17.Slaying Kings and Taking Castles

Middle of 130 AC

Baela

Baela shivered, clinging closer to Moondancer’s neck to warm up. Her teeth clattered so hard from the cold that they felt they would shatter.

Flying in the middle of a cold winter night might have been too much after all. She felt she would freeze to death before she managed to guide Moondancer to that cave in the Dragonmont, near Cinderfall’s Chasm. The location where she had agreed to meet Rhaena was a small rocky gorge where molten rock flowed down from vents, crashing into the bottom and burrowing into an underground river of fire. All the while, she clung to her dragon’s warm scales as her only real source of warmth.

The rocks inside the winding cave were warm, but the air was heavy with sulphur, and Baela barely caught a wink of sleep.

She wouldn’t have made it to the cave if not for the dim light coming from the Dragonmont, which was like a shining beacon in the night.

Hopefully, her sister would succeed. Exhaustion and excitement battled inside her chest, and in the end, she finally succumbed to the sweet embrace of sleep. It was daytime when she awoke, the storm having passed. Yet the cold gusts coming from outside made her reluctant to leave the safety of the cave after checking the sun’s position. There was still some time until the meeting with Rhae.

After Baela murmured a prayer to whatever god was listening, she wolfed down the dried jerky Alyssa had packed for them and grimaced at Moondancer’s pitiful eyes, which were set on the small piece of meat in her hands.

With a sigh, Baela threw the remains of her rations into her dragon’s maw and explored the cave, filling her pouch with all the rounded pebbles she could find. Moondancer lay down lazily and watched as she played around, trying to hit a head-sized protrusion at the entrance of the cave.

Baela could proudly claim she had become proficient at stone throwing; she managed to hit eight, sometimes even nine, out of every ten targets, from over twenty yards. Of course, she was not as good as that pesky Northerner, but she barely had a year of practice in secret.

After the sun passed its zenith, Baela cautiously left the cave with Moondancer in tow, only to find the world covered in a thick veil of snow. The white coating made the usually black and dreary Dragonmont and its outskirts majestic. Alas, the raw beauty of winter was dangerous; her feet quickly started freezing despite the thick leather boots, the cold air stinging her face and throat.

Even Moondancer curiously crawled out, poking at the snow with his snout, before jerking away with an unhappy hiss. Her winged companion really didn’t like the snow, but it was no wonder. Dragons were creatures of flame and warmth.

Her venture outside was short-lived, however, when Baela glanced to the southwest and saw a golden glint in the distance, slowly growing larger.

Dread pooled in her belly.

There was only one living dragon with golden scales—Sunfyre. And its rider was Aegon the Usurper himself. Had he come to seek them out in person?

“Come!” Baela urged the dragon in High Valyrian, darting back into the cave. “Keep quiet.”

Thankfully, Moondancer obediently remained quiet.

The two of them hid deep inside the cave, and Baela stroked his pearly green scales as she prayed that the Aegon had not seen them.

Her heart thundered, and it felt like an eternity had passed, but nobody entered the cave. Baela cautiously prowled to the entrance and took a peek outside, only to see Sunfyre circling above at a leisurely pace. She could see the chains of the saddle passing under its neck, which meant Aegon was here.

‘The Usurper was not searching for them,’ Baela realised. Or at least, he was not trying too hard, just enjoying a leisurely flight with his half-crippled dragon.

Baela could only wait patiently inside the cave, praying that Aegon and his golden wyrm would go away. It felt like an eternity had passed, but Aegon only flew over, going to the northwestern side of the Dragonmont. He did not leave—the moment Baela cautiously braved the cave’s entrance, Sunfyre’s shadow flew over again, making her leap in fright and curse up a storm. She marked that he never flew southeast, where Silverwing and Vermithor kept their lair.

Worse, a glance at the sun’s position told her the hour of the hawk had passed—and Rhaena was not here. Had she failed to claim Silverwing?

No, Baela believed in her twin sister and started pacing nervously across the length of the cave, trying to think what could have gone wrong. Truthfully, many things could have gone wrong. It was freezing last night, and her sister could have been forced to seek shelter instead of Silverwing’s lair. Scaling the Dragonmont’s slopes while up to her knees in snow sounded impossible. Or even if she did, the silvery she-dragon could have simply avoided her. Or perhaps she was waylaid by Vermithor?

Baela groaned, tugging her silver locks in frustration. The more she started thinking things through, the more reckless and ill-conceived their plans seemed. Even if Rhae successfully claimed Silverwing, she had no saddle for it, and couldn’t fly lest she risk falling to her death.

The worst was that she didn’t even know if her sister had managed to escape Dragonstone in the first place!

“Damn it!” she cussed, kicking a loose pebble in frustration. Not knowing what was happening to her sister was maddening. The more she thought of it, the worse the visions her mind conjured. With a groan, she just… tried not to think of it for now.

