29.The End of Summer

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Unlikely King 

The Crownlands and the royal banners were quick to muster; they always were. Most of the strength had gathered outside King’s Landing, a force of eight thousand strong camping on the outskirts of the city. Over a third of those swords were sworn to the Iron Throne directly. The Narrow Sea Houses were not here, gathered instead at Dragonstone, commanded by Lord Valarr Velaryon in a second host, half the strength of the one outside the city walls. 

Twelve thousand strong. More than he expected but not as much as he had hoped for. Aegon could squeeze the lands for four, maybe five thousand more, but it would be greybeards and green boys, hedge knights and sellswords and militia men, all of questionable loyalty, discipline, and skill. 

It would leave the Crownlands nearly empty and defenceless. Worse still, the Iron Throne could not afford to pay them with anything more than empty promises, and those could rarely motivate men to fight half as fiercely as good hard coin, no matter how loyal they claimed to be. After a quarter century of uneasy rule and dealing with petty revolts and rebellions, the royal coffers could barely afford the rapid expansion of the royal fleet and the calling of the banners. Even if men could fight on empty purses, they couldn’t fight on empty bellies. 

‘War is always a bitter fruit to swallow,’ Aegon thought darkly. ‘It often leaves you hollowed out and broken, even in victory.’ 

He almost regretted his decision to abandon the strategy his predecessors had so successfully employed and to take the battle to Blackfyre rather than wait for the enemy to come to them, thereby overextending manpower and logistical capacity. It was far easier to raise swords to defend your lands than to attack others. 

But he had no choice and could only take the burden of the offensive upon his shoulders. If he hesitated now, after losing both of his sons, his daughter, and his wife, his own bannermen would think him weak and feeble. The already estranged great lords might drift even further. After a quarter century of uneasy rule, such weakness would inevitably see many a lord turn cloak and support Blackfyre and his ambitious cause.   

Whether Maelys was the true culprit was unimportant. The Blackfyre pretenders were all bitter foes of the House of the Dragon and needed to be dealt with one way or the other. 

That did not mean Aegon would give up the pursuit of the truth. Whoever had killed his wife and children would be found eventually, and when that happened, he would not order their death. Oh no, death was too swift, too easy an end, and there were way worse things. 

Only, Hubart’s progress was dreadfully slow, and he had yet to show any particular results in his investigation. 

“Will you lead the host yourself, Your Grace?” Daren Darklyn asked when the next small council meeting commenced. 

His Hand was not the first to inquire. Many belligerent and ambitious lords had stepped forth to levy the same question, the desire to cover themselves in the glory and honour of victory over the newest Blackfyre pretender. The prestige of commanding the royal host drew in just as many.  

Aegon’s fingers clenched tight into a fist underneath his embroidered royal sleeve and then loosened helplessly. ‘If my sons were still here, not one of you would ever have the chance.’ 

But all three of his precious boys were gone, each one dying long before their time, leaving him to bury them all—the greatest tragedy for a father. Just the thought made the wine on his tongue taste like ash. ‘Damn it all. Why must the gods punish me so?’

Yet the world did not wait for Aegon to grieve this loss.

He was not afraid of battle, and this one had to be fought regardless of his sorrow. He had taken part in many battles and led men into war and victory, and many a foe had fallen by his hand.

“I won’t,” he said coldly. “Not this time.” 

In any other circumstances, it would be best to take command himself, but with his sole grandson a complete cripple in body and spirit, and dragons hatched, he needed to stay here and preside over the Red Keep.

“The royal host cannot remain without command for too long, Your Grace,” Ser Gawen Corbray pressed. The Corbray knight was a gaunt, tall man with a stony face to match his character, and the nephew of the old Lord Corbray, who still held on to life after nine decades. “Such would sow confusion in the ranks and lower the men’s morale before they depart—a very dangerous matter. This Maelys the Monstrous is no ordinary Blackfyre, and if Lord Hubart is to be believed, he’s now supported by more than just his fellow malefactors. Lys’s support for the Nine is one thing, but if Volantis and Slaver’s Bay back him too, his dominion over the Stepstones will only grow stronger.”

The councillors all muttered out an agreement, openly supporting his motion. Only the young Grand Maester silently observed, his face unreadable, as he inked down the proceedings. 

Ser Ellan Celtigar even thumped his chest, puffing up like a peacock. “Grant me the honour, Your Grace, and I will bring you a great victory within three months.”

“A seadog like you commanding the full royal host?” Daren Darklyn scoffed, his well-trimmed mutton-chop sideburns trembling. “This is no different than making a crab run straight forward. No matter how hard he tries, he never quite manages.”

