11.Throwing Stars

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

Winterfell

A throne could not have two kings, just like a castle could not have two lords, Cregan Stark knew. Yet there were two claimants to the Iron Throne now, both with crowns placed atop their heads and dragons under their command, and thus the Seven Kingdoms were at war.

The Starks knew better than to fight against dragons, for those who did would often get consumed by the flames. Harren the Black had perished in his stone stronghold, melted within walls meant to last a thousand years. The Gardeners of the Reach had vanished in a single battle, their golden line melting beneath dragonflame at the infamous Field of Fire.

Maegor’s reign also saw that supporting either side could be your bane instead of a boon. And so, Cregan Stark set his mind to sit back and watch as the war was fought, just like his ancestors had done during the rule of the Cruel. He could easily afford to do it, for the North was far away and removed from the struggles of the court.

Word of princes dying gruesomely on both sides reached Cregan, reinforcing his decision—neither side knew mercy or had any desire to give quarter. Then, the fierce battles along the Trident saw the Blacks triumphant, as much as battles without a dragon could be called a triumph. But the Lord of Winterfell suspected they would soon rue that decision, for King’s Landing was closer to Dragonstone, and Vhagar was as fierce as it was enormous.

There was a strange satisfaction brewing in Cregan’s chest at the bloodshed and cruelty that had begun to unravel in the fight for the Iron Throne. He still remembered that cold rage that had taken hold of him when word first reached his ears—a Northman of dubious birth, raised to the name of Stark by the old king’s hand, all done without Cregan’s counsel or leave, no less!

Was this conflict perhaps a punishment from the gods upon the decadent line of those godless sisterfuckers?

Five moons had passed since Viserys had breathed his last, yet the war for the Iron Throne did not seem to be any closer to ending now than it was when the previous king had expired.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, a boy with one foot set into manhood, arrived soon after atop his dragon. Cregan had expected him, for Manderly had sent a raven weeks ago of his intent to visit. He didn’t look like the fabled Blood of Old Valyria with his mop of chestnut hair and brown eyes, but the dragon was unmistakable.

As much as Cregan wanted to deny him, a dragonrider was not so easily sent away, especially when they had come in person. The last time the House of the Dragon was seen in Winterfell in this way was when the Conciliator and his shrew of a wife had come to cow the North into obedience, tear away their lands, and stomp on Winterfell’s pride and authority.

And yet, Rhaenyra’s eldest son was far more polite and respectful than his ancestors, and he acted firmly as befitting of a crown prince. Guest Rights were offered and received; courtesies were observed while Cregan and Jacaerys took a measure of each other. His dragon didn’t eat much, barely half a sheep a day, and the rider didn’t demand an opulent feast to announce his presence.

Red-faced, his half-sister Sara kept stealing glances at the young dragonlord, who looked more intrigued than opposed by the young Snow maiden, most likely confused why his bastard sister stood beside the Lord of Winterfell. With his wife dead, the burden of the duties traditionally fulfilled by the Lady of Winterfell was left to his half-sister instead.

“A Targaryen princess for Winterfell and a promise to return the New Gift to the North once the war is won,” he offered without mincing words as soon as they were in the privacy of his solar. “My mother and I shall mend the chasm opened in the North all those years ago.”

“I am surprised you see matters that way. I know the Southron maesters write that it was willingly offered from the North—yet another insult from those grey rats. Yet I can take back Alysanne’s Gift any time I wish,” Cregan countered slyly. “All I need to do is take my bannermen to the Wall and negotiate with Lord Commander Locke.”

“Yet you have not done so,” Jacaerys observed. “Perhaps because you fear such an act will be taken as defiance against the House of the Dragon?”

“Quite astute, Your Grace.” Cregan would usually be satisfied with such terms and would have agreed after some haggling. Alas, the latest slight levied against House Stark by the House of the Dragon was fresh in his mind. “But why should I trust grand promises such as yours?”

The dragonrider frowned and said unhappily, “I am a man of my word, Lord Stark. And I do not take to such insulting insinuations lightly.”

The Northern lord stroked his chin, undaunted by the implied threat.

“I am merely speaking my mind,” he said after half a minute of tense silence. “You’re quick to make grand promises of distant boons, so I shall be frank with you, even if you take offence. The Gift is easy to give away when it’s not yours, just like your great-grandmother took it, and Otto Hightower wouldn’t hesitate to make the same offer. And you offer me a Targaryen princess for House Stark, yet you have none to give, for the Rogue Prince’s daughters are his to give away, and your mother has only sons. When will Winterfell be graced with this princess? In two decades? Half a century? Or perhaps never?”

A more short-tempered man would have been angered by such words, but Cregan would not have spoken so candidly to someone who might be belligerent. Sure enough, Rhaenyra’s firstborn merely turned pensive.

“We can have it in writing, witnessed by the maester,” the young dragonrider proposed.

