6.The Fisherman’s Wrath

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

Jon Snow

The sky was dotted by a veil of torn-up clouds as if heralding the bloody savageness that would take hold of the Seven Kingdoms soon. It certainly heralded Jon Snow’s impending predicament.

Some days, it felt as if the gods themselves were mocking him. His desire for peace and solitude in this time, which was not his own, felt so strangely impossible, as if to spite his ambition to become a fisherman.

This was not his fight.

This was not his time.

But the two knights heading his way clearly thought otherwise. Jon did not need to read their minds; he could guess what they were thinking from one peek into Saltbeak’s eyes, which gave him a full view of the shore from above. For the Silent Five, a measly fisherman was merely a witness they needed to be rid of.

But if they wanted to get rid of Jon, they should have come all at once, not merely sent two. He was torn by indecision–they were still a distance away, giving Jon time to contemplate his options.

He could simply relocate or outright retreat, sending them on a merry chase. With eyes in the sky, Jon could probably evade them indefinitely. He had no quarrel with the mute Velaryons, and this was not his time; this was not a battle he was duty-bound to fight, so there was no shame in retreat. Alas, they knew where Jon lived. His house, what little wealth he had, and his small household were there and could not be easily relocated. He would not give those up for some overproud Southron knights.

And so, Jon’s heart grew heavy when he realised his hand was forced.

He had to fight.

As much as he wanted to flee and leave everything behind, Jon was too proud. While the idea of leaving Dragonstone behind was something he had toyed with before, he would do it on his own terms, not because his hand was forced. After being unburdened by the shadow of endless war and struggle, the thought of killing again made him… angry. The possible consequences weighed upon his mind like the shadow of the Others. If he did this, his life of peace would likely end and could very well be ruined for good. He contemplated leaving again for a moment, only to dismiss the matter. If Jon simply left now, wouldn’t he be tempted to retreat each time he met a challenge?

This was not his fight. This was not his problem. But if those knights wanted to make it such, then Jon Snow would oblige them just this once. He would be doing this for himself, not because of the two wayward Targaryen girls who were probably feeling as if their world was crumbling apart. ‘They will live,’ Jon thought callously. The Rogue Prince’s daughters were too valuable to harm or kill, whether as a hostage or something else. Even a glance from above told him that they had been spared any immediate indignities, which meant the Silent Five had a plan in motion of the sort that didn’t involve murder or rapine.

He had warned them, too… so why did Jon feel that irritation raking at his belly?

Couldn’t those fools have just let him be?! If they had, he would have simply closed his eyes and pretended he had seen nothing about the Targaryen twins’ kidnapping.

The fiery presence in his mind was eager for fire and blood, making him grimace in pain as he ignored a fish biting on his line.

‘No, Vermithor. I can fight my own battles, damn you,’ he hissed out in his mind. The Bronze Fury, thankfully, decided to listen, but even that was done reluctantly. The dragon was an old and cunning thing with an intelligence to match a man grown, if far more whimsical and primal.

Being on the receiving end of the skinchanging bond was a novel and frankly unpleasant experience, for Vermithor had no qualms about the boundaries of men. While the dragon could not control Jon’s body, he could peek through his eyes and share his senses if he put his mind to it. It was aggravating, especially for a skinchanger who was used to being the master of not only his mind but of others. It was similar to a fledgling skinchanging bond, where the man had just connected to a beast, but it worked both ways. However, Jon had no desire to delve into the mind or body of the dragon; the behemoth felt like a titanic ball of fire that would sear through his consciousness.

A part of Jon suspected he would survive the experience, but he would rather not risk it. If he slipped into Vermithor’s mind, the connection would be all the more real. It would acknowledge the bond Jon refused to accept, let alone announce to the world. Worse, such acceptance might see the free-spirited Vermithor gravitate to his side. For good or bad, Jon’s desire to ignore the bond had left the proud dragon as an aloof observer.

