5.The Wingless Maiden

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

Rhaena Targaryen

A storm was brewing. It was not going to be a storm of wind and rain and thunder, but one that would shake her life—she just knew it. Everything looked calm on the surface, but Rhaena knew better. The House of the Dragon was divided ever since she and her sister were born, and Rhaena felt things wouldn’t be resolved so simply, despite everyone’s reassurances to the contrary.

Her father and stepmother, Princess Rhaenyra, were growing more tense by the day as if in anticipation of something. The mood in Dragonstone had turned for the worse, and even her grandparents, Corlys and Rhaenys, looked uncharacteristically solemn when they arrived for the name day celebrations. Her kingly uncle sent a letter with well-wishes and lavish gifts of silk and jewellery instead of the usual invitation to the Red Keep.

The letter was not even written by his hand, and the gifts, while certainly lavish, did not feel like they were chosen by Uncle Viserys.

Even their name day had a small family celebration instead of the grand feast her father loved throwing. Baela and Rhaena were the only members of House Targaryen who were merely ladies instead of princes or princesses. They were the last in the royal succession, and neither of their parents was the king or the heir to the Iron Throne. While their name days were never considered as important as those of their half-brothers, and not even half as many lords and knights attended, it was never so unassuming.

That did not stop Rhaena from taking small joys where she could. She danced with all of her cousins and half-brothers, and even her father, until they all grew tired. The music was just as lively, and the festivities stretched all the way until the Hour of the Eel.

But once the last vestiges of celebrations had disappeared the next morn, she found that their name-day was unable to dispel the gloom that had settled over Dragonstone. Not even the Valyrian Steel diamond earring her grandmother had gifted her could uplift her mood.

There had to be a reason, but Baela and Rhaena were usually kept in the dark about such matters. They were far from the only ones; her father and stepmother held their thoughts close to their hearts, and even Jace and Luke were not privy to them. “The affairs of the realm are not your burden to fret over, my little stars,” Daemon Targaryen always said.

But Rhaena sat back and observed, and had a good idea of what could be the cause for worry.

It was likely that Dragonstone’s coffers finally ran dry. Did Uncle Viserys and Grandfather Corlys cut off the coin they were sending to Princess Rhaenyra? Perhaps another quarrel with the Queen over something as petty as gifts? Or was this the doing of Otto Hightower, the man her father never missed a chance to curse?

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

A few days after their name-day celebrations, their grandmother, Princess Rhaenys, pulled them aside as she usually did.

“I want to wed, grandmother,” Baela whined. “I am five and ten already. For how long must I wait?”

“At least a year or two more, darling,” Rhaenys said. At five and fifty, their grandmother was old but still more beautiful than most. Her face was lean but lined with the onset of age, and her black mane was streaked with white, which only made her seem more dignified.

Her elder twin, of course, puffed up her cheeks in annoyance. “That’s too far away!”

“Patience. There are dangers to maidens who marry too young, like Queen Aemma found out for herself,” their grandmother explained kindly. Then, her lips thinned. “Weddings are akin to loosing an arrow, once it’s left the bowstring, it cannot be taken back. Giving such vows and consummating them should not be done hastily. I know marriage might seem exciting for a young lady such as you, but it’s… not only joys and splendour. Men can be as stubborn as donkeys and as reasonable as mules.”

Then, her sharp purple eyes settled on Rhaena. “What about you, little Rhae? Are you in a rush to experience the joys of matrimony like your sister?”

“Father says we’re not ready yet,” Rhaena answered diplomatically.

Rhaenys snorted. “How filial. I know this dreary, damp castle is not what you girls prefer, but your father won’t let you come live with us on Driftmark. You need to learn the ins and outs of House Velaryon, for you will be its lady, one way or another.”

The last words were said with a steely tone. Their grandparents seemed to avoid Jace, Luke, and Joffrey, and they spoke of the three brothers even less. While Corlys’ thoughts were impossible to glean, Rhaenys always acted like Rhaena would inherit House Velaryon and run Driftmark, not her betrothed Lucerys. This was merely another rift in the House of the Dragon, but not as bad as the one between the so-called Blacks and the Greens.

After all, everyone had outright told her to avoid her cousins Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron, even more so than any other men. “Alicent Hightower’s sons could not be trusted to remain respectful towards ladies,” her father and Rhaenyra always said.

“Come now, show your grandmother what you’ve learned about running a household. Both Driftmark and the royal court at King’s Landing are not places you can sit steady without preparation,” she urged.