But her frustration quickly returned. Rhaena’s situation might have been unknown, but her own was no better. With all of the remaining food given to Moondancer, Baela didn’t think she could survive another night here. And she wanted to know what happened to her sister.

Could it be that the two sisters would be defeated by their fat, lame cousin and his crippled dragon?

She glanced at the uneasy Moondancer behind her; even after growing rapidly in the last year, the pale green drake was merely a quarter of the size of Sunfyre, and it would be at least half a decade before he would approach its size.

But Moondancer was faster, swifter than any other dragon, even those not half-crippled.

Could she do it?

Sunfyre passed over one more time, and Baela made up her mind. She swiftly led Moondancer out of the cave and hopped onto the saddle, hastily putting on the straps and buckles that kept her feet and waist secured to the dragon. “Fly!“

The cold winter wind dug into her face like icy knives, and even the thick woollen shawl couldn’t completely ward it off. “Faster!“

Moondancer followed her command, its pearly wings stroking hard and fast as they shot up in the sky. Baela steered him up the ridge, then even higher, almost into the clouds above, as her gaze sought out Sunfyre. She was high enough in the sky, above where Sunfyre flew, and neither Aegon nor his golden wyrm would think to find them here. Just below the lowest clouds, Baela could reach out and grab them.

Up here, the world seemed endless, vast, stretching into the horizon, and there were no walls, no rooms, no chambers to keep her trapped.

There was a slight problem, though—Baela quickly realised why the Usurper flew low.

Up here, the air was even colder, and the wind was more vicious. It was nothing like two moons back when it was still autumn, and the weather was warm, and the sun dispelled the chill in the air. Her thick winter garments barely resisted the cold, forcing Baela to hug Moondancer’s neck—the dragon’s scales remained the only source of warmth here, but it was not enough. A deep chill permeated her clothes; her teeth quickly began to chatter, she couldn’t feel her ears, and her fingers felt like icicles despite the leather gloves that were supposed to protect them.

She hated winter. Baela vaguely remembered her father mentioning special garments for flying in the cold, but alas. The thought of her dead father was like a knife sinking into her heart.

Just as Baela thought she would freeze to death here, she saw Sunfyre below.

She spotted the golden dragon, diving around the western outskirts of the Dragonmont, and urged Moondancer, “Go!“

Pearly wings glued to his body, the dragon dove like an arrow. Thunder roared in her ears, cold wind pushed against her face and chest, and it took all of Baela’s strength not to buckle under the pressure. She had dived before, but never so swiftly, never so daringly, and certainly never in this damned cold!

Sunfyre grew rapidly in size as they descended, and Baela had to tug on the reins. She opened her mouth, but her throat and tongue froze almost immediately.

It took all of her might to scream”SLOW!“

Moondancer spread his wings, gliding over, and Baela had to steer the reins, wheeling sideways to avoid descending in front of Sunfyre and failing the ambush. A few beats of Moondancer’s wings, and the descent finally stopped, as Baela had made a full circle, tailing just above Sunfyre. Thankfully, the golden dragon couldn’t hear them from the wind. She could see it now, Aegon’s dragon flew unevenly, its left wing beating at an awkward angle. Sunfyre was still pretty, with its scales glinting like molten gold under the sunlight, but its rider was anything but, a plump and ungainly figure wrapped up in a thick cloak of wool and leather.

Her heart hammered like a drum as Moondancer swiftly closed in the remaining distance. Even if Sunfyre was crippled, Baela didn’t dare to let her dragon approach, lest it get bitten and dragged down.

Once she was close enough, Baela took a deep breath and roared, “DRACARYS!“

A torrent of pale green flame, streaked with white, engulfed Aegon’s figure and the dragon’s back.

Sunfyre’s head immediately twisted around, spewing a torrent of fire back at Baela. She hastily tugged the reins, and Moondancer veered away, avoiding most of the dragonfire, but it still washed over her. It was merely half a heartbeat, not long enough to hurt, but she could feel the soot covering her face, her cloak was steaming, and Moondancer’s scales had darkened.

For that half a heartbeat of time, she felt pleasantly warm, until the cold push of the wind returned with a vengeance.

“Faster,” Baela urged, and her dragon obediently shot up, avoiding the angry Sunfyre.

Aegon’s cloak was on fire, but the fierce wind extinguished it quickly, and she craned her neck to see his half-burnt face twisted into an angry snarl. Sadly, Moondancer’s flames were too weak, for the dragon was too young.

Baela capitalised on Moondancer’s swiftness, but no matter how much she manoeuvred, she couldn’t approach Sunfyre from the rear again. Aegon forced the dragon to twist, facing her each time, and spewing torrents of golden flames at her. More importantly, Sunfyre’s flames could travel nearly twice as far as Moondancer’s.

‘I’m fucked,’ Baela realised.

She had no way of attacking Aegon now, and approaching Sunfyre was too dangerous.