It was wrong, Jon knew. Things were not supposed to happen this way. A dragonseed by the name of Hugh the Hammer was supposed to mount the Conciliator’s dragon when the time of the Red Sowing came. Then, he was bound to fight in the Dance of Dragons, over the Gullet against the Triarchy’s fleet, and above Tumbleton against the Reachmen and Westerlanders, where Hugh the Hammer and Vermithor would eventually perish in a pointless battle during the senseless war. But it would no longer happen, for the future was irreversibly changed.

Even Jon knew a dragon could not have two riders at the same time. It was unheard of. And no matter how much he wanted to lie to himself, Jon knew deep down that the Bronze Fury had chosen him as his rider and would accept no other unless Jon died. And Jon had no plans of dying anytime soon.

In these perilous times, the potential status of a nameless dragonlord with no backing was a burden, not a boon. Worse, he couldn’t afford to feed the winged behemoth. The loss of one goat already made him feel pain, and Jon didn’t even want to imagine the fortune it would take to feed a dragon for a whole year. Such a fortune would require him to hold vast estates, own herds of cattle, and be a vassal if not a lord in all but name.

These were all things Jon had no desire to do. Aegon or Rhaenyra Targaryen, Prince Daemon or Aemond–it was all the same to him. Overproud royals who chased after the wind out of pride, greed, and ambition set to an inevitable clash by the misguided well-wishes of one man: Viserys Targaryen.

Perhaps Jon Snow was the fool here. Every action has consequences, like a stone dropped in a still pond. The stone was now cast, and he could not avoid the ripples, regardless of what he did. But the warrior in him had grown too proud to simply turn away from a fight that had found him.

Sighing, Jon Snow exhaled slowly and started stretching away any stiffness from his body as the two knights grew closer. In a minute, they would be here.

His hand reached for Skyfall’s hilt but paused. No, drawing his Valyrian Steel sword would be damning, and these foes could be dispatched without it. They didn’t deserve it, nor did they deserve a fair fight, for they were using skullduggery and deception. Perhaps it was time they reaped what they had sown. Snorting, a plan formed in Jon’s mind as he busied himself while keeping an eye on the approaching knights through Shelly’s eyes. The proud mutes had not even thought to check the sky. Worse, they had not brought helmets, probably because they would be too conspicuous and attract attention.

After all, why wear a helmet in the open with no war or brigands nearby? To deal with a lone fisherman? To attract the attention of the Targaryens that they dearly wished to avoid? Ringmail and padded jackets could be hidden underneath a cloak, but angular helmets would stand out like a sore thumb.

Usually, they would be right, for the nearest knight resided behind the walls of Dragonstone, leagues from here.

At least, the Velaryon knights had the cunning to approach silently, with swords drawn, as Jon gazed forward on the fishing line, lying to rest on a rock. The two of them were dangerous; their gait and the way they held their sword spoke of years of experience. It wasn’t skill or pride picked from tourneys; they had probably participated in the War of the Stepstones under the banner of their uncle, the Sea Snake, and had been properly bloodied.

A pity they underestimated him. His fingers settled on the rough linen wrap of the hilt belonging to the tourney sword. It was a hefty weapon by choice after the previous tourney had bent, too thick and heavy to wield in one hand with ease. With its blunted edges, it could even double as a steel bludgeon. It was perfect, despite Hoth the Smith exasperatingly claiming otherwise. Then, his hand grabbed his other preparation.

When they were almost ten yards away, Jon spun around, bursting into motion. An egg-sized stone he had picked earlier flew, smacking a surprised knight in the face. As the man fell like a bag of turnips, the tourney sword’s tip flicked sand and dirt at the other foe’s face as Jon lunged forth. A hefty blow disarmed the half-blinded man, and another measured smack against his head followed, knocking him out cold.

