10.Interlude-Of Cheese and Games

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

Jon Stark

Renting more pastures and even a chunk of the coast as his fishing spot was surprisingly cheap and easy. Things were going smoothly. Too smoothly. Even the draconic presence in his mind was subdued. From what little Jon could gather without prodding, Vermithor was content to spend most of his days slumbering, quite pleased after decimating Rhaenyra’s herds of cattle.

In moments such as these, it was very easy to forget how he had tangled himself up with the Bronze Fury.

There was only one tiny problem—Jon had underestimated the pull a noble’s name would have.

“I’m a cheesemaker from Claw Isle, my lord,” the spindly man with a messy mane of sandy hair said.

Aethan’s attempts to recruit more men to his humble estate were successful. A bit too successful, in fact.

“And you know that while I am a nobleman bearing the name of Stark, I do not officially hold any lands or titles, correct?” Jon asked. Stark. The name still felt odd on his tongue, as if this was some fevered dream. “That I am merely here in the capacity of a man renting farmland and pastures from the Princess of Dragonstone?”

The cheesemaker eagerly nodded. “I am aware, my lord.”

It was not some destitute man struggling to eke out a living, either. His speech was very clear and articulate, implying he had received a certain amount of education. His garments were clean linen and cotton, embroidered with yellow slices of cheese amongst his sleeves—probably a well-off member of the Cheese Guild in the Crownlands. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have arrived nearly so quickly or eagerly.

“Do you know how to make Northern goat cheese, then?”

Jon would have preferred auroch or cow cheese, but getting his hands on large cattle was challenging. Smallfolk were slow and reluctant to part with their cows. It had been over half a moon since he had started looking, but he had gotten only a single cow for the exorbitant sum of three dragons.

“There’s no cheese I can’t make!” the man declared, proudly slapping a palm on his chest. “Yellow or white, I know how to make cheese from all corners of the realm, my lord!”

Jon blinked at his enthusiasm. Was the cheesemaker a spy? Or an attempt by the Cheese Guild to expand its influence? He had a good eye for people, and the man looked painfully honest about it; none of his eagerness was faked. But both could hold true at the same time—the cheesemaker could be eager to serve while spying for someone else.

Not that Jon did anything worthy of being spied on.

“It remains to be seen. Your name, my good man?”

“Joth of Crabport, my lord.”

“I can offer you seven silver stags a moon for your services until you prove yourself,” Jon said slowly. “That includes a roof over your head and at least one meal a day. Twenty silvers as soon as I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Even more, if I’m satisfied.”

“It’s a deal,” was the jovial response. “I can start right away.”

And so, it was settled. It would take some time, but Jon would finally get to enjoy proper cheese. The pay was more than generous, especially if the man knew how to make proper cheese. Aethan’s pay had also doubled—loyalty was something to be rewarded.

Nettles never showed her face again; whether out of shame or guilt or something else, he did not know nor care. Aethan had found over three dozen volunteers, and Jon had taken his pick of the most honest of folks: two young farmhands, a spry greybeard herder to watch over the goats, and a grumpy cook in his late forties by the name of Colin with a scarred face that had seen battle. He was Aethan’s childhood friend.

With five new additions to his expanding estate, Jon purchased the right to use two small cottages from Silver Denys. It was the rolling hills adjacent to his lands, a purchase to accommodate the new additions to his household. Of course, he was not a fool, and he knew his newfound wealth would attract some unwanted attention, so he split the King’s gift into three, buried two parts in his backyard, placed the last portion under his floorboards and purchased four more guardhound pups.

Shaggy was growing fast, nearly reaching Jon’s knee while standing. No longer as cowardly, he quickly became the leader of the small pack.

Unlike the storm brewing over the Seven Kingdoms, Jon’s days continued in blissful peace. A meal together with his new household in the afternoon, where he could take stock of their progress, had become the norm. He also addressed any issues that had arisen and made any decisions that needed making at those meals. Mediating between smallfolk over the simplest of matters was more enlightening than he thought; what Jon saw as a slight nuisance, the smallfolk found to be existential, such as an argument between two men on ploughing the fields. One claimed the other was lazy, while the other exclaimed that his field was full of pebbles and rocks and took longer for him to plough by hand; the only cow they had was a milk one, and Jon would not risk her doing farm work.

It was such simplicity that Jon craved as he dealt with his farmhands and watched his fields grow. The rest of his time was spent fishing and swinging his sword to his heart’s content.