If things continued, it would be a game to see who would tire faster. Sunfyre had been flying for over an hour earlier, but the dragon was well-fed, and he could easily bear the weight of Aegon. Moondancer was too young, too small, and Baela knew that flying so quickly would see him tire in an hour or two—if she didn’t freeze to death first.

Baela was reluctant to give up. A plan that was half daring, half mad formed in her mind, and she tugged on Moondancer’s reins, passing over Sunfyre and Aegon.

“Slower!” Baela roared, her throat going hoarse, and her dragon obeyed. Just slightly slower than her pursuers, she roared one last command, “Keep the pace!“

Baela twisted herself to look behind, and sure enough, Aegon followed, urging his golden dragon to fly up, slowly catching up from below.

Her hand found her pouch with the throwing stones, and her lips curled. Her digits had long gone numb from the cold winds, and she barely managed to untie the pouch.

The stones felt light between her fingers. She squeezed one and hurled it at Aegon.

It missed, the wind and momentum drifting it a bit to the side.

She threw another stone, this one a tad closer to the approaching Sunfyre.

Aegon was glaring at her, and Sunfyre opened his maw to spew a torrent of gilded flames again. But the golden dragon was not close enough, and they merely splashed back into his draconic face, causing Aegon to hide his head behind the dragon’s neck. Baela still kept throwing stones at Aegon as he approached, especially whenever he raised his head.

The handful of thrown stones became a dozen, each one growing closer to the target, but not quite. Some even landed on Sunfyre, bouncing off his scales and wings harmlessly.

Her pouch grew lighter, and only two stones remained. Gritting her teeth, she hurled both of them at once and hoped for the best. Just as Baela thought she would fail, Aegon’s head recoiled, and he sagged in the saddle, his body falling limp as the wind battered it, bending it backwards.

Success!

Sunfyre’s wings flapped even harder, the now-angry dragon speeding up and spewing fire at her, nearly reaching Moondancer’s tail.

“Faster!” Baela urged as she turned around, and Moondancer hastily struck his wings against the wind, speeding up away from the golden wyrm. After a moment of struggle, she caught the reins that were fluttering just above her and regained full control of her dragon.

She had succeeded… but what now?

Sunfyre kept chasing angrily, and Baela dared not approach. She took stock of the surroundings—they were on the northern side of the Dragonmont.

She needed to rid herself of the golden wyrm, find Rhaena, and hatch a new plan. Baela’s heart swelled in relief with Aegon unconscious, but her predicament had not changed. No doubt those in Dragonstone had spied the chase from the high towers. Yet what gnawed at her worse than the cold or any wound was the fate of her sister.

Their plans had already failed before they had even begun.

Baela turned her head as she wheeled around the eastern side of the Dragonmont, praying that the golden dragon had lost her, only to see a giant bronze shadow descend from the clouds above, just as she had earlier. Only, instead of merely breathing fire and retreating, Vermithor crashed onto Sunfyre with the weight of a mountain. In two bites, he tore off Sunfyre’s neck; its head sent flying as the Bronze Fury clutched the gilded draconic body with his claws.

Jon Stark

He watched with amusement as the confused Baela descended into the valley by Cinderfall’s Chasm, looking like a coal miner covered in black soot, her hair now a shade of ashen grey.

She unclasped her buckles and straps and uneasily fell into the snow, laughing hysterically. Moondancer’s senses were sharper, as the dragon’s green eyes immediately spotted him, looking at him with caution.

After a whole minute, the dragonrider stopped laughing and finally spotted him.

“You!”

“Me,” Jon said with a chuckle, his arms spread out theatrically.

“You—you—” Baela rubbed her face and groaned. “Where is my sister, Stark?”

She took a step forward in a bid to look menacing, but her trembling legs had the opposite effect.

Jon leaned onto a black boulder and raised his hands to look less threatening. “She’s safe,” he explained. “Caught a small fever last night, and couldn’t come on time, so she sent me instead.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Baela asked, face growing suspicious.

“Collecting you before you can do something foolish,” Jon said, glancing at her soot-covered face. “Or, well, more foolish than you already did. Too much boldness is merely recklessness under another name.”

He would know—audacious recklessness had been an old friend of his.

“I need to meet Rhae—” the drumming of Vermithor’s wings silenced whatever she wanted to say. Moondancer hissed, like a scaly cat with its hackles raised, and crouched in defiance as the Bronze Fury dropped off Sunfyre’s carcass near Jon. The body crashed with a thud into the snow, and Jon drew Skyfall before rushing the headless dragon. “What are you doing?”

Sunfyre’s wing had broken under the fall, and steaming hot blood still tickled down the draconic neck, sizzling as it sank into the snow below.

“Collecting a trophy.” Jon found Aegon’s body, strapped into the saddle with chains and buckles, his brow covered with blood and his neck hanging at an awkward angle. Skyfall lashed out, relieving the head from the shoulders, as he shoved it into a burlap sack. “Congratulations. You’re a kingslayer now, Baela—it looks like Aegon’s neck snapped with that stone you hurled.”