They were skilled knights, all things considered. But they had not expected a half-naked fisherman to put up any resistance, let alone ambush them in turn. ‘Hubris is oft deadly,’ Jon mused inwardly. While the Velaryon knights could never have known he was a skinchanger who had seen them from afar, the fight might have had a different conclusion if they had approached with their shields in hand. But the heater shields were strapped to their backs. It would have certainly been far more dangerous. After hesitating for a heartbeat, Jon dragged the fallen knights out of the shallow waves lest they drown. But the irritation brewing in his belly had yet to be appeased. The hefty tourney blade lashed out, striking at their elbows, wrists, knees, and ankles. It struck out again and again, shattering the joints beyond any maester’s ability to heal, turning the mutes into proper cripples.

The pain awakened them, and the fallen knights were torn between moaning piteously in pain and glaring hatefully at Jon while twitching and writhing. The agony of a broken limb could hardly compare to when your joint was shattered like this. Jon had seen it happen a few times too many during the tail-end of the War of the Five Kings.

“Don’t blame me, Sers,” Jon softly spoke. “It would not have come to this if you had not come to me with wicked intent. Where is your pride as knights to ambush a hapless fisherman who just wants to be left alone? Is not pride the deadliest of your Seven Sins?”

They only glared at him harder. If they had their tongues still, the two would have doubtlessly been cursing him down to the seventh generation. Perhaps Jon was being overly dramatic–he wasn’t exactly a run-of-the-mill fisherman. But he was a generous man, for his initial strikes had been measured to knock them out, not break their head or snap their necks. While their heads were bruised blue, the knights would probably suffer a heavy headache for days, and they would live.

Alas, he knew all too well that things would not end here.

The two fallen men had three brothers who waited for their return. Sighing, Jon stepped onto the writhing knight to stop him from struggling and unstrapped the heater shield from his back. It was a fine shield rimmed with dark iron, and the boss at the centre was made out of castle-forged steel—a truly expensive shield, probably bought by throwing too much gold at some ambitious shieldmaker.

The leather lining on both sides was painted in unassuming dark brown, but Jon could tell it was very good leather. Judging by the weight and the feel as he knocked on it, the shield was made of the finest quality hickory and would survive a lot more punishment than anything aside from ironwood.

“I’ll use it well against your brothers,” he promised as he headed from whence the knights had come. The Silent Five could have chosen another day or place to move. Why did they have to involve Jon in it?

Alas, the die was cast, and he could only follow through.

A glance through Shelly’s eyes told him the captured twin maidens and the other Velaryons were still waiting half a league from here. Waiting for brothers who will never return.

Gods, this was going to be troublesome. Worse, he could feel Vermithor’s amusement rumbling through his mind. The damned dragon was spectating this as if it were some grand mummer farce. This was his life now, a bastard fallen out of time, trying to keep his head down to the amusement of a flying, fire-breathing behemoth that could melt castles and roast armies.

The gods were surely laughing at Jon Snow. Was this a punishment for his inability to eke out a proper victory against the Others?

Jon shook his head and focused on the task ahead. A plan to deal with the other three knights had already formed in his head. With the three of them waiting, they would surely be more vigilant than their unfortunate brothers.

The weight of the tourney blade in his right hand felt like an anchor pulling him down. Alas, the shield was too useful to be discarded, and while heavy, he could swing the sword with one hand after training with it for weeks.

Jon prowled along the shore, weaving between the black rocky ridges for cover as he moved parallel to the road. He halted behind a boulder thirty yards from the group waiting in a small valley between two rocky hills. The location was perfect for an ambush–after all, the Velaryons had picked it precisely for that purpose, and it would serve Jon in turn. Slipping into the mind of Shelly and Saltbeak, he dove. Shelly missed, but Saltbeak struck the bull’s eye, squirting a bout of faeces right on top of the leading knight’s face, hitting him square in the eye.

The squire howled in laughter, and he could even hear the tinkling titters of Rhaena and Baela from behind his hiding place. Unsurprisingly, the knight grew a dangerous shade of red in rage, but a mute could only wave his fist at the circling pelicans above, unable to do anything without a bow or a sling. Waving, he excused himself and angrily rushed towards the sea to wash off the stain.