Celtigar’s face reddened to a deep hue reminiscent of boiled crabs, as his remaining councillors snorted in amusement. Even Aegon barely contained his own chortle—Ellan had never fought at sea or on land and was indeed unsuited for the task. 

A glance at his master of coin and master of laws revealed the barely concealed eagerness and excitement on their faces. They all desired the boon of command, one way or another. Gyles Thorne no doubt wished to recommend his nephew, while Hayford knew his lineage and skill were lacking and would push his good brother to the task—Lord Gamon Farring. Darklyn wanted his lordly brother to take on the task, no doubt. One did not get to be on the royal council without ambition. But while Aegon trusted them to fulfil their duty, the mantle of command was something not easily or lightly given. It needed a man both loyal and capable, for the slightest misstep might doom the realm to ruin. 

Usually, in the absence of the king, the kingsguard could take up command, but only Dunk and Ser Tom remained of the senior white cloaks. And while Duncan was a great warrior and a greater swordsman, a good commander he was not. Old Tom Costayne… would be a prudent choice if he were not so old. The nimble knight had lost much of his vigour to the point that even climbing stairs with his armour left him breathless, and command was a demanding task, both on body and mind.

The silence in the council chamber stretched as the advisors kept stealing glances at his face to gauge his mood, but to no avail. Aegon had long since mastered the stern kingly mask that betrayed no emotion. 

“Command shall be left to Lord Donnel Darry,” he declared.

The Lord of Darry was a man in his forties, a veteran commander who had taken part in three battles, including the last Blackfyre Rebellion, and could only be described with a single word—steady. He was steady in battle, steady in deed, word, and thought, knowing when to retreat and when to advance. Coincidentally, Donnel was in the city proper with his youngest son and daughter. No doubt he was feeling out the vacancies in court and the royal council, and hoped to squire his boy under a worthy knight and find a betrothal for his daughter or perhaps even have her join the ranks of the royal ladies-in-waiting.

“Donnel the Steadfast?” his Hand murmured to himself, his face looking as if he had swallowed a fly. Then he squeezed out a quiet, “A prudent choice, Your Grace. He’s a good man and loyal.”

The other councillors voiced their reluctant agreement one after another, no doubt finding no issues with Lord Darry. Aegon could see their ambition didn’t burn half as brightly as Darklyn’s. Still, Ser Daren was a man more loyal than most, and capable in his own right—that was why he was chosen as Hand.

The talk turned to duller matters, such as logistics and coordination with the Estermonts of Greenstone and the Tarths of Evenfall Hall. Next was a trade dispute between Stokeworth and the Pentoshi cheesemongers, before they moved on to how the Tyroshi were encroaching on the coast of the Stormlands, attacking fishing vessels and the occasional lone tradeship.

It had not yet morphed into full-blown raiding and reaving, but it was only a matter of time. The Nine were all bandits and pirates and corsairs, after all.

“Your Grace,” Darklyn spoke softly as the minor matters were finally concluded. “There is one last issue. With your grandson like this, the succession—”

“Lady Genna is with a child,” Grand Maester Pycelle’s heated voice rang over him. “I examined her carefully. She is fecund and perfectly able to carry an heir to term. With three generations of mothers on both sides recorded to have given birth without issue and my careful assistance, it’s unlikely for things to go wrong.”

Darklyn’s mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “Unlikely, perhaps, but not impossible. Unless you are confident that your maesterly hands can usher forth a boy that will live to adulthood and guarantee a spare for a good measure…”

Pycelle opened his mouth but couldn’t manage a firm response, his round face contorting into a grimace instead.

“The succession must be secured,” Ser Gyles Thorne added, face grim. “Especially in dangerous times like these. The heir and the spare must be officially acknowledged, Blackfyre or not. Men fight harder when the crown is stable. If, by the caprice of the gods, a mishap happens, we might see the realm plunge into a terrible conflict. Aerys alone cannot guarantee the birth of a son, nor does he have the spirit to try by what we’ve seen.”

“The young prince has lost his legs, not his cock,” Pycelle reminded.

“While true,” Gawen Corbray muttered, “it seems he has also lost his spine. Over a moon has passed, and he hasn’t left his room once. The septons in those septries secluded from the world go out more. Grief is understandable in times like these, but the world won’t wait. Even now, His Grace has yet to proclaim an heir to the Throne.”

His master of laws stole a glance at him, trying to gauge his mood. This time, Aegon did not erupt. His grief still hung heavy on his mind, but he could no longer ignore the issue he was facing, no matter how angry it made him. Nor could he afford to close his eyes to the delicate issue the House of the Dragon was facing. 

“Continue,” he said coldly.

Corbray cleared his throat, words growing somehow emboldened. “Maegor is unsuited, and Aerys is too young and broken, unfit to deal with the woes of the realm.”