The world had changed, but some things remained the same. Both Aegon and Rhaenyra had once again met pitiful ends, even if their demise had come in a completely different manner, both deaths were unfit for a king or a queen. But Jon knew that there was nothing dignified in death. Whether one was a king or a pauper, dying was ugly, ungainly, and rarely peaceful.

But both kingly brother and queenly sister had died the way they had lived—chasing and fighting a fleeting shadow.

“Wait,” Baela rasped out, blinking as her gaze moved back and forth from the bloody sack to his face. “How do you know that if you were here? Vermithor had no rider, yet…”

The word hung over as Daemon’s daughter looked at him expectantly, letting him fill the silence.

“Magic,” Jon drawled. “And who said Vermithor has no rider?”

It was a handy thing, being able to skinchange into your dragon. Jon didn’t even use it for control but communication—a man could not truly control a draconic mind, unless the dragon let him. Vermithor was as intelligent and cunning as any man, and when he wanted to cooperate, everything would be seamless. It removed the dragon’s greatest weakness in the air—its rider. But as with everything, there were downsides. Dwelling in the mind of the dragon was not easy.

“Everyone knows it.” Baela swept out a shaky hand towards the east. “The Bronze Fury hasn’t been ridden since Jaehaerys died nearly three decades ago. Many tried to master him during the Red Sowing, but they all died, each brave soul meeting an uglier end than the last.”

“That much is true, but it doesn’t mean that Vermithor has no rider,” he retorted.

Baela was almost adorable as she tugged on her ashen hair, her face contorted in a confused frown. There was just something amusing in confusing Rhaena’s twin, even as a large part of him was greatly impressed by her valour and daring.

“How can Vermithor have a rider when nobody has flown him?”

Jon shrugged as he took the sword from the headless corpse’s belt and tugged it from the sheath, revealing black, smoky ripples of Valyrian steel. With the ruby-encrusted pommel and the draconic-shaped guard, this could only be Blackfyre, the sword of kings. The hilt felt right in his fist, fitting just as well as Skyfall did, if not more so.

Then, he inspected Sunfyre’s saddle. Alas, it was too small for Vermithor, but it shouldn’t have been a surprise—the golden dragon was barely a fifth the size of the Bronze Fury.

“Anyway, stay here.”

For a moment, Baela looked mutinous, but then her exhaustion won over. She just looked tired as she sat down, tightly wrapping herself in her cloak and shivering. “What are you going to do?”

Jon tore off Aegon’s heavy leather cloak and threw it over Baela’s shoulders.

“I have a castle to take,” he said, handing her a pouch. “You’ve done a great deed in distracting Aegon, but I’ve dallied long enough here.”

“What’s this?”

“Food. You should have your dragon light a small fire to warm yourself.” Jon clasped Blackfyre’s scabbard to his belt and frowned. A glance through Vermithor’s eyes showed him Royce taking down the royal banner from Dragonstone—the castle had already fallen. “On second thought, just come with me.”

Dragonstone had only a dozen men left as garrison, half of whom were resting in the barracks. With the realm considered at peace and no enemy in sight, Royce had simply ridden in with his retinue, killed the four sentries at the open gate, captured the unarmed men within the barracks, and taken control of the castle.

Baela’s stunt had rendered all their plans unnecessary; in her fit of youthful daring, she had managed to distract Sunfyre and kill Aegon.

Jon didn’t trust the seven captive men-at-arms, and gave them the choice between the block and the black—all chose the Wall and were now in the dungeons, waiting for a wandering Crow to take them. So much had changed, but certain things remained the same. The castellan, Ser Robert Quince, had also been killed in the fighting by Ser Alfred Broome.

Was there a previous grudge there? One unrelated to the Quince knight’s promotion to castellan, perhaps?

The next hour was spent receiving the oaths of fealty of the castle’s staff, including Grand Maester Gerardys, who had been released from the dungeons. Those whom Rhaena had not deemed trustworthy, which were nearly half, had been confined to one wing of the empty servants’ quarters. His betrothed already planned to recruit more trusted hands for the household from Ashcove. Aethan had dutifully followed him and had found himself in the position of royal steward. Joth and Colin were already in the kitchens and the pantries, taking stock of the provisions and selecting helpers and scullions.

With the rookery and the gates guarded by Royce’s most loyal men, Dragonstone was secure, and not a single soul outside the island knew Aegon was dead. Some villagers might have seen the dragon battle in the sky, but it didn’t matter—smallfolk’s hearsay was rarely trusted, and Vermithor had not spied any ships in the waters nearby.

The plan had succeeded. With his main rival removed and Dragonstone seized, Jon officially had a foothold in the Seven Kingdoms and could declare his intent for the throne.