What followed was another painfully long lesson on intrigue, managing household finances, balancing ledgers, utilising servants, and nurturing ladies-in-waiting. Unlike most noble ladies, Rhaena and Baela were not raised or taught by a Septa, merely the maester and a governess that Daemon and Rhaenyra had selected. But the governess had been dismissed the moment they turned twelve, just as Rhaena continued delving deeper into the intricacies of running a household and keeping the ledgers. Naturally, her grandmother didn’t seem satisfied with such an arrangement and had started tutoring them in person from time to time.

“…dealing with merchants is always a tricky endeavour, but it’s not something you can always leave to the steward, for even the most leal man can succumb to greed if given the opportunity–” Their grandmother paused. As usual, Baela was beginning to doze off midway. “Baela!”

“Yes, grandmother, I’ve heard that a dozen times,” her sister muttered with a yawn. “Everyone will try to swindle and take advantage of you if you let them. Can’t we just… do something more interesting?”

“Gather yourself,” Rhaenys ordered mercilessly. “Weary is the head that wears the crown, and your burden will be heavier than most.”

“There’s still time,” Baela said with surprising boldness. “Uncle will live for many more years. Stepmother is one and thirty, too! I still don’t see why we need all these dreadfully dull lessons. You’re speaking as if I will sit on the Iron Throne and Rhaena will rule Driftmark.”

Rhaenys Targaryen’s face soured as if she had swallowed a lemon.

“It should have been your right if we lived in a fairer world.” The words were tinged with bitterness. “The lords of the realm put a crown on Viserys’ head, only for him to spit on their decision and place his daughter before his sons in the royal succession. They call me the Queen Who Never Was, but if I sat on the Iron Throne, the two of you would have been my heirs.”

“Not Jace, Luke, and Joffrey?” Rhaena asked curiously. “Or is there a grain of truth to those rumours?”

The chambers grew deathly quiet for a moment. Baela froze while her grandmother measured the two of them carefully. But Rhaena and her sister had heard the whispers. Jace, Luke, and Joffrey looked nothing like their parents and were the fruit of an affair with Ser Harwyn Strong.

“Your royal uncle has forbidden the mention of such slander,” Rhaenys said carefully. “But it’s not a secret that Princess Rhaenyra was not a maiden when she came to my son’s marriage bed. All of King’s Landing saw her give her favour to Ser Harwin Strong in the wedding tourney, while Laenor gave his to Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, and the gossip started from there. But it’s best you two forget about vile hearsay, for my grandsons are all dragonriders, and the king’s word is law.”

The last words were spoken sternly but were spiced with the barest tinge of anger. ‘She did not deny it,’ Rhaena noticed with a heavy heart. Baela had also noticed, judging by her grimace.

“Is it true, then?” Baela said. “That the king closes his eyes and ears to hard truths and problems when it’s convenient?”

Rhaena blinked in surprise; this did not sound like something her sister would say.

“Of course,” Rhaenys said, chuckling bitterly. “Every king does it. Viserys does it. My grandfather Jaehaerys did it, and so did his cruel uncle and the Conqueror himself.”

“But why don’t their advisors just… tell them?” her sister continued, face alight with curiosity.

“Prudent advice and honest words often fall on deaf ears, especially when unwanted; otherwise, Dorne would have been nought but ash and slagged glass,” the princess drawled. “Heed my words, Rhaena, Baela, and keep such thoughts to yourself. It’s a dangerous thing to challenge the Crown.”

The two of them took their grandmother’s advice and haven’t spoken of the matter since. They had heard what their strict stepmother did to those who spread such rumours a few years ago. They would have seen it if not for their father. The lucky servants simply disappeared, and the rest lost their tongues or were flogged to death for it. Nobody had dared speak of such matters again. The fate of the Silent Five was well-known on Dragonstone, too.

But perhaps it was just vile slander. Uncle Laenor’s sons might have looked nothing like him, but they all had dragons. Rhaena, however, had the looks but lacked the dragons.

Vermithor would have maimed her when she approached if not for her father, and the Bronze Fury was supposed to be used to the presence of humans. And Rhaena wasn’t brave enough to approach Silverwing, who was inseparable from the Bronze Fury or the wilder dragons. No matter how much she carried the pink dragon egg with its pretty black swirls, it didn’t hatch.