“Because he’s still young, his spirit can still recover,” the Grand Maester insisted. “Besides, a king never rules the realm alone. Wise men can be appointed to help him with lesser matters, and with a capable council, the realm can be managed.”

Wise men aid the king’s rule with a capable council. His Uncle Aerys had been one such king, sitting on the Iron Throne while Bloodraven ruled the realm. But his uncle had his ambitious, capable young brother—Aegon’s father, Maekar—as heir to hold the court at bay and lead the royal host to war. When the king was weak, the courtiers all flocked to the capable heir.

But if Aegon perished, who would Aerys have? 

Without a strong heir, those wise and ambitious advisors would slowly control the king and the realm, Aegon suspected, and Pycelle no doubt fashioned himself as such a figure. 

“The prince suffered too great a blow,” the Hand said, tone turning regretful. “But it won’t be too late to appoint him as an heir once his spirit recovers—but no earlier. The king’s youngest daughter still lives, wedded to the Lord of Storm’s End.”

“Indeed,” said the Celtigar knight, “but the tragedy sent young Steffon into the Stranger’s embrace, and Princess Rhaelle’s young twins never made it past the crib, and the third son died of some exotic affliction caught from Essosi traders. Her health never quite recovered to try for another babe, and she’s already at the end of her child-bearing years. A childless daughter is no good heir either. Princess Rhaella is also ill-suited, twice so with her foray into dark arts and heathen gods.”

Ser Gyles Thorne rapped his fingers on the table, stern face unreadable. “Not just any noble woman is suitable to sit by His Grace’s side, share his many burdens, or give birth to an heir. She must be of a storied lineage, dutiful, and of gentle temperament…”

Aegon remained content to listen as his thoughts drifted. The Great Council was not mentioned even once, as they kept arguing back and forth. War was not the time for such slow proceedings, and such calls would only give Blackfyre legitimacy and would dilute the small councillor’s power, instead granting it to the lords of the realm.

Not one of the councillors said a single word in support of Rhaella. Those who dabbled with sorcery were considered treacherous, especially those who had turned their back on the Seven. While none had protested the planting of the weirwood in the godswood, the deed had not remained unnoticed. Even without that, her claim was worse than her aunt’s, and she had even less support than Rhaelle. Many still remembered Shaera Seastar and her sinister ways and didn’t even entertain the thought of colluding with, let alone controlling, the young princess.

‘They talk of my flesh and blood like horses to be bought and sold on the market,’ Aegon thought bitterly. But he did not stop them, for their words were not untruthful, no matter how unpleasant. The Iron Throne had no suitable heirs, and announcing a crippled grandson, a childless daughter, or a granddaughter would not bring any stability to the court and realm, but might just make matters far worse instead.

If only Rhaella had been born a boy…

If he had been ten years younger, he would have arranged a worthy match for Rhaella. A man of skill and wits and good lineage, but no great ambition. Such men were rare, but not impossible to find. He could wait for her children to grow, pave the way and set the court right for some great-grandson of his to directly take the royal mantle once one of them proved suitable. If Aerys sired such a son, things would be simpler still. A clean and undisputed succession. But too many ifs could only build a sand castle, easily destroyed by the first fierce gust of wind.

Time, it was all a matter of time. But Aegon did not have the time, and the uncertainty of the royal succession was too much to leave it to fate now. A new queen would not guarantee him an heir or a spare, but it would certainly increase the odds. Furthermore, the Iron Throne would forge a strong connection with another lord.

He glanced at Daren Darklyn. The man argued fiercely with Thorne to the point that he was frothing at the mouth, trying to extol the virtues of his daughter. But Aegon knew better than to marry the daughter of an ambitious Hand—Viserys I had shown the dangers of such a play, and the old king had no strength to walk down that winding path. Celtigar kept speaking of his sister’s gentle beauty, and Hayford praised Lord Whent’s many nieces and cousins, all pretty, and with potential to bring the Riverlands back into the fold—because of Minisa Whent’s impending marriage to the Tully heir.

Pycelle had gone silent, neither opposing nor supporting any of the candidates they pushed forth. 

Gawen Corbray had no daughter, sister, or niece to offer, as they were all wed, now with children and grandchildren of their own, and those without a spouse were too young. Instead, he put forth Lord Arryn’s virtuous sister—a Valeman through and through. “Lady Alys is as fair as a maiden can be, Your Grace. A little shy of twenty name days, the Flower of the Vale is of stout health and a woman grown, dutiful and honourable, as befitting of her House. There’s also Lady Arwenna Belmore, the Ruby of Strongsong. Two years younger and no lesser than Lady Alys in looks, though her character is said to be as fiery as her hair. My cousin wrote to me that both of them are on their way to King’s Landing, so Your Grace can see them for himself.”

