18.Taking Heads and Winning Hearts

Middle of 130 AC

Jon Stark

Riding a dragon was nothing like riding a horse. He could feel the Bronze Fury’s smugness as his draconic wings parted the clouds with their strokes, as if to say, ‘I knew you could not avoid me forever.’

And now, Jon was flying. Not dwelling in the mind of a bird, but soaring in the skies on dragonback. Vermithor’s wings were drumming rhythmically, each mighty beat overcoming the swift winds, allowing Jon to travel at a speed he never thought possible. Jon had flown in the minds of birds before, but never for too long to avoid the dangers of skinchanging and detachment. Even so, that could never compare. The sheer speed was exhilarating like nothing else, and the power of commanding the dragon beneath his hips was sweeter than any wine.

There were some struggles, however. Struggles that birds or dragons did not suffer in the air, but humans did, for their bodies were not made to soar in the skies.

The wind pressed against his body like a cold wave, trying to knock him off the saddle into the dark waters of the Narrow Sea below. Of course, he wouldn’t fall no matter how the dragon underneath him spun—his waist was buckled to the saddle, and his feet were strapped down. It was cold, but not nearly as cold as a Northern winter; his thick padded jacket and leather-stitched cloak warded off the worst of it. His body was too strong, too resilient to be bothered by this, but the biggest handicap to swift dragonflight seemed to be the eyes. The winds crashed into them with such strength that it was a struggle not to be constantly blinking.

Jon initially thought it was a slight nuisance, but as time passed, his eyes began to sting.

‘I need to figure out some eyewear to protect my eyes,’ he thought. Surely, the dragonlords would have figured out something.

From above, everything looked no bigger than ants, and even castles were barely a bigger ant’s nest hewn from stone and granite. They might as well have been ants, for with one command, the dragon would bathe everything in fire from above. A single word that could end the lives of many in a swift yet painful way.

Now, Jon knew why so many of the dragonriders had grown arrogant, nay, drunk with power. In the sky, they were all unmatched unless the gods decided to curse them for their hubris, just like Meraxes had been struck down by a scorpion bolt in the eye. And now, he was a dragonrider too.

No longer Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, but a dragonlord in his own right. Yet another dragonlord in the line of dragonlords who aspired to sit on the Iron Throne. Raised as a Snow in Winterfell, he never knew his sire’s line, not truly, but ambition ran in his blood, hot and true. He was raised as any proper Northman would be, unwilling to voice his desires against the family that had graciously raised him, lest they turn real.

But were Alicent’s sons his kin?

Jon sighed, discarding all those distracting thoughts. He was king now, and even if no crown was resting on his head, the burden on his shoulders was there. A war to fight, a realm to conquer.

Soon, Crackclaw Point came into view. Rugged cliffs, green bogs, and verdant pine barrens as far as his eyes could see, all blanketed by white snow.

“Red Cave is that way!” Harrold pointed northeast, roaring against the wind, his voice barely reaching Jon even though his squire was glued to his back, strapped with a leather belt lest he fall off.

In truth, there was no need for instruction. Vermithor already knew his way around Crackclaw Point, where the Conciliator had passed through thrice with his royal progress, and visited countless other times to settle disputes or attend weddings. Even so, his squire’s presence was essential, whether to give him credibility or confirm his story.

Flying Vermithor out of Dragonstone had a risk of its own. The Bronze Fury rarely left the island after the Conciliator had passed, and his appearance here would spread far and wide one way or another. When it would reach the ears of those in King’s Landing and whether they could make the connection was another matter entirely. Jon did not fear rumours, for they were never reliable, but inviting scrutiny too early might see them lose the advantage of surprise.

Soon, they approached the Red Cave, and Vermithor heralded their arrival with a roar as he slowly descended to the foothills outside the castle, his wings sending gusts of snow soaring in every direction as he landed.

Unlike what its name suggested, the seat of House Cave was not a cave, even if it was built from a red rock, a deeper, dirtier shade of the Red Keep. Atop a jagged cliff lay a small castle with a squat keep and a single circular curtain wall, only accessible from the foothills that the Bronze Fury could simply block by lying down. It was not the most formidable holdfast, but anyone who wanted to take it by storm or siege would have to pay a heavy price.

Jon unstrapped his squire and then himself, leaping off the saddle. Harrold tumbled into the snow, his legs still uneasy from the flight, and his face nauseous, no longer half as eager to fly after riding a dragon. No matter how much he tooted his own horn, he was still a squire green enough to piss summer grass, it seemed.

“Ease up, Harrold,” he commanded. “Breathe in through your nose, and exhale from your mouth. Slow and steady.”

It was a soldier’s trick to calm others, but it worked, as his squire only looked half as pale after half a minute, just in time for the gates of the Red Cave to open, and a small retinue to ride out into the snow to meet them.