“Words on a parchment that are not worth the ink they’re written on,” Cregan dismissed. “I need something more tangible than fleeting promises of distant gain if I am to pit myself and mine against dragonfire. I’d rather mend old wounds instead of leaving them to fester.”

While vexed, Jacaerys Velaryon could recognise the truthfulness of the man’s words. Worse, he felt that the Blacks needed the Starks, especially after the death of his younger brother at the hands of Aemond and Vhagar in the skies above Shipbreaker Bay. While his mother could call upon the Vale and the Riverlands, the forces of the Reach were numerous, and the Westerlanders and Stormlanders were no less fierce.

“Your appetite is boundless, Lord Stark,” Jacaerys said with a snort, but he was more intrigued than insulted. “But I acknowledge how House Stark has been slighted before by the House of the Dragon. I will try to arrange for one of my younger brothers to be fostered here in Winterfell. And a position on the Small Council for House Stark once my mother sits on the Iron Throne, but you will have no more boons from me.”

The young prince’s voice grew hard. “It is high time the North involved itself in matters of the realm if they do not want to be sidelined. I will put it into ink and send a draft to my royal mother to formalise your agreement.”

“Very well. House Stark would support Queen Rhaenyra in that case,” Cregan said, swallowing his apprehension. Since it had come to this, he could no longer stay out of the war anyway. “Who tutored you on the North, Your Grace? You seem quite familiar with what to say and what we need.”

“Your distant kinsman, Jon Stark,” Jacaerys offered, and the Lord of Winterfell had to resist the urge to curse. “He looks like he could be a brother of yours, writ far more scarred. As gruff and sharp-tongued as you are, he speaks his mind even more fearlessly than you.”

“Tell me more,” Cregan all but demanded. “Tell me of this man who claims the Stark blood without my permission.”

“Jon Stark is devilishly dangerous with that Valyrian steel sword of his, too, but prefers to spend his days fishing on Dragonstone, claiming it a respite from worldly affairs. He declined offers of honourable service from Ser Otto Hightower and Prince Daemon for it—”

They talked and talked, and the more they spoke, the more Cregan grew to like Jacaerys. The young dragonrider had the heart of a Northman and could pass for one in looks if not for his lineage. Yet Cregan’s vexation for that supposed distant kinsman of his only increased.

Was this Jon Snow-Stark truly his cousin or some impostor? If he was the real deal, why were there no records of his supposed lineage or even an inkling of existence in Winterfell?

Did it even matter?

Cregan knew it didn’t, regardless of how bitter he felt about it—the deed was done. No matter who sat on the Iron Throne after the war, they would not tarnish King Viserys’ decree by stripping Jon Stark of his name.

What was more important was how House Stark would approach this dangerous dance between dragons. A force of veteran greybeards led by Old Roddy, who was yearning for an honourable death in battle instead of the slow agony of old age, would do for a start. The Lord of Barrowton was a cunning fox that would test out the waters and the characters of the dragonriders on both sides. Blindly committing the full might of the North against dragons was just asking to be burned alive.

The Red Keep

The Battle of the Burning Mill and the demise of Lord Bracken saw the last of the Green support in the Riverlands melt, and had turned the mood in King’s Landing solemn. Worse, sensing weaknesses and hoping to shrug off the yoke of Hightower, a sizeable number of Houses in the Reach declared for Rhaenyra. The solemnity turned to gloom after Blood and Cheese and the loss of his firstborn son. Even the bubbly Helaena had become depressed, refusing to eat or bathe.

The rat-catchers in the Red Keep had all been dismissed and replaced by a hundred cats. All the traitors had been hanged, but the damage had already been done.

The young king was seen in his cups more often than before, and the royal couple grew distant, not having shared a bed since Jaehaerys’s cruel murder. The blows continued coming, for the Vale, the North, and the Iron Islands soon declared for his half-sister.

Unsatisfied with the slothful results of his grandfather’s diplomacy or their utter absence, Aegon the Elder had dismissed Ser Otto Hightower as Hand of the King.

“The retaliation must be swift and fierce to dispel the doubt in the hearts of your subjects, Your Grace,” urged Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. “We must show the realm that we are not cowed by Rhaenyra and seize victory as swiftly as possible. Let me send Ser Arryk to Dragonstone and end your grasping half-sister!”

“He can hardly be distinguished from his twin, Ser Erryk, so he would have a good chance of getting close unnoticed,” Aemond mused darkly. “A sound plan, Lord Hand.”

“See to it!” Aegon barked out, venom dripping from his words. “But it’s not enough. We need to do more.”

“I have mustered a host to attack Duskendale and Rook’s Rest in hopes of drawing out at least one of the Black’s dragonriders. If Your Graces can wait in ambush…”

“Yes, yes, that would work,” the young king murmured, eagerly taking another sip of wine to soothe his taut nerves. “Quite bold to use yourself as bait. I like it! And what of my supposed bastard half-brother?”