The proud and half-blind fool didn’t even notice Jon as he stumbled past his hiding point, focusing on the beating of the waves.

The Northern bastard inched closer to the knight, kneeling in the waves as he splashed his face with seawater.

The proud knight had instinctively chosen a place where his brothers wouldn’t watch him wash the faeces off, for it would be humiliating, making Jon’s task far easier. If the gods were laughing at him, they surely had a quarrel with House Velaryon.

The tourney blade silently cleaved through the air.

Bonk!

It was the satisfying blunt echo of steel meeting flesh and bone with just the right force to rock a man’s head without breaking anything, and even Vermithor seemed to agree. Naturally, the knight slumped into the water, and Jon barely caught him before he could splash and possibly alert his brothers. Thankfully, none of his companions came over to check—the beating of waves had hungrily devoured all the noise he had made. Jon silently and carefully dragged the knocked-out man away from the sea.

Now, it was two versus one. Three, if he counted the squire who was busy with the horses. Far more manageable odds. But Jon was still feeling too irritated to fight fairly. But then again, he was merely a nameless, homeless fisherman, so why would he care about fairness when the other party didn’t? He took his time to pick yet another suitable rock. Within a few moments, he found a round one that fit perfectly in his palm. The gods definitely didn’t favour the Velaryon brothers today.

Truly, there was a beauty in the simplicity of throwing rocks. It didn’t take much practice to master, but once you got the hang of it, it was no less dangerous than hurling javelins or axes to those without full armour. Throwing a pebble the size of a pigeon’s egg could be lethal if it struck true. Larger ones could knock out a knight even with a helmet, or at least daze them for a good while.

Alas, there was no time to waste admiring the utility of rocks.

He let go of the shield and slipped his mind into the pelicans again. The last two Velaryon knights were still off-guard, looking more amused than vigilant at their brother’s misfortune, unaware of their looming predicament. Baela and Rhaena had their mouths bound, looking torn between laughter and weeping more than anything else. The squire was busy with the horses and wheezed with amusement while trying to seem respectful and failing miserably.

Jon leapt into the small valley, rushing at the knights. As a testament to their abilities, they instantly grew tense as Jon appeared, but it was too late. He had already hurled the round rock, smacking the fourth brother square between the eyes. The last one hastily drew his sword, face grim, but Saltbeak and Shelly descended from above, pecking at his face with their giant beaks. Jon, using the distraction, was already upon the knight, swinging with all his strength at the man’s knee. The blade struck true, and the knight crumbled on the ground as his good leg was unable to keep him afoot, but the tourney sword continued striking repeatedly.

The chainmail and padded jacket underneath did little to shield the man’s joints from Jon’s brutality. By the time he had stopped, the valley had grown silent. Rhaena and Baela were wide-eyed as they looked at him as if they had seen a ghost. The pompous squire was shivering, arming sword drawn, but he looked ready to bolt.

“W-Who are you?!” He roared out, but his shaking legs betrayed him.

“A really, really irritated fisherman,” Jon replied dryly as he moved onto the first fallen knight and started mercilessly shattering his joints. He kept an eye on the poor squire who seemed as pale as a ghost but couldn’t muster the courage to attack.

Jon lunged forward before the squire could run and swatted his sword away. The next strike landed on his knees. The young man was squealing like a pig to the slaughter as he attempted to shield himself with his hands, so Jon knocked him out and proceeded to cripple him the same way his knightly masters were.

What was his name again? Lennard–something. It didn’t matter. In the end, nothing really mattered. The world would end in fire less than two centuries from now.

For a moment, the only thing that could be heard in the clearing was the fearful neighing of the mares who had yet to escape by some small miracle. Sighing, Jon Snow picked up the arming sword and approached the quivering twins, who were gazing at him fearfully with those large purple eyes of theirs. This mishap could have been avoided if they hadn’t been so nosy or daring.