Leading them was a warrior in his forties, clad in a coat of plates and looking ready for a fight, no matter the outcome. A few inches shorter than Jon, but broader in the shoulders, the red cave on the surcoat presented him as Ser Bennard Cave. A pair of flinty eyes, resigned to a fight, peeked from the helmet slits, but when they saw Harrold, they all paused.

After all, how could a father not recognise his firstborn?

“Dragonslayer?” the Knight of the Red Cave asked, voice cautious. Then, his gaze paused on Harrold for a heartbeat before settling behind Jon’s shoulder on Vermithor, who was nearly the size of his keep. “Your visit is quite unexpected.”

The young Harrold Cave finally shook himself from the previous stupor and hastily stood beside Jon.

“Father,” he said tightly. “We have come here for a grave matter.”

Ser Bennard merely narrowed his eyes and asked, “And what is this matter you speak of, son?”

His squire fidgeted, giving Jon an uncertain look, his usual bravado completely absent in front of his own father.

Jon’s lips curled with amusement. He could see in the eyes of the men before him—they were awed by the dragon, yes, but they were not truly cowed. Warriors to the last of them, hardy and unyielding spines that would break before it bent. Threats of violence, false promises of honours, or deception would not work here.

“Aegon’s men, in all of their wisdom, decided to rob me, attack my guest, and see me slain in my own house,” he began, speaking with all the earnestness he could muster. “His cruel deeds offend both gods and men, so I have claimed a dragon, and I have decided to resist.”

“We respect you greatly, Stark,” Ser Bennard Cave said, his words betraying nothing of his true feelings. “You’re a great warrior, that much is true. Bold to a fault, too, and more than worthy for me to send my son to squire for you. And I was right—it is not every day a man proves his mettle by slaying a dragon on his lonesome. If you are seeking refuge here, you will find none. As much as I admire you, my Red Cave cannot weather the Iron Throne’s wrath alone.”

“I am not here to hide,” Jon scoffed, hand reaching for the sack on his belt, and tossing its contents before the clawmen.

A plump head rolled in the snow. Silver-gold crop of hair, puffy eyes, a wispy moustache, and a simple golden band set with seven gemstones of different colours were unmistakable.

The Knight of the Red Cave unstrapped his helm and kneeled beside the fallen head, staring at the crown.

“He looks like King Viserys’s eldest son,” another knight from the back said. “The plump, hollow-looking face of a drunkard and philanderer can not be mistaken.”

“This is King Viserys’ crown,” Ser Bennard said, the tremble in his voice betraying his agitation. “And the Conciliator’s crown before him.”

Were the clawmen still so loyal to the former king’s memory? They had to be, Jon realised; otherwise, they would not have fought for Rhaenyra. Maegor with Teats had not inspired great loyalty to those who had seen her, he knew, but many of those who fought for her did because she was Viserys’s chosen heir.

“Rhaenyra’s crown,” Jon supplied. “And then Aegon’s second crown, sent to Dragonstone as a trophy and proof that his elder sister is dead, to get the garrison to surrender.”

“So, you’ve killed the king,” the knight said, voice tight. “And you’re not here to hide. Are you planning to rebel, then?”

Jon snorted. “I am already rebelling, for the deed has already been done. And it is not I who killed Aegon, even though it was my intent—Lady Baela got to him first.”

“Hah. Like father, like daughter!” Ser Bennard guffawed, booming laughter echoing through the snowy foothills like a warhorn. When he calmed down, his words were far more respectful. “You want the throne, Stark, and the dragon behind you might give you the ability to vie for it. But do you think you can best the Kinslayer, the Betrayer, and the Daring Prince on your lonesome? Can the Bronze Fury kill Vhagar, Seasmoke, and the Blue Queen alone?”

Jon rested his hand on Blackfyre’s pommel, sighing. Coming here was a risk, he knew, and now was the greatest of them all. He could tell them of the happenstance in Dragonstone, and if… if they harboured any loyalty towards Alicent’s line, a raven would fly to King’s Landing the moment he turned away from here. Should such a thing happen, his greatest advantage, surprise, would be lost.

Yet, it was hard to win the hearts of men like these with deceptions and half-truths.

“I am hardly alone,” he admitted. “Lady Rhaena has claimed Silverwing and has agreed to wed me, and Lord Royce has sworn himself to me. Although having more would be good, I do not need dragons, Ser Bennard, but stalwart men ready to follow me into battle against the remaining Greens.”

The men behind the Knight of the Red Cave shuffled, not out of unease, but out of excitement.

What was wrong with this lot?

When men were invited to fight against dangerous dragonlords who had proven willing and eager to burn castles, fields, and villages, the normal reaction would be fear. Hesitation. Reluctance and avoidance, even.

Even Bennard Cave looked at him eagerly, as if ready to follow him into a battle immediately.

“I would join you, Dragonslayer,” Bennard said, but there was a sliver of hesitation in his words. “I would swear my sword and my men to your cause right away, if you promise me this one thing.”