There were no visitors in the destitute Ashcove on the far side of Dragonstone, and it seemed that the noblemen of Dragonstone’s court had lost interest once they realised he was acting like some ‘lowly peasant’. No matter how interesting Jon Stark was, his desire to ‘waste his life away’ curbed their enthusiasm. This was more of a boon than a drawback to Jon and his desire for solitude.

Only a single man passed through this side of the island. As a result of the previous happenstances, Ser Alfred Broome had been reduced to a patrolling knight in charge of hunting down brigands and outlaws across the island. It was a demotion that practically reduced the most senior household knight to an outrider, only slightly better than a hedge knight.

The Broome knight rode by Jon’s fishing spot every day just after noon.

“I must give my thanks for your mercy, my lord,” Ser Alfred said with a deep bow the first time he passed by. He had even dismounted his destrier by the shore and climbed over the natural rocky pier Jon used as his fishing spot, eyeing his garments with surprise. Or the lack of garments, to be precise. As usual, Jon had arrived only in those comfortable linen pants the Pentoshi merchant had sold him and a pair of boots. “If not for your words, my fate would have been grimmer than it is now. I owe you a debt.”

“It’s Lady Rhaena who pleaded for your pardon,” Jon offered.

“That might be true, but I’ve seen those twins grow.” The knight’s voice was sour, matching his sullen face. “I know in my heart they wouldn’t have moved on mine behalf without your urging.”

Now, up close, Jon could finally take proper stock of the infamous Broome knight. The man was tall, with a sturdy body that spoke of many hours of training. His brigandine was of the finest quality, and a castle-forged steel sword rested on his hip comfortably. Jon could recognise men who had seen fighting and bloodshed, and Ser Alfred Broome was certainly a warrior more capable than most. A mop of brown hair, dark eyes, and a gaunt face made him look almost like a vengeful spirit. Jon had seen livelier wights than the knight.

“Perhaps not, but it’s not for two young maidens to dispense justice or beg clemency,” Jon mused as he pulled out a small fish, tossing it in the bucket. He absentmindedly screwed another grain of corn on his hook and cast the line again. “You have been pardoned, but your situation has shifted, not for the better. Are you content with your new position, ser?”

Ser Alfred Broome closed his eyes, but the twitch in his fingers betrayed him.

“It is punishment for my failures,” he said coolly. “In the end, the blame lies with me—it is my lack of skills that allowed my charge to escape. A lady of five and ten outpacing a seasoned knight like me! If the word spread, I’d be the buttend of every jape across the realm. Her Grace was right to punish me. In fact, I am grateful for her mercy.”

There was a sliver of indignity there, but it was aimed at himself; for the most part, Ser Alfred Broome seemed as honest as any other knight. A decent man, if a tad too sullen. Jon could only shake his head at the prospect of this man turning traitor. Was it that Rhaenyra did not know the minds of those within her own household? Or did she simply not care?

It wouldn’t be the first time a lord or ruler chose expediency and convenience over prudence. No, even thinking about it, the Broome knight would have even less of a reason to betray Rhaenyra Targaryen to Aegon now. After all, he had been demoted due to personal failings, and he could no longer claim to be unjustly passed over for the position of castellan when the time came.

Yet another change that would potentially alter the course of history.

How many changes did his presence and actions here cause?

Jon just threw his line in the foamy seawater below and instead asked, “Do you want some fish, ser? I would offer you some cheese, but the first batch has yet to ripen.”

“Are you trying to bribe me, Stark?”

“No such thing,” Jon denied with a chuckle. “Patrolling must be hard work, and you look hungry, while I have plenty of fish in my bucket. One more or one less wouldn’t make a difference. I can even set a fire so we can roast it over.”

“Perhaps some other time. I wouldn’t want to shirk my duties further.”

Words said, the Broome knight nodded farewell, walked away, hopped on his steed, and took to the rocky road. It wasn’t long before Shelly and Saltbeak eagerly flew over, demanding their due.

Jon shook his head as he threw an eel to each pelican under the envious gaze of Grey Ghost, whose head had cautiously appeared over the nearby rocks.

Nearly a whole moon had passed since Jon became a Stark when Ser Alfred Broome stopped by again, heralded by Shaggy’s warning growl. The knight passed through his fishing spot every day, but never paused again for anything more than a curt nod.

This time, the knight’s face looked grimmer than usual, and there was a worry in his eyes.

