22.On Jagged Wings

130 AC

Casterly Rock

News of King’s Landing’s fall and the battle in the Riverlands had seen the Greens gather in Casterly Rock for a new council. It was an odd royal council, filled with young faces—no lord or knight here was older than thirty. Their fathers had all died in the fighting, whether against Riverlanders, Ironborn, or Northmen.

“Useless fools!” Aemond roared, flinging a goblet of wine at the wall. He looked at the spindly old maester and barely resisted the urge to strangle him on the spot.

“We couldn’t have known, Your Grace,” Lyonel Hightower said, face solemn, who had been the one to lead the combined Reach Fleet here along with Lord Loras Redwyne. “My father lies dead at the hands of those damned Northmen, too.”

Lyonel Hightower was young, not even a knight at five and ten, but now a lord after his father had perished in the Battle of the Snowy Hill. But like most young men, he was as impetuous as he was fearless. Unlike most, however, he knew when to show restraint.

“It was just a bastard using petty trickery and luck,” the young Lord Crakehall said, voice oozing with disdain. “Now that we know of his ways, it will work no longer.”

“That might be so, but that petty trickery saw him sitting his bastard arse on the Iron Throne,” Hightower said darkly. “This Northern Usurper can’t be that simple, if he got the Sea Snake and the Royce lord to back him.”

A few snorted disdainfully at the mention of the Sea Snake. The old turncloak, they called him. Changing banners and lieges with the wind.

“We must raise another army,” urged Lord Jonnothor Chester of Greenshield. “The pirates are all but squashed, and Lord Redwyne can send the fleet to the Iron Islands to clear the remaining rabble.”

“Good luck raising an army amid winter,” murmured Lord Westerling. “Most of the knights and the men-at-arms of the Westerlands and the Reach are bones strewn from the Honeywine to the Trident. We can raise levies of peasants and militias, aye, but they will fold in front of the blooded Valemen and Northmen.”

“That might be so,” another lord said, “but the Stormlanders are all fresh, and the Vulture King has been found and killed. Borros Baratheon can bring at least fifteen thousand men, I say.”

“Supplies will be a problem in winter…”

As new arguments erupted, Aemond eyed his councillors, but his face betrayed nothing.

“We must crown His Grace quickly,” Lady Johanna said at last. A Westerling by birth, a Lannister by marriage, the widow who ruled Casterly Rock in the name of her four-year-old son was dressed all in black, but did not look saddened by the passing of her husband.

In fact, her eyes never left Aemond Targaryen’s scowling face.

“His Grace already has a crown.” Hightower motioned to the Conqueror’s crown on the dragonrider’s head. “The coronation is merely a formality we can do without for now.”

“We should still move at once,” a Cuy knight advised. “The longer the Northern bastard sits on the Iron Throne, the more his legitimacy will grow and ours will fall.”

“They have Silverwing and Vermithor to his Grace’s Vhagar,” Loras Redwyne said, a frown settling over his gaunt face. “It will not be an easy fight.”

“Daemon’s daughter is meek and cowardly,” Lord Chester said dismissively. “A young, mewling girl, always quiet, worse than Rhaenyra ever was. She will not fight.”

“So you say, but we thought similarly of her sister, yet she managed to slay Seasmoke! We should not underestimate—”

“Silence!” Aemond slammed a fist on his table, scowling from behind a curtain of silver hair. “My brothers are dead, and all you can do is squabble like little children?”

He was not carrying his black eyepatch today, revealing a socket filled with a sapphire.

His remaining purple eye flickered around the meeting chamber, filled with a mixture of raw anger and disdain.

Aemond had wanted to be king before. He had dreamed of sitting on the Iron Throne—not as a regent for his brother. But now that his turn to be king had arrived, it had come with more bitterness than joy.

“I must know what happened to my mother and my niece,” he said at last, calming down.

“The queen dowager and Princess Jaehaera are of noble birth, and the bastard won’t dare to harm them,” the young Hightower lord said, but the hesitation in his voice betrayed his unease.

“The bastard dared to do worse to my brothers,” Aemond said with a dark snort. No love was lost between him and Aegon, but Daeron… he was fond of his youngest brother. “Regardless, find out for me.”

His words were met with uncomfortable silence. Many lords shared a look of concern, but none dared meet Aemond’s eyes.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but with the Clubfoot executed, we lack a master of whispers and—”

“Useless!” he spat disdainfully.