Now came the real challenge; with Aegon the Elder dead, the next foe would be Aemond. The kinslayer and Vhagar were far more dangerous opponents than his elder brother ever could be.

Aemond was now king; he just did not know it yet. He had all the advantages, too, after sitting on the Iron Throne as regent with half the kingdoms behind him, and a loyal army mustered right under his command.

All Jon had on his side was the element of surprise.

An hour after the castle had fallen, he was already climbing the steps of the Stone Drum, the gigantic stone tower that served as Dragonstone’s central keep. Through the arrowslits and windows, he could peer down into the inner yard, where Vermithor and Silverwing had chosen to dwell. Unlike the previous dragons that graced the castle, the draconic pair remained unchained, free to come and leave as they pleased. Alas, while both dragons and riders were willing, Rhaena and Jon’s flight was delayed. It was not merely a matter of his betrothed’s health or the ill weather. The castle’s saddlemaker was already working to repurpose two old saddles for Vermithor and Silverwing—every dragon had a different body, some bulky, some slender, some had spikes, which meant that every dragon’s saddle was unique.

Behind him trailed Baela and Rhaena. The former had flown over Moondancer, while the latter had arrived with Royce’s ships from Ashcove, and both were wrapped up in thick woollen gowns and heavy winter cloaks. Rhaena was whispering furiously, explaining everything that had happened to her sister, who listened on with a heavy frown.

They arrived at the top floor of the Stone Drum, which consisted entirely of the Chamber of the Painted Table. It was a spacious, round room with smooth black walls and four tall narrow windows that looked out to the four corners of the world. In the centre of the chamber was the great table from which it took its name, a single slab of wood fashioned in the likeness of the Seven Kingdoms by command of the Conqueror himself.

The carpenters had carved it, each bay and each peninsula, each mountain and river valley with careful precision. Towns and villages, lakes and forests, castles and cities—all were marked in great detail, painted then sealed by layers of varnish. Jon noticed none of the islands of the kingdoms were depicted. The three sisters, Claw Isle, the Arbour, the Shields, the Iron Islands, and many more were all missing. It appeared that the Conqueror’s dream ended at the Wall, for the map ended where the Haunted Forest began.

Facing the Blackwater Bay, near the place where Dragonstone was supposed to be, was a raised throne which Jon sat on; it allowed whoever sat upon it to overlook the whole of Westeros. Alas, it was a square, uncomfortable thing, but not as uncomfortable as the Lord Commander’s seat in Castle Black.

His squires were already here, Clayton was dutifully lighting the hearth, while Harrold brought a pitcher of wine and a box of figurines—the same figurines that Aegon the Conqueror used, and later Rhaenyra and the black council to plan their campaign.

Jon’s royal council was far more humble—he only had his wife-to-be, her sister, Lord Royce, and Ser Alfred Broome. Grand Maester (or was it Measter?) Gerardys was also invited; the old balding man had arrived, missing the chain that hung around each maester’s neck. The gem-encrusted chain the Grand Maester wore had been sent back to King’s Landing yesterday, according to his gossiping squires. Jon wasn’t foolish enough to trust Gerardys, and guardsmen were already placed in the rookery to prevent ravens with unwanted messages from leaving the castle. Still, his advice and knowledge were not something he could afford to ignore.

“The crux of the issue is that while the Greens do not know of our existence, let alone our presence, we do not know how they have moved,” Jon summarised as everyone gathered around the painted table. “We have the advantage of surprise still, but we’re moving in blind.”

“We should attack King’s Landing at once,” Ser Alfred Broome proposed. “The war has ended, and there is a high chance no dragonrider would be staying vigil. With Silverwing and Vermithor, we can catch the Hightowers unawares and defeat them while the dragons are all chained in the Dragonpit.”

“You want to burn down the Red Keep?” Maester Gerardys asked, aghast.

“If necessity calls for it, then yes.” The Broome knight shrugged nonchalantly. “It can be rebuilt.”

“Such moves are moot, especially if we attack when the dragonriders are out, flying,” Jon pointed out.

“Indeed, the risk is too great,” Royce said, agreeing quickly. “Both Prince Aemond and Prince Daeron are still young, and are said to have a young man’s sense of adventure and fondness for flying. If we attack blindly, we might lose our advantage and end up with an empty city.”

“Furthermore, the war has yet to end, even though Rhaenyra and her heirs have all been dealt with.” Jon motioned towards the North and the Iron Islands. “As far as I know, Greyjoy and Stark have yet to bend the knee. It’s highly likely that the Greens would send a dragonrider to subdue them, and not all enemies would be in King’s Landing.”

“Many of the Riverlords still stubbornly resist, too,” Baela added suddenly. The twin sisters stood by the nearby brazier. “Doubtlessly reluctant to bow to the kinslayer who burned their lands, their castle, and their people.”

“Lady Jeyne Arryn has dipped the banners and is already sailing to King’s Landing, last I heard,” Gunthor Royce added thoughtfully. “She intends to negotiate more palatable ransoms for her bannermen.”