“I would take you up on that offer for fish and cheese if it still stands, Lord Jon,” Ser Alfred said.

Sensing his seriousness, Jon stood up, grabbed his half-filled bucket of fish and moved into action. The gods were smiling upon him today again, for his luck with fishing had yet to falter. With a sign from him, Shaggy lazily curled up by the bucket of fish, seeking a respite from the heat underneath the shade of one of the nearby rocks.

“You seem quite distressed, Ser Alfred,” Jon said as he languidly started piling a small pile of sun-dried driftwood and shaving some with his dagger for kindling. “Something on your mind?”

“His Grace has left us,” the knight said, voice distant as he gazed at the rocking waves.

“And I suppose his eldest son didn’t just hand over the crown or the throne quietly?”

“Got it right in one.” Ser Alfred Broome laughed. It was a hoarse, almost bitter sound that was utterly bereft of joy. “Aegon has already crowned himself king, and Her Grace has done the same. Each side is calling the other traitors and demanding they bend the knee under the pain of death. You should see the castle’s courtyard, Stark. It’s like someone has stirred up an ant hive with knights and lords rushing around as if the world is ending. All are filled with panic and surprise as ravens fly across the realm, demanding fealty and support from each side. Yet here you stand, looking like the sky could fall, and you would not even blink an eye.”

“If the sky fell, I would do more than blink,” Jon said earnestly. He had seen it fall, after all. “Also, it’s not that much of a surprise. Precedent is on the side of Aegon, after all.”

“Some would take your head for speaking such treason,” the knight said flintily, his hand reaching for his sword.

Jon laughed.

“Then they ought to open a history book,” he drawled. “When Maegor died, he was succeeded not by his eldest nephew’s daughters but by his younger nephew. When Prince Aemon died, the Conciliator made Baelon his heir instead of Princess Rhaenys. And then, when he, in turn, perished, the Great Council supported Viserys himself over his cousin, who had a better claim by Andal law but was born without a cock. But forget about that. If the king wanted his eldest daughter to succeed him, why wasn’t she beside him, ruling by his side, participating in the Small Council and the court? Why did he never reaffirm her as his heir in the many years since her exile to Dragonstone?”

Ser Alfred just shrugged, letting go of the sword and stubbornly gazing at the freshly started fire. Jon merely skewered three mackerels on a stick and put them to roast under the dancing flames.

“His Grace has always intended Princess Rhaenyra as his successor,” he said, but the words came out as hesitant as if he were trying to convince himself. “The king’s word is law.”

Jon snorted. “Only while he lives. But this is nothing new—as soon as the Conqueror died, many who were previously sitting obediently started to stir up trouble. The highlords scheme, the dragons dance in the skies, and the realm is bathed in fire and blood for the ambition of men and women at the court. The most bloody game in the world is about to play out yet again. The Game of Thrones.”

Even nearly two centuries later, the Game had hardly changed. Only the dragons were absent, but the cruelty of men and women somehow made up for it in terms of devastation.

“Game of Thrones? Gods, what a terrifying name.” The Broome knight shuddered. Then, he warily glanced at Jon. “Yet you intend to stay here and fish during it all?”

“Why not? I have sworn no vows or offered no fealty to anyone,” Jon said, turning the skewers over to roast the fish evenly. “Besides, my sword is worthless against the might of dragons. This war won’t be decided by lances and axes and spears and swords but by quill, ink, and dragonfire.”

“What of glory? What of valour? What of the chance to rise far beyond your birth by virtue of your skill at arms and leal service?”

Half a year prior, Jon would have agreed. War was an opportunity to rise high, to grasp the world with your hands. But he had seen the world end with his own eyes.

“All I dreamed of when I was a child was to be a Stark instead of a Snow. Now it has come true, if not in the manner I desired, and all I’m left with is fishing,” Jon mused. He could try again. Offer his sword to Rhaenyra. Or to Aegon. Tell them of the possible future. Try to convince them to do one thing or another.

Alas, Jon knew that the hearts and minds of kings and queens were not so easily swayed. And could he truly serve a woman who wanted to see him killed out of expediency?

A distant ancestor Rhaenyra might be, but Jon’s pride would not allow it.

Even Aegon was but a name to him, distant like an old inkstain in the history books, and no better than Rhaenyra aside for the cock between his legs.