“The Whent maidens can be invited to court too,” Hubart hastily said. “They’re all nubile and pleasing to the eye, and if any of them is to your liking…”

The others were quick to promise to bring their maiden of choice to the Red Keep.

“We might as well invite all the noble maids in the Seven Kingdoms.” Pycelle pursed his lips, glancing at his fellow councillors. “A second Maiden Day Ball, to let His Grace take a proper pick of the flowers of the realm.”

‘Maiden’s Day Cattle Show, more like.’ Mushroom had the right of it, despite his crass words. These young women were all treated like nothing more than cattle on display, hoping to catch the eye of the highest bidder—the king. Though he himself was not free of such folly and had agreed to arrange the fate of his own children for all the good it did, such was the fate of those born of noble blood. 

But Aegon was not nearly as young as the Dragonbane to take great interest in such an event, though his grief was not smaller.

Children. All women grown, past the age of majority, but they were all children in Aegon’s eyes, at the age of his own grandchildren. 

The thought of marrying one made him feel queasy.

Refusal was on the tip of his tongue at the thought of it, but he swallowed it down. He knew what was at stake here. The crown stood heavy on his skull, chafing on his brow and reminding him all too closely of his duty. He never wished to be a great king, but he refused to be a terrible one, leaving a legacy of turmoil in his wake. He married once for love, and his heart died with Betha. 

“I need time to consider this matter,” he uttered before adjourning the council.

Words long forgotten came to him unbidden, a memory of a different, better time.

‘Kill the boy within you. The realm takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born, brother.’

Aemon was right. Perhaps it was not too late to follow that advice. Aegon hardened his heart. He would do his duty and wed again. But he would not choose a woman whose kin sat on the small council or held power in King’s Landing.

‘Forgive me, Betha.’ 

---

He ran his finger over Ghostfyre’s pale scales. The little drake twisted around his hand, letting out a low keening sound. A slight smile tugged at his lips despite himself. The next moment, the hatchling belched out a ribbon of smoke and attacked the piece of roast mutton with gusto. 

His clutchmates were swift to join in. Windchaser and Brightwing were more proactive, while the third, final and smallest whelp—hatched from Princess Elaena’s egg with silvery scales and golden horns and crest—was still wary. It was still nameless, too. Not for the lack of trying, but because the drakeling refused to respond to any names Aegon had put forth.

It was here, in the dragon room, that he spent most of his time. Here lay the true future of his House, though dragons alone would be useless without the riders to command them.  

Even now, over a moon later, he couldn’t help but marvel at the magnificent creatures before him. Dragons! It was these very dragons that had allowed the Freehold to dominate Essos for five thousand years, and it was by a dragon’s peerless might that the Conqueror forged the realm into one. Ghostfyre was barely bigger than a cat, and as fragile as one, yet there was a majesty to him, and the more Aegon gazed upon it, the harder it was to look away. 

To be chosen by this particular dragon was no surprise—Ghostfyre had hatched from the very egg placed in Aegon’s crib—its white scales and horns were streaked with the same green swirls that had marked the egg. 

“Majestic beasts, are they not?” Melisandre’s melodic voice broke the spell. The dragons let out a low hiss in the direction of the voice. Their dislike wasn’t specific to the red woman; all who approached were met with it. If anything, they tolerated her presence slightly more than most, similar to the three dragonkeepers he had recruited from Crabb Isle. He had thought to make overtures to the smallfolk in Dragonstone first, but then he remembered the Red Sowing and chose the island where dragonblood was far more diluted instead. “Overproud, too.”

Aegon spun to face the tall priestess who had silently appeared behind him. In this time of woe, it was this Essosi witch who had proven most reliable, now becoming his most valued advisor, though one hidden in the shadows—by her own design. A devout believer in a foreign god she might be, but it was that foreign god who had proven its merit when the Seven remained cold and distantly silent as they always did, and the Faith was nothing more but another shackle around the Iron Throne. 

The great return of dragons was all wrought forth by her hand, and that was no small thing. 

“Are you here to advise me on the matter of the royal heir?” Aegon demanded, voice sharper than he intended. 

Melisandre gave him a salacious smile and a good eyeful of her bountiful chest that threatened to spill out of her gown of overlapping velvet. It was an old trick for the ladies in court, but an effective one—even Aegon’s eyes couldn’t help but linger. The cut of that garment had gone noticeably deeper with each passing week after the Green Tourney.