There it was—the time for demands, promises, and haggling.

“Speak your wish, then.”

The knight gave him a bloodthirsty smile. “I want Celtigar’s grasping reeves and taxmen to be forever banished from my lands on the pain of death. Queen Visenya promised us this and kept it true for a time, but the promise died with her son.”

Jon could understand the desire for the man to be a master of his destiny and to have his services acknowledged by a worthy liege. In fact, he was coming here with promises of death and battle and glory, and had little tangible benefits to offer them but words.

“Be my swords and shields, my men through and through, and I shall do you one better,” Jon proposed, voice echoing over the snow. “Fight for me with all you have, and I will make a lord out of you, and your descendants, sworn directly to the Iron Throne. I shall not grant you further land but raise you into true nobility, not merely a landed knight that the others can look down upon.”

Bennard Cave and his men immediately knelt, laying their swords at Jon’s feet.

“Your Grace, I swear to wield my sword in your name, live and die by your word—”

Jon almost blinked. Why was this so much easier than he had thought? Where was the reluctance to serve a bastard? Could it truly be that the Blackfyre rebellions were what soured people’s opinions on bastards more than the stigma? Where was the disdain, mistrust, and open suspicion about his Northern origin?

Weren’t the clawmen supposed to be all fierce and unyielding?

It couldn’t have been Vermithor’s presence. Even Ulf the White and Hugh Hammer were swiftly killed by the other noblemen in a history that could have been. The Caltrops smiled, bowing their heads to the betrayers, and quickly stabbed them when they looked away.

The clawmen bowed their head, and Jon could feel that their vows were genuine. There was no deception in their words—they intended to follow him to the death.

It shouldn’t have been the rewards either. No matter how much Jon offered, few men would be eager to bear the ire of Aemond the Kinslayer and the fires of Vhagar after most of the Riverlands had been scoured by them.

Even if killing Cannibal had been commendable, it should not be enough to inspire true loyalty. He might have sent the dragon bones and scales as gifts by the urging of his squires, but that was hardly a reason to favour him so greatly.

No matter how much Jon wished to ask why, it was not a question that could be spoken. In the end, did it even matter?

The Sea Snake

He gazed at the sea, the dark waves split before the Sea Snake’s bow as sparse snow danced amongst them, only to melt as soon as it kissed the water, yet he could hardly bear to look.

They had passed Driftmark yesterday, but there was no time to rest there. He couldn’t bear to look at his beautiful island, once flourishing after a lifetime of his efforts, now despoiled at the hands of the Triarchy, nor could he afford to ignore the royal summons that demanded him in Dragonstone.

This is how cargo felt, Corlys understood then. To be carried and handled at the discretion of kings. The richest man in the world, second only to the Iron Throne, now reduced to a cumbersome burden.

To be summoned and dismissed like some lackey.

Too important to be easily disposed of after bending the knee and cutting off the head of his former good daughter and queen, but an old enemy was hard to forgive. After all, who would truly trust a turncloak and a traitor like him?

Corlys knew what they schemed.

Alicent’s whelps wanted the vast wealth of Velaryon, but they didn’t need to slay him for it. His island of a fief was burned and plundered, but most of his gold was intact, deep in the vaults of Driftmark. And his true wealth still remained—his fleet had hardly suffered any losses during the war. Keeps and harbours could be rebuilt, and trade could flourish as long as he commanded enough ships flying the white seahorse of Driftmark. But reputation could never be bought. It was like a Qartheen vase; once shattered, it would forever remain broken.

Now, they called him Corlys the Turncloak in hushed whispers. Some even dared to call him Corlys the Grasping, though never to his face. But they murmured at the edge of his hearing, as if to mock him and his fall. It was not mere mockery; he knew the old game. They poked and prodded at his pride, doubtlessly trying to provoke him in a way that would invite further royal sanction. But he could only swallow the humiliation, no matter how much it burned his throat.

Fools that they were, they were not wrong. The words cut him, but not as deeply as the loss of his wife and children. Loss had long cooled his ambition and tempered his brittle pride. Was there a tragedy greater than a man who watched his family’s future die before him, but was powerless to do anything?

All that remained were his two granddaughters, now reduced to prizes to be claimed by Alicent’s sons.

A dragonrider like Baela would be queen, but she would never wield power in King’s Landing. Rhaena would be the Lady of Driftmark, in name, but they planned for Prince Daeron to rule there. By the time they had children, they might have even been named Targaryen instead of Velaryon, and Corlys would be dead.

It was an open scheme, but not one he could decline. Even in the darkness of defeat, he could see a path forward—a third son like Daeron was young and used to following orders. Rhaena was clever when she wanted to be, and could awaken his pride and control him the way only a cunning and beautiful woman could control a man.

Corlys only hoped his granddaughters forgave him for this. He would weather their hatred, as long as they lived—even if it meant breaking bread with their enemy. Perhaps they would struggle to forgive him while he still drew breath, but he would do his best to cling to life for a little bit more, just like a drowning sailor clinging to the wreckage of a sunken ship.