In the end, no matter what he did, what he said or changed, there was nothing man could do against the wrath of the gods. No matter how much Jon struggled in this era of dragons, it would all be for nought. At most, he could try to warn everyone and be considered a mad seer suffering from fevered visions. Perhaps they would listen and try to move away from Westeros. But how could you escape the end of the world itself? The knowledge of the coming doom was disarming.

The two men sat around the fire in silent contemplation. When the fish was sufficiently roasted, Jon handed over two skewers and a slice of fresh white cheese to the Broome knight, who silently accepted and offered him a handful of bread and his flask of wine in return.

“Surprisingly good,” he said with some admiration, eagerly sinking his teeth into the fish. “Perhaps you ought to become a cook instead of a fisherman.”

“My skills end at roasting things over a fire, I’m afraid.” Jon chuckled, tasting the food he was offered. The hard bread was surprisingly fresh and crispy. “Saved me from going hungry or eating raw more than a few times when hunting back home.”

“You hunt alone?”

“Not alone. I had a wolf before. A handsome beast with fur as white as snow and as silent as a ghost, and twice as loyal as any trained hound.” They had hunted beasts and men together, scouted and fought in battles side by side.

The thought of his companion made him feel forlorn. Gods, he missed Ghost.

Thankfully, the Broome knight seemed to focus on his fish and cheese, looking more sullen than usual. He almost reminded Jon of himself in disposition.

As soon as they made short work of the fish and cheese and cleaned their oily fingers, Broome leapt to his feet.

“Lord Jon. If you would give me the honour of crossing swords?” he asked. “Most of my fellow knights have seen fit to decline me the pleasure of training with them.”

It didn’t surprise Jon that much. Alfred Broome was the most senior knight in Dragonstone, which meant that he was the target of the admiration and envy of many. And as soon as he had fallen low due to failure, the tide swiftly turned against him. The higher one climbed, the harder they fell, and once down, rats and vermin would swarm over him to take a bite. Jon had seen it; his brothers of the Watch had done the same to his predecessor—almost literally in that case, from what he heard.

His hand sought Long—Skyfall’s grip in comfort, but he easily changed the gesture into a simple flexing of his fist.

“I will, of course, use a tourney blade and shed my armour to match you,” the knight hastily added, most likely confusing his gesture for something else.

“Sure, why not?” Jon chuckled as he started stretching his limbs. “But keep the arming doublet on. No need to suffer that much. On second thought, let me go grab my own padded jacket.”

Ser Alfred Broome proved to be one of the more skilled swordsmen Jon had seen, if quite cautious. Though that could have been because of Jon’s newfound fame. Still, having a man of flesh and blood to cross swords with was far more exciting than swinging a sword at shades conjured by his mind.

Every time his new visitor came, he was respectful, if still sullen. Ser Alfred never declined fish or cheese and approached Jon for a spar with his usual sour face that failed to hide his relish and excitement. He carried a pouch of hard bread every time, along with a flask of wine or ale to share, and Jon always welcomed him.

The Broome knight was surprisingly quick on his feet and twice as stubborn. He had never failed to request a spar since that day, and he was eager to fight no matter how tired or battered he grew. His strikes were measured but strong, punishing Jon every time he overextended even a little. He was skilled enough to win at least one and sometimes even two or three out of seven rounds.

“You’re a monster,” Ser Alfred said breathlessly after one of their countless bouts. “You fight like a damn demon! Where did you learn to fight like this?”

“I fought many a strong foe back in the North.” And fought his way through a whole war in the South… and deadly legends straight from the age of heroes, returned in cold flesh.

“These wildling raiders must be mighty fierce for mere savages.”

“All who fight for their life are fierce, ser, whether they have come from the snowy forests beyond the wall, the muck of the commons, or the silks of the highborn.”

The new monotony suited Jon just as well. Then came the new royal edict commandeering every cow and bull on the island for the Queen’s personal use, enforced by a reeve guarded by a handful of knights and two dozen men-at-arms. With such a show of force, none could resist. Even Jon couldn’t fight that many men at once. Perhaps it was because of his show against the Velaryon knights that they had shown up so wary and in such numbers.

Every third sheep and goat was also taken as a tax for the war effort, and only the poultry was spared.

“The Queen’s milk tax,” the smallfolk called it in anger as soon as the steward and the knights left. Even Jon wasn’t spared. Half a week later, the poultry also entered the new queen’s vision, and each duck and chicken had to provide a dozen feathers per moon. Jon came quite close to just fighting it out when they took his sole cow, but the reeve, no doubt following orders, forked out five dragons as compensation.