“Don’t move,” he grunted, still feeling irked as he unceremoniously sliced the ropes binding their hands and removed the gags covering their mouths. “I warned you two that there were dangerous folk slithering around and about.”

The two looked understandably frightened at the earlier show of unadulterated violence, and Jon almost felt sorry for them. Almost. Why were the two daughters of a Prince of the Realm and a dragonlord to boot frolicking around the wilderness without a guard? Most definitely because they had escaped their escort or minder.

In the end, they were strangers he would hopefully never meet again. But the daunting experience was surely nerve-wracking for the pair, as they still looked frightened out of their wits. The silence allowed him to take a proper look at Rhaena and Baela Targaryen. They were at that awkward stage where they were too old to be called a girl but too ungainly and lacking in grace to be considered a woman grown.

Rhaena, the twin with the longer hair, reminded him far too much of an older version of Sansa, even with the glistening purple eyes and the silver-gold locks that cascaded down her shoulders. Baela was like Arya, if far more polished and reasonable. They looked nothing like his sisters, though. The blood of Old Valyria was a sight to behold, with pale, unblemished skin, delicate faces that almost made them look like unnaturally pretty dolls and lithe bodies that turned many a man’s head.

The spell was broken, then, for Rhaena finally shook off her shock and was the first to speak.

“…Thank you for the aid, Ser Snow,” she said, voice hoarse as she did a clumsy curtsy. But her limbs were still shaky, and she looked like a lamb ready to bolt away, and now her seemingly innocent eyes were full of apprehension and a sliver of fear. Good, perhaps she would learn something from this ordeal.

“I’m not a knight,” Jon corrected, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Rhaena’s confusion was amusing as she struggled to figure out how to address him politely. He could almost read her mind by the expression on her face—he was clearly a warrior, not exactly lowborn, not highborn, and held no titles.

“Lord Snow,” she decided eventually, but the dainty hand tugging on the hem of her sleeve spoke of her nervousness. He swallowed a chuckle; even two hundred years earlier, they still called him Lord Snow. “Sers Rhogar and Malentine wanted to wed us and try to use us to claim Vermithor and Silverwing, or at least sneak into their lairs and steal some dragon eggs. We are grateful for your—”

“I didn’t do it for you two. Honestly, I don’t even care to know why.”

Baela blinked at him with confusion.

“B-But, you just… beat them up!?” She exclaimed, her voice torn between disbelief and outrage. “How can you not care after killing them?”

“They wanted to kill me, so I merely returned the favour,” he said evenly.

“As simple as that?”

“What, do you expect me to sit there while they chop me up into bits and pieces?” Jon snorted, and the twins wilted under his glare. “Besides, they’re not dead, merely knocked out or wishing they had died instead. See, they’re still breathing. Consider yourself lucky. I wouldn’t have known the two of you were even in danger if the fools had not sought to dispose of me. In fact, I would have probably not even cared.”

“But, we’re the daughters of—”

“The infamous Rogue Prince, yes, my memory has sadly not dulled enough to forget. Look, Rhaena. I am not some seer that can peer into the future or see behind my back,” he lied shamelessly. “Saving you was merely a coincidence. I want to be left out of the squabbles of powerful figures like your kinsmen. A little man like me will be squashed like a cockroach in a fight between dragons, and nobody would even mourn me should I die.”

“You’re speaking as if our father won’t reward you for saving us,” Rhaena said, eyeing him strangely. “While many slander his character, I promise you he is a man of honour and loves us dearly and won’t shortchange you.”

“Perhaps,” Jon allowed indolently. They were still young and green, ignorant of the cruelty and pettiness nobility was more than capable of. “Ah, a reward sounds good, but can I bear it? Let me ask you this–is your grandfather a man known for his forgiveness and humility?”

Baela rolled her eyes. “Of course not. The Sea Snake is the wealthiest lord in the Realm and is proud of his success; why would he act with false modesty like some beggar? What are you insinuating, Snow?”