There was no way to hatch a dragon egg reliably, she knew. It was all about fate and luck, both things she seemed to be lacking in. What seemed to be easy for everyone else in her House was hard for her. Even her cousin Aegon’s children had hatched dragons, but Rhaena had failed, no matter what she tried. Putting it in the fire, bathing with it in a steaming hot bath, warming it with hot coals, sleeping with it every night and even singing to it–nothing worked. She remembered the little sickly Twilight that had hatched for her all those years ago, only to die within hours.

His feeble, wheezing coughs and lethargic crawling haunted her nights.

Perhaps it was fate. No matter how much her father claimed her time to ride a dragon would come, Rhaena suspected otherwise. She prayed every day and every night for the egg to hatch, but she knew prayer did not hatch dragon eggs. If anything, the gods cursed dragons and their riders after Maegor. Rheana would certainly not be the first from House Targaryen to be dragonless. In the end, she was a craven who preferred the comfort of safety over the risk of trying to claim a dragon again. Vermithor’s terrible roar still echoed in her nightmares and made her knees weak.

She had decided to live vicariously through her sister and cousins, watching them as they accompanied their dragons and soared in the skies. In truth, Rhaena was most jealous of her stepmother. Rhaenyra Targaryen had a dragon, yet she barely flew Syrax. The now plump yellow dragon spent most of the time chained to one of the courtyards and had an army of servants and dragonkeepers to cater to its every need—food, cleaning of its scales, and entertainment. It was doubtful if Syrax could hunt for itself anymore. In fact, Rhaena couldn’t remember the last time her stepmother had flown.

A part of her was afraid to disappoint her father and grandmother. Rhaena was the Blood of the Conqueror, the last surviving line of the Forty, and the skies were supposed to be her rightful domain. Alas, her fear of dragons was far greater than her fear of seeing her father’s disappointment. Even Arrax and Moondancer snapped warningly at Rhaena when she grew too close without Luke or Baela. Fangs the size of knives or even swords that could tear away limbs with a slight tug terrified her to no end. The dragons held little regard for those who were not their riders, she knew, for she had seen Caraxes lazily smash one of the dragonkeepers who had brought over cows to feed the Blood Wyrm.

It was the first time Rhaena had seen someone die, and the body that looked more minced meat than man was a bloody, gruesome sight she would never forget.

The days passed in a blur, but the mood in Dragonstone did not improve, even if Joffrey’s name day was nearing. Rhaena’s days were spent in Dragonstone’s gardens or her private quarters, reading poetry and music and occasionally attending Rhaenyra along with her stepmother’s ladies-in-waiting: Elinda Massey and the Strong sisters, Alyssane and Gwenyth. Lords and knights from the Crownlands visited Dragonstone often, both those sworn to Princess Rhaenyra and those whose fealty lay in King’s Landing.

“You’re terrible at this,” Baela noted after she barged into her room. The new pet monkey that Grandfather had gifted her for their name day was hanging over her shoulder. It still lacked a name, for her sister liked to take her time in naming things. “It sounds like the hungry cries of seagulls.”

Her sister had gone out again. Baela was clad in her leather breeches and silken doublet and had bound her chest underneath her clothes, looking more like a boy rather than a maiden.

“It takes time to master musical instruments,” Rhaena said, sighing as she placed the flute her sister had gifted her on the table.

“Maybe the egg will hatch if only to get away from that terrible noise,” her sister teased lightly. “Still, keep it up—but preferably when I’m not here.”

Rhaena loved her twin sister more than anything in the world, but at times, she resented Baela, if only slightly.

“Easy for you to say when you have Moondancer.” Feeling a bit irritated, Rhaena continued. “Still can’t find that friend of yours you made over at Ashcove?”

Baela’s face twisted with outrage.

“He fled, the craven,” she hissed out, her hackles raised like an angry cat.

The twins never held secrets from each other, but sometimes, Rhaena couldn’t understand what was going on in her sister’s head. Baela was too curious and took her sense of adventure and desire for freedom from their father.

“I don’t get what’s so interesting about a cunning fisherman who somehow saw through your poor disguise,” she countered mercilessly. “Have you forgotten your lessons? You’re a lady betrothed, the future Queen. Even if you weren’t, it’s not appropriate for you to consort with men of lesser birth, let alone unsupervised.”

Baela rolled her eyes.

“Your mouth opens, and grandmother’s words come out. Don’t be such a killjoy—it’s just some harmless Northern bastard. I have never seen someone so lazy and carefree. The sky can fall tomorrow, and I bet he won’t even blink and somehow try to continue fishing,” she muttered unhappily. “But I’m not venturing out to meet with him but to find Grey Ghost for you, little sister.”