He almost felt amused that they had sent what was practically a small army to commandeer his cow and his goats. They certainly weren’t here in such numbers out of fear of the villagers. Whoever was the steward of Dragonstone was certainly thorough. Jon had been the only one who was compensated this generously; the smallfolk were lucky if they received a handful of silver for their animals.

Coins that were nearly worthless, for no merchant had appeared in Ashcove since the Velaryon fleet blocked most trade coming through Blackwater Bay. Nevertheless, if Rhaenyra had the audacity to demand his coin as well, then all bets were off; he would fight tooth and nail just out of spite.

Might as well bring the Bronze Fury involved.

At least there were no levies summoned or conscripts forced into service. Untrained smallfolk had poor morale and could hardly hold a spear, let alone a battle line. In the end, the Dance was fought by dragons, warriors, and knights. It reminded Jon that during this era, when the Dragonriders still soared the sky, no Lord bothered to keep a strong muster at hand. Most retainers and Bannermen kept their strength just enough not to look weak while spending as little coin on it as possible.

Things changed after the Dance and the death of dragons, and swords, spears, and valour could again tilt the scales of victory, and the Lords were more than eager to leverage such strength to expand their influence.

Ser Alfred Broome’s visits brought word of the happenstance in Dragonstone, too. Aegon and Rhaenyra had tried to negotiate, only to end up exchanging threats of beheading. That and Grandmaester Orwyle’s chain had been ‘taken’ by the now Queen of Dragonstone and given to her maester, Gerardys. Even Daemon was preparing to leave for Harrenhal.

“You’re being quite generous with the matters of Dragonstone,” Jon said. “Aren’t you afraid that I might be a spy?”

Ser Alfred guffawed, laughing as if he had heard the biggest jape in his life.

“You’d be the worst spy ever, Stark. I can’t give you much for your honesty and fairness aside from hearsay, ale, and bread, and you think it’s aplenty. Give me more of that cheese!”

Sullen and sour, it seemed the Broome knight did not forget favours and goodwill. It was almost humbling how a single good word had won Jon such a friendship.

The increased taxation saw the already destitute villagers of Ashcove sink deeper into poverty, and Jon had his first visitor, Bootstrap Lommy, an old and tired fisherman. “Can I have some fish remains for soup, m’lord? My son broke his leg last evening, and we have no food to fill our bellies.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Jon agreed, inwardly frowning.

“I know Fish Fingers Lommy,” Aethan said after their visitor left, far happier and excited than he had come. “He’s a proud old thing—if it were only him, he would probably starve to death out of stubbornness. To come here and beg for his son, things must be bad.”

Rhaenyra, oh Rhaenyra. The people you were supposed to protect were already starving, yet the war had just begun. Even Stannis, the dour, stubborn man nobody liked, made for a better ruler than you ever could.

The next day, his monotony was soon broken by the drumming of dragon wings against the air.

It was a new dragon, one with green olive scales and pale orange wings, with a strapping if youthful figure on top, wrapped in a cloak of black silk embroidered with the crimson three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

It was Jacaerys Velaryon. Or Strong or even Waters, depending on who you ask.

Vermax landed on the rocky shore as his rider whispered something to calm him down, allowing Jon to get a better look at the drake. It was approaching Grey Ghost in size but carried itself with the same confidence its rider did.

Alas, Jacaerys looked no more Valyrian than Jon did, removing most of Jon’s doubts about the rumours. At five and ten, Rhaenyra’s eldest son was already acknowledged as her Crown Prince. He carried himself with grace and confidence befitting his stature, and looked striking even in black leather and cotton riding garments.

In fact, aside from the nose, he looked eerily similar to Jon when he was younger, but without the sullen, long face of House Stark.

Jacaerys seemed to have noticed the similarities as he stared wordlessly at Jon’s face after dismounting the drake.

“What brings the Crown Prince to my humble fishing spot?” Jon was the first to break the silence.

“I plan to visit Winterfell and acquire Lord Stark’s support for my mother, amongst other matters,” he said earnestly. “I thought on it hard and decided there’s no one better to ask for advice than a Stark.”

Humble and courteous where the situation required, but still firm in a way that garnered respect. There was none of the pompous arrogance he had seen in Cersei and her children. Or his queen mother and the Velaryons. The gods had to be laughing far above. Bastard dragonrider he might be, but Jon could see Jacaerys had the makings of a great king.