Pride? Oh, Jon Snow knew everything about pride. He had seen it in every corner of the realm; he had fought and dealt with more prideful lords and knights than he could count, for humans were prideful creatures. Even Jon was not free of the sin of pride.

Would the twins even understand that pride and arrogance were two sides of the same coin, separated by an impossibly thin line?

“If a man so proud and ambitious like Corlys Velaryon heard his five nephews were crippled by a no-name Northern bastard, what would he do?”

“Thank you for saving his granddaughters,” Rhaena proclaimed, her voice thick with conviction. “Grandfather loves us!”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Jon chuckled with amusement. “But it’s not me saving you the problem, but whom I saved you from. If his nephews acted out without his order, that would make him look weak. Worse, it would make him look incompetent that they were beaten so handily by me. After all, they are knights and nobles of the realm, whereas I’m merely a bastard without any backing who follows the wrong gods. I might as well be a hapless smallfolk. Tell me, do you know the punishment for assaulting a noble of the realm?”

The twins were taken aback at his outburst.

“Punishment? Why are you speaking as if you’re some common brigand? Surely, you did nothing wrong by saving us!” Baela protested stubbornly.

“The lightest punishment for a smallfolk who struck a nobleman or a knight is flogging,” Jon explained patiently. “Perhaps I could plead for justice, but I landed plenty of blows and crippled five men of high birth just now, perhaps six, considering the squire held himself with the arrogance of someone born in silk and gold. I imagine Corlys Velaryon will be livid with this affair, and the only person he could vent his anger on is me. If I am lucky, I will be flogged. If not, I might lose my hand or head.”

“Justice on Dragonstone is dispensed only under the command and purview of Princess Rhaenyra,” Rhaena spoke, but her tone was far more hesitant now. “She loves us too and will not allow such a thing. You’ll see!”

The statement would have been significantly more convincing if she hadn’t hesitated slightly.

“Perhaps Princess Rhaenyra is a fair and just ruler,” Jon conceded with a snort. He almost regretted wrecking those Velaryons. Perhaps Maegor with Teats would treat him justly, ignoring how and why her good daughters were suspiciously friendly and close to a half-naked Northern bastard.

As if. The twins were almost adorable in their naivete, but he felt tired of their hopeful delusions.

“Don’t worry, Lord Snow. We’ll tell Grandfather and Father what happened, and they won’t let you come to harm.”

Perhaps they would have been right if Jon Snow had had a backing. Or if he bowed his head, apologised, and swore his sword to someone of import. But warriors without a master were treated no better than brigands, even by ordinary noblemen, let alone the proud dragonlords who ruled the skies above everyone else.

“Sure, sure.”

Sighing, Jon Snow turned around.

“Where are you going?” Baela’s mutinous voice echoed behind him.

“I have to finish what I started,” Jon drawled as he slung the tourney blade over his shoulder. “It wouldn’t do to leave one brother with his limbs intact–the other four would feel lonely, resentful even.”

The two sets of footsteps shadowed behind him as Jon made his way to the shore where the third knight lay unconscious as the waves licked at his now-damp boots. The tourney blade soared through the air, and the sound of joints breaking and pained moans mingled with the song of the sea.

Rhaena and Baela winced heavily at the sight.

“Did you have to do this… show of brutality?” Rhaena asked meekly, eyeing the tourney blade as if it were a viper that would lunge forth and bite her.

For half a heartbeat, Jon was tempted to try to cover this up. He could still toss the corpses into the sea. Their armour alone would make them sink like a rock, and they would never be found again as the eels and fish scoured their flesh clean in a matter of days. But Baela and Rhaena were innocent and unlikely to keep quiet forever. Sooner or later, questions would be asked.

Perhaps he could try and extract a vow of silence from them, but there was no guarantee that their father wouldn’t notice something was wrong and investigate anyway, doubly more so that they had probably sneaked away from their minder. And lies had their way of crumbling apart under scrutiny, as he had discovered with the headman.