Rhaena blinked before deadpanning, “Really?”

She theatrically grabbed her heart. “Ah, my own sister, my flesh and blood, does not appreciate the lengths I go to for her future!”

“Grey Ghost is little more than a tale,” Rhaena reminded, ruthlessly squashing the sliver of hope that appeared in her heart. “Even if the drake was real, it’s a wild one far more likely to attack me than anything else.”

“That is where you’re wrong.” A sly smile appeared on Baela’s face. “Grey Ghost is very much real! I saw it myself. A pretty drake with pearly horns and scales of soft grey like the morning mist.”

“How big is it?” Rhaena asked softly.

“A tad smaller than Vermax. Come now, don’t cower away–there’s nothing scary. Grey Ghost is a bit of a craven, you see. Err… he fled the moment he saw me.”

“…It’s going to be dark soon,” Rhaena said, glancing at the open shutter. As usual, Moondancer could be seen lazily flying over the battlements, but the young drake never left the castle grounds and roosted on one of the towers. The dragon was as eager to fly as the rider, but it was too small to bear Baela’s weight reliably yet, at the size of a pony. “Father forbade us to go riding in the dark.”

“I suppose it’s a tad dangerous,” her sister conceded. “But you won’t worm your way out of this tomorrow, then!”

Rhaena did, in fact, manage to worm her way out of it the next day and the day after that, too.

Three days. Baela Targaryen was nothing but persistent and managed to wear down every excuse Rhaena offered, eventually forcing her to surrender—if only to indulge her twin. She loved Baela for it, even if it irritated her to no end. Even their father and Jacaerys offered to accompany them but were dismissed with a sad pout, “You wouldn’t want to scare Grey Ghost away with your dragons, would you?”

“Fine, fine,” Daemon said. “Take Ser Alfred Broome with you, then.”

Even the busy Princess Rhaenyra approved, gracing Rhaena with a rare smile, “Claim a dragon, little Rhae. It’s your birthright.”

The expectations that settled on her shoulders made her feel small and inept. Dread pooled in her belly at the inevitable–she was going to disappoint everyone again.

On the fourth morning, her sister, who hated getting up early, had awakened before dawn to make sure Rhaena wouldn’t weasel her way out again. Finally accepting defeat, she rode out after her twin through the castle gates. Rhaena preferred the wheelhouse to the saddle, but she knew how to ride, and the rocky hills of Dragonstone didn’t allow for a wheelhouse. Her linen and leather riding dress made the experience almost comfortable, even if the shaking made her thighs hurt. As soon as they were out of sight from the castle, Baela gave her a grin that didn’t bode well and mouthed, ‘Meet me over at Daenys’ hill,’ Before she spurred her steed to the side, her cloak fluttering in the wind behind her as her pet monkey screeched in protest, while desperately clinging to it.

The Broome Knight was flustered but quick to react.

“Wait, Lady Baela, stop!”

“Catch me if you can, Ser!”

And just like that, Ser Alfred Broome urged his warhorse after her sister, disappearing over the roiling hills. As a man of nearly forty and a knight of over twenty years, he was one of the most senior knights in the service of Dragonstone, who had been here since before Princess Rhaenyra officially came to take her seat, with the pride and skill to go with it.

Rhaena shook her head. Her sister really loathed her minders, no matter how important they were. “Father keeps treating me like a small child,” she always said, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not a little child like Vis or Aegon to need a minder!”

A part of Rhaena considered just… going back to the castle. Not out of fear of punishment, their father was never stern, overly harsh, or strict. It was simple cowardice.

She hated the small shred of hope wiggling in her chest. It was not the hope that was scary, but the cruel disappointment that came when all her dreams and expectations crumbled. If another dragon rejected her, wouldn’t her father be disappointed? Wouldn’t that make Rhaena a bigger failure? What about her grandparents, whether dead or alive? Were Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen looking at her from the afterlife with disappointment?

Giving up was easy. It was like a honeyed apple cake–alluring and sweet, but you felt bloated with regret after devouring it all.

But that fleeting chance, that fleeting chance of soaring through the sky, halted her.

Hope was insidious like that.

Half an hour later, Baela came over at Daenys’ Hill, her face flush with excitement and her eyes alight with joy.

“That was fun!” she declared, her voice breathless.

“The poor knight is probably going to be chewed out by Father and Stepmother for it,” Rhaena noted coolly, trying to push down her apprehension. “We could still wait for Ser Alfred to catch up and go with him.”