“He spends his days fishing, making cheese and ale without a care in the world, Your Grace,” Larys Strong reported. “I can send men to approach him, but he has shown himself unambitious, crotchety, and prone to solitude, having declined Prince Daemon’s offers of honours and titles.”

Prince Aemond scoffed. “Why would we care about yet another bastard if legitimised? Leave him to play with his fish, beer, and cheese. Strongs, Starks, they’re all the same. We have bigger prey to hunt.”

Rhaena of Pentos

Being constantly reminded of the ongoing war took a toll on Rhaena’s spirit. She had just finished mourning the death of Lucerys. Her betrothed was more of a younger brother than someone she had come to love, but the loss stung all the same.

With her hand free to be claimed once again, many of the lords and knights sworn to Rhaenyra seemed eager to win her favour and court her. Rhaena was not in the mood to entertain such suits. Her royal stepmother was too busy with rulership and planning war to care, and the matter would be left to her father to decide.

Just as Rhaena thought things had settled down, the Stranger visited the halls of Dragonstone yet again.

Looking at the corpses of the Cargyll twins lay side by side, reunited in death as they were in life, was a sobering experience for Rhaena—the last vestiges of innocence were torn away as she stared at their bloody remains. Death had not come peacefully to either; one had his face twisted in anger and regret, while the other looked pained and sorrowful, yet both had a trace of love in their now-hollow eyes. The knight on the left bled still, the cloth beneath his arm soaked through, ringmail pierced where a blade had found its mark. The other wore his death across his throat, where his gorget was slick with red, the blood now dried to rust.

No one could say for certain which corpse belonged to Ser Erryk and which to Ser Arryk. In the end, it mattered little, even if one died as a catspaw, while the other as a kingsguard ought to—protecting his charge with his life.

Rhaena could only watch numbly at the two corpses from the gathered crowd. She had been away, busy in Aegon’s Garden during this bloody clash. A part of her was relieved, not because she was glad that the two brothers had killed each other, but because the thought of fighting frightened her.

In a rare show of mercy, the queen had them both buried with honours befitting the Kingsguard. A treacherous part of Rhaena wondered if it was instead indifference, for her royal stepmother could not be bothered to ascertain who was who—the twin knights remained indistinguishable in death as they had been in life.

“They kept cursing each other one moment and declaring their brotherly love the next,” Baela whispered in her ear, wide-eyed with terror and excitement. “All the while they kept fighting.”

It made it all the more tragic. Kinslaying was always tragic, always cursed, but murder between twins, twice as cursed. They had shared the same womb and had weaned off from the same mother together, much like Rhaena and Baela had.

And just like Rhaena and her sister, the twice brothers—once by blood, and a second time by oath—had been as close as siblings could ever be. Would circumstance force her hand to clash with her sister one day?

That particular tragedy ended up being merely a footnote with no consequence other than the dismissal of Ser Alfred Broome for failing to capture Ser Cargyll sneaking in. Someone had to be blamed for the death of a kingsguard at the hand of a catspaw who should have never entered the castle, and the honour fell to the already unpopular Ser Alfred.

Half a year. Over half a year had passed since the war started, and it looked no closer to ending. If anything, it only seemed to grow more desperate. Despite the victories Queen Rhaenyra’s supporters had won, Aegon and the Greens had yet to be truly defeated. “Vhagar, Sunfyre, and Tessarion still soar the skies, and as long as they do, Alicent’s children will not lose so easily,” her grandfather had said.

The dreadful Blood and Cheese incident sounded needlessly cruel. War was supposed to be fought with warriors and dragons, not by hiring catspaws to attack defenceless women and children.

A son for a son, many said. They called it justice, even though Lucerys was thirteen and a dragonrider, while the young Jaehaerys was nearly six. Even more cruel was forcing a mother to choose which one of her sons would be slain.

A part of Rhaena wished to say that it was just. She held no love for Helaena and her whelps. It was not grief she felt, but fear. If even a queen and a prince were not safe, if blood and name no longer shielded them from atrocities, what about the rest of them? What if Aegon decided to seek vengeance against Rhaena’s father next time, what if the next dagger in the dark sank into her own neck?

Daemon Targaryen had made many enemies during his life—too many. How many lords and knights had been slighted by her father? How many lesser men had been humiliated at court?

They would think twice before striking at a warrior of her father’s renown.

But Rhaena? She was softer. Easier.

Thus, she gathered courage in her desire to pursue a dragon again. Her three eggs have yet to hatch, but even if they did, a drakeling wouldn’t be enough to defend her. She needed something bigger, more dangerous. Her desire to master a dragon grew further once Moondancer and her sister took to the skies, flying each day without fail. While Rhaena was happy for Baela, her heart stabbed with envy every time she saw her sister soaring in the sky above the castle.