“I am willing to bear the burden myself,” she said, her tone husky. “Alas, I’m afraid my womb is ill-suited, and my meagre pedigree and piousness will only make Your Grace more foes than you already have. But I’m not without recommendation. The young Stark maiden is a fitting match—”

“A fitting match?” Aegon let out a low, bitter laugh. He strode to the painted chair by the open shutter and eased himself down, allowing his legs to rest. “Perhaps before half her face was ruined, she might have passed muster—but I wouldn’t have needed a wife then. No man wishes for an ugly wife, and I am no different. And her mother is a half-wild clanswoman from the hills, far from fitting for a queen.”

Melisandre cocked her head. “Such short-sighted words sound like something your councillors might say, Your Grace. Branda’s name carries sufficient weight, her sister is to be the future Lady of Winterfell, and you need her womb, not her face.” 

The subtle mocking in her tone did not escape him.

“A king can rarely afford to ignore his advisors or his lords,” he said, bitterness creeping into his tone. “Those brash enough to ignore them often remain blind and deaf to the pulse of the realm, too.” Aegon knew that firsthand—he had often dismissed his councillors and lords before, just to push laws that made little difference and turned his rule into half a struggle. Where his father found help everywhere he went, Aegon was received with reluctance and suspicion. 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Your Grace.” Her voice grew soothing. “Listening to the sheep and dogs all the time will only fill your ears with blearing and barking, leaving your heart tired and mind clouded.” 

What a cold way to look at the world. But Aegon couldn’t find fault with it. It was only that he had no choice before hatching the dragons.

Keeping her in the shadows was six parts prudence to avoid entangling with the Faith and the pious lords in the moment of weakness and four parts desire to keep such a powerful aide hidden from the sight of court and all those who wished to scheme against him. He was no fool, of course, Melisandre had her own goals and little schemes, but Aegon knew how to play that game, and he had already promised her the most important part—allowing her to guide his heirs in godly matters. As for whether they would take to the red god… that was up to fate. He would only allow her the chance, but wouldn’t chase away the septons from the Red Keep.

She gracefully slid around, moving behind him, and her soft fingers sank into his shoulders, loosening knots he didn’t even know were there. A relieved sigh tore from his mouth despite himself.

“Give me a serious suggestion, aside from the wolf maid,” he said, closing his eyes.

“Of all the great lords, only Stark, Arryn, and Greyjoy have a maiden of a fitting age. I do not know the latter two, and won’t presume to offer blind advice.” Her fingers paused for a moment, and a hint of dread crept into her voice. “But there is another no less urgent matter that demands your attention. The Son of the Great Other is a terrible danger—”

“I’ve heard that a thousand times,” Aegon muttered. “Although I don’t like the look of him, I’m no tyrant to get rid of a man who has brought a boon to the Iron Throne just because of some vague notion of distaste and vaguer words of danger. If that were enough, I would have to dismiss or exile half my royal court.”

“His vile existence is all wrong,” Melisandre hissed, hackles all raised. “I can feel my skin crawl when approaching him, and even the flames only show me an endless night. He’s a harbinger of doom, a herald of chaos and darkness and death!”

Aegon let out a long sigh. “You claim so, but I have yet to see any of it. Furthermore, I have a letter from my scribe—Bloodraven’s pupil is sweeping through the bandits like a cat going through a rat’s nest, nearly thrice as fast as Darklyn’s boy or Ser Dunstan, with far fewer men. He even pays the local smallfolk for food and lodging and even goose feathers for his arrows, instead of demanding it as is his right. He’s too useful to remove, so long as he doesn’t get too close to my granddaughter.”

Seeing his granddaughter and Jon Snow together sent a chill down his back and made him uneasy all over. There was nothing truly damning in a bastard serving as a princess’s knight, nor did the two seem enamoured. It reminded him of Bloodraven and Seastar, though younger and far more dangerous—especially now that the dragons had returned to the world.

---

259 AC, the Red Keep

The Young Princess

She perched on a tree, peeking down on Jon’s lively camp. Even after a long day’s toil, the men were meticulously sharpening their swords or oiling their armour. A few of the marksmen were fletching arrows and straightening poplar tree shoots into shafts. There was an odd harmony to it all. Although all the men here were rough and hardy and the occasional bald jape rang out through the air, there was no heat to it, and they all moved with purpose and no small discipline. 

As always, a pair of crimson eyes found her the moment she slipped in, narrowing. Jon Snow could somehow sense her, of that Rhaella was certain. The great black wolf by his side fixed its lone good eye on her not long after. Named Shadow by its master, it was no ordinary beast, already reaching the size of a grown horse. Rhaella had once read of the fierce direwolves of the North, but they were supposed to be extinct and too wild to tame for anyone but House Stark.