“No way, sister! What if his mean face scares away Grey Ghost?”

That forced Rhaena to swallow any retort, and she cursed herself for daring to hope.

For nearly two hours they rode as the sun banished the morning chill, and the soft breeze dispersed the last vestiges of the mist clinging to the rocky shore on their right. Baela chatted happily, speaking of their betrothed, future marriage, and hawking. “It’s a pity Caraxes ate all the falcons Father brought. Do you think we can visit Grandmother at Driftmark for her name day and hawk together?”

“Perhaps,” Rhaena said absentmindedly. Her sister preferred the island House Velaryon ruled more than anything else, and for good reason. Driftmark was a far brighter island, its air clean of the subtle scent of sulphur and brimstone that clung to Dragonstone. Spicetown and Hull were flush with colours and full of interesting folk from both sides of the Narrow Sea, and didn’t stink nearly as bad as King’s Landing did. High Tide was bright and pretty, whereas Dragonstone was grim and gloomy. Rhaena could understand the pride of the dragonlords, but did all the ornaments in the castle have to be ugly, angry-looking draconic grotesques all the way to the pointy door handles?

She closed her eyes and tried to enjoy the breeze, trying not to think of anything. Her mare, Chestnut, was docile and easily followed the bubbly Baela and her palfrey, Grasschaser. For a moment, her worries over the gloom and dragons disappeared, and she enjoyed the kiss of the sea breeze and the soft caress of the summer sun. If only this could last forever.

But soon enough, her thighs began to ache from all the riding, and Rhaena reluctantly groaned, opening her eyes. She did not look forward to the way back–this trip would leave her sore for days.

She gazed at the blue sky and gasped. One bronze and one silver shade gleamed in the sunlight, circling the Dragonmont’s outskirts to their left.

“Why don’t we go back, Baela?” she offered weakly, the memory of Vermithor’s roar slamming into her gut like a battering ram.

Her sister followed her gaze and sighed. “Neither the Bronze Fury nor his mate ever went out of their way to attack others, Rhae. Stop being such a scaredy-cat. Come now, quick–we’re near.”

Rhaena reluctantly urged Chestnut to follow the galloping Grasschaser. They went around the fishing village of Ashcove, around the hills that were more rock than grass.

Her breath hitched as they made around yet another bend. She saw him then, on the very edge of the rocky beach, lazily lounging on a boulder battered by the waves, basking under the sunlight. A slender grey drake with ivory-white horns curled into a giant ball of scales and wings.

“I told you I saw it,” Baela smugly declared. Her monkey cautiously peeked over her sister’s shoulder, saw the dragon, and promptly hid in her crimson cloak.

A thousand thoughts raced through Rhaena’s mind as she struggled to find her words. Eventually, she gathered her wits. “…What now, sister?”

“Err–I don’t know?” Baela rubbed her neck awkwardly, chuckling weakly. “I never thought so far! Maybe we should try approaching?”

Rhaena groaned. This was going to end badly, she knew. But her hope had been reignited at the sight of the pretty drake.

“Perhaps you should approach,” her sister offered after a moment. “I’ll stay here and cheer you on.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause last time I approached Grey Ghost, he fled, Rhae. Go on, now–you can do it!”

“There’s no saddle-“

“Don’t overthink,” Baela huffed. “Just go. We can always get a saddle later, once he’s used to you.”

Her hands felt clammy with sweat. Her heart was thundering like a drum. Her throat was as dry as the deserts of Dorne. Rhaena swallowed, and just as she was about to dismount Chestnut, Grey Ghost shook himself lazily, his pearly eyes falling on the two sisters as he tilted his head. He squawked in indignation like some overgrown bird, turned around and gracefully took to the skies, heading further east.

Rhaena let out a shuddering sigh. Yet another failure, and before she had even tried. Relief felt like poison in her belly. But perhaps it was for the better.

“Quick,” Baela urged as she wheeled Grasschaser around. “Let’s follow him.”

Rhaena loved her sister, but she could be cruel. Still, she again followed with Chestnut to indulge Baela more than anything else. She had given up anyway. They rode by the rocky shore, weaving through boulders and rocky hills, yet surprisingly did not lose sight of Grey Ghost. His wings were spread wide like two snowy sails, catching her gaze from afar. The dragon swooped down to the water, plucking fish from the waves as it circled lazily, paying the twins no heed.

After what felt like an eternity to her sore hips, the drake finally descended again. Rhaena was tired, but it was Chestnut who had done most of the work, and the poor mare was already heaving from the exertion.

