16.No Small Treason

Middle of 130 AC

Jon Stark

An arrow whistled over his shoulder, sinking into the aventail of the Farring knight as if it were made of straw. Sadly, Jon had no time to admire the frightening power of a dragonbone bow, as he was already charging into the enemy.

One last leap through the snow saw Jon before Ser Marston Waters. Skyfall was already cleaving at the man’s neck, but he confidently raised his shield. The knight was good, the round shield boss met the blade at a tricky angle, glancing off the shield. But the sheer strength of the strike saw Skyfall shave a portion of the leather and the wood, and break the man’s arm or at least the joints, judging by his pained grunt.

The next strike broke through his parry and cleaved through his sword and then the gorget, relieving the kingsguard of his head.

An arrow struck another man-at-arms in the chest, piercing his coat of plates as though it were made of butter.

Jon parried a spear thrust, his counterattack lopping off yet another head. His wrists were rattled at the sheer recoil—his body had grown stronger, yes, but his joints struggled to keep up.

The enemies were shaken by the loss of their three knights, but did not retreat; instead, they formed up. Disciplined and well-trained. Jon was faced with three kite shields, barring his way forward, as the others tried to surround him.

Two spearmen poked at him, trying to slide under his rondels and pierce his armpits. Another tried to trap him with a man-catcher—a long pole with a crescent-shaped metal collar, meant to knock a lancer off a horse and immobilise them. A fourth one wielded a razor-sharp billhook, attempting to hook behind his knee and cripple his leg, forcing Jon to parry the offending weapon.

The knee-deep snow made his footing uncertain, his movements slower, barring Jon from using his speed and strength to the fullest.

But he was not alone. The man-at-arms wielding the billhook was felled by yet another arrow. Ser Lyonel Bentley was at his left, pressing the man-at-arms trying to surround Jon, while Ser Alfred Broome was covering his right side, killing the man-at-arms there within a handful of heartbeats. Jon swatted the offending spears and poles and slammed into the leftmost shield, knocking the man back.

Not giving them time to regroup, Jon yanked the second shield down with his left hand as he swung Skyfall with the right, beheading yet another man-at-arms. A spear slipped underneath his rondel then, but Jon felt no pain. He cleaved through the third shieldman, cleaving through the arm that had held the shield. Lunging, Jon pierced the man’s brigandine in the middle of the chest and twisted before kicking the now-limp corpse out of his sword, turning to the remaining men.

Ser Lyonel had killed the swordsman, while Ser Alfred had slain another man, just as Colin’s bow struck down yet another enemy.

Only six foes remained—two of whom were the squires in the rear of the pack. But in less than a minute of fighting, they had lost their previous bravado and were now faltering. Jon could see the fear in their eyes.

The squires hopped on the horses first and fled.

“Fuck this, we should inform the king!” another of the warriors exclaimed, rushing back to the remaining horses. Their three other companions lost courage then and turned to flee, but Jon was right behind them.

With a tug of his mind, Shaggy and the four hounds rushed out of the dog-houses, scaring the horses away and biting at the legs and knees of the retreating men, allowing Jon and his companions to chase down the enemy and cut them down.

One of his hounds died, its neck sliced by a sword. The bond in his mind snapped, and the recoil left him reeling, but all the enemies had been cut down.

“We should get the squires before they reach the castle and notify the king,” Ser Alfred Broome said sourly, whisps of white fog rushing from the slits of his helm with each breath.

“Don’t worry about them,” Jon said, feeling the fiery presence in his mind rumble. His heart was drumming with excitement at the fight—this was the first time he had wielded dragonsteel in battle after the power he had gained from slaying Cannibal.

It was not all well—he could feel the ache in his wrists and elbows; cutting through armour, bone, and wood had taken its toll. Being stronger did not mean he could fight recklessly. The tension had left his back soaked in sweat.

“What do you mean by don’t worry?” Ser Lyonel asked breathlessly, face anxious.

Jon merely pointed to the swooping form of Vermithor, who looked entirely too self-satisfied at finally being asked to help.

Torrents of golden flame streaked with crimson bathed over the hill’s crest where the squires were, roasting them and the horses on the spot. Then, Vermithor landed, feasting on the horseflesh after tearing off the barding.

The remaining warhorses were too uneasy to escape now, glancing fearfully and neighing at the hill where the dragon stood. Harrold dutifully went to calm them down.

For once, Ser Alfred’s dour manner was replaced with confusion and trepidation. “The Bronze Fury?”

“Aye, the dragon has been eating so many of my goats and sheep; it’s time he paid his due.” Jon chuckled as he unstrapped his helmet, and his matted mane began to frost over in the cold.