“You look quite troubled, Lord Velaryon,” Larys Strong noted, limping beside him. “Has some ill omen found in the waves unsettled you so?”

Corlys blinked, finally looking at the sea stretching before him, but not truly. The Lord of Harrenhal never failed to unnerve him. There was something revolting to the Clubfoot’s presence, not because of his lame leg, but because of his nonchalant manner and easy falsehoods.

“The waves are more tumultuous than when we broke shore, but there is no storm,” he offered reluctantly. “It bodes well for our journey.”

For all the good it would do.

“I never took the Sea Snake to be a man of superstition,” Larys said, almost amused.

“All sailors are superstitious, Lord Strong,” Corlys countered, looking at the cloudy sky above. “And even the Lord of the Tides must pay heed to the whims of the winds and the waves.”

It was not merely a dislike of the man, but of his deeds. His old pettiness was rearing its ugly head too—Larys had made a turncloak out of him, and Corlys would never forget it. But he had already braved the storm, bending the knee to a half-Hightower, and he could only do his best to lower his sails, hold on, and endure through it.

For the future of House Velaryon, he would endure. The gods were laughing at him now. Two decades prior, the seahorse of Driftmark was only second to the king in prestige and power, with over a dozen men proudly bearing the name Velaryon. Now, there was but him and a small handful of cousins and nephews remaining, dragons broken, prestige squandered, and wealth rendered meaningless.

The mighty Sea Snake, reduced to relying on his granddaughters, whom he thought little of. They were his blood, that much was true, but the hubris and temper of Daemon Targaryen ran through their veins too. There was too much fire in the House of the Dragon, a strength and a weakness that Corlys was all too aware of. And as much as he loved them, they both bore the name of Targaryen.

Endure. He had to endure until Rhaena’s sons were born and mould them into true Velaryons himself. But such a feat was easier said than done, and Corlys was already nearing his eighth decade. He did not know if he had enough strength in his old bones to turn the son of two Targaryens into a proper sailor and a Velaryon of Driftmark, but he trusted no one else to do the deed.

“Larys,” Corlys said, the name burning on his tongue. “Why do you think His Grace has summoned us so?”

The Clubfoot shuffled, looking uneasily for once.

“He might be afraid of his younger brother seizing power,” Larys mused, tapping his cane on the planks below. “Prince Aemond is still whole and victorious, while His Grace was crippled in the one battle he took the field. While Aegon hid, half broken and in pain, his younger brother broke the Blacks, wearing the Conqueror’s crown.”

Corlys scoffed. “Then, he should have come to King’s Landing and taken the crown and let his bannermen see him sitting on the Iron Throne, instead of skulking around Dragonstone. A king must be seen and heard to rule.”

“Perhaps he should,” the Clubfoot agreed. “You will have the opportunity to give him sage advice soon enough—prove yourself loyal above the rest.”

“Oh, how much advice have I offered kings and queens, yet they rarely found it to their liking.” Corlys sighed, feeling the brunt of his age. He was too old to play the petty courtly games, but he didn’t have the luxury of choice.

It was better that Aegon sat on the Iron Throne, far more pliable than his younger brother, far more merciful, and far less dangerous. Aemond was as bad as Daemon had been in his youth, and victory had seen his pride and arrogance swell further. Worse, he was far too eager to see old lines remorselessly extinguished by his hand.

“Too many mouths clamour for the king’s ear, their prattle drowning out what little wisdom remains,” Larys said, voice turning sly. “But now most lickspittle lie dead or once again gather in the Red Keep. On Dragonstone, there shall be but you and I to whisper counsel to His Grace.”

There was something in the Clubfoot’s voice. Was the unpleasant spymaster planning to pit one brother against another? Or was something else, if equally sinister?

It was hard to peer into the mind of the Lord Confessor, Corlys lamented. Even now, he was uncertain if the man was truly loyal to Aegon or was scheming something else entirely. Lord of Harrenhal Larys might be, but he never spoke of his castle or deigned to visit his lands. No one but the gods knew what the Clubfoot truly wanted, and it made him all the more dangerous.

Dragonstone crept ever closer upon the grey horizon, a jagged black smear against the churning green of the sea, shrouded in snow and mist. Smoke rose from the Dragonmont like the breath of a slumbering dragon, faint but steady.

“I wouldn’t be so certain we shall be the only voices on Dragonstone,” the Lord of Driftmark said after he glanced through his Myrish far-eye. “I see a Royce galley in the harbour, and clawmen’s sails beside it. Boggs and Hardy, Cave and Pyne.”

Larys Strong stroked his well-kept beard thoughtfully.

“It seems His Grace has not wasted his time in idle mourning of his sister,” he offered, looking at the approaching harbour with the barest hint of approval. “Bringing Rhaenyra’s former supporters to himself instead of letting them go to King’s Landing.”