“Perhaps we should reconvene in the morning,” the Lannister widow said, her voice soft. “It’s been a tense day, and emotions run high. A night of sleep to soothe the nerves.”

Aemond grunted in agreement, and the impromptu council was quickly dismissed. Lady Johanna lingered behind, but he also sent her away with a wave of his hand.

It wasn’t long before he retreated to his chambers, where Alys Rivers awaited.

She looked like a fresh-faced young maiden, with well-combed black hair and piercing green eyes. But her body was anything but. Her tight-laced dress of green velvet was all but bursting, not only because of the small swell in her belly.

“He has quickened, Aemond,” she whispered. “It will be a son. A little dragon—I can feel his fires licking in my womb.”

Aemond’s anger drained away at the sight, and he eased himself onto a tapered chair by the bed.

“Attend me,” he commanded, his voice lacking the usual bite.

Alys Rivers slid like a phantom, standing behind him as her slender fingers sank into his shoulders.

“How did the council go?”

“Drivel and cowardice,” he said, not bothering to hide his disdain. “Again prattling about food and snow and armies, but offering nothing of substance, as if the cold has frozen their courage—if they had any in the first place.”

“They fear the Northern dragon,” his lover said, her voice lowering to a whisper as she lowered herself to bite into his ear. “Not as much as they fear you, but the mere thought of dragons and fire makes all lesser men quake in their boots.”

“As it should.” Aemond closed his eyes and sighed. “Have you seen something in the storm clouds?”

Alys paused, withdrawing her hands. Eventually, she took a deep, shuddering breath.

“I have seen many things,” she rasped, sounding uncertain. “A tide of black ships trying to swallow the land. A lion roaring against the wolf, only to be lost in a sea of roses and impaled by the horns of a flaming stag. A white wolf growing wings and scales and soaring in the sky… and great battles across the land. I have seen three wolves trample on a sea of roses while tearing apart a kraken and a golden griffin, even daring to rip into the high tower by its roots and tearing it down. And then, they picked up a black drakeling and licked it clean of the blood, as if it were one of their own.”

Her voice grew hoarse, and her next words were thickened with unease. “I even saw a great giant of sorcery and flame use a sword of frost the size of an island to sunder the realm apart, as if it were some toy.”

Aemond was displeased. “Vague omens that could mean everything and nothing again?”

It took her half a minute to gather her bearings.

“You must know that seeing and understanding are two entirely different matters, my king,” she said, sounding more disappointed than anything else. “I saw a great many things, but only a few make sense. A great battle near the scorched ruins, in the skies above the great lake, where your fate shall be decided.”

“Harrenhal?” he echoed, intrigued.

Alys Rivers leaned forward, hugging his head into her generous bosom as she ran her pale fingers through his hair.

“The Gods Eye. If you can win there, the Northern bastard will fall—and so will all who follow him.” She closed her eyes. “But the risk is great for you too.”

“I can just fly to King’s Landing alone, and burn the damned city to the ground, starting with the Red Keep,” Aemond mused. There was no hesitation in his voice, as if he were speaking about something trivial like taking a walk. “If anything, it will make the shithole smell better. Do you think it will work?”

His lover stared at the flames burning in the hearth. She stared and stared as they danced and crackled.

“…Perhaps,” Alys said at last. “You might be able to burn the city, but if you enter King’s Landing before Jon Stark is dead, you will never leave it.”

Not alive, went unsaid, but he heard it regardless.

“A pity, I wanted to move my court to Harrenhal when the war was done,” he drawled, opening his eyes and pulling away from his lover’s touch. “Any other way?”

“There are ways to prolong the fight, but not resolve it. A battle above the Gods Eye has the greatest chance of victory,” she whispered hesitantly. “All my visions imply so. But your half-brother is not simple. Ordinary men can not slay a dragon so easily and live.”

“I’ve dealt with far worse than a vicious dog bastard with low cunning raised amongst barbarians and snow,” Aemond scowled as he stood up. “He probably can’t ride his dragon well—even the long-flightless cousin Rhaena can hardly teach him anything. Enough of this.”

Then, he circled Alys and pushed her to the bed, tearing away at her velvet gown, much to her joy.

Jon Stark

“You call yourself a Stark, yet you want to rule the realm,” Lady Jeyne Arryn said evenly, her face unreadable. Fair of face, with a dark braid and sharp blue eyes, the Lady of the Vale could be considered a beauty, if her nose wasn’t always scrunched up as if she had smelled something unpleasant. But this was King’s Landing, so perhaps she had. One thing was for certain—Jeyne’s tongue was sharp. Her eyes flicked towards his wife. “It would have been more proper to have let Rhaena rule and stand in as a consort.”