“Hmm. I’m not sure I could be of much help,” Jon mused. What would the Northmen be like in this era? Probably not that different, but the issues they faced were not exactly the same. “Be warned—I have not seen Lord Cregan Stark nor stepped into his Winterfell. The North is far away, and any support you find there will be slow to arrive. There’s something else to keep in mind on your visit there. Most of the North has yet to forgive the House of the Dragon for tearing through the lands of the northernmost Stark bannermen and calling it a Gift.”

Jacaerys was aghast.

“I thought it was done by the Conciliator to bolster the Watch? Surely, the Northmen would not mind such a thing?”

Jon snorted.

“Perhaps they wouldn’t mind it if it didn’t cripple half a dozen lords and clans by taking their land and reducing House Umber’s strength—one of the Starks’ most principal bannermen. Perhaps if it wasn’t done by the Conciliator to cow House Stark into obedience by flying six dragons into Winterfell unannounced, destroying most of the roofs by using them to roost. Jaehaerys and Alysanne made royal progress to every corner of the realm, yet they never brought such force with them elsewhere. It was a warning wrapped in a gift. A gift that the Watch chafes at, for it lacks the men to care for all the additional lands. In the North, winters are long, and the Northmen’s memories are longer.”

To his credit, Jacaerys was listening with rapt attention, and his brow was furrowed in thought.

“Surely there’s something I can do to win House Stark over?”

“Lord Stark might not be happy with the crown legitimising me without his counsel or permission. But visiting in person should be more than enough, especially if you remain respectful and promise an honest reward, not empty words, and House Stark will back your mother.”

“Thank you for the advice, Lord Jon.” Jacaerys turned to leave but paused. “I heard Prince Daemon offered you service, so let me make a better offer. Become my sword, Jon Stark. Not merely for your martial skills. I can use prudent advice and honest words like yours instead of the braying of lickspittles and the yes-men my mother loves to gather. You will answer only to me and be richly rewarded; I promise you this.”

Gods, Jon was tempted. Not because he supported the Black cause and acknowledged Rhaenyra’s right to the Throne. All of that was meaningless to Jon. Of all the dragonriders in the Dance, Daeron the Daring and Jacaerys were the best. Even now, Jacaerys’s willingness to seek and listen to prudent advice spoke louder than any boasts of legitimacy or threats of dragonflame. Alas, the simple and quiet life he had grown to love would be cut short. Jon could change things. Rhaenyra’s eldest could be a worthy king, unlike his mother. With some luck, he could possibly prevent Jacaerys’ death if he tried, guiding him away from fatal errors.

Only his bond with Vermithor couldn’t really be explained or hidden forever. The red sowing would be the perfect place where Jon could publicly claim that dragon, but it was a needlessly risky endeavour. He could struggle again. Fight and kill, burn and destroy, like the dragonriders of old.

Being roasted alive was not a good death, where your flesh was cooked on the spot in a way you couldn’t just defend against. It sat ill with Jon. Perhaps it was because his grandfather Rickard had perished by such an indignity at the hands of his mad grandsire that Jon felt repulsed by the idea.

He could do it if he had to, but did he? All his efforts could end up meaningless regardless of his success or failure. The world would still end regardless of his participation in the Dance.

Jace’s voice cut through his ruminations.

“I see you struggle to make up your mind, so I shall not press you for an answer, Jon Stark, for now. But my offer might not be as generous later. Think on it.”

“You know…” Jon paused, rubbing his head. “A princess and a kingdom.”

“A princess and a kingdom?” Jacaerys echoed uneasily.

“Aye, to join you, I want a princess and a kingdom,” he said earnestly. “I was offered a princess and a kingdom once, and now I will settle for no less. If you grant me this desire, I will fight for you with everything I have. I will be your man—Jacaerys Velaryon’s right hand at every matter, no matter the odds. I will fight for you, and only you, and I will fight to the death. Not Daemon, not Rhaenyra, nor anyone else.”

“It must have been a small kingdom,” the dragonrider laughed as if it was a good jest, not taking his words seriously. “And an old, ugly crone for a princess.”

It was half the realm you hoped to rule, Jon wanted to tell him, but remained silent. And Val was easily more beautiful than Jace’s royal mother and possessed cunning and daring in spades.