He could see his men had questions, but too much had happened too quickly.

Colin came over, heaving heavily as he leaned on the dragonbone bow. “Would ‘a shot the squires, but my hands were not as strong as they were a decade ago. And this bow is harder to pull than those weirwood monstrosities you Northmen love using. Six times I draw, and I’m dog-tired as if I’ve toiled on the fields for hours.”

“Not bad for an old man,” Clayton whistled, patting the spindly cook’s shoulder. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“We’ll see how you fare in your fifties, boy.”

“Clayton, Harrold, clean up the corpses,” Jon ordered, as he removed his breastplate and lowered his ringmail to check the spot the spear had penetrated. The ringmail was pierced, and so was the gambeson, but the skin had stopped the tip, though a bruise had begun to form.

“They almost got you,” Ser Alfred observed. “If your skin weren’t so thick, you’d be bleeding out in the snow.”

“If my skin weren’t so thick, I wouldn’t have fought that way,” Jon countered as he put his armour back on.

He had to fight less recklessly—he was harder to kill, yes, but not invincible. A good strike to his head with a bludgeon or a warhammer would see his neck snap. A full strike of a war lance from a knight could definitely see him heavily wounded, too. Anyone wielding a Valyrian steel sword would most likely be able to pierce through his skin, and while such swords were rare, there were over two hundred across the realm, all in the hands of dangerous knights and skilled warriors.

“We defied the king,” Aethan said as he fretfully came over, glancing at the sprawled corpses splattering crimson all over the snow. “Gods, we slaughtered the royal men and the kingsguard who led them like pigs. A treason of the highest order—we’re done. We should escape, my lord. Flee to Essos with the next ship. Or perhaps go to the castle and try to beg forgiveness…”

Ser Lyonel shuffled uneasily, glancing at Jon. His household all looked at him, waiting for his decision. Even Joth had come out of his cheese cellars, looking at the massacre with a pale face.

“Escape?” Jon wiped the blood off Skyfall using Ser Marston’s white cloak. The burning anger coiled in his chest was still roaring for more. “There will be no escaping. I’m not one to run away from a fight when it comes to me, unannounced or not.”

And this time, he was not merely doing it out of spite. Oh, he was definitely full of loathing and spite, that his peaceful life had been so irrevocably interrupted. The anger and indignity were certainly there, but a part of Jon had expected that his peaceful days would not last forever. Peace was like a summer, and winter was already here.

The treason was done, Jon knew. No king would forgive the murder of his kingsguard, regardless of the cause, for it was a direct challenge to his name and power. Jon had no desire to beg and grovel before Aegon the Elder, who had just proven himself as bad as his elder sister.

Fleeing was not an option—not for Jon. Perhaps if he had no dragons, he could disappear in Essos. But dragons were hard to hide, and would Alicent’s sons be willing to let a dragonrider settle in some other faction?

There was no point in hiding or holding back anymore. Since Jon was bound to be a traitor instead of a fisherman, he would do treason boldly and completely.

Perhaps it was not Aegon’s intent to take things so far, but Jon would not rest until he had shattered the Green faction. Since he did not want to live a life on the run, he would be the one to strike first and strike hard.

Was it petty? Probably.

Was it foolish? Perhaps.

Did Jon care after his perfectly peaceful life was irrevocably disturbed? Not at all.

Fighting and war and killing were easy. Jon knew how to do it, for he had done them for eight years.

“If you want to escape, I won’t stop you,” Jon said, turning to his household. His gaze paused on Harrold Cave and Clayton Pyne.

“I wouldn’t be much of a squire if I left you when things got hard,” Harrold retorted hotly. “Fuck Aegon.”

“Aye, fuck the Hightowers and their green foppish Reachlords!” Clayton hollered.

“Worst case, I’ll die a bit early or spend the rest of my days cooking for the black brothers up North,” Colin said, groaning as he massaged his wrists.

“This is suicide,” Ser Alfred muttered sullenly, staring at the bloodied axe in his hand.

“Are you leaving, then?” Aethan prodded.

The Broome knight scoffed. “Of course not. I’m not afraid of death.”

“I’m staying too,” Joth declared, with a surprising amount of bravery, slapping his chest with a palm. “Those damned Hightowers wretches killed my uncle—he was the deputy of the Cheesemaker’s guild in Tumbleton. I’m no good swinging a sword, but I’ll keep you all well-fed. Unless you’re going to stop eating cheese, you’ll need me.”

“What now, then?”

Jon took a look at the men. Gods, they all meant it. They all were ready to defy the House of the Dragon for him, even without knowing he was the rider of the Bronze Fury. Loyal men like these were rare, no matter the era.

