26.Wings of Fate

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

The House of the Dragon was a wreck. Her cousin Maegor had been drowning himself in wine and Tyroshi brandy ever since that day, and she had only seen him once, as drunk as a man could ever be, swaying on the way to his quarters. For good or ill, her brother had remained in his room, still refusing to leave or see anyone. Would her grandfather truly wed another woman? Rhaella could not say if those words were spoken to pressure her in grief or were the king’s true thoughts.

She tried not to think of it—she could sway the mind of her grandfather no more than she could sway the mind of her brother. 

The host outside the city walls began to swell slowly; each day saw a new knight or petty lord arrive with a few dozen men, the greater lords bringing a full hundred. In the Crownlands, aside from the king, only Velaryon and Darklyn could muster more than a thousand men. King’s Landing had grown fervent as the preparations for war were in full swing. The smithies in the city worked tirelessly, the clangour echoing far beyond the street of steel, even in the depths of the night, and the sawmills and the shipyards were just as busy. 

The king had already commanded the full fleets of the Reach and the Iron Islands to prepare for a full assault on the Stepstones; each Ironman had received royal permit to reave and raid across the territories controlled by the Band of the Nine, and Lord Greyjoy was already mustering his Iron Fleet.

As the preparations for war were in full swing, the mood in the Red Keep had once again shifted; the faces of the guardsmen and courtiers had turned even more solemn than before, and an odd tension was present in their gaits and every action. Her grandfather had held court only once, then appointed the cunning Daren Darklyn as his Hand to oversee the city’s affairs.

The king now appeared in court and eased the unease lingering in the Red Keep, though his attendance had become a rare thing compared to the past, and instead busied himself with the care of the newly hatched dragons. They were guarded as well as the king was, if not better, and had a food taster of their own. No weapon, no matter how small, was allowed anywhere near them, and her grandsire himself brought in their food.

Rhaella would once have called such actions paranoid, but now she found herself approving of them all. Nothing could be allowed to happen to the dragons.

Creating a faction in court was easier said than done. Days passed in a blur, and Rhaella still struggled to bring her idea to fruition. The difficulties seemed endless, and she was wary of approaching the courtiers who had given her a cold shoulder before. There was neither trust nor respect there, making the idea of recruitment unfeasible—even if she succeeded, Rhaella wouldn’t truly know where their loyalties lay. Those who greeted her with a smile were young knights or lordlings, eager to take a dragonriding princess for a wife, like Ser Jason Connington, Ser Alton Farrington, or the young Ser Denys Darklyn, one of the new gold cloak captains. Rhaella, having already given her promise to her grandsire, always rebuffed them firmly and tried to avoid them as best as she could. It was no great loss either—they were just strangers lusting after a dragon and the prestige a royal marriage could bring them.

The princess was not discouraged by her lack of quick success; she had never expected her matters to go smoothly, for they never did. Still, she put aside her eagerness and took her time to reflect on the matter.

To recruit subordinates, honeyed words and empty promises were far from enough, as much as she wished otherwise. The courtiers and the rest of the powers dwelling in King’s Landing were not without cunning or ambitions of their own—otherwise, they would have never been of any import. There were those who were foolish in their greed, or outright simple of mind, but neither lasted for long in the Red Keep. Even the court fool had to have a smidgen of cunning to last for long.  

Even though she had a dragon to her name, Rhaella could neither bestow great honours nor any meaningful positions in court. While her stipend had increased more than fourfold, a hundred gold coins a moon were sufficient to recruit a handful of skilled knights, perhaps a full dozen in more peaceful times, but greatly lacking for anything further.

Her greatest means to secure more—her hand in marriage—was now forever closed to her.

Her ladies-in-waiting were, of course, already part of her budding faction. In fact, they were the entirety of it. The three of them had gathered in a small parlour in Maegor’s Holdfast that Rhaella had secured for herself, mulling over the obstacles that lay before them.