“Aemond and Cole’s demands for ransom are too hard to swallow for many. They are probably here to beg mercy.”

“As they should be,” the Clubfoot allowed, voice hard. “Treason should not be forgiven lightly, Lord Corlys, lest ambitious fools think there’s no price to it.”

“Many houses would be beggared for a generation or two, and for what?” Corlys challenged, trying to swallow his previous irritation. “For being loyal to their lieges? For following the Old King’s chosen heir?”

“Those words are dangerously close to treason, Lord Velaryon,” Larys spoke, voice growing as chilly as the northern wind. “His Grace Viserys might have chosen Rhaenyra as his heir once upon a time, but this is not Dorne. Sons come before daughters, and as soon as Aegon was born, he should have been made Crown Prince. It’s just that the old king was too fond of his dead wife’s memory to do what needed to be done.”

It was not the first time he had skirted treason. It was an old friend, especially after turning his cloak for good. Yet even with all the Velaryon ships and swords with him right now, Corlys dared not refute or do anything to the Clubfoot, who had only brought two dozen men loyal to the Hightowers and Aegon with him.

Just for a moment, Corlys was tempted to order Ser Denys Woodwright who trailed behind him to cut down the Clubfoot, consequences be damned. His sworn sword looked especially eager, his hand always resting on his sword in the presence of Larys Strong.

But the Clubfoot was a favoured man who had saved the king and seen to the demise of ‘The Whore of Dragonstone’, while Corlys was merely an enemy who had reluctantly bent the knee. Killing him would be the end of House Velaryon. Alas, no matter what Corlys did, he would never be able to discard the suspicions and win royal favour.

‘Laena should have been the one to wed Viserys, not Alicent,’ he thought bitterly. With Laenor married to Rhaenyra, any remaining feuds would have been mended by a union in the next generation.

He had advised Viserys, then, but would the stubborn man ever listen? “I want the Lady Alicent for a wife, and I shall take no other,” he had told his council back then.

For all of his glibness, Larys Strong was not wrong. It was Viserys’s choices that had seen them in the current predicament. What would he think of all the death and destruction if he were alive to see it?

But the dead could enjoy their peace in the afterlife, not caring about the affairs of the living. Some days, Corlys was not sure if Viserys ever truly cared while he lived. He had taken a second wife to secure more heirs to the throne, but once those so strongly desired heirs were made, he ignored them altogether. Was it out of anger? Stubbornness to spite his councillors who had all but forced him to remarry?

Corlys saw them then, silver and bronze behemoths lazily circling over the sea. Even now, Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s shadow looked down on them all. Corlys almost missed the crotchety old king, for all his unpleasantness, he knew when to be ruthless but could be forgiving and generous when the situation called for it. Fate made a mockery of them all. Corlys secretly rejoiced at the Conciliator’s passing back then, but now he found he missed the man.

They soon docked at the Dragonstone’s harbour, finding it half empty.

Larys limped down the wharf, looking around dispassionately.

“It seems His Grace has decided we are not worth welcoming,” he said stiffly. There was a shadow on his face, then, but it was gone so quickly that Corlys might as well have imagined it. “Or perhaps he’s busy entertaining his other guests.”

“Old bones like mine wouldn’t want to be outside to weather the cold if I could afford it, either,” Corlys muttered, pulling his ermine cloak tighter as they walked to the looming gates of Dragonstone. “And you should know better, Lord Strong. We are here to serve at the king’s pleasure, after all.”

The fishing village seemed empty, but Corlys could see curious but wary eyes peeking from the gaps of the shutters and the leather that covered the windows of the dilapidated cottages. He didn’t think much of it—it was normal for the smallfolk to be fearful of the nobility, let alone after a war. Rhaenyra was dead, but the war had yet to end. Neither Greyjoy nor Stark had dipped their banners just yet, and half the Riverlords would rather spit in Aemond’s face than bend their knee to him.

From the docks to the castle gate was less than half a mile, and they made it in silence, accompanied only by snow crunching under their boots. The trek was almost humbling if it did not feel so insulting. Corlys grew breathless by the end, but he was better off than the Clubfoot, whose face was twisted with pain, and his brow had grown damp with sweat from the exertion.

“I should have brought some horses from Driftmark,” he lamented as they passed through the open gate. “Or perhaps a small wheelhouse, even.”

“Wheelhouses are for women and young children, not for lords of the realm like us,” the Clubfoot muttered with a tone that suggested otherwise, even as he grimaced as he dragged his bad foot through the slush while helping himself with a silver-inlaid cane.

Corlys swallowed his snort the moment they entered the courtyard.

Something was wrong. Lord Royce was waiting for them alone, clad in his famous bronze armour, his face set in an unreadable mask as if he were preparing for war. He might as well have been—Corlys knew that wrangling with lords and kings was no less dangerous than any battle, but Royce was a fool if he thought armour would keep him safe in this.