“You stay here and guard the house,” Jon said. “While I go and wreck the other twenty of the king’s wretches that are still lingering in Ashcove.”

“Let me come too,” Ser Alfred insisted, his gaze gleaming with bloodlust. “You will have trouble killing twenty alone.”

“Lord Royce is there, stalling them, I believe.” Jon closed his eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of heat that spread through his mind as he took a peek through Vermithor’s eyes. “Don’t ask me how I know. I trust no one else more than you to guard the house, Ser Alfred. Clayton, bring me my bow and quiver and come with me. And Aethan, once you are done stripping their armour, line their heads on spikes around the weirwood for me. Pile their bodies on the roots and spread their entrails on the branches.”

That satisfied the Broome knight, and two minutes later, Jon and his squire picked two of the more obedient horses and made their way to Ashcove.

‘No, Vermithor, I don’t need your help,’ Jon groaned in his mind, as the Bronze Fury eagerly blasted him with the desire to roast things to a crisp.

He wanted to save the village, not burn it to the ground. The dragon had the audacity to sulk.

Jon arrived on the hill above Ashcove to find two of the houses burning, and at least a handful of corpses strewn across the street. Lord Royce and his retinue—two dozen strong—were in a tense face-off in the middle of the village, and Jon could hear the Rune Lord’s booming voice echo all the way here.

“…Acting like brigands! Why would I treat you otherwise…”

Against him was another knight, arguing furiously.

It was a small mercy they were talking instead of fighting—Jon suspected Royce would have found himself attacked if he had not outnumbered the king’s men. They had also left their horses in the back, under the care of three squires.

Jon dismounted, strung up his dragonbone bow.

Unlike the curved bow Colin was using, the master arbalest had fashioned this one in the form of a longbow, nearly seven feet in length, with a double-curved shape for more tension. It was a monstrous weapon that had been carved after nearly a month of hard work from Cannibal’s biggest rib bone. It took Aethan and Harrald to string this bow, and even his knight and two squires could barely move the string despite pulling from opposite sides. The first string had snapped right away when Jon had shot this bow, and in the end, he had used one of Cannibal’s sinews for it.

It was light in his hand, lighter than wood, but the material was far stronger and never lost flexibility. It was a gift worthy of a king, yet it came for free—Jon had let the master arbalest take seven bones of his choosing from Cannibal’s remains.

Such a monstrous bow required equally monstrous arrows. Jon would have preferred weirwood or cedar arrow shafts, but such luxuries were hard to obtain so deep in the south. Hardened ashwood with steel heads would do, even if the arrows sometimes exploded on impact—the master arbalest had gifted him a hundred of them.

Neither group saw him coming, but it didn’t matter. His gaze paused on the corpse on the ground, bleeding out. It was Hoth the smith, the kindly old man, and his wife was dead beside him—the pair had oft helped Jon before.

It was his fault.

He had forgotten that peace came from a position of not only strength but authority. The last vestiges of hesitation evaporated from his mind. Treason all the way.

Jon marched through the snow and drew the bow, a cumbersome endeavour even for his considerable strength—the creaking sound of the string being drawn was like a tree enduring a storm.

Twang.

The whistling arrow pierced through the thin back armour of one soldier and sent shrapnel at the eyes of the man-at-arms behind him.

“AMBUSH!”

It was as if Jon had poked a wasp’s nest; all the Targaryen soldiers had drawn their weapons, half facing the Royce lord, half turning to him. “THERE HE IS, GET HIM!”

Clayton was already handling the next bodkin. With a single smooth motion, Jon nocked it, drew the string, and let it loose.

Twang!

It pierced through a raised shield, the hand holding it, and the ringmail behind it, nailing all three as the man tumbled on the snow, squealing like a pig.

“RUSH HIM!”

Unfortunately, all the earlier activity had turned the narrow street into a half-muddy slush, and one of the men who tried to charge his way slipped, tumbling down and tripping those behind him.

Jon calmly kept peppering them with arrows. Shields, helmets, brigandines, ringmails, plate—nothing could withstand the might of this dragonbone bow. Limbs and torsos were nailed to each other, and shields were nailed, some even to the ground or the mud-brick walls of the nearby houses. Many did not die right away, but the heavy, piercing wound left them slowly bleeding out on the ground, losing strength in the cold.

Lord Royce gave a signal and, with a battle cry, led his retinue to attack the Targaryen men from the other side.

At the twentieth arrow, even Jon began to feel winded, and his joints felt close to bursting. All of his enemies had either fallen down or tried to flee—not that they could flee. The squires guarding the horses tried to rush Jon, but he merely drew Skyfall and made short work of them, before moving to relieve the crippled men filled with bodkin arrows of their suffering.