“If we lack coin, we must find a way to make more,” Branda said. Even now, nearly a month after the tragedy, half of her face was still covered by a greenish mask of herb-soaked linen that slipped into her neck and disappeared underneath her gown. Wildfire burned deeper than normal flame, and even though a clever squire had come to help her, swiftly putting it out all by heaping it over with sand, it would leave a mark.

“I have no lands or estates to bring me gold,” Rhaella said. “No princess was ever afforded such grand boons.” And I won’t be any different, no matter how desperate my grandfather grows.

Joanna fiddled with her fingers, face shy. “We must invest, then. Your inn makes a handful of dragons each moon. What little coin we have can purchase more inns, more warehouses, and taverns.” Her face flushed crimson. “Perhaps even a brothel.” 

“Not a bad idea,” Branda murmured, fingers ghosting over her bandages on her cheek as if to scratch the burned flesh underneath and irritate it. In the end, they faltered under Rhaella’s sharp glare, jerking away. “These can serve as your eyes and ears in the city, too. But it’ll take years until those can bring you enough coin to get by on their own, though perhaps you can cut that time by getting some concessions from the master of coin.”

“That’s easier said than done.” Rhaella stifled a sigh. “I know Ser Gyles Thorne all too well. He is an honourable man who takes great pride in his work and would rather die than break custom or law. It’s why my grandfather chose him for the post.” Or that’s what her uncle Duncan had once said. 

“Honourable man?” the Stark maiden sneered. “There’s not much honour in the Red Keep, no matter how hard the squires shine those breastplates, silvery steel fails to hide the foul rot underneath. I’ve heard what they say of him in court. If we purchase the right brothel, perhaps he’ll be more agreeable once we send him a few young boys.”

“Branda!” Rhaella chided. “You can’t believe every slanderous rumour you hear in these halls. Do you think I’m some jinxed sorcerous maid who bathes in blood and dabbles with dark sorcery?”

The bandaged maiden gave her a piercing look, and the good side of her mouth twitched. “You aren’t?”

The ghost of a smile quickly faded from her half-hidden face, replaced by an icy mask. The lively Branda had gone bitter since that day, and even though she never blamed anyone, nor did she regret saving Joanna, she had changed far beyond her scars, and not for the better. Perhaps she was right to be bitter, with her face ruined, any good marriage would be forever denied to her. Even now, servants turned and pointed at Branda as she passed through the hallways, as if she were a leper. 

Joanna shuffled uneasily in her seat, but still mustered her voice. “We can possibly try getting some of the guilds on our side.”

“These sly merchants care even less for honour and glory,” said Rhaella, “or anything I could possibly offer. And the master craftsmen are no less proud than most lords, and just as cunning, and they choose not only the most skilled as their guild master, but their most cunning. Even my royal grandfather finds them a nuisance to deal with. What do you even plan to recruit them with?” 

“Thyssaria.” At the sound of her name, the pink darkling stirred from its silken cot at the corner and hissed at Joanna like a serpent.  

Rhaella reached out her hands, and Thyssaria rose from her place, eagerly waddling into her arms like a scaly duckling. The drake had grown a little, but she was still no bigger than a tomcat. Her temper had mellowed out, no longer hissing and growling at every passing courtier or guard, though she still snapped at any fool that dared to approach. The moment Rhaella placed her on her shoulder, the hatchling twisted like a snake, taking her favourite position—curling around her neck like a necklace. 

The sensation was pleasant; the pink scales always felt comfortably warm on her skin. Thyssaria was careful with her talons, though not before Rhaella had suffered a grievous loss and scolded the newborn dragon—her favourite pink gown was torn beyond repair across her shoulders. 

Still, the princess could only stifle the feeling of anger and irritation and pour all of her effort into training Thyssaria and nurturing their connection.

Her fingers stroked the tiny neck, gently ghosting over the spine, earning herself a low chuff of pleasure. “And what might craftsmen and merchants need my dragon for?”

Joanna threw a peculiar glance at Thyssaria. “Perhaps the jeweller’s guild and the goldsmiths might be interested in her shed scales. I’d wager the blacksmith’s guild would be more than eager to try and forge swords with the help of dragonfire.”