She had arrived in the city just this morning with a small retinue of Arryn bannermen, ready to negotiate with Alicent’s children, but finding him sitting on the throne instead.

“And you should mind your tongue, Lady Arryn,” Rhaena bit back mercilessly. “It is not your place to meddle in the affairs of the royal family or to advise my husband.”

Jeyne Arryn scoffed. “Yet he seeks my fealty here, when it’s not his place to command it.” Her voice grew harsh. “Thrice my own kin have sought to replace me. My cousin Arnold loves to say how women are too soft to rule, yet he has lived like a wretch in the sky cells for years, neither alive nor dead. And here, you have let your husband supplant you so. A former bastard and a kinslayer besides.”

She was not the first to call him a kinslayer, and not the last.

“You will find that some seats are won with blood, while others with fire and steel,” Jon said, more amused than offended. “Here you stand proud of your rulership, when you’re a lady without a husband or an heir. Your death will see the Vale collapse into a petty squabble for your pride and vanity, and thousands will die for it.”

Jeyne Arryn stiffened.

“Are you threatening me?”

“If I wanted to threaten you, I would invite Ser Arnold Arryn, who is your first cousin and heir by blood, to sit on my royal council,” Jon said. “But since he’s rotting in the sky cells, I would invite his son, Ser Eldrick Arryn. And when you inevitably succumb to old age, he will be the next Lord Arryn.”

Ser Willem Royce barely held his snort from the side. It seemed the Lady of the Vale was not too popular—the new kingsguard looked ready to burst out in laughter, and his chest was shaking quietly. But once he saw Jon’s gaze, the knight cleared his throat and stood still.

He saw the fear settle in Lady Arryn’s eyes. She stepped back, but it was too late to leave—she had already come to the dragon’s den.

The only reason Jon was willing to be so merciful was that this meeting was held in a small audience chamber, not in the court for all to see. He had wanted to negotiate privately and iron out any problems beforehand, but all he had received was a slap to the face for it.

“I have found that threats are useless when dealing with overproud fools like yourself,” Jon continued coldly. “I will give you two choices, Jeyne Arryn, and both can preserve your dignity. The first choice is that I announce you a traitor, and lop off your head in Fishmonger’s square tomorrow for your insolent disobedience.”

“I am your guest here!”

“I have offered neither bread nor salt nor shelter to you or yours,” Jon countered. “It is you who came to this city. Your death will be honourable.”

“You call that an honour?” she hissed, face paling further.

“Aye, it’s an honour to die to Blackfyre’s edge by the hand of a king. A larger honour than the scaffold, considering how nobles fared under my predecessors’ rule.” He gave her a wide smile. “After your head is placed on a spike outside the Red Keep, I’ll find another Arryn to rule the Vale—there are more than a few eager to sit in the Eyrie, and at least one will be willing to acknowledge me as king.”

“You’re a bold man,” Jeyne Arryn said, face growing grim. “You would dare behead a ruling lady of the realm?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He leaned forward, and his voice lowered. “I will not hesitate either, for your death is more honourable than fighting half the Vale for your stubbornness. None would care about your passing… because you have neither a son nor a husband to avenge your death or mourn your demise. You’ve made no alliances, and your closest supporter was Rhaenyra. Aye, you have ruled strongly for a time, but a tree without roots will fall easily to the wind, no matter how tall.”

“And the second choice?” Jeyne’s voice quivered in the end.

“You swear your fealty to me in the court later today,” Jon said. “Then, you write to your chosen heir and bring him here to serve in court—I’ll find him a good position, and back his claim to the Vale once you die. You will remain my guest here until he arrives as a guarantee for your good behaviour. Now, make your choice, Jeyne the Childless.”

Lady Arryn reeled, looking as scared as she was angered.

“You’re a cruel man, Jon Stark,” Jeyne said with a sigh, shoulders finally sagging. There was a flicker of hatred in her eyes, but she held it in.

“And you’re an insolent woman, Jeyne Arryn,” Rhaena retorted. “Even Alicent Hightower is now tongueless for daring to question her betters, and you’re lesser than a Dowager Queen. You would do well to remember that the falcon is nothing before a dragon.”

“You have the Vale,” Lady Arryn said reluctantly, dipping her head. “I’ll say my vows for all to see, Your Grace. There’s no need for further threats.”