Truth be told, she doubted the book’s contents. The maester who inked it down obviously didn’t know a thing. This beast didn’t look fierce at all, and was more obedient than any hunting hound she had seen—even the big and unruly ones. Shadow obeyed the northern knight with the slightest gesture, tail aways wagging as he acted like a spoiled pup in his presence. She would have claimed Snow to be a skinchanger, but the bond between man and beast was closer and far more intimate than what skinchanging alone could usher—sorcery could not change a beast’s nature, just like a shadowcat could not change its stripes. 

It was not that Rhaella had controlled Vhagar to follow Jon Snow, but the sulking eagle had followed on her own, drawn to the Northern bastard. She felt exasperated at the wilfulness of the bird and had told it more than once that Thyssaria would not replace her, but to no avail. Worse still, she could not spend every moment controlling the wilful beast and was forced to leave it to her own devices. Still, it coincided with her intentions, so the princess let it slide. 

Jon Snow looked away from her, returning his focus to the child beside him. Every time they stopped for a meal, he had a different man to his side, listening to their story and heeding their qualms with a calm, unhurried face. Every time they rode forth, he invited a different soldier to his side, doing much the same, and the men all seemed all the more loyal to him. Even the squires got their turn, and the scribe the king had sent, too! 

He slept side by side with the men, ate with them, shared their duties and was the first to throw himself into the fight, not giving the more dangerous tasks to someone else.

This was the first time Rhaella had seen anyone so attentive to those under his command or rule, and it fascinated her. Seeing how a motley band of men-at-arms, squires, and huntsmen turn into a cohesive and disciplined group over the course of less than a moon’s turn felt no different from sorcery.

She fixed her attention on the lean boy beside Jon Snow. A mop of messy dark hair barely hid those bright purple eyes. Arthur Dayne, albeit far younger than she had seen in those memories. She never expected to see the future Sword of the Morning and the finest knight in the realm to join a Northern bastard. But inside her, only wild joy arose. Wasn’t this a great chance to take him under her wing right now, before he grew into an untouchable legend?

The young and somewhat sullen Arthur looked adorable as a child, nothing like the imposing knight he would grow into. This was the third time the young Dayne was invited to sit beside Ser Jon, the look on his face no longer as cautious as before. 

Even Rhaella found herself curious, flapping her wings to descend upon a lower branch, close enough to hear their words. Arthur was quietly speaking of his childhood. It was not a terrible childhood, but not a great one either—his father and elder brother were cold, withdrawn men, and his mother had died in a bed of blood after having him. Now that his father had remarried again, he had decided to send Arthur to court along with the Sword of the Morning to support the king. 

“I never quite asked about why that man pushed you to join a group he had never seen before,” Jon said at last, his hand running the sharpening stone along his sword’s edge with a practised motion.  After every fight, he would meticulously clean it, inspecting the edge for rolling or cracks and sharpening it without fail, no matter what he was busy with or who he was talking with. 

“My Uncle hopes to see me gone,” the boy muttered, voice tight. 

Jon’s hand paused. “And why might he ever think I’d get rid of some boy I’ve never seen before?”

“…He was Shiera Seastar’s final and youngest lover.” 

“Even if I were Bloodraven’s son, why would I care about some old story and a woman who is not my mother?” the bastard snorted.

“My uncle’s wits are dulled by wine,” Arthur shrugged carelessly. “He judges a true knight with the mind of a crook.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a true knight,” Jon said. “Or any knight. A follower of the Old Gods cares little about the ways of chivalry in the south or the tenets of the Seven, and it was only by the king’s grace that I became one. Even when I got the title, I stood vigil at the weirwood for a night, not before the stone statues in that great sept.”

“So you say, but you’re a knight truer than most—your deeds in the last fortnight proved as much. I’ve seen many men who bore the title and the cloak of chivalry but considered their vows nothing more than dust in the wind.”

Jon’s face grew cold. “Don’t be in a hurry to judge, boy. Everyone follows their vows when there’s no cost to it. I might not be Bloodraven’s get, but I am his apprentice in the ways that matter.” 

“Then I have nothing to fear,” the boy let out a low laugh. “Lord Brynden Rivers is a great man, and the bane of all Blackfyres. Everyone in Dorne knows it.”

The Northern bastard shook his head in exasperation. “Forget it. Why would your uncle desire you gone?”

“Besides being a petty man?” Arthur’s face grew distant. “Each House produces a black sheep once in a while, and the Daynes are no exception. Uncle Ulrick was born a Sand, older than my father, though Grandfather had him legitimised on his deathbed. He shed the bastard’s name, but kept a bastard’s envy even after being allowed to claim Dawn and always wanted more and more.”

