowing them to swiften their pace by at least a half. 

259 AC

The Lost Princess 

She drifted amidst the sea of stars. The flickering lights, some as small as a pigeon’s egg, others as large as a mountain, blurred by as she drifted. She had been here… for… she couldn’t quite remember. Even time itself felt strange, without the rhythm of day and night to guide her. 

Most of it was nigh endless emptiness, with the occasional swirling spheres of dust and rock in the distance. Lesser celestial bodies, her mind supplied, though she was uncertain where that knowledge stemmed from. They came in every colour, in every shade, some deep, others faint and pale, and a rare few had flat rings of various thickness and length surrounding them instead of a moon. Some were reddish, others brown or green or blue, a few rare ones were like a rainbow, a hodgepodge of colours. 

What was a moon again?

She struggled to remember. Her own name eluded her now.

As she drifted aimlessly, she heard screams echo in the far distance, filled with dread and agony that made her very being shudder. Sometimes it was accompanied by a rumbling boom, the crackling of burning wood, and the churning sizzle of meat, a terrible sound that made her uncomfortable all over.

After a time, even that would grow quiet. What came next was the single wail of a lone woman, but no less heart-curdling for it. The sound was pitiful, filled with grief, betrayal, and reluctance. Something told her she ought to know that scream.

And then the oppressive silence returned, and the light of the stars grew all cold and sinister. The void between them rippled and pulsed. The darkness itself began to coalesce into cocoons so dark they looked to drink in the light, and all that was warm in the world. Rhaella spotted a vague shape as a kraken’s limb twisted far in the distance.

Suddenly, countless eyes with no form or body opened in the void, their heavy gazes piercing through her. Each one was slitted like a cat, as pale as ice, and so cold that it made her whole being frozen with fear.

The world took a sudden plunge, and everything spun into a swirl of colours until she found herself plummeting down into a green river valley.

Not only that, but she now felt she had limbs and a torso to go with them. A gown of pretty pink satin flowed down her shoulders, though it failed to ward away the chill that had settled into her bones. Her hands rushed to her face, and she only felt her chest tighten when her fingers only found smooth skin, without nose, mouth or eyes. Even her ears were absent, fingers only finding silky curls of silver-gold on her head.

And yet… she could somehow see, or at least perceive, the world around her.

“Foolish disciple,” a harsh, scalding voice rang in her ears. “A death can break a mortal mind, did you forget?”

“A thousand apologies, ser,” she somehow managed, the sound coming from her mind rather than her mouthless face. “I’m afraid I… don’t quite remember.” 

She glanced around to find the newcomer, but no matter how hard she looked, all she saw was a grassy glade and an expanse of trees surrounding it.

“Evidently,” the voice softened now, though vexation crept into his tone. “If you had, you would have fled the mind of that bird. A normal death is damning enough, but those pyromancers weave substantive spells into their work, and their sinister jade flames are worse than most.”

Rhaella shifted uneasily, uncertain if she was supposed to say something. 

“I see,” she muttered at last.

“You don’t see a thing,” the voice shot back, agitated once more. “You don’t even remember, my foolish disciple. Your mind is shattered into pieces like a glass thrown against a sharp rock, and you’re lucky I woke up just in time to pull back most of your consciousness from the nether.” His words grew slow and weary at the end, exhaustion seeping into his tone.

“What now?”

A long sigh echoed in her ears. “I’m too drained to do more now, and saving you has sapped the strength I had gathered. Now, your fate is back in your hands. Consider this a trial, for good fortune hides within calamity. Piece the rest of your mind back together, and should you succeed, you shall enjoy no small measure of improvement.”

“Improvement of what?” Silence was her answer, and she pressed more firmly this time, “How do I piece my mind back together?”

“Clear your thoughts,” the voice said, now faint as if it were speaking from another room. “Sharpen your focus and cast out your senses. Once you feel a pull that calls to your very self, follow it and reclaim what is yours.”

“Thank you.” Her uneasy fingers found the pink folds of her skirt, and she lifted it for a curtsy. The motion came easily to her, smooth and elegant as if she had practised it ten thousand times. 