In less than a handful of minutes, the fighting had ended.

“You should kill them.” Jon pointed his bloody sword at the three knights Royce had captured.

The captured men stiffened.

“This is Lord Farring’s son,” Royce said. His bronze armour was slightly dented, but the Bronze Giant looked otherwise unharmed. “This is Tarbeck’s nephew and a Swyft. Damn those fools for acting like bandits and trying to extort me but they are still nobles.”

“These are the king’s lands,” the Tarbeck knight groaned, face indignant. “What happens here is of no concern to you, Royce. Now, you’re a traitor for attacking His Grace’s men, and for what? The peasants haven’t paid any taxes and refused to cooperate with the search for Lady Baela.”

“A traitor?” Gunthor Royce tilted his head. “I see no king’s men here, only brigands. Take these wretches away before I decide to do away with their heads.”

Jon snorted. He found the Bronze Giant even more to his liking today.

A few of the villagers rushed out, giving their thanks to Jon, including Robert, the head of the brewer’s guild here, whose face was bruised black and blue.

“You can have their armour and your stuff back,” Jon waved generously. “The warhorses too—I’ve no need of them.”

“Dragonslayer!”

“Dragonslayer!”

“Jon the Generous!”

The villagers cheered, quickly falling upon the dead soldiers and their horses like a swarm of locusts. Even the guild members—mainly the weavers’ guild and the brewers’ guild—joined in, despite being quite well-off.

“That’s one beast of a bow,” Gunthor noted as he sat on a bench on Jon’s side, looking at him with dangerous intensity. “Nothing like the one I got my bowyer to make with the bone you gifted me.”

“Carved entirely from a bigger bone. And gods, it’s very demanding to draw,” Jon offered, cleaning Skyfall with a black cloak emblazoned with the Targaryen three-headed dragon. “What brings you so far away from Runestone at a time like this?”

Royce’s face darkened.

“Bah, it was only happenstance that my boat chanced to stop here from the sudden bad weather. I’m on my way to King’s Landing; that damned Prince Regent demands I go to swear fealty and pay a king’s ransom for my cousins and the Royce men they captured in the Crownlands.” His mailed hands balled into fists. “They hold Lamentation hostage, too, the curs—demanding over two hundred thousand golden dragons for less than seven hundred warriors, three Royces, and one dragonsteel sword.”

“Aemond and his siblings seem to have worked up quite the appetite to plunder powerful lords so shamelessly,” Jon noted lightly, his mind already racing. “And without dragons, no matter how much coin they ask, you have to fork it out. Otherwise, you will lose your authority and prestige as the Lord of Runestone. And you can’t fight back against dragonriders on your lonesome.”

“Quite,” Gunthor grumbled, looking troubled. “I will have to take a loan from the Iron Bank to ransom all the hostages and the sword—I’m half of a mind just to retrieve my family blade and let the Hightowers feed my men or send them to the Wall. I should probably send some men to see if anyone runs to Dragonstone to inform the king…”

“There’s no need,” the Northman said languidly. “I already have someone on the lookout.”

Vermithor happily swooped down two hills to the south, roasting an ambitious villager who was making his way west to the castle.

“Feeling these curs perish to my sword felt good. Alas. Might as well sail to the Wall instead of King’s Landing and change my bronze for black, now.” Gunthor unstrapped his helmet, handed it over to a squire, and his grey whiskers shook with reluctance. “If only Rhaenyra hadn’t folded so easily despite having the advantages…”

The Lord of Runestone paused, looking at Jon with suspicion. “I take it that white cloak and his men that went to your house won’t be returning anytime soon?”

“Unless you want to drag ’em out of the Seven Hells.”

“At least I’m not alone in my treason, then,” he chortled. “What will you do now, Dragonslayer?”

This was it. This was the moment Jon was waiting for. This was the moment to act.

With Lord Royce on his side, he would have the men to take Dragonstone by surprise, which should now be half-empty, especially now that Jon had slaughtered over thirty of their best. The castle was not on war footing, and its gates probably remained open during the day. They could just put on the Targaryen surcoats and cloaks, and ride through the gates uninterrupted.

But was treason so simple? Aegon the Elder and his crippled dragon were easy to kill, but Aemond and Daeron and their dragons were probably protected by a whole army. A lone dragonrider would eventually get tired. They would need to eat and sleep and rest. A lone dragonrider could not hold castles or muster armies in his name.

A lone dragonrider had little to offer to lords. No honours, no wealth, only revenge and an uncertain future.

Revenge was not something any self-respecting lord would chase blindly, and uncertainty even more so. A black anger festered in his chest, roaring with fury at having his peace disrupted so suddenly, so cruelly.