“There’s plenty of men on the wall,” Ser Thoron whispered in his ear, his voice wary. “All marksmen with bows and crossbows, looking wary.”

“We did not expect to see you here, Lord Royce,” the Clubfoot broke the silence. “Even less so clad in bronze and steel.”

“The gods rarely grant us what we expect or desire, Lord Strong, and I do not have to explain myself to a backdoor rat like you,” was the cool reply. “I’m here to bring you to His Grace.”

Larys Strong stiffened at the insult, but limped after Royce regardless, his gaze calculated as he all but glared at the Bronze Giant’s back. The young Ser Lyonel Bentley approached from nearby, leading the retinue towards the barracks. A skilled swordsman and yet another familiar face, yet he seemed to have turned his cloak. Or had he clung to his honour and only bent the knee to Aegon after Rhaenyra and her sons were dead?

Corlys swallowed his apprehension as they trudged through the snow, grown brown and slushy from too many footsteps. He almost felt naked with only one sworn sword trailing his steps, but swords were useless here.

“How is His Grace faring?” he prodded cautiously.

“Quite well,” Royce offered, anticipation creeping into his voice. “He’s pretty excited for the coming wedding, Lord Velaryon. As for the rest, you will see soon enough for yourself.”

Corlys frowned at the Bronze Lord before him. Why did it feel like the man was subtly mocking the two of them?

“Is it truly wise to hold a wedding here so swiftly?” Clubfoot asked, more himself than anyone else. “A royal union would liven the spirits in King’s Landing. It would show smallfolk and lords alike that the realm is healing after such a cruel conflict divided many.”

“That is a question you must ask His Grace,” Corlys murmured, trying to ignore the apprehension pooling in his belly.

Baela was a beauty, but a wild one, and he wasn’t surprised that Aegon lusted after her so quickly, so eagerly to ignore the mourning period of his late sister-wife. Some might see it as a slight to the Faith; Aemond and Daeron might see it as a snub of their sister. Perhaps it was intended as such.

They passed through the middle bailey and the stone maw and the opened red gates, entering the Great Hall of Dragonstone.

A small gasp escaped from Larys Strong, and for good reason.

The long tables were pushed to the walls, leaving a great space open in the middle, all filled with clawmen armed to the teeth and ready to battle. Amongst them, Corlys recognised the Knight of Red Cave, the Knight of Pinefort, the Knight of Green Bog, and the lauded champion of the Hardys, all veteran warriors and dangerous killers who had widowed many wives. A group that rarely got together without drawing steel was now all gathered in one place, looking all but comfortable with each other.

But that was hardly the surprise.

It was not Aegon who sat on the high seat at the dais, but a man with dark hair and steely grey eyes, his face marked by faint scars. It was a face Corlys had seen before. A face etched in his memory after that humiliating duel, which saw one of his best swordsmen perish.

Jon Stark. Atop his brow lay a circlet, not of gold but of dark dragonbone, with runes of the First Men incised and surmounted by nine bronze spikes in the shape of longswords.

A crown. Not any crown, but one in the likeness of the kings of winter. Viserys’s bastard was wearing a crown, and Rhaena was obediently standing to his right with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

The gates behind them slammed shut, breaking the silence. Corlys spun to see five burly guards, giving him smiles full of teeth and eyes eager for slaughter. Ser Thoron looked ready to draw his sword, but knew better than to take his chances against so many warriors.

They were surrounded with no way out.

The Clubfoot was the first to break the silence.

“The Dragonslayer himself,” he said, voice filled with wonder. “I did not expect to see you in these halls, let alone sitting in His Grace’s seat so boldly.”

But Corlys could see Larys squeezing his cane with such strength that his knuckles had gone white.

“Dragonstone never belonged to Aegon, Clubfoot,” Rhaena was the one to reply, glaring at the Master Confessor.

“And crowns do not belong to former bastards, yet here we are all the same,” Larys riposted. “I thought you were a man of no ambition and stubborn insistence on his seclusion from worldly affairs, Jon Stark. A great warrior you might be, but you should have known better than to commit treason like this.”

“Oh, I know better, Lord Strong. I fully intended to fish my life away, but Aegon forced my hand,” Stark said, voice cold as he motioned to his left.

Corlys almost lost his lunch as his gaze paused on a tarred head wearing Viserys’s crown, with a puffy face and an unmistakable crop of silver-gold hair in the style that Aegon the Elder liked to wear.

“And it was I who placed a crown atop his head,” Royce declared, his proud voice echoing through the Great Hall.

Kingmaker. Royce was playing kingmaker. Why?

“So it was you who summoned us here,” Corlys realised. “Not Aegon.”

They had fallen into his trap. He always knew the Northern bastard was dangerous, even before he slew a dragon, even before he killed one of his most capable warriors in single combat. It was precisely because he was as dangerous as he was bold that Corlys had wanted to have him removed.