The voice spoke again, now down to a faint whisper. “Believe in yourself, and you should succeed.” And then, as if it were an afterthought, it added, “Don’t stare into the void next time, lest it gazes back at you, Rhaella Targaryen.”

Rhaella Targaryen? Was that her name?

It sounded right. 

She sat down on the grass, her legs crossed together beneath her.

Emptying her mind, it felt like an eternity of silence had passed, and just as she started growing drowsy, she felt it. A faint feeling of familiarity at the edge of her awareness. There were seven, each tugging at her in a different direction. 

She picked up the nearest one first. She dove into the feeling, and the world shrank into an inch as she found herself in a looming black fortress of scorched walls and half-melted towers. The place was deathly quiet, without a single sound or soul, even though the courtyard was clean and the stable stalls were stocked with fresh hay. Windows were whole, doors were left open, and shutters were in good shape, all signs of being lived in yet with no man or woman in sight. 

Something told her she ought to recognise this place, but Rhaella merely slipped past an arched door into a woodland grove, where the air was old and thrummed with power that called to her. 

The moment she saw a great tree with bone-white bark and crimson leaves, a stream of light rushed into her, and suddenly, she felt… fuller, as if a part she wasn’t aware that was missing had returned. She vaguely remembered shapes and faces from her past… and a keep of pale reddish stone. Her fingers idly stroked her smooth-fleshed face, but now she found an ear had appeared on the left side of her head.

The next part of her was further south, in a mighty tower surrounded by a mightier curtain wall, nestled atop a rocky shore. The moment she approached, the sky itself darkened with rage, and winds began to whip as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, as if about to swallow the earth itself. The sea churned, rising in high, furious waves to topple the castle, but the mighty walls remained undaunted by rain or water, undamaged by thunder and wind.

The wind blew her away thrice, slamming her against the rocks. Pain lanced through her chest, but it was a dull thing, not comparable to the sheer terror she had felt in the void. She waited until the storm quieted for a moment and rushed inside through the postern door. A warm stream of light slipped into her chest again, and she began to remember now. 

Her second ear returned, but the storm returned with a vengeance, raging against the castle. Storm’s End, her memory supplied, was a castle built in times long past by names that were little more than legends. It felt like hours had passed until the sky calmed enough for her to leave.

Her nostrils were found amidst the slender towers of Summerhal and a great hill in the Riverlands where thirty-one weirwood stumps lay in a perfect circle, each stump gigantic—at least eight yards thick at the base. A familiar old, stunted crone was sleeping amidst the roots bulging from the grass. When Rhaella approached, she woke up, blearily looking around with a pair of crimson eyes. The dwarf woman glanced about, wrinkled face filled with confusion, though she eventually lay back amidst the roots.  

She found her left eye in a deep underground shaft in the western hills, though she fled out of the darkness swifter than she entered when she felt something dangerous stir beneath her feet.

By then, she remembered. She was Rhaella of House Targaryen, a princess of the blood and the granddaughter of Aegon the Unlikely. She was a sister, a daughter, a proud maiden… and the novice greenseer under the tutelage of Whitedream, and she had lost her raven’s life to a raging eruption of wildfire.

The last memory alone got her all anxious, for that wildfire had been placed right underneath the royal box. That alone spoke of a deliberate scheme that could only end up in tragedy. Rhaella suppressed her unease, for it would not help her here. 

She needed to wake up swiftly, and for that, she needed to recover what she had lost.

Rhaella followed the tug of what ought to be her right eye. It was across the deep, dark waters of the Narrow Sea, nestled somewhere in the southeast.

Remembering her master’s old warnings about the dangers lurking in the seven seas, she didn’t follow the straight line as before, but turned her mind directly southward. The scenery around her blurred as she allowed herself to travel, though it was far slower than following the connection. She had to slow down and go around any place that made her uneasy, and immediately wheel around any objects, shapes, or movements that made the back of her neck prickle. That alone slowed her further. 