“The war has taken a toll on many. Prince Regent Aemond demands ruinous sums to ransom back each captive vassal,” Gerardys said his piece, his hand reaching for his collar as if to grasp the chain that was no longer there.

“How kind of Aemond to send all the former Black Lords into my hands,” Jon chortled, amused. “But I need more men to wage war on the Iron Throne. We need to swiftly contact the lords still reluctant to bend the knee to the Greens, before they pay obeisance to Aemond.”

Rhaena frowned at the map. “Why haven’t Greyjoy and your Stark kinsmen bent the knee yet? I thought that with Rhaenyra and our cousins and brothers dead, the Black factions would have simply fallen apart.”

“Cregan Stark has already mobilised his men and marched them all the way through the Neck, and he can’t turn away without at least giving battle, a symbolic fight like the Valemen against the Hightower host,” Jon mused. “Not unless he wants to be called a craven. Knowing him, he intends to leave all those mouths to feed in the south, too. He probably wants to bend the knee in person and take the measure of his new king, and perhaps he’ll try to squeeze out a concession or two, should the circumstances allow it. As for Greyjoy… most likely he has gotten a taste of reaving and found it to his liking too much to stop, regardless of who sits on the Iron Throne.”

“There’s so much to do,” Gunthor Royce said, frowning. “You need a kingsguard, Your Grace, a new crown, your own royal sigil, a wedding to cement your union with Lady Rhaena, to form a small council, use honours and positions to sway hesitant lords—”

“Those things can wait,” Jon interrupted. “They are not the most important matters to be dealt with,” he hastily amended. “I name you my Hand, Lord Royce. Deal with these matters at your discretion.”

If the old Bronze Giant wanted to play kingmaker so badly, Jon would let him, though he had a feeling that Royce would biting more than he could chew. What was the saying again?

The King eats, and the Hand takes the shit.

“It would be an honour, Your Grace.” The Lord of Runestone bowed deeply. “These old bones shall serve you with everything I have!”

Jon wanted to pinch his nose.

Why were southerners so dramatic in this era? He thought Royce would be more like the Northmen since he was from a storied First Man lineage, but no, he was just as obsessed with pomp as the rest of them, albeit with more discretion than his peers.

“We need to recruit more lords,” Gunthor quickly said. “King’s Landing cannot be taken with merely dragons—we need at least a thousand men to hold the city after it falls. Perhaps even more.”

Geradrys cleared his throat. “Easier said than done, Lord Royce. Many of the lords in the Crownlands have already bent the knee to the Greens. The rest now lack the means or the will to muster troops so suddenly. The bigger host you desire, the more likely it is that the Clubfoot will notice something is awry.”

“Five hundred men,” Jon said, taking a deep breath. “Five hundred men will be enough to take the city by surprise with our dragons. And a spy in King’s Landing. Or at least knowledge of the realm’s affairs, so we do not charge in blindly.”

Jon badly needed to master a raven as inconspicuous eyes in the sky, especially after Saltbeak had flown south to spend the winter. But breaking in an animal for skinchanging was easier said than done—it required time, luck, and effort.

“Five hundred men are barely enough to hold the Red Keep, Your Grace,” Royce said delicately. “Perhaps we should abandon all notions of ambush and try to raise support.”

“I can bring you three hundred of the Crownland’s finest warriors, Your Grace,” Clayton said, face hesitant.

“And I can bring another four hundred,” his other squire added, puffing up his chest. “My father is the Knight of the Red Cave, and my good uncle—Clay’s father— is the Knight of Pinefort. They are all fresh, for Rhaenyra chose to summon the Crabs and the Brunes because they’re far more numerous. We might lack the numbers others boast, but our lands produce the fiercest warriors in Crackclaw Point.”

“Our mothers were sisters from the House of Boggs, and we can raise another two hundred men from there.”

“And they would so easily raise their banners for me?” Jon asked tightly.

“Yes,” his squires chorused, conviction firm in their words.

“Explain.”

“The clawmen hold no love for Queen Alicent and her Hightower sons. The Greens consider us to be savages, the dirty underbelly of nobility that should remain in the mud.” Harrold coughed, looking abashed. “It’s going to be far quicker if you fly over with Vermithor, Your Grace. Word sent by raven is easy to dismiss, and seeing you atop the Conciliator’s dragon will make many believe.”

“With Dragonstone just a few leagues away, I can just fly through Crackclaw Point and return the same day,” Jon murmured to himself. “Very well. If the saddle is ready tomorrow, I’ll fly one of you with me there. Which one of you knows the layout of Crackclaw better?”

“I do,” both squires declared at the same time, then frowned at each other.

“Clay, you can’t follow a road straight even if it smacked you in the face—”

“Harry, you couldn’t recognise a bloody hill, even if it looked like your da—”

“Just toss a coin,” Jon interrupted, exasperated.