The Blacks had been crushed, Aemond and Vhagar ruled the skies, yet this fearless madman was all but challenging them regardless!

“Precisely,” Jon Stark confirmed. “And you were kind enough to deliver yourself to me with haste, eager to please a dead and unlamented king. Bring me a block.”

The two clawmen eagerly dragged in an oaken stump in the middle of the Great Hall. Did he truly mean to kill them?

Corlys would have found this charade ridiculous, but the Northman’s face was unreadable.

Surely his granddaughter would speak in his favour?

“I have done no wrong, Dragonslayer,” Larys Strong said carefully, face morphing into a calm but subservient mask. “If you aim to be a king, slaying a peer of the realm without due cause would be a blight that would stain your good name forever. We are invited guests here, under your roof.”

Stark scoffed. “I never offered the likes of you bread and salt.”

Then, he stood up, drawing his sword from his sheath. Blackfyre.

The clawmen parted, allowing him passage.

“If you truly mean to claim the crown, you would need loyal men and a spymaster,” the Clubfoot urged, desperation creeping in his voice.

The Northman continued his approach at an unhurried pace.

“And I know better than to trust the loyalty of a torturer, let alone a man who peddles in secrets and lies. An ambitious man who never sought a wife and fathered children. If your fealty lies with Queen Alicent’s line, I can grant you no mercy. If you are a turncloak, I shall never again trust the colour you wear. And if you serve no lord but yourself, then you are of no use to me. Make no mistake, Larys Strong. You are here because I want you dead, and your body will not leave this hall with your head attached.”

The words were spoken with frightening calm and resolve.

“Allow me to cut the Clubfoot down,” a knight clad in lobstered steel plate stepped forth, eagerly palming the sword on his hip. “Filth like this would only sully your sword, Your Grace.”

The voice was familiar to Corlys, but he struggled to put a face or a name to match it.

“No,” the rejection came quickly and firmly as Jon Stark halted by the block. “If I dare to have a man killed, I shall do it myself. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.”

Clamour of naked approval spread through the men in the hall, and the respect in the clawmen’s eyes deepened.

Corlys’s heart leapt in his throat as the clawmen surged forth. He hastily gave Ser Thoron True a sign not to resist futilely. His sworn shield had his swords and daggers snatched away, but the Lord of the Tides was unmolested, his old bones spared indignity… for now.

His other companion was not as lucky. A pair of burly clawmen picked up Larys Strong and effortlessly dragged him over, pressing his head to the wooden stump, even as he futilely struggled and begged for mercy.

None would be given here.

Blackfyre rose, pointing towards the ceiling. The black ripples of dragonsteel glistened like black ink under the ruddy lamp light, mesmerising as they were deadly.

“Last words?”

“I might meet my end here today, but you will be quick to follow me,” Larys spat, venom dripping from his voice. “None of the fools who defied the House of the Dragon had a good end, no matter how bold. Not Mern Gardener, and certainly not Harren the Black or the countless others laid low by fire and blood. Prince Aemond will avenge me!”

A rumble of laughter echoed from Jon Stark as his chest shook, as if he had heard the biggest jest in his life. It was a cold, chilling sound like the howling winter winds, and made Corlys’s skin crawl.

Then, the sword descended, and the Clubfoot’s head rolled, staining the cold flooring crimson. Corlys could only watch his granddaughter, who looked at the execution with frightening calm, not even blinking.

What had happened to his sweet Rhaena?

“Put it on a spike outside, along with Aegon’s,” Stark ordered, voice cool. “Let the crows feast on them.”

He then turned to the knight who had been eager to be the one to slay the Clubfoot. “Ser Alfred, you desired to don the white and serve as my protector for life, did you not?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the knight said, his voice thick with feeling.

Corlys remembered, then. This was Ser Alfred Broome, a senior knight whom Rhaenyra had dismissed from her service for incompetence.

“Step forth, then, and swear your vows to me.”

The knight kneeled solemnly, and everyone grew quiet.

“I swear by the Seven that I shall serve, obey, and protect Your Grace in all things,” he recited, echoing through the Great Hall. “I shall guard his secrets, obey your commands, and stand vigil over your life with mine own. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the protector of the crown, the shield of the king, and the white sword in his hand. I pledge my life and honour to the kingsguard, for this day, and for all the days to come.”

“Rise, then, Ser Alfred Broome, knight and Lord Commander of my kingsguard,” the Northman spoke, pulling the man up. Then, he glanced at the gathered clawmen observing the ceremony with rapt attention, not daring to blink. “Let it be known that those who serve me with loyalty shall not go unrewarded. Ser Alfred, receive my gift and reward.”

The second sword that rested on Jon Stark’s swordbelt was placed in Ser Alfred’s stunned hands. The pommel and hilt were hewn from black dragonbone, but Corlys could recognise that sheath anywhere. It was made of plain leather and lacking ornament, but how could he forget the dragonsteel sword that had slain his champion?