The travel allowed her to delve deeper into her being and get a feel of what her own senses could now do.

For good or ill, her master had been proven right once again. She had benefited from misfortune. Her eyesight inside the Dream sharpened, and her mind was swifter and could reach further than before by a third. Her thoughts were clearer than she remembered. It was as if a fog that had filled her skull had gone. Even her memories were easily recalled in vivid detail, save for a few that seemed to be… missing.

She’d recover them soon enough.

Before long, she crested over the Red Mountains, and her senses screamed of danger at the vast expanse of sand that stretched in every direction. That alone forced her to walk across the shore, toeing the line between the danger of the sea of Dorne on her left and the endless sands to her right. 

The next obstacle came once she arrived at the Broken Arm, and the call summoned her across the water. She dared not tread into those dark waters.

Seating herself upon a rock, she gazed at the seemingly harmless waves licking at the sandy shore. Their rhythmic sound was almost hypnotising. The obstacle before her ought not stump her.

What had her master said again?

“In the Dream, the rules of the world are thin, making boundaries pliant to your will and easily broken… if you know how.”

Rules are thin. Boundaries are pliable. Whitedream had once told her of a way to cross the sea safely, but she couldn’t quite recall. 

If only she had wings to fly over—

The moment the thought appeared in her head, her body rippled, turning into the familiar feathery shape of an eagle. 

So that’s how it was. Boundaries are pliant…

At that moment, she was both Rhaella Targaryen and Vhagar, the royal wedge-tailed eagle, her closest companion.

A beat of her majestic wings launched her into the sky. For a short moment, she just enjoyed the warm kiss of the sun, allowing the wind to caress the feathers. The sky felt like home.

Alas, she dared not delay much further—Rhaella dared not to test if there was further harm the longer her mind remained split.

She circled the shore in a long moment of hesitation before turning east. Rhaella flew over the waves with no small measure of trepidation.

Small, rocky islets passed beneath her wings, and greater islands came and went to her left and right, but they did not call to her. She went on and on until her wings started to grow tired, and struggled to keep her aloft. Just as she began to panic, she finally reached a place that had more than a few square feet of rock. The island was grand, but she felt the pull at a walled town that overlooked a harbour chock-full of warships. It was a motley collection of vessels—a few were the slender swan ships of the Summer Isles, but the rest were mostly cogs and galleys refitted for war—or piracy instead of trade. 

Their sails were a bright hodgepodge of emblems and blazons, depicting all sorts of banners she struggled to recognise. Some vaguely looked like a twisted remake of Essosi heraldry, but most of them were obscene to the point she flushed red at the first glance.

She continued past the harbour and flew over the wooden ramparts, swooping down to a weather-worn sandstone tower crested at the rocky hill at the very centre of the settlements, where her senses called her.

For the first time, she saw two figures on the tower’s battlements, living and breathing. Her heart sank. One was all too familiar, a slender woman wrapped in a dark cloak with a lacquered crimson mask cover, not showing even an inch of skin.

Next to her was a hulking giant of a man, towering a whole head over his companion. His skull looked malformed, his short-cropped silver hair sat like straw upon his head, and his torso and arms were huge and grotesque, with a second, fist-sized head rising from the side of his neck. Maelys the Monstrous.

Rhaella’s descent faltered, and she turned, wheeling around to approach them from behind.

He was the first to speak, his voice deep and harsh like the rumbling of boulders.

“This is far from enough, woman,” he said, gaze fixed on the sea of ships in the harbour. 

The figure merely shrugged.

“You already have your Nine, the might of the Disputed Lands and Tyrosh under your command, Your Grace.” 

“A good start, but more is needed to topple the Iron Throne.” His grotesque head turned to face the woman. “I have reached out to the Martells of Dorne as you told me, but they have yet to reply.”

“The vipers of Sunspear are ever clever and twice as cautious, Your Grace. No doubt they are waiting to see the Iron Throne’s attitude on the matter of the Green Tourney. Even if they join you, you would do well to hold them at arm’s length.”

“Perhaps. You ought to come in person instead of dream-walking like this, Quaithe.”