Rhaella rolled over the idea in her mind. Dragons shed some scales in their first years of growth, though very rarely. A grown dragon’s scale was too big, too thick to use for jewellery, and what little of those remained after the Dance had long been sold for coin to fund the Conquest of Dorne or used as gifts. Cooperation with the jewellers’ guild was plausible. As for forging metal with dragonfire, the last time anyone had done it had been… had been… the Iron Throne, the symbol of royal authority, each remelted blade a blatant reminder of the Conquest and those who had yielded to the Dragon.

As far as she could recall, there had been no further cases afterwards. With the kingdoms forged into one, dragons had gained a transcendent status in the whole realm; their great power was tightly under the command of the House of the Dragon. They had become the sacred symbol of royal power. With secret ways of the Freehold lost and two Valyrian steel swords to their name, princes and kings cared little to dabble with the dull work of common smiths, and princesses even less.

“Thyssaria is too small, her flames too weak to be of any help for smithing,” Rhaella mused. “But once I have some shredded scales, I can approach the jewellers’ guild. As for purchasing inns and warehouses, I will have to trouble you for it all, Branda.”

The Stark maiden perked up. “I’ll look around for the ones that can bring in some profit with little to no trouble. Might take quite some time and effort, since the city is overflowing with patrons after the muster. But once the host and the fleet leave, any such purchase will be a simple matter.”

Bowing, Branda rose from her chair with a groan and stiffly marched out of the parlour. And thus concluded Rhaella’s very first faction meeting.

---

The rest of the day, she spent in the godswood. The heart tree was growing again, though slower than before. Contrary to what the court believed, she was not here to pray, though the princess had made a habit to kneel down for a short prayer before the weirwood, which helped calm her mind.

The rest of her time here was spent training Thyssaria and meditating to keep her mind clear. Unlike with other beasts, the skinchanging thread with the drakeling could not be torn asunder, and its emotions slowly spilt through. Without a solution, in less than three years, the bond would bleed into her mind to the point where it would affect her thoughts and actions. That alone was a great worry. Rhaella wished her master would awaken again and give her advice, but he had yet to return and contact her, no matter how hard she called for him at the heart tree or in her dreams. Still, she couldn’t stop—the connection with Thyssaria was already established, and she’d do it again if she had a choice.

This was a dragon, the symbol and pride of her House, the legacy of the Freehold, and only a fool would refuse one, and Rhaella was no fool.

The difficulties did not end there, though. While Thyssaria took to training with some effort and listened to commands spoken in High Valyrian, slipping into her mind was a struggle of its own. Doing so was slow and cumbersome, though not because the drakeling was unruly. There was an intangible resistance to the act, a difficulty hard to explain in words. It exhausted her in minutes; her movements in the skin of a dragon were always half a beat delayed, and she always felt as if her mind had been boiled afterwards. While Rhaella did not expect great results in a day, progress was scarce even after a sennight of practise, and that frustrated her more than anything else.

She slipped her mind into Vhagar and sighed. The eagle was… wroth, ever since she began to carry Thyssaria everywhere. She flew around, killing every bird that dared to fly over the Red Keep, and had slain tens of pigeons and many more seagulls. Only the ravens were spared—but that was the extent to which Rhaella could control the overproud eagle and the reason she allowed her to roam unchecked. Even the falcons and owls in the kingswood were not her match, dying under Vhagar’s talons in droves once she grew bored of the Red Keep.  

Once the shadows began to lengthen, Rhaella rose from her spot and quickly turned her steps towards Maegor’s Holdfast, Thyssaria still dangling from her neck and Ser Gerold shadowing her every step without fail. Somehow, his already faint presence had grown fainter still, each of his steps soft but firm, his armour scarcely making any sound. Even Rhaella struggled to notice him unless he spoke or she focused her attention on him. In this, none of the other white cloaks was his match, not even Ser Duncan.

A figure was waiting for her by the archway leading out of the godswood. 

“Princess!” Lady Staunton dipped her head in greeting, a warm smile tugging on her lips, completely unlike a woman recently widowed.