Jon could not wage war on the Greens on his lonesome. He was not a fool to think otherwise. He needed allies.

A kingdom and a princess.

A flame of his old desires reared its ugly head. Winterfell was not his to take in this time. And nobody was offering. Val had yet to be born, and she was a half-wild, prickly woman, no matter how beautiful. A pretty face was not enough to be the wife of a highlord.

No, nobody would offer Jon a kingdom, even if the princess seemed willing enough. He could try to rally the realm behind Rhaena, Jon mused for a moment. But she didn’t have the steel to rule. She was too young, too green, too inexperienced in all the ways of ruling and warfare that mattered.

“…Stark… Stark!”

Royce’s cries broke him out of his trance.

“My apologies, Lord Royce,” Jon said, bowing his head in apology.

“Bah.” Royce huffed, looking a tad irritated at being ignored. “I suppose you do have much to think about with a mess like this.”

Jon leaned in. “I have some ideas about the future,” he whispered. “I invite you to my home to discuss them, should you be interested.”

He needed to speak with Rhaena. Did she really want to claim Silverwing? Claim revenge?

“Can’t hurt, I suppose,” Royce decided. “But we don’t have much time to linger. Sooner or later, word will reach Dragonstone of what happened here, and we’ll be in trouble. My men will keep matters under wraps here while we talk—that much should be easy.”

The dead villagers at Ashcove had reminded him why he had craved authority all that time ago. Authority meant control and the ability to push back against others when they came. It meant the ability to stand proudly on your two feet and face the world without shame. The king’s men would not have dared break the guest right of a powerful lord. Even the king himself would have had to respect it, or at least keep up appearances.

Gunthor Royce had to huddle to squeeze his sizeable frame through the doorway, and he immediately halted, looking at Daemon’s daughter with interest.

Jon did not expect to see Rhaena awake, waiting at his table as she gobbled up the chicken stew Colin had made. She looked a bit pale, but otherwise in good health. Was there truly something to the blood of the Forty that helped them fight off diseases so easily?

“As long as she stays warm, she will be fine in a day or three,” Mollen concluded from the side. “Now, if you excuse me, I’ll be leaving to see if those cretins have ransacked my herbal collection.”

Bowing, the hedge-wizard pulled over his travel cloak and left.

“I’m s-sorry.” Rhaena’s voice quivered as she bowed her head, tears pooling in her eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen…”

“I would not have offered you my hospitality if I were not ready to defend it,” Jon said, sighing. “Besides, it is not your fault, not truly. You did not force the king’s men to act like bandits, trying to force their way into the homes of honest folk.”

“Sometimes, there’s scarcely any difference between bandits and the toll collectors and tax men of the king,” Royce muttered from the side.

Rhaena only sobbed harder. “So many died because of me—if I hadn’t escaped…”

Jon went around the table and squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, under the piercing gaze of Ser Lyonel, who stood at the back like a silvery shadow.

“They had a reeve to collect taxes with them,” Jon countered. “They might have come over sooner or later, regardless of your escape. War might have ended, but it costs coin, and the king would want to refill his treasury and pay the men who fought for him using some less than savoury means. Rhaenyra was never known for her riches to begin with, so defeating her brought no valuable spoils, especially after Corlys turned cloak.”

“What are you going to do now?” she whispered as two big purple eyes glistening with tears blinked at him. “Are you going to run?”

She wasn’t even doing it on purpose, Jon could tell—Rhaena was honestly distraught at the whole endeavour. But seeing such a pretty maiden cry did things to a man’s mind, and his blood was already boiling from the earlier fight..

“I’m not one to run from a fight,” Jon confessed. “I could have run when the Velaryon knights came to ambush me, you know? I saw them coming, and I could have slipped away.”

“But you didn’t,” she sniffed, wiping her tears with her sleeve. “And you saved me and my sister for it. You didn’t run when the Cannibal attacked us, and you went to slay it too. Are you going to fight now, too?”

“Yes,” Jon said, filling up a horn of ale, taking a good swig and dropping it. It clattered on the wooden planks below, the remaining dark amber liquid spilling over. “I am already a traitor to the crown. I killed the king’s men, and I can’t unkill them any more than I can unspill that horn. There’s no little treason either. Treason is treason, no matter how small.”

“You should run,” Rhaena urged, face panicking. “You didn’t want to fight this war before, and now it’s too late to fight alone. The Greens might put a bounty on your head, but if you flee to Essos, and—”

“I can’t,” Jon said, feeling a mixture of elation and irritation. He was elated that she was genuinely thinking of his well-being, and irritated that he was being so sorely underestimated. “You know why I can’t.”