So Quaithe was her name.

“It’s more convenient this way, Your Grace,” she said, undaunted by the man looming over her. “If I am by your side, I can be seen and schemed against.”

“What use is scheming and planning in my sleep if I struggle to remember it when I wake?” 

Quaithe’s response was surprisingly patient. “I already taught you how to recall your dream, Your Grace. From there, it’s a matter of practice.”

“I’m not meant for these spiritual matters,” he rumbled, “but for fighting and killing.”

A slender, gloved hand reached for the muscled bulk of Maelys’s elbow. “A king needs more than brawns, Your Grace.” 

That softened the grim frown on his face, and his voice grew surprisingly tender. “What of those three dragon eggs at Asshai?”

“I fear they would be hard to retrieve without significant time and effort.”

“If Aegon has dragons, I must have them too,” he declared. 

Disbelief warred with shock in Rhaella’s mind. Dragons? 

“And yet… the hatching of those dragons is a rare chance.”

Maelys let out a thunderous scoff. “A chance?”

“They would be small, feeble and vulnerable for years to come, and it would take thrice as long before they become the terrors of war that folded the Seven Kingdoms into one realm. And while it has been over a century since dragons have soared across the sky, the tails of the devastation they brought travelled to the four corners of the world, reaching even the Shadow itself. Nobody desires the return of dragons aside from House Targaryen. The highlords fear them, the Braavosi bankers dread them, the former Triarchy hates them, and from Slaver’s Bay to Ibb, all remember the history—the unbreakable yoke of the dragon and its arrogance.”

Rhaella’s heart sank. She awkwardly inched closer with her talons, afraid that the sound of her wings would give her location away.

“And what of it?” Maelys asked, voice as sharp as a sword. “A dragonrider has all the might to back any perceived arrogance. They are stronger, they are better than the rest of the chaff.”

“That might be true, Your Grace. But you can still use Aegon’s dragons to draw mighty support to your banner. Where the dragons ruled the skies, no others could ever rise, be it in Essos or Westeros, and everyone else was forced to serve the Freehold, and later the House of the Dragon, or perish. Allow the word of the hatched dragons to spread, and you’ll have all the support to claim the Iron Throne that you wish. From Slaver’s Bay to Braavos, all those proud merchant princes, slave masters, and priest lords that have grown too fond of the taste of power and influence will be aiding your cause, whether in the shadows or in the open—”

“What is it?”

“It seems we have a little rat here,” Quaithe spoke with a mocking tone. She turned around, pinning Rhaella with those wet, mismatched eyes that made her skin crawl. “Have you heard enough, little girl?” 

The princess let out a shriek, her feathery form diving down through the opened door and into a spiralling staircase. It was hard to navigate the twists of the narrow, spiralling stairs as a bird without crashing, but she barely managed. In haste, she struck her head on the railing inside, though not before retrieving her piece of self. Her dazed mind barely registered the warm stream slipping into her beak, too busy gathering her wits.

She heard the clanking of hurried greaves on stone growing stronger and Quaithe’s voice in the distance. It was not the Common Tongue or any tongue that Rhaella could recognise, but each word rang out like a gong, full of power and making her heart clench. 

Escape was not an option as she had to go past that sinister woman and Maelys. Rhaella knew that wounds suffered in the Dream were no less dangerous than those in the waking world, and had no wish to taste the sharpness of Blackfyre’s edge.

Just as Maelys neared with sword drawn, Rhaella finally cleared her mind, groping out the feeling of the last piece of herself and desperately latching onto it, no longer caring of the dangers dwelling in the Narrow Sea.

The last thing she heard was not Maelys’s lumbering footsteps but the end of Quaithe’s chant that finished with one soft word in High Valyrian that rippled through the air, “Starfall.”

Her feathers stood on end.

Rhaella tugged on her mind, and the world around her blurred. Her form itself lost its feathers and twisted back into the shape of a woman. 

She found herself stumbling into a small clearing, wheezing and hacking through her nose. Each painful cough saw her snort out salt and brine. Something tightened around her throat, and her hands desperately clawed at her throat, struggling to remove whatever was choking her.