Ser Alfred Broome tugged the sword free, but the sword was changed from what Corlys remembered. The steel had grown a shade darker like ink, and the grey smoky ripples looked like waves of silver. But it was the same sword, he knew—the three fullers incised in the blade were unmistakable.

“It’s an honour to wield Skyfall, Your Grace,” the knight said, voice filled with awe.

Skyfall, Corlys mused. A fitting name for a sword that had reaped the life of a dragon.

“Then guard my back well,” Stark said with half a smile.

At that moment, Corlys knew that the Northman was not only dangerous and bold but possessed a wolf’s cunning. He could see it in the eyes of the men of Crackclaw Point here. If there had been any hesitation before, it was completely gone now. They all looked ready to fight and die for Jon Stark, their loyalty and morale soaring.

It was because of the gift and his earlier deeds, particularly executing Larys himself.

Who would be so bold as to grant a dragonsteel sword to a sworn shield?

Many would call such a man a fool, but wielding Blackfyre would give Jon Stark far more legitimacy than some unknown dragonsteel blade. Nor could he wield two swords at once.

“Leave us,” Jon Stark ordered, standing up straight. “I must speak with Lord Velaryon in private.”

The red gates slid open, and the warriors drained out of the Great Hall, dragging Corlys’s sworn shield outside.

Only Jon and his granddaughter remained, their faces both unreadable.

“I admit you’re a man of boldness and vision, Stark, but you have no right to the throne,” Corlys said, voice hoarse and cautious.

“No more than Aegon the Conqueror did,” was the firm response. “If Aegon cared about rights and laws, he would have never left Dragonstone.”

“You might seek my support for the throne, but I am loath to give it to you. My knees have grown old and feeble, and I fear that if I bend them one more time, I will not be able to stand up again.” Corlys chuckled, shaking his head. “If you style yourself the Conqueror reborn, where’s your dragon?”

“Outside,” Stark said, eyes dancing with amusement. “Did you not see Vermithor welcoming your ships from above?”

The words struck him like a mace to the helm, and for a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. His mouth moved, but no sound came. As if waiting for an invitation, a roar echoed, so close and powerful that it rattled the tables and made Corlys’s head ring with pain.

A whole minute passed until the Lord of the Tides gathered his wits again.

“What?” Corlys croaked, still bewildered.

“He has claimed the Bronze Fury, grandfather,” Rhaena was the one to respond, her voice still sweet, but there was sharpness hidden underneath. “And I have mastered Silverwing. He means to sit on the Iron Throne and make me his queen.”

The words were earnest, given in all honesty as she met his gaze without flinching.

His granddaughter was speaking the truth, Corlys knew. When she lied, she fidgeted, looking at her feet.

And suddenly, it all made sense. King Viserys’s bastard for true, and a man far more dangerous than Corlys thought.

Baelon the Bold with all of the boldness and even better restraint. The dragon’s temper was cooled by the ice of the North. Viserys’s generosity was there too, having won the clawmen’s loyalty with ease, if restrained by the Old Way of the Northmen. Even now, Stark didn’t seem to hold a grudge for that time when Corlys wanted him killed.

Not put her on the Iron Throne, but make her his queen. If the Northman wanted to claim the Iron Throne by marriage, he would have gone for Baela, the elder twin. But no, he meant to rule in his own right. To rule in his own name.

And he couldn’t even decline, Corlys knew. Jon Stark might not chop off his head if he remained recalcitrant to pay homage, but he would confine him in some tower and have Rhaena and Baela take control of the Velaryon fleet.

“Where is Baela?” Corlys asked in a daze. Baela still had her dragon, and no matter what, she had her own pride. “Does your sister know about this?”

“Who do you think slew Aegon?” Rhaena retorted, her smile not reaching her eyes and full of teeth. “My sister merely prefers to take a nap rather than see you right now.”

Three dragons. Almost enough to beat the Green dragons, even if Vhagar was a true monster.

“You hid your ambition very deeply,” he said, kneeling with a grimace as his old knees groaned in protest. “But I will support your bid for the Iron Throne with what little I have left, Your Grace.”

This was the fifth monarch he was serving now. Jaehaerys, Viserys, Rhaenyra, Aegon, and now Jon. The common Westerosi name almost grated in his ears, but it didn’t matter.

Jon Stark exhaled slowly, but the caution and distrust were plain to see in his eyes. But then, he sighed and helped Corlys up.

“We have much to discuss,” the Northmen said, his brogue slipping through. “But first, I shall deal with the Hightower men that the Clubfoot brought. We shall reconvene in the Chamber of the Painted Table in half an hour.”

Corlys could only nod as his new king left. His granddaughter gave him one final look, filled with mixed feelings, before swiftly catching up to the Northman.

His mind was numb as he left the Great Hall, only for something warm and stinky to splash against his brow. Corlys cursed as the stench of faeces rankled at his nose, as a raven mockingly cawed above.