Rhaena’s shoulders slumped.

“Why can’t you?” Gunthor Royce asked, looking intrigued.

Jon could lie, but it would serve no purpose. He was already on the path of no return after killing Aegon’s men. It would be far more prudent to speak honestly now.

“Vermithor bonded with me by mistake,” Jon confessed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I leave Dragonstone, the dragon will trail after me. I can feel it. Sooner or later, someone will realise the connection.”

All Royce could say was, “Oh.”

The silence in the room was palpable. Even his own household was speechless, to the point where Joth forgot to lift his leg as he was climbing out of the cellar, and fell face-first on the floor. Something in Royce’s grey eyes changed. The previous regret was gone, replaced with a calculating glint as he measured Jon with interest.

Even Rhaena, wiping her runny nose, looked at Jon with surprise; she probably had not expected him to reveal it so easily. Only his squires exchanged a glance and nodded to each other as if saying, ‘as expected of our master’.

“…The Bronze Fury claimed you?” Ser Alfred’s voice grew hysterical.

Jon nodded, irritation welling up in his chest as he remembered that particular day. “One of my goats escaped last year, and when I went to search for it up the Dragonmont, Vermithor descended, roaring at me. When I didn’t run, he sort of… bowed.”

“You hid a dragon for a whole year?” Royce asked, looking mightily impressed.

“The Bronze Fury is old,” Jon said. “Contrary to his name, he’s not short-tempered or anything. I’ve found that Vermithor is patient and content with sitting back and observing.”

An unhappy rumble rocked his mind. That didn’t stop the dragon from swooping down and torching the fishing skiff that was hastily rowing from Ashcove towards Dragonstone.

“Now, you’ll fight, then?” Rhaena asked, her voice a mixture of anger and hope.

“Aye, I already said I will fight.” Jon swept out an arm westward, towards the castle of Dragonstone and King’s Landing. “Or do you perhaps think Aegon and his brothers will be willing to let a dragonrider slip out of their grasp to Essos, fostering a new line of dragons and riders that can contest their power?”

“Will you fight for me, then?” Rhaena’s voice was but a whisper, filled with desperation, and Daemon’s daughter looked so fragile, then. Vulnerable and ready to break at the slightest push. “You didn’t want to fight for my stepmother back then, but I am not her. I can’t give you a big castle, but I will give myself and do anything—”

“Stop.” Jon squeezed her shoulder gently. “I already said I’d fight. We have the same enemies now.”

Rhaena started to weep then and turned to hug him. It was not tears of joy or sorrow, but of relief. His heart clenched again.

He wanted Rhaena before, and he still wanted her now. It was not merely lust or possessiveness; the maiden before him was sharp of mind and pure of heart, qualities that only enhanced her beauty. But he was not thirsty enough to throw everything to the wind and leap into the fire only for beauty. That urge to defend that precious innocence and beauty, no matter the cost, lingered underneath the surface, but Jon had long grown past the time when urges could rule him.

Yet Aegon had changed that. Aegon had already made him into an enemy, even if it was done unknowingly. Aegon’s men had already thrown Jon into the fire.

“It won’t be an easy fight, even with a dragon,” Lord Royce said with a cough. “The Greens have Vhagar and Seasmoke and Tessarion, and many armies. You will need to gather more lords to your side. You need a cause. A name to rally around. A new contender for the throne.”

“I… I’m not fit to be a queen,” Rhaena hiccuped. “Neither is my sister. We don’t have the hardness to deal with lords and fighting. I fear we’ll mess things up like our stepmother did.”

“You could listen to prudent advice,” Ser Lyonel offered.

“Perhaps.” Frustration kept in her voice as she tugged on her silver curls. “But no doubt everyone will claim their advice is most prudent. My grandmother and father raised me to be the Lady of Driftmark, not to rule a whole realm. I’m not trained for this.”

A kingdom and a princess.

If there was nobody to offer him a kingdom and a princess… why couldn’t Jon just take them instead?

“Wed me,” Jon said boldly.

“W-What?”

No, not only a kingdom. If Jon were going to act, why not take the whole realm, and a queen alongside it?

The desire lodged in his mind like an arrow, unwilling to be removed. Bastard he might have been born, but Jon had the blood of kings—his grandfather had been a king. Not a good one, by any measure, but still a legitimate ruler of the Iron Throne. Through him ran the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and the Kings of Winter.

Yet here he was, planning to grasp for a crown anyway.

Was it treason? Was it ambition?

It was. But Jon was an ambitious man, and if he would do treason, he would do it all the way.

A kingdom and a princess were not enough. He would take it all.