After a long moment, her hands were filled with silver seaweed, and she fell to her knees, chest heaving as she coughed out more and more brine, her vision filled with stars.

Something oily tangled around her hands and legs then, its touch burning on her skin. A gasp escaped her nose as she saw tentacles made of coiling shadow and fluttering starlight. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure. 

She struggled, but it was in vain—their hold was like iron. The shadowy monsters only sank into her flesh more and more.

And then, something stirred in the darkness. A familiar grey-scaled drake with its distinctive crimson-scaled tail. 

Two crimson eyes cracked open, looking at her with a measure of confusion. Rhaella could only grunt in pain now, her world reduced to agony. 

Then, the dragon shook itself as her bones began to creak from the pressure. For good or ill, it did not open its maw to bathe her, and those terrible things binding her in a torrent of dragonflame, but instead rose, turning into a man.

Rhaella would have stared wide-eyed if it weren’t for the pain of her bones being crushed.

He was tall and lean, armour of black ice peeking beneath his weirwood cloak, with a slender sword of flame in his fist. Within a heartbeat, he burst into motion with practised precision, the fiery blade slicing through those twisting tentacles like a hot knife through butter with a single swipe. His strikes were swift and precise, just enough to slice through the creatures that bound her but not enough to cut her body. 

A stream of light fluttered from the weirwood cloak, and Rhaella felt a warm wave engulf her, along with a feeling of completeness.

Exhaustion struck her then, and her limbs felt as heavy as lead. Stars streaked down, blotting out the night sky as if to smite her dead. She felt as weak as a newborn lamb, helpless and unable to move a finger, the same feeling of fear she had tasted in the void.

The dragon-man frowned at the sky, sheathing his flame blade, and pulling out a great bow of flame and bone that made her mind tremble when her eyes settled on it.

Arrows of flame streaked across the sky, piercing through the falling stars that shrivelled into wisps of smoke. For a moment, fear took grip of her heart, as the power of helplessness grated on her very soul. And yet… fear gave way to amazement. The rain of stars felt endless, but the man did not falter, tugging at his string with utter calmness. At the start, he struggled under the onslaught; his hands began to tremble, but the arrows came faster and faster, hitting those falling stars without fail. Not even one neared Rhaella. 

The sky finally darkened as clouds blocked the stars, and the relentless barrage came to a sudden halt. The warrior was gasping for breath, leaning onto the bow as if it were a walking stick. Now that he had stopped, Rhaella allowed herself a closer look. Snow-white curls framed a rugged yet handsome face; his crimson eyes shone in the darkness like two blazing torches.

Just as she allowed herself to sag on the ground with relief, she heard a loud growl. Droves of grotesque creatures with the bodies of men and the heads of fish and webbed claws were churning out of the nearby river, only to be torn down by a horse-sized wolf. The beast circled around, only lunging to attack those who dared to jump out and retreating swiftly before being surrounded.

The warrior drew the blade of fire again and plunged into the fray, cutting down those creatures like a scythe through wheat. Even the wolf threw itself in with renewed vigour. Their fish-scale skin was no better than rotten wood before the wolf’s savage fangs, and their clawed fangs were too short, too slow compared to the blade of fire. Yet what they lacked in martial might, they made up for in sheer numbers.

For a long moment, it looked like the endless tide of fishmen would drown the man and beast, but then the numbers crawling out of the river thinned.

Somehow, she made it through the night in one piece, and the bone-weary dragon-man and his black pet wolf stood guard over her once the fish-men retreated into the river. Though the wolf-dog seemed to see her and came over to give her face a friendly lick, the dragon did not notice her presence at all and just turned back into a dragon, curled back into the weirwood cloak to sleep. 

When the daybreak neared, and the first rays of the sun bled golden through the east, Rhaella woke up with a gasp. 

Author’s Endnote: That was a doozy to write, and it came out longer than I intended. I’m not entirely satisfied with the chapter and will definitely come for a second look later.