Her riding dress was soaked in sweat, the summer’s heat started to sting her face, and Rhaena felt both sore and in dire need of a hot bath.

Baela, however, kept rushing ahead relentlessly, spurring her steed to the shore where they had seen the dragon descend. “You!” Her sister’s angry shout made her cringe.

Rhaena’s mind went blank at the sight before her. A half-naked man was knee-deep in the foamy waves, carelessly casting his fishing line into the water. The dragon was eyeing a bucket on the shore, prowling forward like an overgrown, scaly shadowcat. Or at least it did until Baela’s cry made man and dragon turn around in unison.

The dragon growled unhappily, but the man leapt through the water at Grey Ghost, who quickly turned his tail and fled.

“Why did you chase it away, Snow?!” Baela jumped off her horse and stormed over, angrily stabbing a finger at the man’s very naked, very scarred, and very muscled chest. The small monkey also bravely climbed onto her shoulder, waving a fist angrily.

Rhaena cautiously inspected the man who could only be Jon Snow—the one who had irked her sister to no end.

The Northern bastard looked more like a dangerous rogue rather than a fisherman, and the sword on his belt looked more like a part of him than some accessory he picked up to seem threatening. He looked young, no older than five and twenty, and his face was far more handsome and rugged than any smallfolk could boast, only further enhanced by the faint claw scar over his left eye. And he was tall, over six feet, taller than her father and most other knights Rhaena had seen.

“Because the thief was trying to steal my fish,” was the clipped reply as he swatted away the offending finger, and the monkey was quick to hide in her sister’s cloak, the little craven. “A man has to eat, Princess.”

“You liar! You said you never saw Grey Ghost!”

“When you asked, I had yet to see him,” Jon Snow countered lazily as he carefully knelt down to check his bucket of fish. His voice was tight, almost throaty, with a far more pronounced Northern brogue than Rhaena had heard from some of the Manderly sailors.

“How?” Rhaena asked, cautiously coming over. The Northman was a head taller than her and had managed to scare away a dragon with a glare. “How could you lure Grey Ghost so easily?”

“Lure?” Jon Snow scoffed. His steely eyes were so intense that she couldn’t help but step back. “A dragon is not some fish to be lured, but I suppose I can tell you, Rhaena of Pentos. There’s a kraken hiding in the deep around Dragonstone, and it smacked the fish thief a few times, and Grey Ghost no longer dares venture deep in the waves to feast. He clings to the shore where the kraken can’t reach and doesn’t shy from pilfering fish where he finds it.”

“…But if there’s a kraken, surely some fisherman would have complained,” Baela tutted. “Making things up, are we, Master Snow?”

“The kraken doesn’t bother the boats, but you believe what you will,” the bastard said, shrugging, but there was a tinge of irritation to his words.

“You didn’t say how you lured Grey Ghost,” Rhaena said, sounding far more desperate than she intended.

“It’s not me who lured the drake, but the fish I caught.” He motioned to the bucket, shrugging. “It’s not some grand secret. Stick around for long enough with some fish, and he’ll eventually come over and try to steal some when you aren’t looking, the craven.”

Hope slithered back insidiously through her veins, gathering around her chest. She could tame Grey Ghost the way wild beasts could be tamed. And if he was too craven to attack humans, she would not be in danger.

Rhaena curtsied deeply, bowing her head. “Many thanks for the advice, Master Snow.”

“‘Tis fine. A bastard like me has no need for courtesies like the stuffy Southron lords,” he amiably waved her away. “You two should really not wander around without an escort. Or associate with fishermen like me, for that matter.”

“Nuh-uh, I still haven’t forgotten how you tried to avoid me,” Baela drawled, crossing her hands. “I figured out the answer to your question!”

“Hoh?” Jon Snow’s lips curled. “Let us hear it then.”

“Well.” Her sister paused awkwardly, glancing at the wolf-head pommel on the man’s hip. “Swords are different from axes and maces and spears ’cause forging something so long requires high skill in smithing and good quality steel. More metal, too! At the start, only lords and kings could afford them, and most swords only had their edge or tip forged from castle-forged steel!”

Rhaena groaned inwardly. Why wasn’t she surprised her stubborn sister had asked some unknown bastard from the North for sword lessons?

“While your words are not false, you still do not understand the sword one bit,” the Northern bastard said dismissively.

“Liar!” Baela exploded. “You just don’t want to teach me, admit it!”