“It would be prudent to claim Vermithor, dear,” her grandmother advised when Rhaena confided her woes. “Or Silverwing, the second-best unclaimed dragon on the Island, whose character is far more suitable to yours. And make sure you take a proper guard with you this time.”

“But it’s hard to find the silver she-dragon away from Vermithor,” Rhaena protested.

“Nothing worthwhile has ever been easy or simple, Rhae.” Rhaenys Targaryen’s purple eyes turned distant then. “Have patience, and your opportunity shall arrive.”

“…I’m afraid, grandmother. I’m afraid that we’ll all die.”

The Lady of Driftmark snorted. “Nonsense. While Aegon and his siblings are dangerous, it’s only Vhagar that we have to fear. The noose slowly tightens around his neck by the moon as his allies are shattered one by one on the field, and it’s only a matter of time until Rhaenyra sits on the Iron Throne.”

Yet Rhaena couldn’t help but fear. Perhaps she was a craven, for no one else on Dragonstone seemed to fret. Even her sister seemed to think everything would eventually reach a proper conclusion.

It was easy to get permission from Queen Rhaenyra for leave to claim a dragon. The burden of the crown seemed to have aged her stepmother by half a decade, and she looked absentminded as she assigned Ser Lyonel Bentley, a young but fierce knight, as Rhaena’s protector.

For weeks, Rhaena braved the southern skirts of the Dragonmont, trying to find an opportunity to catch Silverwing alone. But the silver she-dragon was soaring in the skies or dwelling in her lair, coiled around Vermithor. And Rhaena did not dare approach the Bronze Fury again.

She approached Seasmoke next, the dragon of her late uncle Laenor, only to flee when he let out an unhappy growl in her direction. It seemed that she was not the only craven, for her protector had pissed himself from fright during the encounter, judging by the smell of privy in the wind. Still, Rhaena remained silent, earning herself a grateful nod from the shamefaced knight who rushed to excuse himself.

A cowardly knight for a cowardly lady—Rhaena could appreciate the irony.

Only Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost were left. Sheepstealer was a behemoth, just behind Silverwing in size, but he was an ugly brown colour that reminded Rhaena of mud and had a foul temper. Rhaena had had her fill of ill-tempered drakes.

There was something freeing in roaming the outskirts of Dragonstone atop Chestnut, leaving the castle behind with talks of war and battle. It helped that Ser Lyonel had the uncanny ability to remain as silent as a ghost as he shadowed her, especially after that mishap.

One day, Jace finally returned from his long trip, even if his royal mother seemed unhappy with the terms he had given to House Stark, even though they had declared for her. Word had already arrived of savage Northmen crossing the Neck led by the Lord of Barrowton. Baela was also unhappy about her betrothed, suspecting he had found himself a mistress during his overlong stay in Winterfell—nearly three moons.

Eventually, Rhaena found herself approaching Ashcove and the nearby shores once again. For good or bad, she was no longer betrothed, so Jon Stark couldn’t object on the grounds of propriety, especially since she had a minder.

The folk in the village looked gaunter than she remembered, their faces etched with hunger and misery, but there was a sliver of hope in their gazes. The war was taking a toll on them, but they had not given up yet. Rhaena felt ashamed, then. Even smallfolk were braver than her.

Then, shame gave way to sympathy.

For a fleeting moment, Rhaena wanted to help, but she had no idea or means to do so, so she merely spurred Chestnut forward.

But before she left, she overheard the hushed whispers from an old greybeard to a younger man whose ribs could be seen sticking underneath his worn-out tunic. “Go to the Stark,” he said, voice as rough as sandstone. “He might look distant, but he never refuses to give men fish soup, cabbage, and a slice o’ cheese when they go to him hungry.”

It was a surprising new side to the crotchety Northern warrior. The icy face and the sharp tongue had hidden the kindness underneath too well.

As she continued riding eastward by the shoreline, she was met with the sound of swords clanging. Ser Lyonel swiftly caught up to her, his face grim as he strapped on his helmet. “Stay back, Lady Rhaena. Let me check—it might be dangerous.”

It wasn’t dangerous. It was Jon Stark locked in a fierce clash of steel with Ser Alfred Broome on the rocky shore. They looked fiercer than anything Rhaena had seen in Dragonstone’s training yard, fiercer even than the fight that had seen the Silent Five crippled. Both men were wielding blunted tourney blades that never pointed at their necks.

There was something mesmerising in the violent back and forth. The two men almost looked like dancers at a ball, but their play was far more deadly. Eventually, the spar ended as the sword was knocked out of Ser Alfred’s hand, and the two men chuckled along.

“They’re good,” Ser Lyonel admitted, his voice tight. “Dangerous, too. I saw the Cargyll brothers duel to the death, and they were not this good.”

“A pity my stepmother dismissed Ser Alfred from her service,” Rhaena said.