“We should wed as soon as possible,” Rhaena coughed out. Her face was still a tad flush, the shade of red that suggested a slight fever, and she stood by the brazier, warming her hands with its heat.

“When Maester Gerardys agrees that you’ve fully recovered and no sooner,” Jon decided. “It doesn’t need to be a gaudy ceremony—a septon, a few witnesses, and a small feast is more than enough.”

And Jon would bring his weirwood.

“This will be the blandest royal wedding ever,” Baela drawled, looking a tad irritated. But then again, Daemon’s eldest daughter always looked irritated.

“A proper celebration can always be held again once we are victorious, Princess Baela,” Lord Royce explained patiently. “Once the Greens are defeated, there can be moon-long festivities, with tourneys, feasts, and balls to commemorate the victory. Alas, war and winter are no time for pomp and pageantry.”

To Jon, it appeared his new Hand intended to hold a very lavish celebration, winter or not.

Then, the Lord Hand cleared his throat delicately and continued, “Do you think you can earn Lord Stark’s support, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Jon said without hesitation. Getting House Stark on his side shouldn’t be too hard. “As long as we can do it before he swears any vows to Aemond or someone else.” He frowned at the map. “With the Riverlands still rebellious, and the Iron Islands reaving across the western shores, the Greens would be forced to mobilise the Hightower army and some of the dragonlords to pacify the last pockets that fought for Rhaenyra. Or that’s what I would do in their place.”

“They only have Prince Aemond, Prince Daeron, and Denys the Betrayer,” Ser Alfred recounted. “Three to our three.”

“And Vhagar is bigger than Vermithor, Tessarion is thrice the size of Moondancer, and only Silverwing is bigger than Seasmoke,” Baela tutted. “The odds aren’t in our favour.”

“This brings us precisely to the previous problem at hand.” Jon exhaled, looking at the map again. “We need to know what is happening in King’s Landing.”

“But we have no spies, Your Grace,” Gerardys said, voice filled with regret. “We can try to employ the services of Mysaria—Prince Daemon’s spymistress—but I’m unsure whether she has survived the riots and the fall of King’s Landing.”

“And we need to prevent word of Aegon’s demise from leaving Dragonstone for as long as possible,” Ser Alfred pointed out. “I’ve heard that the Clubfoot has men everywhere. Allow me to interrogate this Tom Tanglebeard in the dungeons, and I’ll see him sing out the names of those Larys Strong used to support Aegon while he hid on the island.”

“Permission granted.”

“We have Aegon’s royal sigil,” Rhaena spoke again, her voice a tad hesitant. “What if we ink down a message to King’s Landing, demanding a recount of the happenings there, and sign it in his name?”

“Can we imitate his handwriting?” Jon asked, his fingers drumming on the throne’s armrests.

Maester Gerardis tugged on his beard. “There’s no need. Aegon forced me to write and send a letter yesterday, even though I was thrown into the dungeons—the man really disliked ink stains. If we have his personal seal, a letter can be penned to King’s Landing without a problem.”

Jon’s lips curled with amusement.

“Let’s do that,” he decided. “He can also claim that he’ll remain in Dragonstone to recuperate. Maybe even summon Corlys to negotiate the marriage to his granddaughters in person.”

The mention of the Sea Snake had both of Daemon’s daughters stiffen. They looked torn between… anger and reluctance.

However, Royce’s face lit up. “How sly, Your Grace. If we can secure the Velaryon fleet and wealth on our side, our chances of victory would improve significantly. Perhaps we should summon a dragonrider, too, and ambush him?”

“It would be too suspicious,” Gerardys cautioned. “Aegon never had a very close relationship with his siblings.”

“That and neither Rhaena nor I have yet to fly a dragon,” Jon added. “I wager it is a skill that takes some time and effort to master….”

The discussions continued for another hour, where they weighed the merits of each lord who was undeclared for the Greens, and Lord Royce was to pen letters to those most slighted and disgruntled by the Hightowers and Alicent’s sons. Contacting Cregan Stark was delayed—ravens flew to castles and keeps they were trained to, not to armies on the field. Besides, there was always the risk of the raven being lost, or shot down, or that the Riverlord they decided to entrust the message to had already bent the knee to Aemond.

The mummery with Aegon’s seal would work only once, perhaps twice, Jon suspected. Even then, it was not foolproof. What if Aemond grew overly fond of the taste of power a royal regent enjoyed and decided to feed his brother false but sweet words?

Regardless of all the deception, Jon knew that the death of Aegon and the fall of Dragonstone could not be kept a secret forever.

No, he needed a proper way to inform himself of the happenings in King’s Landing. Jon needed to master a bird that could endure in the cold and survive in the snow on its own. The easiest choice was a raven. The Citadel and the maesters bred the best ravens in the Seven Kingdoms, carefully selected and cultivated for their endurance, ability to survive mercurial weather, and clever enough to find castles and thrive in any part of Westeros.