Elayn Staunton was short, half an inch shorter than Rhaella, but carried herself with grace even though she had passed her childbearing years. Wrinkles had yet to appear on her pale face: silver streaked through her dark hair, but it only added a sense of charm to her matronly figure. With that neck-high modest gown, she looked more like a mother than her own mother ever did. 

But Rhaella was not fooled. Elayn’s amber eyes flickered on the darkling coiled around her neck, then down to her chest and hips, as if she were inspecting a mare to buy. The princess could sense trepidation roiling off the widow in waves, even though she did well to hide it with that impeccable mannerism.

“My condolences for your loss,” Rhaella offered softly.  

“I have already grieved Charlton,” she said, letting out a long, sad sigh. The light in her eyes did not dim even for a moment, nor did her voice quiver. “But my loss that dreadful day is not half as great as yours, princess.” 

Rhaella inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Each loss hurts. Forgive me, but I was just about to retire in my quarters. Farewell.”

Just as she turned to leave, the Staunton widow called out, “Princess. I wish to invite you to luncheon someday.”

No doubt that luncheon would have her unwed son present, while Elayn would extoll his virtues to the heavens. Qarlton was dashing enough at one and twenty, but his skills in any other aspects were mediocre at best. Rhaella had no interest in lickspittles or cravens.

This was the second time she had been ‘ambushed’ like this; three days past, Lady Thorne had waylaid her with a similar invitation, and Rhaella had been foolish enough to accept, suffering an awkward hour with the gallant Ser Morgan Thorne and his mother. He was pleasing enough to the eye at first, but he had a penchant for endless boasting that had turned her ears numb and thinned her patience greatly.

“I’ll visit when I have the time,” Rhaella lied, forcing a smile to her face. She gave the Staunton widow one final nod and left decisively. 

She had no intention to indulge a second such invitation, lest she be stopped on every corner of the Red Keep by some ambitious mother or another every time she wished to go somewhere. 

She was tempted to swear herself to lifelong chastity in full view of the court as she had done in private, but a part of her was reluctant. It was the king’s place to make such an announcement, and if her grandfather wished to keep it quiet, Rhaella couldn’t gainsay him. Though she was tempted to do so if it would rid her of all this endless pestering. But giving those vows in public would make it feel all too final. All too real.

Evening saw her retire to bed with Joanna, who clutched her tight under the covers. The blonde maiden had grown clingy since that day, and Rhaella couldn’t blame her.

She had hardly done much the whole day, but Rhaella felt exhausted, a weariness that seeped into her very bones. Resisting the sweet embrace of sleep, she slipped into Vhagar’s mind. 

The eagle was perched on the heart tree, ripping apart yet another mangled owl with her razor-sharp talons.

She would have taken a crow or a wild raven, which were far more inconspicuous in the dark, but Vhagar had ruthlessly started hunting those down, too. Though the royal wedge-tailed eagle had her own advantages—her sight in the dark was sharper, and so was her hearing. 

Two beats of her powerful wings launched her in the air like an arrow. She soared above the docks, slowly circling her way through the whole city, the sharp eagle eyes inspecting every figure still wandering outside in the dark. An hour after sunset, curfew was already in place. Aside from the patrolling gold cloaks, most still outside were just some drunken tavern patrons lobbying on the way back home or the late-shift workers from the shipyards or the smithies. 

Inspecting the city in the dark was a dull affair, but it had to be done. Now that she was fated to stay in the Red Keep for life, she was directly invested in the royal matters on a deeper level. Not as deep if she had been her brother’s wife and a queen, but being a future dragonrider would allow her some say, no matter how small.

By a stroke of fortune, she had caught a glimpse of the scheming culprit once, and now hoped to do so again. While the king claimed the wildfire disaster had been planned by Blackfyre, she believed that if the vicious plotter wasn’t directly responsible, he must have played a deep hand in it all. She was not comfortable with the idea of a foe hiding so close, like a viper waiting in the shadows to lunge and strike you when you’re weak.

It didn’t help that she had caught the master of whispers and his men sniffing around the city with great caution, and not in search of Blackfyre spies. 