“There’s no worse sin than failure, my lady,” was the even reply. “If Ser Alfred had fulfilled his duties properly, he would still be enjoying his previous position.”

Yet Rhaena couldn’t help but think that perhaps the Broome knight’s dismissal was for the better. Ser Alfred certainly looked far happier than she had ever seen before as the two men shrugged off their padded jackets and started a fire to roast some fish. Heat rushed to her face as Jon Stark stood blatantly half-naked with no regard for propriety. Yet, it was Rhaena who was spying on what was supposedly a private moment.

“Wait, Lady Rhaena—”

Ser Lyonel’s warning fell on deaf ears as Rhaena had steeled herself and spurred Chestnut forward.

Somehow, Jon Stark’s gaze immediately found her as she approached, as if he knew where she was. He had even placed four fish skewers over the fire to roast as if he had expected them.

“Lady Rhaena,” he greeted neutrally, then nodded at the Bentley knight. “And company. Come, come. Join us for some fish and cheese!”

The smell of roast fish made her mouth water, so Rhaena didn’t hesitate to walk by their fire, carefully sitting on one of the flat stones.

“I must apologise for intruding, Lord Jon,” she said, trying very hard to look at Jon Stark’s face instead of his very naked, very scarred, and very muscled torso. Why did he have to take off his arming doublet? “But I wanted to inquire if you have spotted Grey Ghost recently.”

“Aye, he keeps lurking about, trying to steal fish,” was the laconic reply. “Come to try your hand at taming the beast?”

Rhaena could only nod; she didn’t trust her words to come out in anything other than a squeak. The silence stretched as the crackling of the fire fought off the sound of the beating waves, while the fish was roasted.

“Here, some wine and bread to go with the cheese and the fish,” Ser Alfred offered as soon as Jon deemed the skewers ready.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Ser Alfred,” the tense Ser Lyonel said after shrugging off his helm and hesitantly accepting the fish and flask of wine.

“I decided to join Lord Jon and fish along,” the sullen knight said, voice tight. “He offered me a roof over my head and a place by his table, and I didn’t even have to jostle and fight for favour. It’s a peaceful life, bereft of worries or slights.” ‘Unlike serving under Rhaenyra’ remained unsaid, but Rhaena heard it all the same.

There seemed to be more to the tale, but Ser Alfred refused to speak further, focused on devouring his fish with relish, spicing it with slices of cheese and fresh bread.

“Here, let me clean the scales off for you,” Jon Stark said, skilfully peeling the skin off a skewer with a knife before handing it over. “Be careful—it’s burning hot.”

Rhaena hesitantly tried the roast fish and almost moaned as soon as she took a bite. This was surprisingly good. The soft meat melted in her mouth, and the bones were easy to spit out. The cheese spread over a slice of bread, and the bittersweet ale made it all the better.

Somehow, the three men looked surprisingly… friendly despite eating in silence. Not one of them seemed eager to win her favour or in awe of her beauty.

It wasn’t long before her mouth and chin were dripping with oil and grease from the small but delectable feast, yet not one said a word about the lack of decorum. Fighting yet another flush, she hastily cleaned her fingers and face with her handkerchief of silk and lace that was intended for far more official purposes. But right now, Rhaena couldn’t bring herself to care.

Feeling surprisingly bold, Rhaena leaned forward.

“Lord Jon, may I purchase fish from you?” she asked.

“You may,” he said without hesitation. “But be careful. While Grey Ghost is amiable and usually wary of humans, the Cannibal lurks above, searching for easy prey.”

Jon Stark pointed at the sky, yet Rhaena saw nothing but clouds above.

“I thought the Cannibal only attacked other dragons,” Ser Lyonel said, his voice laced with nervousness.

“That he does. But if Lady Rhaena spends her time with Grey Ghost…”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” she said. A part of her was tired of always being afraid.

Rhaena still purchased the contents of Jon Stark’s bucket in hopes of luring Grey Ghost over.

Despite his warnings, there was no Cannibal roaming the skies, nor were Jon Stark and the Broome knight looking remotely bothered, so Rhaena returned the next day. She could purchase fish from any fisherman in Ashcove, but she still came to Jon Stark and was again offered a skewer of tasty roasted fish.

Her efforts were bearing fruit, too.

On the third day, Grey Ghost appeared, even if he was too fearful to approach. He still ate the fish that Rhaena threw his way. The slender dragon was beautiful, with its pearly white horns and crests, and the scales were a pleasing shade of grey—she could almost imagine those pearly eyes brightening when she fed him fish, hardening her resolve to tame him.

Jon Stark

Rhaena’s persistent yet polite presence somehow managed to brighten his day.

It was hard to chase away someone who had a good reason to be here, and came with courtesies and soft smiles instead of demands and tantrums.