The talk soon concluded, and the boy picked up a blunted sword and started drilling forms.

---

Last night, a white raven had come from the Citadel, heralding the end of summer and the beginning of fall. The weather indeed felt like it—the pittering of the rain had chased away the courtiers from the yards and gardens of the Red Keep, and the city streets now lay just as empty.

The city and the Red Keep both were indeed emptier. Three days had passed since the great host had departed for the Stepstones to deal with the Blackfyre Pretender and his ilk, led by Lord Donnel Darry, and the ships clogging Blackwater Bay were finally gone.

“I’ve found a trace at last,” Branda said, leaving her soaked cloak on the hanger and making way to the soft, tapered high-backed chair. The burned side of her face was now covered by a plain bronze half-mask, leaving only a single hole for her grey eye. 

Her ladies-in-waiting had once again gathered for a meeting in her parlour. Since her future stay in the Red Keep was secure, she had sent Branda to follow the trail of that vile Touch of Pleasure. She wished to find the plotter, but had nowhere to start off, nor any trace to follow. If the mysterious mastermind had left traces and the master of whispers had caught wind of them, her grandsire kept them close to his heart.

“Is it some Essosi merchant?” Rhaella asked, gently stroking Thyssaria’s pink neck. 

The Stark maiden eyed the dragon with wariness and amazement. “Not that I know of. But the trail led me to Septon Ambrose, and I didn’t dare follow.” 

“Septon Ambrose?” Joanna tilted her head. “Who’s that?”

“A senior member and the quartermaster of the Faith in King’s Landing,” the princess said coldly. “Not at all a man who ought to be involved with selling vile concoctions to prostitutes—or anyone else, for that matter.”

The golden-haired girl was mortified, face turning as pale as a ghost. “We must bring this matter to the High Septon or His Grace!”

“There’s no need to act in haste. What if the High Septon is involved?” What if the king closes his eyes to this because it’s not convenient to fall out with the Faith now?

Her own grandfather had grown more distant still, even after promising her a swan ship and the chance to consider a candidate for the small council when a vacancy next appeared. This was the reward she received for her great contributions in the return of Dark Sister. Such a ship was invaluable enough, but a position on the small council? She knew better than to believe a promise that might never come to pass—or be conveniently forgotten.

As if sensing her bitterness, the drakeling shrieked.

“Perhaps it’s a mistake,” Rhaella amended, seeing her two ladies turn gloomy all over. “Don’t stop your search, but double your caution. Look closer into the supply and the person making this Touch of Pleasure—the ingredients are not common herbs to be found everywhere, and such a complex thing cannot be cooked by just anybody. If there’s any danger, stop at once—your safety is paramount, Branda.”

The wolf maid nodded, grey eyes steeled with resolve. Silence settled in, and Rhaella shifted her attention to the capricious drakeling hanging over her shoulder. Skinchanging or not, she still had to be trained the normal way, and with her aversion to others, that task naturally fell to her. The skinchanging had to be practised too; that sluggish feeling grated on Rhaella’s heart and awoke a stubbornness in her. 

Branda merely rested on the chair, staring blankly at the crackling hearth, while the Lannister maid once again had a needle and a thread in her hands, her fingers steadily fluttering along the fabric. Her talent in embroidery was the best Rhaella had seen—even better than her own mother.

Joanna soon finished another piece of crimson silk, embroidered with a delicate lion carefully stitched in golden thread. A favour. It was not that she had a particular lordling or knight that she fancied now that she abandoned the notion of being Tywin’s wife or mistress, but that she couldn’t put down the needle for long, always itching to make one thing or another.  

“Let’s not talk of these gloomy matters.” Joanna clapped her hands happily. “When will we see the face of your mysterious snowy knight?”

Why did her voice almost flutter?

Curiosity about the mysterious was only natural, as Jon Snow was half a mystery: his background was shrouded in secrecy, his odd colouring was both sinister and charming, and his presence stood out like a sore thumb in the city even without his connection to Bloodraven. The greatly exaggerated rumours that had swept through the city had only drawn more attention to him.

Even Branda perked up, though it was hard to tell if she was curious about her fellow Northman or if it was something else.

“When his task is done,” Rhaella said. “He ought to return soon.”

“But bandit subjugations often stretch on for moons,” Joanna muttered, her fingers anxiously fiddling with the newly finished favour. 

‘You shouldn’t be so anxious for a bastard you have never seen before,’ the princess wanted to say, but held her tongue. Forbidding something might not necessarily have the desired effect, and she was not Joanna’s mother, merely a girl two years older, after all.

“It won’t be long now,” she said instead. “From what I heard, Ser Jon is doing quick work of the brigands he encounters, cutting them down like a sharpened scythe through wheat.”