Just as she wheeled over Fleabottom, a band of men prowling in the dark alleys caught her eye. Rhaella had seen such a sight many a time before; murder, robbery, and rapine were common in Fleabottom, and the gold cloaks rarely patrolled there, and when they did, it was in broad daylight with a full squad of a dozen. 

Rhaella had been aghast by the lawlessness of it all at first, but her pleas to the new master of laws had been met with a cold shoulder. “Fleabottom?” He had laughed as if he had heard the greatest jest in his life. “A young maiden like you would never understand, princess. That slum is not worth risking the lives of the gold cloaks. The wretches living there get by just fine.” 

Perhaps it was too much to expect justice where her own grandsire had given up on the notion, deciding to close his eyes and ears when it suited him. 

The reason this particular group caught her attention was their number. A small group of two or three thugs was something she had seen, but seven… was too much. She cautiously descended in a glide, making sure she made no sound. Once she perched atop a shabby inn, she frowned inwardly. These were no common hoodlums; each one wore a hauberk and carried a sword. Two even had Myrish crossbows, already loaded; two more lugged tower-shields in the style of ancient Ghis. They were all better equipped than most gold cloaks!

These could only be sellswords.

Perhaps out of morbid curiosity, Rhaella lingered on, watching as they slid into a small courtyard, positioning in front of a small half-ruined shack. The seven men did not speak a single word, not even a whisper, as they communicated with hand gestures. The crossbowmen stood at the back, positioning themselves with bolts pointed right at the doorway, while one of them carefully checked on the stable stalls. 

Rhaella cocked her head, now watching on with great interest. ‘They were cautious as if a terrible beast slumbers inside.’

Fleabottom was dangerous, yes, but not as dangerous as to have seven sellswords—who carried themselves like any veteran warrior—required to assault a single shack. A gaunt man stepped forth with a slender dagger, its blade thin enough to slip through the gap of the door. He was about to lift the lock.

The door was soon pushed open, and the night exploded in a whirlwind of violence. Rhaella could not see what happened inside. The clangour of steel and wood and flesh filled the night. Two of the sellswords rushed inside, followed by a third.

“They’re awake,” one yelled. “Charge in, quickly, get rid of Bloodraven’s spawn!”

A moment later, the third one ran out as if his feet were on fire, yelling, “Run!”

The crossbowmen were already prepared.

Another figure emerged from the shack, catching the bolts with his shield, and Rhaella’s eyes widened.

Red eyes like rubies, with a pale face and curls so white they looked like freshly-fallen snow. 

It was the dragon-turned man who had saved her! It was no coincidence—he looked exactly the same, though the sword in his hand was not made of flame, but dark, rippling steel now glistening with blood.

Shaking herself, Rhaella’s beak plucked out a brown feather, and she reeled from the pain. This was no dream.

By the time she recovered, the fight had already ended, and the seven sellswords all turned into headless corpses on the ground.

A thousand thoughts galloped across her mind, but she had no time to ponder them. She had no idea if he was connected to Bloodraven, as that dead fool had shouted, nor did it matter to her. This was her saviour; if not for him, Rhaella would have met a grisly end in the Dream. Second, the only one who acted so swiftly, so decisively against Brynden Rivers was the schemer. Her saviour was in danger. 

Rhaella left Vhagar’s skin and rose from the bed immediately, prying herself from her handmaiden’s clingy hands. Joanna murmured a drowsy, half-formed “What?”

“Stay abed,” the princess commanded, hastily pulling on a riding gown over her nightshift.

A glance through Vhagar’s eyes saw a full squad of gold cloaks approach, full of ill intent. Rhaella had never seen or heard of the city watch patrolling Fleabottom at night, yet here they were, marching in numbers and with great confidence.

The murderer’s second arrangement? Did this mastermind have the gold cloaks in his pocket?

Her veins turned to ice. She had to stop him!

Not waiting for the maids, she hastened her actions. Her limbs were still weary from the long day, but she pulled on her boots and clasped her travel cloak as Joanna still rubbed her eyes.

The moment she slipped out of the door, she was met with Ser Gerold’s cold eyes, the tall man blocking her way. 