“Take some cheese before you leave, then,” Jon said instead. “It’s fresh and tasty. It’s also made in the style of the North.”

Chuckling, Rhaenyra’s eldest took the slice of white cheese, mounted Vermax, and leapt into the sky. The beating of the dragon’s wings sent gusts of wind through the shore.

Jon shook his head and returned to his fishing spot. This was the third offer a royal had given him, but it was still lacking compared to what Stannis had promised to give. He was not made of stone, but to tempt him, they had to fork out at least a major lordship and a pretty wife.

Or perhaps he was just giving himself excuses to decline and continue fishing. That didn’t mean Jon would forget being taken for a jape, though. A kingdom and a Princess, Jon would not move for anything less.

Rhaena of Pentos

Rhaenyra’s miscarriage ended with her coronation, but the mood in Dragonstone was bright despite the tragedy and Aegon’s usurpation of the Iron Throne. None believed the Greens and the Hightowers could hold on for long despite their threats. What struck Rhaena as odd was that nobody mourned the passing of her royal uncle, as if his demise had been forgotten entirely.

She prayed in the small sept for his soul but was alone there; even the old Septon was absent.

Their now royal stepmother had decided first to try to use words instead of dragons to win the realm over to her claim, but Rhaena thought it was their wariness of Vhagar’s size more than anything else. If only her annoying cousin hadn’t stolen their mother’s dragon that day.

It had been nearly a sennight since their betrotheds had left to play envoys. Their father had left, too, taking Harrenhal by surprise without spilling a single drop of blood. Their grandparents were busy plotting and scheming along with Rhaenyra and the rest of the Black Council in the Chamber of the Painted Table, and Rhaena and Baela were left to their own devices.

Her sister was whinging again. The two of them had escaped the hectic chaos of the castle into Aegon’s garden, surrounded by tall, dark trees and the scent of pine and roses.

“Why didn’t they let Jace and me wed before he left? We’re both nearing the age of majority!”

“Did you forget what Father said?” Rhaena countered. “Bedding and lusts can distract a man, which could prove detrimental in negotiations and outright fatal in war. Do you want to kill Jace?”

Baela just puffed her cheeks in annoyance and brought out the heavy pouch she was carrying, revealing a handful of round stones of varying sizes, no bigger than her sister’s fist.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to learn how to fight!”

Rhaena just blinked at her sister’s cocksure face.

“With rocks?”

She received a sly smile in return. “Did you forget, dear Rhae? Ser Melantine was knocked out by a thrown stone. If I learn this, I can take down knights! And unlike swords, my father can’t forbid me from taking stones!”

“Wouldn’t it be better to use a sling?” Rhaena asked, not bothering to hide her scepticism.

“Nuh-uh. I read the treatises on slinging in the library. A most riveting work on the proper use of projectiles since the Coming of the Andals. Anyway, slingers are supposed first to learn to throw stones by hand!”

Why was she not surprised that the only time her sister sought books was in pursuit of her wilful mischief?

Shaking her head, Rhaena watched as her sister puffed with exertion as she set up a pile of rocks as a target; the topmost looked surprisingly pale and reminded her of the late Ser Rhogar’s shaved scalp.

Baela eagerly picked out a stone the size of a small chicken egg, weighed it in her hand, and threw it, hitting the shrubbery far to the right.

“I was just trying it out!” she proclaimed, hastily picking another stone and throwing it just as eagerly.

It fell even further away.

“At this rate, you might hit something in a decade,” Rhaena jested lightly.

Her sister, however, was not deterred.

“Just you wait!” she said, breathing already laboured. “I’ll become a master slinger and hit the greatest target ever! I’ll see how you laugh then.”

Rhaena would have believed the proclamation far more if her twin hadn’t tired in a handful of minutes, puffing like a horse after a hard race.

In another amusing yet calm hour in the garden, they finally made their way to the yard, only to witness a commotion.

“I WILL GRIND THEIR BONES TO DUST!” Joffrey’s angry roars echoed from afar. “LET ME GO! I’LL GO FIGHT THE CURSED KINSLAYER WITH TYRAXES RIGHT NOW!”

Her young cousin, face red with rage, was trying to make his way to his chained dragon while her grandparents struggled to hold him back.

“What happened?” Baela pulled over the wide-eyed Aegon, watching the commotion with a wince.

Their half-brother shrank back, his voice coming out confused and scared. “A-Aemond murdered Brother Luce and Arrax over Shipbreaker Bay.”