She was escorted out of the audience chamber, leaving Jon behind with his wife and kingsguard.

“The sheer gall of that woman,” Rhaena hissed, looking as rankled as a cat whose tail had just been pulled. “She came here to grovel to the dead Usurper, yet now she flaunts her pride when facing you. Even the lords she brought with her did not blink or speak a word in protest when she was politely escorted inside.”

“She ruled steadily in the Vale for so long because she was kin to Rhaenyra,” Jon mused darkly. “A pity she ruled blindly. Only fools do not prepare for the future. At least she’s not arrogant to the point of blindness.”

“Do you not fear disloyalty from her?” his wife asked, a hint of worry slithering into her purple eyes.

“The day she’s disloyal is the day she loses her head,” Jon said. “If she wants to live, she’ll stay here obediently. If she wants to scheme, I’ll send her to the Silent Sisters and deal with her heir instead.”

Jeyne Arryn was merely six and thirty, but Jon knew she would not live past forty, so it didn’t matter. In the end, her childbearing years were nearly at an end, and it was unlikely that she would see an heir of her own blood. Even if she wanted to change her ways, there was nothing to fear from an overproud woman who could be replaced without much effort or consequence.

The rest of the day painfully dragged on. Lord Gunthor Royce crowned him in front of the Dragonpit, Jeyne Arryn swore fealty to him before the royal court and was publicly acknowledged as ‘royal advisor and guest’, the kindest way Jon could call her a prisoner.

The last event of the day was the funeral ceremony for Prince Daeron Targaryen.

The realm considered him Viserys’s son, so he had to do the honours. As distasteful as Jon found it, it gave him a cloak of legitimacy he otherwise would have lacked. That made Alicent’s children his half-siblings in the eyes of the realm. Killing his half-brother in the heat of battle would be frowned upon but accepted without much disgruntlement. Hosting this funeral was a matter of expediency, a matter of displaying his attitude and honour that came at no cost.

As the night unfolded, the court gathered in the Red Keep’s courtyard, where a pile of logs was arranged for Daeron’s carefully cleaned corpse, all doused by oil. A funeral by fire, as per Targaryen tradition. Nobody said any words of remembrance, nobody swore or cursed. Daeron had no allies or close kin to say farewell, and had made no personal enemies that would blacken his name in death.

Before the courtyard full of solemn faces, Vermithor slowly descended into the yard, the beat of his wings rising gusts of snow in every direction. He opened his maw and doused Daeron’s pyre with a streak of golden flame.

In a heartbeat, the dragonfire halted, and the Bronze Fury wheeled around towards the godswood, leaving the crackling pyre behind.

Even for so short a time, the heat lingered in the air, and the nearby snow melted into flickering streams that would soon freeze back.

Jaehaera was here, half hidden under Jon’s cloak as she clung to his leg. Rhaena watched the dancing flames flicker with gold and red, her face inscrutable.

Then, she turned to Jaehaera.

“Do you not fault Jon for killing your uncle?”

A few men in the court let out a strangled sound, while Ser Willis Fell nearby stiffened. But Jon’s kingsguard looked ready to draw their swords first.

Jon sighed inwardly. Rhaena was more petty than he first thought, and with a single question, half of his court was nervous.

“I don’t,” Jaehaera said honestly. “I never knew Uncle Daeron—I first saw him a week ago. When I came to the Red Keep, he greeted me once and preferred to train in the practice yard, and even grandmother left me to the septa…”

…Why was the royal family such a mess?

Viserys, oh Viserys… if you could see what had happened to your descendants, would you finally regret your folly?

Even Rhaena looked regretful now, the harshness melting from her face as she looked at Jaehaera.

“Will you send me to the septa too?” the young princess asked, pitifully blinking at Jon.

“You will stay by Rhaena’s side while I’m busy,” Jon said after a few moments of thought. “You will also go to Maester Orwyle for tutoring each day. History, heraldry, sums and numbers, and everything else you need to know. Later, Medrick Manderly will bring over a lady well-versed in courtly etiquette and womanly arts to teach you the rest. If you do well, I’ll take you flying with Vermithor.”

Jaehaera nodded happily. To the side of the courtiers, the Manderly brothers looked ready to burst out in pride, while many others looked thoughtful.

“Inter his ashes in Dragonstone with the rest of his forebearers,” Jon said when nothing but embers was left from the pyre.

Once the funeral was done, his Hand urgently requested a private audience, and the two of them moved towards an empty chamber.