Being easy on the eyes didn’t hurt either. Rhaena kept coming, stopping by, and trying to win Grey Ghost’s trust, but nothing changed in his routine; Jon and Ser Alfred continued to do the same thing they’ve been doing for moons: swing their swords until they tired of it and then spend the rest of the day fishing. The slow monotony was like a balm upon Jon’s soul. Everything was going well; even his efforts to grow vegetables had proven fruitful, and Joth’s new batches of cheese were each better than the last after being given more time to ripen.

A fortnight passed quickly. That night saw a fierce storm rock the island, but the skies were again clear by the crack of dawn. The morning was chilly enough to see Jon pull on a tunic of grey linen, much to the amusement of Aethan. “So even you are affected by such cold, my lord.” After a quick breakfast, Jon and Ser Alfred headed to the shore, finding it covered with starfish washed ashore by the storm.

Just as they settled on their favourite fishing spots, Rhaena arrived.

“You’re early, my lady,” Jon said, dipping his head. “We’ve yet to catch anything.”

“I just wanted to leave Dragonstone,” she sniffled, looking quite lonely, wrapped in her thick linen cloak. “The castle is filled with rage and gloom. My grandmother…a letter arrived saying she died fighting over Rook’s Rest yesterday.”

“My condolences for your loss,” Jon offered, not unkindly. “Yet you do not seem to be wroth?”

Rhaena gave him a wet chuckle. “Even if I were, what use would it be? Would my anger fell Vhagar? Would my fury make the Usurper keel over and shatter his crown? I’m no fighter,” she confessed. “My grandmother was strong and fierce, and look how she ended. The world is cruel.”

Then, she looked around as if desperately searching for something, yet failed to find it. Her guardian, Ser Lyonel Bentley, looked like he wanted to disappear into the ground.

“That it is,” he agreed as he cast his line into the waves again.

Rhaena merely sobbed out as she knelt and picked up a starfish from the shore and cast it back into the waves. She did it again and again, with every following throw more decisive as if finding purpose in her queer quest.

After five minutes, Jon couldn’t help but ask, “What are you doing, my lady?”

“They can’t return to the sea by themselves,” Rhaena replied, voice morose. “When the sun gets high in the sky, they’ll dry to death unless I throw them back in the water—I’ve seen it before.”

“There are countless starfish along the shore,” Jon observed, tilting his head. “You will not make much of a difference.”

“Then, why do you give fish and cheese to the villagers when they come to you hungry?” she retorted.

Jon was taken aback, struggling to come up with a reply. He had done it because he had more fish and cheese than he and his household could eat. There was hardly any use in hoarding food when everyone else had been hungry. He was likely losing coin by staying on Dragonstone and doing what he did, but he did not care. Once, all he owned was the clothes on his back, his sword, a set of mail, and a half-empty pouch. Now, even losing fifty gold dragons a year felt worth it.

He had never been one for charity. But this—this felt right.

His lack of answer only emboldened Daemon’s daughter.

“It might not matter much to you, but I’m sure you made some poor farmer’s day when you offered them a meal. You made a difference, and now,” Rhaena bent down, picked up yet another starfish and threw it as far as she could into the sea, “I also made a difference to that one!”

There was a hint of challenge in her purple eyes as she held his gaze.

Mind muddled, Jon just… stared as the Rogue Prince’s daughter kept throwing starfish into the sea. In a handful of minutes, she had turned breathless from the exertion. Yet the proud maiden had refused to ask for help from Jon or her guard, even though Ser Lyonel couldn’t refuse her order. Rhaena had found solace in the simple act of saving a hapless starfish.

I made a difference to that one!

The words kept echoing in Jon’s mind like a knell. Something tugged his fishing line, but he was too lost in thought to pull out his catch.

I made a difference to that one!

Was it so simple?

Was he a fool for being such a doom-monger?

Yes, life was fleeting and fragile, but it was also bright and full of opportunity, even in the darkest of hours. Would he really live the rest of his life dominated by the looming shadow of the sky falling and that titanic ball of fire?

Perhaps Rhaena had the right to it. Life was to be cherished. It was to be cherished precisely because it was so fleeting.

Why had he been helping those villagers? Was it because he hated to see children starve to death?

Because he could. Because he had chosen to do so, despite the fact that they would expire far before the sky fell and the world ended in fire. It wasn’t done out of scheming or with an ulterior motive. It was easy, too, for he had more fish and cabbage than he knew what to do with, the latest harvest turning quite fruitful.

It was as if an invisible weight had been lifted from Jon’s shoulders, and a veil that had clouded his thoughts was ripped away. He felt his mind soar, and he found himself staring at Dragonstone from above. The world seemed unbelievably bright and alive in a way that words failed to describe. His entire being felt as if it was soaked in a warm bath, and then Jon realised his mind had slipped into Vermithor, and he was seeing the world from the Bronze Fury’s eyes. It was far less painful than he expected it to be. If anything, the experience was exhilarating.