“It’s too late for a walk, princess,” he said, voice even. 

“I…” Her words faltered as she was uncertain how to explain herself. She didn’t even know what she wished to do. “I need to go to the city.”

Gerold Hightower quirked a brow. “Need to go?”

Rhaella’s attention was in Fleabottom, her mind half-present in Vhagar as she heard the city watch captain speak. She knew that pretentious voice, calling for her saviour’s death. It belonged to Ser Denys Darklyn, one of her many persistent suitors, son and heir of Lord Darklyn and nephew to the Hand.

Dread pooled in her belly.

This was a vicious scheme by the murderer. If Ser Denys prevailed, the ‘Bloodraven spawn would be dead’. If Ser Denys was wounded or killed, her saviour was doomed; no matter the reason, killing a lord’s heir and a captain of the city watch was a grave crime.

“Yes,” she croaked out firmly. “I need to go.”

Perhaps he had heard the urgency in her voice, but the Hightower knight stepped aside, allowing her to pass.

Rhaella rushed towards the staircase as fast as she could without stumbling in the dark.

“Where are we going?” Ser Gerold asked, following her half a step behind. A swaying lantern was clasped in his fist, the shadows of the hallways twisting and dancing with each movement.

Of course the white cloak would not let her venture alone into the city at night. Perhaps it was for the better. She had no idea what she could even do in this terrible situation; she was just a princess, and her dragon was barely bigger than a housecat. But one thing she knew for certain—she had to do something, and she had to do it fast.

Rhaella gritted “Fleabottom. I think… I caught the murderer’s tracks. The one who planted the wildfire.”

It was a bald-faced lie; in truth, she had no proof at all.

The knight gave her a deep look and only asked, “How?”

She paused for a moment, careful not to tumble down the stairs, her mind drawn back to Fleabottom.

“MURDER, MURDER!” Her saviour’s roar tore through the night. “THE GOLD CLOAKS ARE COMMITTING THEFT AND MURDER!”

For good or ill, Ser Denys Darklyn grew angry and charged in with his sword drawn while the rest of the gold cloaks stood back in their position, stunned. His blade was swiftly swatted aside, while an old man wearing a staff thwacked the Darklyn knight on the helmet, knocking him out.

Just as the gold cloaks recovered and rushed in to help their captain, but they were half a step too late; the Darklyn knight was dragged into the shack as her saviour retreated, the door once again closed shut with a slam. 

So it seemed her saviour was not only good with a sword and a bow, but was quite clever. 

Rhaella almost giggled out loud. But as amused as she was, the woeful situation was still tragic.

Gerold’s voice brought her back to her own body. 

“How do you know, princess?” he pressed, voice grim.

“Bloodline gifts and dragon dreams,” she half-lied boldly. “I’ll take full responsibility for this.” 

Her heart thundered in her ears for a long moment as the knight stood in indecision.

“…Fine,” he murmured, eyes narrowed. “Fleabottom is quite dangerous at night. If this must be done, we ought to do it properly.”

“We need to move with all haste,” she urged, desperation creeping into her voice. “If we dally for too long, it might be too late.”

Without waiting to see Ser Gerold’s response, she turned, rushing down the stairs.

Once the decision was made, the white cloak was like a whirlwind, rushing even ahead of her, and barking orders. Everything went incredibly smoothly—in an emergency, a senior kingsguard like Ser Gerold could command the defences of the Red Keep.

Ten minutes later, the great bronze gate of the Red Keep opened with a groan, and Rhaella rode down into the city, flanked by the white cloak, six other knights, and thirty men-at-arms, all mounted and clad with half plate as if they were riding out to battle. They might as well have been—the Targaryen household guard were amongst the finest warriors in the realm, each carefully selected for their martial skill and loyalty. 

The sound of the hooves thundered across the cobbled streets, tearing through the quiet of the night.

“We took too many,” Rhaella shouted over the clamour. “What if the Red Keep is attacked while we’re away?”