“Your Grace,” he bowed, his voice growing cautious, “shunning septas from tutoring princesses might alienate the Faith from you.”

“The Faith has been allowed too much power,” Jon said coolly. “I’ve seen scriptures of the Seven Pointed Star hanging on the walls in every second hallway in the Red Keep, but the Old Gods are not honoured here, not even with a weirwood in the godswood until I came. So long as Alicent Hightower’s children live, the Faith will rather back them than me, a follower of the Old Gods. Why would I grant them respect they have not earned?”

“That might be true, Your Grace,” Royce said, clearing his throat. “But fighting against the Faith is folly, and even Maegor could not win with the Black Dread under his command. Many pious lords will dislike the slight of the Seven—”

“I will not begrudge men for keeping true to their gods,” Jon interrupted, raising a hand. “That is their right. But why would I let clergymen hoard unchecked power and dictate matters of the gods from the Starry Sept in Oldtown? I have a bit of knowledge of history. The very first High Septon was a septon regent for the Lord of Hightower, later appointed to that position by that very lord. Even now, the High Septon sits by the Hightower and has more loyalty to them than the Seven.”

The Bronze Giant blinked, then tugged on his grey beard.

“Then, what shall be done?” he asked cautiously.

“Let us discuss such matters after the war is done,” Jon said. “Inform Lord Corlys of my consideration, and think of ways to dilute the power of the septons and the Faith. Maegor had shown that threats of dragonfire did nothing to the pious but hardened their resolve. The quill and words ought to prove more effective in this endeavour. For now, dealing with Aemond and the betrayer takes precedence.”

“Dealing with Vhagar is risky, Your Grace,” the Hand said, voice lowering to a whisper.

“There is no war without danger, Gunthor. But he who strikes first is victorious, and I must still move forward to deal with Seasmoke and the Betrayer before he rallies to Prince Aemond.”

“What if he strikes King’s Landing while you are away?”

“Hide in the treasure vault,” Jon said languidly. “Or repurpose that chamber they found deep beneath Aegon’s Hill as a hiding place, since the secret tunnels have been sealed. Keep one entrance for it, and have it cleared.”

He could see the suggestion rankle a proud warrior like Gunthor Royce. They called him the Bronze Giant for not only his size, but his courage, too.

Eventually, Royce bowed. “It will be done.” Then, hesitation crept into his voice. “I still suggest the one in Maegor’s Holdfast should remain, as a final route to escape should the worst happen. I will arrange for a trusty guard sworn to silence to stand vigil there.”

“Very well.” Jon rubbed his chin, remembering something. “One last thing.”

“Your Grace?”

He leaned in, his voice so quiet that only his Hand could hear, “I suspect Viserys might be alive—Rhaena’s youngest brother. It’s likely that the Lyseni should have him right now.”

“Truly? He is not… dead?” Something dark glimmered in Royce’s eyes. “Is this news reliable, Your Grace?”

“It came to me in a dream,” Jon said vaguely, almost feeling ashamed at his Hand’s incredulous face. “Even if it is false, it is a path worth pursuing.”

“Should we try to get the Lyseni to dispose of him, then?”

Jon groaned inwardly. Of course, Royce immediately saw Rhaenyra’s youngest son as an enemy to be ‘disposed of’. Perhaps he was not wrong—Viserys had a stronger blood claim than Jon did.

“This is my wife’s brother you’re talking about,” Jon reminded coolly. “I am not Aegon or Aemond to kill all those in the way, whether they were women or children or innocent. If he’s alive, I want him hale and hearty and by my side, where he will be my page and squire, and once he’s grown enough, Jaehaera’s husband.”

So what if Viserys had a strong blood claim? Once the vows of fealty were sworn before the court, his support would be gone.

Murder aside, there were easier ways to deal with Rhaena’s brother. Preferably, mould him into the next Hand of the King. If there was one thing Viserys was known for, it was his acumen in rulership. A part of Jon was also loath to see arguably the best of the Targaryens thrown away to the Lyseni or killed off because it was expedient.

Was that not what Rhaenyra tried to do to him? Ironic that he was saving her son from a similar fate.

“Some displeased lords might choose to support Viserys instead of you,” Royce cautioned. “It’s a dangerous… matter.”

“His children can marry mine when the time comes,” Jon said, waving away the words. “Send an envoy to Lys to inquire. Someone skilled in negotiation—I’m willing to ransom Viserys, even matters of trade, customs, and tariffs can be allowed within reason—and even a favour to the City of Lys, but only if the Lyseni have not yet married him off. In that case, they can keep him there, where he can feast and drink and sleep on their coin. It’s the same deal if Viserys is in Myr or Tyrosh, of course.”