The dragon’s fiery mirth rumbled across his mind as Jon hastily pulled his senses away and returned to his own body.

His heart was racing from both fear and excitement. Yet, his head felt like it had been dunked into searing water, then. Thankfully, the gentle breeze quickly cooled the burning feeling. Skinchanging was dangerous, Jon knew, even when doing it to mundane beasts instead of dragons. Shaking himself from the stupor, he stood up and approached the Targaryen maiden, who was still busy throwing starfish back into the sea.

“Thank you, Lady Rhaena,” Jon said, bowing his head deeply.

Heaving, she looked at him strangely and asked breathlessly, “What for?”

“For clearing some doubts from my mind,” he offered earnestly. “Perhaps it might seem inconsequential to you, but to me, it means a great deal. Do you want a hand?”

“Your aid would be appreciated, Lord Jon,” she beamed back at him.

She looked beautiful then, and he could no longer ignore it.

And for once, Jon allowed himself to actually look at Rhaena of Pentos instead of sparing her a cursory glance. Tall and slender like a dream, she moved with natural grace. Her pale curls spilt down her shoulders like a silver river with a golden sheen, and her eyes, a soft shade of purple, were like gems upon her heart-shaped face.

The ethereal, almost inhuman beauty of Old Valyria was on full display before him, wrapped in a black riding gown that clung closely to her body and left very little to the imagination as she toiled with purpose over the piteous starfish.

Shaking his head with amusement, Jon banished the errant thoughts and focused on his task, reaching for the nearest starfish and casting it into the foamy waves.

“Not going to fish today?” the observant Broome knight asked him the following day.

“I’ve a mind to seek out a godswood. It’s been years since I’ve prayed,” Jon confessed. The sense of doom was dispelled from his mind, but his heart now felt lost. Seeking the solace and advice of the Old Gods felt appropriate. “Do you perhaps know where the nearest grove is?”

“Driftmark,” was the gruff reply.

“Second nearest?” Jon prodded, earning himself a snort from Ser Alfred.

“Red Cave, the seat of the Caves of Crackclaw Point. But Lord Jon, travelling right now is a precarious affair, and the Clawmen distrust outsiders. Allow me to go and bring you back a weirwood cutting to plant for yourself.”

Having his little godswood sounded far too tempting to decline, even if Jon suspected the slew of trouble with the Faith that it would probably bring.

“And you, as a man of the Seven, are volunteering to expand the domain of the Old Gods here?” Jon couldn’t help but ask.

“Yes, my lord.” He would never tire of being called lord with genuine respect. The gods had to be laughing at him, for it was only achieved after he had decided to take up fishing. “I leave the matters of theology to the septons. Please grant me this request—I have eaten food from your table and enjoyed your hospitality, but I have yet to prove myself despite entering your service.”

“Go, then,” he allowed. “And try to bring me as big a cutting as possible if you can.”

Ser Alfred hired a fishing skiff to sail him to Crackclaw Point the next day. Jon continued his daily routine. In the end, fishing was meaningful by itself, too. Perhaps the world would have been a better place if more men turned to the fishing pole instead of the sword and the spear.

Rhaena kept coming, and her attempts to get closer to Grey Ghost were bearing fruit. The wild dragon appeared on the beach every day for the feast of fish that the Targaryen Maiden offered. The previous noon, she approached the cowardly drake enough to pet its face while the beast devoured a particularly plump eel. Since then, Grey Ghost felt comfortable approaching her openly, if still with a measure of caution.

“He keeps glancing at you fearfully,” Rhaena noted as she ran her hand through the scaly head that was shoved inside the bucket of fish. “What did you do to him?”

Jon scratched his head. “Gave him a good whacking when I caught him stealing my fish.”

Ser Lyonel Bentley made a strangled noise from the side—the knight clad in steel from head to toe, who was supposed to be bold, kept a cautious distance from the dragon, making a stark contrast to the brave maiden.

“You would attack a dragon with a tourney sword?” Rhaena asked, aghast.

“It was attacking my only livelihood at the time,” he pointed out sullenly, only for her to burst out in peals of laughter. It was a sweet sound, pleasant to the ear, just like everything about Rhaena Targaryen. Jon was beginning to take a shine to her just like the dragon did, but then again, the pretty yet kind maiden was easy to like.

It spoke of how comfortable Grey Ghost was with her, for the sudden noise did not spook the cravenly drake away.

Suddenly, a huge shadow blotted out the sky. Jon’s spine tingled with danger as Rhaena and the almost-purring Grey Ghost were still absorbed into their own world, blissfully unaware of the danger.

A glance at the skies made his blood freeze, just as an angry roar echoed in his mind. A behemoth as black as coal with menacing green eyes was rapidly descending like a falling star, the beating of wings against the air now audible as even Rhaena and Grey Ghost sensed that something was wrong.