About three weeks had passed since the beginning of the bandit subjugation, and Ser Jon had swept through more than a dozen hideouts, even killing three robber knights and scores of bandits and brigands.

“How come?” Branda’s fingers tugged the collar, her body twisting in her chair like an eel, trying to find a more comfortable posture that would be easier on her tender burns. “There’s much hearsay in the city and the Red Keep of Bloodraven the Second, but not one of them quite knows what’s happening.”

Rhaella quirked a brow. “I have faith,” she lied lightly, chiding herself for speaking so carelessly. Knowledge gained from skinchanging was not so easily explained, and Branda was sharper than most, especially in such matters. “If his skills were not up to par, I would not have taken him into my service—”

A knock on the door interrupted. 

“His Grace demands your presence in the throne room, princess,” it was Ser Gerold’s gruff voice. “Today’s court must not be missed.”

“Let’s go!” Joanna eagerly rose. Branda merely shook her head and stiffly made way to her rain-clogged cloak, as Rhaella carefully left the reluctant Thyssaria back in her cot

Ten minutes later, they were slogging through the muddy courtyard, the golden-haired maiden looking like a wet kitten even through her cloak, while Rhaella grumbled inwardly—the rain had slowed down, but not fully stopped. The chill of it sank through her garments and into her bones, making her shiver.

“Why’d he call you now?” Branda asked, voice hoarse. “It can’t be a match for your hand—all the worthy lords and knights departed with the royal host. The court has been filled with young unwed maidens as of late, with no small number from the Vale, Riverlands, and the Northmarch—even Lord Arryn’s younger sister arrived last morn.”

And tell Aerys if he wishes to remain decadent, he may do so, but I shall then be forced to remarry. He has three days.

No… could it be?

Her throat tightened. Today was the fiftieth day since the Tragedy… the first day after the small mourning ended.

Why?

Her mind grew numb as she moved her legs, feeling no different than a puppet on strings. 

They shed their mud-clogged pattons before entering the Throne Room and found it filled with the whispers of a hundred conversations. The air was thick with a mixture of just as many perfumes that made her queasy, and as Branda had said, most in attendance were maidens, all around Rhaella’s age or a few years older. Contrary to the plainer garments the princess and her handmaids sported, each one clad for battle in fine dress of silk or velvet that hugged their figures tightly, their faces armoured with powders and rouge and demure smiles.

Was one of these women going to be… her new grandmother?

The notion that her grandfather had not been jesting and the reality of it struck her like a blow in the gut.

At the far end, the small council were all standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, save for the master of ships who had departed to command the royal fleet in battle.

Before long, the small door behind the Iron Throne opened. For a heartbeat, the throne room grew silent. First to march out were two white cloaks, and then the king strode out, accompanied by a young, graceful blonde woman in a sky-blue-and-white gown, with blue falcons dotting her silvery collar. Alys Arryn.

The whispers returned with a vengeance, louder and more heated, as countless envious eyes stabbed into the Arryn maiden.

The herald banged his ceremonial staff into the marble floor, silencing the commotion.

Her grandfather slowly climbed the steps and seated himself on the Iron Throne, leaving Lady Arryn at the foot. She lifted her head, her proud blue eyes looking down on everyone.

The king gave a sign, and the Darklyn Hand stiffly turned to face the court, unfurling a scroll.

To his credit, even though his face was reluctant, his voice was loud and steady.

“Let it be known to all lords great and small, to knights, sworn swords, and faithful subjects throughout the Seven Kingdoms: In the fifty-ninth year of his life, His Grace has determined that the peace and strength of the realm are best secured not by swords alone, but by bonds of honour and amity. To that end, he shall wed the noble Lady Alys Arryn of the Vale, daughter of House Arryn, whose lineage is ancient, whose virtue is well attested, and whose loyalty to crown and realm stands beyond reproach.

The Union shall take place on a moon’s turn from now…”

Rhaella no longer listened to Daren Darklyn’s voice, instead staring stubbornly at her grandfather. ‘Why?’ she mouthed once he looked her way. No, Rhaella knew why—he had told her straight to her face—but that didn’t mean she could accept it. 

‘Didn’t you love grandmother dearly?!’ He avoided her eyes, and her heart shattered into a thousand pieces. 

---

Author’s Endnote: A long one. It fought me greatly at times, but I have finished it. For once, I wrote everything I planned to write in a single chapter without leaving it for the next one. Some parts might be rushed and redone later, but I’m satisfied.

Dragon names are always a bother to figure out, and I’m not quite satisfied with what I have, but then I realised that Aegon is someone who named his firstborn Duncan, after a knight from Fleabottom. His naming sense is definitely whack.