“That would give the Lyseni a claimant to the Iron Throne—”

“A claimant without a dragon or support is of no consequence,” Jon said coolly. “Regardless, it’s time I retire to my quarters for the night.”

The sleep was pleasant, especially since Rhaena visited his royal apartments to spend the night together.

By the next dawn, a raven had arrived from Castle Vypren.

The Green Host had been crushed in an ambush, Silver Denys and his dragon were dead—but so was Moondancer—and Baela was recuperating with House Vypren, while Roddy the Ruin led seven thousand men to besiege Harrenhal. Another portion of the Northmen was led by Lord Cerwyn to secure the ruins of Darry and the nearby keeps.

Jon noticed that the letter made no mention of Cregan Stark. Had he died in the battle?

“Baela is wounded,” Rhaena said, her words laced with worry as she held onto the small strip of parchment. “I knew that my sister would have done something foolish. We shouldn’t have allowed her to leave…”

To be fair… Jon was glad. He was glad that Seasmoke was dead, and a part of him was glad that Moondancer was gone and that Baela had survived. It made things simpler. A dragonrider couldn’t be married out of the family, but now that Baela had lost her dragon, her marriage was far less troublesome. She was far less troublesome, too—there was a limit to her mischief now that she was flightless.

“What is done, is done,” he said, pulling his wife into a deep hug. As usual, Rhaena clung to him with all her strength, as if afraid he would disappear. “I have remained in the city for long enough. It is time I leave and deal with Aemond for good—our final foe.”

“Must you truly leave?”

His resolve almost broke at the pair of purple eyes swelling with tears. Rhaena might have grown cold and sharp in public, but when it was just the two of them, she melted like butter in his hands. She was just as soft, too.

“The swifter the war ends, the fewer souls will perish in needless fighting,” Jon said at last, pushing down his reluctance. “Keep Silverwing sleeping in the lower courtyard, so you can fly away immediately if something is awry.”

“I will,” Rhaena tearfully promised, while giving him a deep kiss.

“And take care of Jaehaera.”

Jon held his wife’s gaze, and the response eventually came, if far less enthusiastic. “…I will.” Then, she balled her fists, and her eyes hardened. “I ought to come with you, you know. The two of us will surely best Vhagar.”

For half a heartbeat, Jon was tempted to agree. But what man would be willing to risk his wife in battle?

The thought of dragging Rhaena along had not even crossed his mind. His wife had ridden her dragon little and had fought in battles even less. Jon knew Rhaena all too well, and despite her anger, she had no stomach for bloodshed and fighting or the cold of winter. Her presence in this battle would be a burden, not a boon.

But that was not the same for Silverwing. The dragon was old and experienced, and would fight well with Vermithor on her side. Yet, his thoughts went to Baela and how she lost her dragon and was quite possibly crippled against a far less dangerous foe than Vhagar. It was not merely the dragons but their riders who should be feared.

Denys the Betrayer was nothing compared to Aemond the Kinslayer.

“There is no need,” he declined. “Someone has to stay in the Red Keep and deal with any problems as they come. Your presence here strengthens our shaky legitimacy by the day. Don’t forget to try to deepen your connection with Silverwing, and—”

“And fly every day until it feels as natural as breathing,” Rhaena finished tightly.

The relief in her eyes was plain to see. His wife did not want to fight either, but was willing to do it for him, which was enough for Jon. She did not argue further, nor did she plead or beg or make him promise vows of safe return or swift success. There was no need for words between the two of them.

Instead, she pulled out a strap of black silk embroidered with a crimson three-headed dragon and tied it on his wrist, then turned to kiss him again.

Jon had flown for a whole day at a leisurely pace, eager to reach Harrenhal before nightfall. In truth, he could have flown faster, but arriving with an exhausted dragon into what could be a fight was not advised.

The cold grew fiercer by the hour, and the white wind wailed in his ears like some dying beast, silencing everything else. But the bone-chilling winds could not rival the dreadful cold the Others could bring, or the bitterness of the deep winter in the Bay of Ice.

It was not the cold or the wind that frightened Jon, but the frigid gale that stabbed at his eyes. The makeshift goggles of thin crystal slotted into a thin frame of bronze and leather had shattered hours ago, and his eyes stung. He would have landed hours ago without the ability to just close his eyes and occasionally slip into Vermithor’s mind, who needed very little guidance or direction.