The Realm and a Queen.

If he was going to fight for a crown, why not put it on his head this time?

“Wed me,” Jon repeated, his voice stronger this time. “I have a dragon. My uncle has taught me well. I know how to rule. I know how to fight and wage war and lead armies. Wed me and I will make you a queen. For life, your foes will be my foes, and my sword will be your sword. Wed me, and I will do everything I can—help you claim Silverwing, wage war upon your enemies, and more.”

Her purple eyes sought him out, filled with a mixture of surprise, hope, and anger. Daemon’s daughter was angry that he was agreeing now. Rhanea was angry that everyone she loved had died, no doubt.

Then, realisation sank in and her gaze softened.

“I… yes,” Rhaena agreed, voice hoarse. “I will wed you.”

Ser Lyonel let out a strangled noise.

Lord Gunthor Royce stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor.

He drew his sword and placed it before Jon’s feet, kneeling.

“I, Gunthor Royce, Lord of Runestone, pledge to you my sword and shield, my halls and hearth, my strength in war and counsel in peace…” Jon blinked as the Bronze Giant swore House Royce to his cause. “May I be struck down should I falter, and may my line wither should I betray you! From this hour, I am your man until your death—or mine.”

Those were not ordinary vows of fealty. It was an old, ancient oath, probably of a time long before the Doom had shattered the Freehold. It was a more subtle thing, Jon realised. Lord Gunthor Royce was offering to become his kingmaker—the same way Ser Criston Cole had become Aegon’s kingmaker—saving Jon the bother of making the official declaration himself.

Surely, getting bannermen as a former bastard with dubious origins shouldn’t have been that easy?

Ser Alfred Broome knelt next, and then Ser Lyonel followed, as did his squires, and even Aethan, and Colin and Joth—they all swore eternal fealty to Jon, not even hesitating for a heartbeat.

Vermithor’s rumbling snort seared through his mind again. The dragon found this whole affair amusing. Expected, even.

Why?

Why were they so eager, so quick to swear to some ambitious pretender like him?

‘They did not recognise Aegon the Elder,’ Jon realised. ‘Alicent’s sons held the titles by birthright but did not act like kings and princes, but tyrants and butchers.’

Even Stannis had to make concessions when he won the throne. He had to bring the defeated lords back into the fold, for he couldn’t afford to siege each traitor’s castle, break each traitor’s lands and armies one by one, lest he wanted to spend the rest of his life wrangling with every single vassal. He had to act like a king to the defeated, not only to those who followed him. The dragons allowed them to ignore all those pesky things.

Lords like Royce doubtlessly feared that Aegon and his brothers would bleed them to death if not outright attaint their Houses. And many lords had supported Rhaenyra over Aegon, and held a hatred or disdain for the Greens and the power behind them: Hightower.

How many had been killed in dragonfire?

Their loss was Jon’s gain.

“Have you flown Vermithor yet?” Rhaena asked softly, sniffing once again.

“…I haven’t,” Jon admitted. “There hasn’t been a chance. Or a saddle, but it should be fine.”

Vermithor roared in agreement, urging Jon to take flight together. The dragon’s arrogance was no less than that of his rider. And what a dragonrider Jon was, not soaring through the skies even once. Alas, the time to fly together had not yet come; Jon didn’t dare to brave the skies atop Vermithor’s back without a saddle.

Dying in battle was one thing, but falling from the skies to smash across the ground? The mere idea made Jon shudder. He had seen the end of men who fell off the Wall, and it was one of the worst ways to die, despite how instant it was.

Vermithor huffed in his mind, but Jon would not budge, no matter how the dragon roared and yowled in an attempt to convince him that he would be safe even without a saddle.

“Can you call yourself a dragonrider if you have never ridden a dragon?” Clayton murmured, scratching his head.

Ser Alfred merely silenced the squire with a glare.

“I want to claim Silverwing,” Rhaena declared, her face determined. But her runny nose had given her voice a nasal quality, making her declaration more endearing than anything else.

‘Come,’ Jon summoned the dragon. For the first time. ‘And bring your mate, if you can.’

“Mollen said you should rest lest your health worsens, Your Grace,” Aethan offered delicately. “You’re not fully healed.”

They were already calling her a queen.

“A few moments outside would not hurt,” Jon explained. “Bonding with Silverwing might help her weather the ailment.”

“But if we want to bring Her Grace to Silverwing, it will take more than a few moments,” Ser Lyonel muttered, voice full of doubt.

Jon merely shrugged. There was no point explaining—he wasn’t sure he could even explain things properly.

“What now, Your Grace?” Ser Alfred asked.