“It’s true that I have no desire to teach a spoiled brat and get swept into the troublesome affairs of the House of the Dragon,” he admitted boldly, stunning both sisters. “I might be a bastard, but I am a man of my word. If your answer had been satisfactory, I would have swallowed my apprehension and taught you how to wield a blade, consequences be damned.”

“Tell me, then,” her sister challenged, her tone turning sly. “Tell me what’s so special about swords. Or perhaps you are full of hot air and don’t know either!”

Jon Snow snorted. “There’s no need to try to provoke me, girl. I would have told you just as easily had you merely asked. So, open your ears wide and listen well. It’s not some grand secret, in the end, but your lack of understanding is blatant. A spear is a tool for hunting; even the wildlings beyond the Wall and the savages of Sothoryos use it to hunt for their next meal. Axes were first made to chop wood. Hammers to break away stones or hammer things in the ground, and later to hammer heated metal into shape.”

His eyes hardened into two harsh orbs of steel, making Rhaela feel small and insignificant in the same way that facing Vermithor had made her.

“The sword…” he rolled the word around his tongue as if to taste it. For a heartbeat, he looked nostalgic. “The sword is a tool men created purely for killing other men. It’s the culmination, the apex of the intent to slay your fellow man, and it serves no nobler purpose than meting out death.”

Baela sighed, looking uncharacteristically solemn, like in the rare cases her stepmother had scolded her fiercely. “I understand now.”

“You don’t,” Jon said with a snort. “You will only understand it when you see men’s bellies sliced open with steaming hot guts spilling out, their heads rolling on the ground, while everyone is shouting in victory or wailing in despair as they struggle for their lives. When hot blood squirts in your eyes as you chop off your first head, you might understand. To see the light of a man dwindle from his eyes as you end his life early. To wield a sword is to prepare to kill and be killed by the sword. It’s not some toy to be swung around on a whim!”

The cold tone made both of them flinch—she almost felt the temperature dropping as if a cold gale had come over from the North. Baela looked ready to cry, and Rhaena got angry.

“Mind your manners, Master Snow,” she hissed out. “A bastard like you has no right to speak like this to his betters!”

Jon Snow just guffawed as if he had heard the biggest jest in his life. A moment later, he schooled himself and threateningly stepped forward, making her all the more aware she was a whole head shorter than the Northman. “And what are you going to do about it, girlie? Tattle on your daddy that the bastard you sneaked out to see was mean?”

At that moment, Rhaena really wished they hadn’t abandoned Ser Alfred Broome. She wasn’t really sure if the knight could defeat this savage-looking Northman, even if he were half-naked.

Jon Snow could do whatever he wished with Rhaena and her sister, and the two of them had no means to resist beyond running away. But the horses were over two dozen yards away, grazing at the sparse grass where the beach met the rocky hill. The two of them were at his mercy, she realised. Worse, no laws, courtesies, or status could protect them if Jon Snow decided to harm them there and then.

“If you harm us here, you will be hunted down like a dog and killed!” Rhaena declared loudly, but the squeak in her voice betrayed her nervousness

“You misunderstand. I have no intention of harming the two of you,” he said, lazily making a shooing motion as if he were chasing away a swarm of flies. “In fact, I’d rather you let me fish in peace. It’s tiring to deal with catty highborn girls who are far more trouble than they’re worth.”

Rhaena’s mind came to a screeching halt. This was the first time someone had not only ignored her but dismissed her so… brazenly. Her status as a Prince’s daughter and a beautiful maiden had won her the admiration, respect, and adoration of many. The absence of all that confused her—it was as if the Northern bastard truly didn’t consider it important. It took her a few heartbeats to gather her wits.

“Baela will be the future queen,” she said, trying to ignore the surprising amount of irritation that was swelling in her chest. “She can make your life hell anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms–”

“The two of you are making my life hell with your presence alone already.” His voice thickened with annoyance. “Are you not betrothed to the Crown Princess’ sons? What if your future husbands find out you’ve been visiting some half-naked man on your lonesome? Wouldn’t they come and try to kill me to defend your honour and good name, regardless of what happened?”

So all those sharp words were his attempts to… keep himself out of trouble? Her anger drained away as quickly as Baela was busy looking at her boots, suddenly finding them more interesting than everything else.

“Oh,” Rhaena said, grimacing inwardly. She hastily curtsied. “Our apologies, Master Snow.”