“Fret not, princess,” Ser Gerold let out a rare laugh. “This is not even a fifth of the nightly defence. If we had another ten minutes, I’d lead a hundred men into the city.”

---

The night was gloomy, and the starry sky was clouded, but half the men-at-arms carried torches and lanterns, casting ruddy light across the streets and alleyways. 

Rhaella let out a sigh of relief by the time they entered Fleabottom a few minutes later, but immediately wrinkled her nose. The stench here was twice as thick, and even her eyes began to tear. A handful of curious smallfolk scattered into the shadows at the first sight of horsemen, and they met a second full patrol of gold cloaks marching towards the shack in a tight formation.

Ser Gerold rode forth, stopping his destrier right before the vice-captain. “Ser Banon Longwaters?”

“Aye, Ser Gerold.” The gold cloak in charge bowed deeply without hesitation. “We received a call for reinforcements from Captain Denys’s men.”

“Follow and obey,” he demanded coldly.

The gold cloaks hastily nodded and joined behind them.

Soon, Rhaella and the royal band arrived in front of a rotten wooden fence, and another squad of gold cloaks fanned out before the doors. What she had feared had not come to pass: with the Darklyn heir taken as a hostage, the gold cloaks had not dared to break into the shack.

The princess made no move to dismount, nor could she even if she wished—she found herself tightly surrounded by six men-at-arms, protecting her from every side. Rhaella could scarcely see a thing through the wall of muscle and steel, and she slipped her mind into Vhagar to observe from above, keeping just enough awareness of her body to not slip from the saddle. 

“Report,” Ser Gerold barked out, jumping onto the ground.

An older watchman came over, slamming a mailed fist to his chest. “Our captain, Ser Denys Darklyn, has been taken hostage by a murderer inside.”

He motioned to five dead bodies piled to the side, each of them headless. Their heads were scattered across the ground, dripping blood.

“They tried to rob and kill us first!” an icy but muffled voice thundered out of the shack.

“Is that so?” Ser Gerold cocked his head. “Then, you should have no fear of the gold cloaks. Clearing your name is merely a matter of time.”

The silence dragged on for a few moments. “I thought so too,” the hoarse voice echoed from inside, “but this blonde ponce came at us like a mad dog frothing from the mouth, hollering for our heads before we could even explain.”

The Hightower knight hesitated, eyes flicking to the shack and back to the pile of corpses.

“These men all wear ringmail,” said one of the royal knights, hand sweeping out towards the dead. “Greaves wrapped in linen or soft-padded boots.” His hand pointed towards the ground. “Two Myrish crossbows and a tower shield. This lot was definitely not here for a nightly stroll—I’ve seen sellswords with poorer equipment marching into battle.”

Gerold knelt by one of the fallen swords and inspected it under the flickering torchlight. After taping the blade with his gloved finger, he sighed. “This is as good as castle-forged steel, but it has no maker’s mark—at least not one I can spot. Not something those dwelling in this wretched shithole can wield.”

The gold cloaks shuffled uneasily, all turning to get a better look at the evidence.

“Come out then, good man,” the Hightower knight called loudly, his voice echoing through the dark. “If events have come to pass as you claimed and you have done no wrong nor broken any law in the city, you’ll have nothing to fear. I, Ser Gerold Hightower of the white cloaks, guarantee it on my name.

“Be careful,” Ser Banon whispered. “He’s no pushover—he has a dragonsteel blade with him.”

The royal men-at-arms stood straighter then, their gazes growing more vigilant.

After a tense moment, the door opened with a creak, and a tall figure stepped out slowly, shield raised. Beneath a flutter of white hair, a pair of sharp eyes studied the gathered crowd; pausing onto Rhaella—no, pausing onto Vhagar.

It was as if the world itself stilled, and she jolted back into her own body.

The men surrounding her had shifted, revealing a gap, and in that very moment, crimson eyes met purple. There was no great feeling, nor any flicker of recognition as she expected; her saviour only regarded her with great caution, and she only felt a faint sense of danger and something odd she could not quite name. That alone was unlike anything else she had sensed before, and the danger by itself was inexplicable and odd—she had seen plenty of dangerous warriors yet had felt nothing like it. The more she tried to catch the feeling, the more it slipped away. 