“A king will need a crown,” Royce murmured, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Forget about crowns for now,” Jon chuckled. “What we need is to strike first and strike fast before Aegon knows he has made an enemy. Ser Lyonel, do you know the strength of Dragonstone’s garrison?”

“Rhaenyra took most of the men with her,” he said. “Only fifty men remained, including the squires, and Aegon brought ten more when he came to the castle.”

“And we just slaughtered thirty-five of them earlier,” Jon said, his mind already racing.

Royce knocked on the table, grabbing his attention. “I have two warships as my escort here. Over a hundred and twenty mariners—battle-ready sailors. Not that great on foot or in a formation, but well-disciplined, good with crossbows, sword and shield.”

“That certainly makes things far easier,” Jon considered. “Here’s what we’ll do…”

The plan was straightforward and uncomplicated, as rushed plans often are. But then again, convoluted schemes were the most prone to failure. Ten minutes later, two roars heralded the arrival of the dragons—not that they needed to, Jon could feel Vermithor’s approach in his mind.

The force from their wings even dislodged a few of the clay roofing Jon had arranged, knocking them to the ground with a crash.

The snowy courtyard, once a scene of slaughter, was now cramped, with a bronze behemoth of muscle and spikes crouched proudly by Cannibal’s head, easily ten times the size of a mammoth. Curled next to him was a silvery dragon, lean and elegant and far less bulky at merely two-thirds the size of Vermithor, but no less fearsome for it.

“Silverwing!” Rhaena exclaimed, voice growing hoarse.

Vermithor squinted his eyes, those two pools of gold, as he regarded Jon’s wife-to-be as she cautiously moved her foot forward, descending into the snow.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Jon warned the moment the Bronze Fury sucked in a deep breath to roar. ‘Or I’ll never fly with you.’

Shaking himself unhappily, Vermithor puffed, wisps of black smoke wafting out of his maw, as he glared at Jon, promising vengeance.

Rhaena cautiously walked through the snow, and Silverwing blinked a few times before leaning forward, her blue eyes eyeing the Targaryen maiden with naked interest.

For a moment, Daemon’s daughter paused, uncertain. Did she think of fighting? Or had her old fears resurfaced?

“Do not falter now,” Jon said, voice soft and encouraging. “There’s no turning back anyway—we might as well live to the fullest. Claim your dragon and grab destiny with your own two hands.”

“Thank you,” her reply was but a whisper, but he heard it anyway.

Straightening her back, Rhaena continued, stopping before Silverwing’s face. The maiden looked small and insignificant before a grown dragon of this calibre. But then, she reached out a hand, and Silverwing leaned onto her fingers with surprising gentleness for her size.

Then, she let out a rumbling purr, making Jon’s bones vibrate, and he knew the connection was made.

Rhaena Targaryen had claimed her dragon, Silverwing.

At that moment, Jon set his mind on the Iron Throne. Not merely as an idea he entertained, but as a goal he had to achieve.

The gods were laughing at him. In the morning, he woke up a fisherman, content with what he had, with his only worry being the long winter. Half the day had passed, but he was already proclaimed king and was plotting to crush the sons of Viserys Targaryen and that traitor, Silver Denys.

By all accounts, it was a daunting task, yet Jon felt more alive than ever.

Being king… he could do it, not only for others, but for himself. Jon was confident he could wield the royal powers better than Aegon or Rhaenyra ever could. But that was for much later. Now, he had to focus on fighting and winning. If men were going to die for his ambition, he had to win as swiftly as possible—minimise the destruction and the loss of life.

Then, his gaze paused on Rhaena, who was happily running her hands through Silverwing’s scaly snout.

He walked over, unfazed by Silverwing’s gaze boring into him, and clasped his cloak over the maiden’s shoulders. “You should go back inside, lest your fever returns.”

“Fine,” Rhaena muttered unwillingly. Then, her face paled, as she shuffled uneasily from one leg to the other. “I forgot!”

“What did you forget?” Jon asked as he ushered her back into the house.

“I was supposed to meet Baela at Cinderfall Chasm by the hour of the hawk… I should go—”

“You’re not going anywhere half sick and without a saddle,” Jon declined, a tad harsher than he intended. A glance at the sky made him frown. The hour of the hawk was almost upon them—no more than a quarter of an hour left.

“But my sister might do something stupid,” Rhaena whined as she latched onto his elbow.

“Very well,” Jon said. “I’ll go first, then. Lord Gunthor, I’ll be counting on you—haste is paramount. We’ll meet near the castle in two hours.”

The Royce lord bowed and hastily left to follow the plan as Rhaena swiftly returned his cloak, looking at him with a daze. Jon was already clad in full armour, ready for a fight.