It was too late, though. The draconic maw gaped open, but Jon had no time to dally. There was no time to think, so he rushed forward, swooping Rhaena in his arms. A torrent of bright-green flames drowned the shore, licking at his feet as Jon leapt into the protection of the sea.

The dragonflame chased him with a vengeance, forcing him to dive deeper and deeper. He could feel the water around him bubble and boil as Cannibal tried to cook them on the spot.

The heat was slowly growing unbearable, and Rhaena’s eyes were wide open in fear as she stared at his face, but she smartly kept her mouth sealed.

Vermithor was coming with a vengeance, Jon felt in his mind, but the Bronze Fury was too far away to arrive on time. They would die if something didn’t buy them some time. His lungs were screaming for air, and he couldn’t hold his breath for much longer. Rhaena even looked deathly pale in his arms and would quite possibly drown first.

His legs kept kicking in the water, trying to bring him further away from the boiling sea. It was clear the Kin Eater did not know where they were, but still breathed his flames all along the coast—by sheer luck, they managed to avoid the worst of it, or else they would have been cooked alive.

Then, the dragonflame stopped, and the heat receded, turning the water tolerable. He felt Saltbeak and Shelly attacking Cannibal, pecking at his eyes with their giant beaks. The lovable pelicans had sensed his distress and had come to aid him. They were little more than irritating gnats with wings for the winged behemoth, but the distraction was enough to allow him to swim up desperately, greedily gulping air amidst the steamy waves. Rhaena coughed out, wheezing.

Cannibal managed to snatch Shelly in his maw, and with a gout of flame, Jon felt the whiplash of the connection dying. He barely managed to take a deep breath and dove back again before the next river of green flame crashed against the sea’s surface. Saltbeak didn’t dare approach, and Jon lacked the calm or the will to slip into the bird’s mind and sacrifice it to buy himself more time.

The water began to bubble nearby, and Jon could feel the increasing heat prickle at his skin. The only thing that saved them was that Cannibal probably couldn’t spot them in the steaming stretch of sea.

Rhaena’s face was growing blue; she had probably failed to take a deep breath. Her hands desperately clawed towards the surface, which was dyed a deep, angry green.

Vermithor was almost here, but Jon knew she would run out of breath before the Bronze Fury arrived. Jon mashed his lips against hers and forcefully gave her the last dwindling gulp of air he was holding. Her purple eyes widened, but neither did Rhaena pull away, nor was her face dangerously blue any more.

The surrounding water darkened as the green fire above abruptly halted. Jon hastily swam up, paddling through the scalding water while struggling to keep Rhaena’s head above the steamy waves.

As soon as they left the steam, a gruesome sight was revealed. Above the skies, Cannibal was fleeing towards the Dragonmont with a charred corpse grasped in his claws as Vermithor’s furious roars echoed above. Despite the loud bluster, Jon could feel that the Bronze Fury was reluctant to chase a dragon of his size after he had retreated. Such a fight would be costly, and he was not assured he would win unscathed, not when Silverwing was away.

Only a half-burned wing remained of Grey Ghost on the beach. Rhaena knelt and started weeping amidst the rocky shore. The previously grey and mossy rocks were now charred black. Thankfully, the Rogue Prince’s daughter was unharmed. It was quite hard to ignore how her wet gown clung to her body, leaving nothing to the imagination. Jon himself felt only sore from the ordeal, and his steaming skin felt tender but not too painful, the way one would feel after a mild burn. Saltbeak flew down to perch on his shoulder, squawking mournfully.

From a boulder to the side, Ser Lyonel Bentley’s head appeared. The knight was ghastly pale as he approached, his legs shaking.

“I-I have failed you, my lady,” he said, bowing his head with regret. “I should have protected you against the dragon—”

“As if swords would do much against such dragonflame or scales,” she sniffled angrily, bitter tears running from her misty eyes. “I want to blame you… yet… yet even my father and the Blood Wyrm are not eager to cross paths with the Cannibal.”

There was a black rage brewing in Jon’s chest. The Kin Eater could have struck, taking Grey Ghost as his meal. A few paltry humans would barely fill the gap in his teeth. But the black dragon was cruel and targeted them out of pettiness or sport more than anything else.

The blood in his veins felt like a river of molten steel, thrumming with the thundering of his heart. Jon could only feel rage, then. Rage at the attack, rage at the loss of Shelly, who had sacrificed herself for his sake. Even the demise of the irritating but otherwise harmless Grey Ghost and the maiden’s tears stoked the flames of fury.

“Where are you going?” Rhaena’s raspy voice gave him pause. Then, she looked above and shrank fearfully at the sight of Vermithor’s form circling the sky above.

“Home,” he said flintily. To prepare for a hunt. For Jon knew that if a man wanted vengeance, he had to grasp it with his own hands. “You should return to the safety of the castle, Lady Rhaena. Cannibal may yet return here.”