“At least one of you has manners,” he said, rubbing his face tiredly. “Just… go away, Rhaena and Baela Targaryen. The two of us live in different worlds, so do me a favour and forget I exist.” He grew solemn, then. “You should go back to your castle. And be careful on your way back, you two—there are suspicious men afoot.”

“Like yourself?” Baela retorted.

“Worse,” was the annoying reply.

Just like that, Jon Snow grabbed the harpoon lying by the bucket and strolled into the foamy waves until he found a spot to his liking and stilled, unmoving like a statue, with the harpoon ready to strike like a viper.

Rhaena’s gaze lingered on his lean but muscled back–there were scars there too, some jagged ones looked to be from the claws of some big beast, while others from swords and spears. How much had he fought to earn so many scars and survive at such a young age?

What made such a warrior give up the sword and take to a life of fishing? Weren’t men supposed to chase honour and glory? Spread their name far and wide and have their deeds echo in every corner of the realm?

The monkey climbed back to Baela’s shoulder and waved a small fist at Jon Snow’s still figure while Baela shook her head.

“Let’s leave,” she said, her voice subdued.

For all of her boldness and daring, her sister was always very caring–something she inherited from their mother, according to their father.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Rhaena said as they made their way to their horses, eagerly sweeping clean the green stalks growing through the rocky hillside. “At least we did see Grey Ghost, and he’s magnificent.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Baela’s face. “You’re right. Before this, I would never have considered grey a pretty colour. Perhaps we can come around here with a bucket of fish and see if we can lure the drake over.”

Her face flushed red when an angry grumble echoed from her stomach.

“Let’s hurry back to Dragonstone for a hot roast, then,” Rhaena urged as they hastily mounted their horses and spurred them westward. The scenery around them shifted quickly, as exhaustion finally set in, and the soreness in her legs started to ache even worse than before.

All the excitement from earlier was too much for her.

Just as her mind began to wander over what the cooks prepared for dinner, five cloaked figures blocked their way with spears in hand. Their horses reared up, and Rhaena struggled to stay on the saddle and calm Chestnut down.

Before they could do anything, two of the cloaked figures grabbed their reins, and Rhaena and Baela were promptly pulled off the horses.

“What are you doing?” Baela shrieked. “Let us go!”

The monkey tried to bite one of the man’s hands and was smacked away by a gloved fist, falling to the ground unmoving.

“Our Father is Prince Daemon Targaryen-“

“They know,” an older boy walked over, looking at them with no small amount of gloating under a mop of sandy blonde hair. “It’s because you’re the Rogue Prince’s daughters that they’re taking you two. Don’t resist, you are being kidnapped!”

Baela wept angrily as her gaze didn’t move from her monkey’s corpse. While Rhaena hiccuped fearfully, unsure of what to do.

The hoods fell away, revealing five men with bald heads, four with purple eyes and the fifth with deep blue. All of them had blonde eyebrows, and their faces were familiar. But the men made no sound at all. Their faces showed a trace of hesitance, but it quickly melted away.

These were not mere brigands. Well-polished coats of plates and brigandines peeked from underneath their cloaks.

“You… vile beasts,” Rhaena hissed out, feeling as helpless as she was angry. “Uncle Viserys is the king, and the Sea Snake himself is our grandfather–you will regret this!”

“It’s nothing personal,” the squire was again the one to respond. “But you’re the ones who will pay for the king’s betrayal and Lord Corlys’ treachery. I suggest you two stop struggling unless you want to be harmed.”

Dread pooled in her belly as Rhaena took a better look at her kidnapper’s faces. He looked almost like her grandfather, if thirty years younger, and the other four all looked alike. She had seen the five of them many times before on Driftmark, even if they were hard to recognise with their heads shaved. This was Ser Rhogar Velaryon, her cousin, and the other four were his brothers. And they remained silent because Viserys Targaryen had taken their tongues for calling Rhaenyra’s sons bastards.

These were the men who had wanted to claim Driftmark. Baela had reached a similar realisation, judging by the fright in her eyes.

The squire came over to take the reins from the horses, and two of the knights nodded to each other and headed in the direction Baela and Rhaena had come from, swords drawn.

“Where are they going?” Baela sobbed out.

“To deal with that annoying fisherman, of course,” the squire said, snorting dismissively. “Witnesses have to be disposed of to buy us more time.”

“Buy more time for what?” Rhaena echoed, yelping in pain as a coifed hand smacked her side.

The boy regarded her with a mocking smile and dipped his head, but his next words made her spine crawl. “The wedding, of course!”