Naturally, Jon headed to the rookery to see if he could skinchange into one of the ravens there.

As he passed through the gallery connecting the middle bailey to the Sea Dragon Tower, where the rookery was, his mind wandered.

The decision to grasp for the crown had not come lightly. A part of it had been spite, but with a dragon on his side, Jon knew he had a chance. If anything, things were going surprisingly smoothly, with all those lords and knightly houses all too eager to swear in his name.

There was a measure of comfort in war, in the coldness of winter, both of which were intimately familiar to Jon like an old lover. It was a selfish thing to declare himself king based on nothing but his dragon, but his blood boiled with excitement at the prospect.

A part of him was excited at the prospect of marrying a maiden as beautiful as Rhaena Targaryen. As of today, she was the dragonrider of Silverwing, and with her soft-spoken but firm demeanour, she made for a perfect queen. Another part of Jon, however, was apprehensive. He had sworn to take no wives once, but his intent to claim the Iron Throne had already broken many of the vows he had previously given.

His previous excitement quickly cooled. The realm would bleed for this, but it already bled for Aegon and Rhaenyra’s folly. It already burned for Viserys’s hubris. And now, it would bleed for Jon. There was no joy in command, he knew. It was a cruel burden, having hundreds perish under his command, and thousands die in his name, but one he had chosen to carry again.

A set of hurried footsteps caught up to him as he neared the rookery.

He turned around, only to face Baela. For once, her face was stony and emotionless, but the resentment glinting in her eyes betrayed her.

“Why didn’t you help?” she asked, her voice choked with feelings. “Rhaena said you had bonded with Vermithor over a year prior. Why did you stand by and do nothing while all of my family perished one by one?”

“Why didn’t you help the starving smallfolk on Dragonstone when Rhaenyra raised her taxes?” Jon countered. “Over a dozen died this year from hunger in Ashcove alone.”

“It’s not the same.”

Jon laughed.

“Is it not the same? You claim I could have helped Rhaenyra, and perhaps you’re right. Now, I say you could have helped the smallfolk. You had the coin. A golden dragon could feed a family for a year. A bushel of wheat could feed them for half a year, and you can easily afford both.”

His voice thickened with disdain. “But you didn’t truly care. Just a word from you could have seen dozens saved, but those smallfolk were not your responsibility. Perhaps, to you, they’re no different from the ants beneath your feet or the flies in the jungles of Yi Ti. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Baela had the decency to blush and lower her eyes in shame.

“I just… I just wish things were different,” she eked out weakly.

“Daemon bid me serve him, once,” Jon confided. “So did Rhaenyra and Jacaerys, and even Aegon—the same Aegon you slew today. The first three offered me a life of thankless servitude. Daemon wanted to save me when I needed no saving, and Rhaenyra was the boldest of them all, daring to expect loyalty after she sought my death. Of them all, Aegon was the most generous. He would have made me a master of a village or two, given me land, and men to call my own—as if I needed any of that.”

He turned his gaze through the narrow slit of the alcove to the east, giving him a view of the smoky peak of the Dragonmont.

“It’s not my hand that killed Aegon, nor Rhaenyra, nor Daemon. Their deaths were the fruits of their own ambition, seasoned with arrogance and the smallness of their hearts,” he continued. “A king must be open-handed and just to those who serve him well, and firm but fair with those who defy him. Vows of fealty are no simple chains for the vassal alone; they bond both vassal and lord with duty and obligations, Baela Targaryen—something most seem to have forgotten as of late.”

A naive man might say Jon would have been offered far greater boons if he had displayed his connection with Vermithor. But would such small-minded men and women be generous or fearful with those who could threaten them? Jacaerys might have acted differently, but even his rewards for dragonriders were paltry—a knighthood and a small piece of land that would leave them bound to Dragonstone while forever doomed to poverty and struggle to feed their dragons.

“Rhaenyra would have been more generous if you had revealed you had Vermithor,” Baela insisted weakly.

“Would she? Where was her generosity to Alyn Velaryon after Silver Denys betrayed your father? Or perhaps I would be punished for claiming the Bronze Fury without her permission.” Jon shook his head. “Your sister was wiser than you in this, and quicker to see it. I had a cousin once, just like you. Wild as the wind, wilful and sharp-tongued, forever chasing her own path with little care for courtesy or consequence.”

Gods, he missed Arya.

It seemed that there was an end to Baela’s stubbornness, for the words finally took the wind out of her sails. Then, she asked cautiously. “And what became of her?”

“She lived too fast and died too young,” Jon said mournfully. “They never even found her bones to bury. Go to sleep, Baela.”

Baela the Kingslayer opened her mouth as if wanting to say more, but in the end, she merely averted her eyes and walked away. She would either grow and learn or, like Arya, she would perish too fast. Jon did not dwell overmuch on her.

He had a realm to conquer.