In the rare moments when Jon cracked his eyes open, he quickly took in the view around him in every direction.

The sky was grey as far as the eye could see, a formless mass of clouds that had blotted out any sliver of blue. The ground below was a white quilt of snow, stone, and trees, merging into the greatest lake of the realm. It would have been easy to get lost here if Jon had not stuck close to the Blackwater Rush.

The waters of the Gods Eye looked like cold steel as they drank in the falling snow, while parts had started to whiten with frost. Faint mist rose around the Isle of Faces in the distance, but Jon spared it no heed as Vermithor dove towards Harrenhal. He could see the castle in the distance, an ugly clump of scorched stone capped with white that slowly grew bigger with each beat of Vermithor’s wings.

To this day, some said the castle was haunted by Harren’s ghost, but few believed it. Yet Jon knew better… in three centuries, the castle had seen the rise and fall of more than ten houses, and not one had a good end. The place was definitely cursed.

Still, it was a good base, which could be used to scout over the whole of the Riverlands or venture further westward. Or even sneak into the Westerlands and try to find Aemond.

Just when Jon was about to close his eyes again, a roar echoed from afar, and Vermithor tensed beneath him. He saw it then, coming from the west. A terrible behemoth gliding over the Gods Eye, a mass of mossy green and dark brown that flew right towards him.

Vhagar.

For whatever reason, Aemond had come. There was no trickery here, no subterfuge or other dragonriders laying hidden in ambush—the Greens only had one dragon left: Vhagar.

The Kinslayer sought to end the war here, and Jon would oblige him.

With a tug, Vermithor veered west to meet the swiftly approaching dragon. Vhagar grew as they approached while the Bronze Fury’s wing struck against the wind, fast and eager for a fight. Jon could feel the fiery desire for battle seep into his mind, merging with his own bloodlust. He could even see Aemond eagerly swiping his whip to urge the old she-dragon further.

Vhagar was the size of a hill now, and the following collision was imminent. The she-dragon lunged for Vermithor’s wing, and Jon jerked away, both in mind and body, and the Bronze Fury barely twisted in time, avoiding the crash. The belch of fire his dragon had spewed at the enemy had done nothing but singe them.

Both dragons wheeled around to meet for another clash. Aemond tried to fly up and pounce from above, but with a thought, Vermithor ascended to match him. Vhagar swerved before they crashed this time, spewing gusts of dark green flame at Jon and his saddle, while Vermithor replied in kind.

The sky was alight with dragonflame, as crimson and gold battled green for dominance, but neither side was close enough to burn the enemy. At most, the flames harmlessly licked at the scales or singed the leathery parts of the saddle. However, the cold was all but gone, as the air had begun to shimmer from the lingering heat.

This time, it was Jon who urged Vermithor forward, reaching for his javelins; it was a pity the enormous dragonbone bow was too unwieldy to carry on the dragon saddle. Tensing every part of his body, Jon hurled it.

But the wind and the momentum of the two dragons were too great.

The spear missed Aemond, glancing off Vhagar’s scales with a shower of sparks.

Jon cursed in his mind as the dragons circled across the sky to meet again. The spear had made Aemond wary, but Vermithor was a tad swifter than the older she-dragon. Ignoring the torrents of flame blotting out the sky in every direction, he hurled again, aiming lower.

This time, the spear struck no more than ten yards from Aemond’s saddle, lodging itself between the scales but doing no harm. The target was too small, and the momentum was all wrong.

Vhagar let out an angry roar that shook Jon to his very core. It did not stop him from reaching for his third javelin. Vermithor lunged forward once again, and this time, Jon aimed even lower.

The javelin disappeared right into Vhagar’s open maw. The she-dragon’s roars were now laced with pain, but did not slow. If anything, her wings struck against the wind faster, and Vhagar’s eyes turned into two dark pools of rage as a veritable torrent of fire erupted from her maw.

Jon cursed inwardly.

The last thing he wanted was a collision of dragons in the sky. Vhagar was as vicious as she was titanic, and such a clash could see Vermithor fall as easily.

Jon did not want to risk it. But even now, Aemond and Vhagar were following him doggedly, sending bursts of dragonflame at him. It would be bad if Vermithor’s wings caught fire.

He only had one javelin left, but unless he struck the eye, it would hardly do any damage. Jon remembered Cannibal, then—even if it struck the eye, it might not be lethal.