She pushed away the disappointment—fate and obscure, ancient powers were fickle, inexplicable, not to be underestimated, but never to be trusted blindly. 

“Your name?” the Hightower knight asked, voice steely.

“Jon Snow.”

“A Northern bastard, then,” one of the royal knights murmured from the crowd. “You’re far from home, boy.”

Jon Snow merely glanced at the man, still refusing to lower his shield.

Ser Gerold cleared his throat loudly. “And what of Ser Denys Darklyn?”

“The proud fool is inside,” came the cold reply. “His thick skull—and ego might be bruised, but he’s otherwise well, taking a nap.”

“What are you waiting for, bastard?” one of the men-at-arms jeered. “Do you intend to defy the white cloaks, too? Obediently bring out Captain Denys and throw down that shield.”

“I wish to trust you, too,” Jon Snow said, letting out a sigh. “But the men of the city watch were supposed to uphold the law, yet their captain called for my death the moment he saw me. If those who’re supposed to keep the law act lawlessly, how can I blindly trust you to be any better?”

Neither side spoke further, and the tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife; neither the bastard nor Ser Gerold looked ready to budge just yet, and despite the earlier exchange of pleasantries, they had yet to trust each other. Rhaella found herself glancing at the corpses on the ground. Seven had ambushed three, only for their intended misdeeds to be repaid with bloody interest.

She knew not what had brought this man to King’s Landing, but a strong urge rose in her chest—the urge to possess talent.

This Jon Snow was a man of no small skill and possessed a sharp mind and great cunning. Furthermore, she knew he was not involved with any faction within the city and hailed from the frozen lands beyond the Wall. But it was precisely that unknown that carried a great risk, mysterious fate connection or not. He did not recognise her from the Dream, which meant he had no talent in the greensight; saving her and fighting those twisted monsters had been merely a matter of subconscious instinct.

In a moment, she weighed her options and came to a decision. 

“Ser Gerold,” she called out loudly, trying to suppress the quivering of her voice. “Jon Snow is one of mine own men.”

Even if he did not remember her, Jon Snow had saved her once, an act of great grace, and it was merely a small matter to help him a little bit further now that he had found himself in need. ‘Perhaps, if he is no ingrate, I can use that to draw him into my faction,’ she thought. Even though it was a little selfish, this was a great chance to thwart the plans of those who wished the House of the Dragon ill and gain someone skilled and dangerous on her side, someone who only answered to her and her alone.

The guards around her parted in surprise, and Rhaella found herself scrutinised by all the gold cloaks and the royal men alike. 

“Your own men?” Ser Gerold coughed out, surprise naked in his voice.

Surprise flashed in Jon Snow’s crimson eyes so swiftly that Rhaella barely caught it, but a moment later, an amused smile tugged at his lips.

Then, he cast his shield aside and took a knee, though his movements were stiff, as if he were doing it with great reluctance.

“Princess Rhaella, I have fulfilled my mission,” his voice rang out as he lifted a bloodied sword above his head. 

‘Your mission?’ she mouthed silently, standing stunned. 

“What mission?” Ser Gerold demanded, tone growing dangerously low.

The bastard lifted his head, giving her a smile full of teeth. “To retrieve Dark Sister from Beyond the Wall, of course. The sword is now yours to do with as you see fit.” 

Whispers rippled through the gathered men as Rhaella stared at the kneeling figure, her mind clouded with confusion and surprise. 

The Hightower knight had taken off his helm, looking blankly at the bloodied sword. “Is it truly… Dark Sister?”

“Aye. I wrapped the hilt and pommel in linen to avoid attention.”

“This…” Ser Gerold hesitated for a moment, eyes not moving from Dark Sister. “This must be brought before the king.”

---

Author’s Endnote: Whew, that chapter… was weird. It was very late too, but I had to fan out the happenings in the Red Keep and King’s Landing, especially since this is one of the pivotal moments with great changes and shifts happening every moment. Six new OCs were introduced in this chapter.