A rasp of laughter tore from his lips. His cloak was half-singed from the dragonfire, the saddle was blackened, and so were Vermithor’s scales—but the fire had yet to burn through his clothes.

A mad plan formed in his mind.

If there was anything Jon did not lack, it was boldness. He could hardly win a battle without risking his life, let alone one between dragons. It was not the rider that was dangerous, Jon knew, but the dragon.

If anything, his blood sang with excitement.

‘You want to catch me up close, Aemond?’ he thought viciously. ‘I’ll come to you instead.’

His fingers clasped around Blackfyre’s hilt and tugged the sword free. The dragonsteel lashed out, slicing through the chains and straps holding him to the saddle, as he held tight only with the strength of his hips.

Vermithor twisted, no longer fleeing. Instead, it turned directly to crash into Vhagar. Jon could see panic and anger on Aemond’s twisted face as he tried to steer Vhagar away, but it was too late.

The two dragons collided chest to chest, and the shock rattled his innards and almost knocked Jon off his saddle. For half a heartbeat, the two dragons began to fall. Vermithor was the first to recover, jerking away before Vhagar’s claws could skewer his belly, and snapping away at the enemy’s head.

Jon held on, just enough to leap onto Vhagar’s back before the Bronze Fury fled. He barely managed to avoid the spikes as his knees jolted with pain from the impact. He stabbed Blackfyre into the edges of the scales like an ice pick, using the sword to barely hold on. With each beat of Vhagar’s wings, the sword dug in deeper, slid back, slicing through the flesh beneath. A pained roar rattled him as the dragon turned and twisted to shake Jon off, but he had already latched onto a nearby spike with his free hand.

As soon as he gathered himself, Jon tugged Blackfyre free and slowly but methodically climbed down to the base of the wing. With one hand, he held himself to the bony spikes and the jutting edges of bigger spikes and with the other, he held the Sword of Kings.

Even Aemond had twisted around to look at him, the snarl on his face was replaced by surprise and no small measure of caution.

The caution quickly turned into terror as Blackfyre swung at the fleshy base of the wing, tearing through it like it was straw. Steaming dragonblood splashed across the scales with a hiss.

Aemond was now red-faced with fright and fury and roaring something, but the wind swallowed his cries. Jon merely ignored the man and focused on his task.

He held onto spikes and scales with one hand and swung his sword with the other. The old she-dragon roared with pain, but it was of no use. Vermithor was circling above, safely out of reach from Vhagar’s flame. Jon relentlessly lashed out and struck with all the strength he could muster, methodically tearing his way through Vhagar’s wing. Even the thin joints that connected the dragonwing’s bones to the torso were not spared, requiring two or three strikes to sever.

It wasn’t long before Vhagar shook, and her wing turned half-useless. With each beat, the already big wound at its base tore open further and further. Scalding black blood splattered everywhere, and Jon had to shield his face with his elbow.

But he did not use his own eyes to see. A glance through Vermithor told him that Vhagar was slowly but surely falling into the Gods Eye. No matter how the she-dragon twisted and turned and roared, the wing only tore up more, and its fate was inevitable.

He had won.

But now, he had to survive the fall.

Jon simply let go of the spikes the moment the wing tore off.

Vhagar was falling faster than he was. His eyes flicked to the saddle, where Aemond tried to undo his chains with desperation. It was of no use.

As he fell, Jon felt oddly weightless. The cold wind brushing against his singed cloak and brigandine was almost welcoming, like the caress of a lover. All he could do was slide Blackfyre back into its sheath and ease his body as much as he could.

But the half-frozen waters of the Gods Eye drew closer and closer with each heartbeat.

Vermithor was growing closer and closer, too, swooping from above like a titanic hawk.

Vhagar was the first to crash into the half-frozen lake with a pained roar, sending ice and water splashing into the sky. Aemond, still chained to the saddle, would undoubtedly drown—it was just a matter of time. Just as Jon braced himself for the crash, Vermithor finally reached him.

The expected pain never came.

With a snap, he fell into wet, sticky darkness that was unbearably hot and stank of sulphur and brimstone. Vermithor’s tongue. Most of the momentum was softened, but he still rolled around like a hapless rag doll, feeling dazed.

It wasn’t long before the Bronze Fury spat him out, and Jon found himself on the lake shore, wheezing for breath. The draconic spit was already melting through his cloak, and his skin felt all itchy like a thousand fiery ants were crawling all over, and he dared not open his eyes. Instead, he jumped into the cold waters of the Gods Eye.