In the end, Jon decided to let things run their course. He would leave the lies and deceptions to those who revelled in them.

“As much as they had to kill an innocent fisherman,” Jon offered curtly as he dragged the crippled knight further from the waves, lest the tide took him. It would probably be troublesome down the line, but gods, he was beyond the point of caring. In fact, beating those knights up had made him feel strangely light for the first time in a while. “Aren’t the two of you going to leave now?”

“What?” Baela tilted her head. “You should escort us back to the castle, Lord Snow. It’s only proper after saving us!”

“I’m busy—the fish won’t catch itself. Go back on your own.”

“Come on,” she whinged, piteously blinking at him, only stomping her foot on the ground in frustration when he smirked at her. “Ugh, you heartless brute!”

Jon glared at the now-empty bucket of fish. In hindsight, he should have realised that the scaly thief wouldn’t have missed this golden opportunity. While Grey Ghost had learned not to approach Jon, he either did not care or knew not about the concept of property.

It would take at least an hour for the two Targaryen twins to return to Dragonstone. More, if the horses were exhausted or the dainty ladies didn’t endure the quick pace. Alas, it was not enough time to refill his bucket the proper way. Pushing down his irritation, Jon spent the next ten minutes skewering two eels and a drum as large as his forearm with the harpoon. The eels ended up in Shelly and Saltbeak’s eager gullets as a reward for their hefty assistance, and the drumfish would be his dinner. It was no fun to fish in such a brutish and bloody way, but needs must.

The pained groans of the two Velaryon knights only darkened his mood further. Jon was tempted to toss them into the sea just to shut them up, but murdering the crippled duo would leave a bad taste on his tongue. If only the fools had minded their own business like honest knights. If only Daemon’s daughters had more sense than they had daring. Alas, what-ifs were as fleeting as the wind.

Sighing yet another time, Jon headed back home. Nettles and Aethan must have sensed something was wrong by his expression and quickly gathered around him as soon as he entered his house.

“The two of you should leave,” he said after Aethan finished cleaning the drumfish and put it to roast over the crackling stove.

“Why?” Nettles asked suspiciously. “Are you tired of our services, Snow?”

“Nay, even if your farmwork can use much improvement,” Jon shot back, earning himself a scowl. “It seems that the gods have decided to test my resolve and patience.”

“So, you’ve fallen into some trouble, then?” Aethan realised, his weathered face turning pensive.

“Quite.” Jon reached into his pouch and slammed a fistful of silver stags on the table. “Associating with me might get a whole lot more dangerous very soon. Split this as a reward for your service and leave.”

Nettles threw him a tight, complicated look but swiftly swiped half the coin, took her tattered cloak and left. Jon stared after the girl in bemusement; she did not even hesitate and ran like a thief. Once a pickpocket, always a pickpocket.

“I’m too old to leave,” Aethan gruffed, remaining as still as a statue as his tired purple eyes settled on Jon. “What trouble are we talkin’ about?”

“The worst sort,” Jon admitted. “The sort that might see me at odds with the Sea Snake at best and the House of the Dragons at worst.”

“What did you do to attract such a big fish? Beat up his nephew or something?” the former fisherman asked with a tired groan.

“Five of them, to be precise,” was the laconic reply. Jon quickly explained the gist of what had happened earlier, minus the magic of skinchanging.

Aethan’s stare started to feel uncomfortable the more he talked.

“So, you’re far more skilled as a warrior than I thought,” he summarised. “Besting five knights half-naked! But Master Snow, did you have to cripple all five of them so ruthlessly?”

“It was a mercy. A lesser man would have taken their heads to the last.”

“The Northmen’s mercy is quite cold, it seems.” Aethan sighed again. “From what little I know of the pride of lords and knights, you have given a grievous insult to House Velaryon.”

“As if knights prowling like some common brigands deserve any respect,” he stated, not bothering to hide his disdain. When the Forty of Valyria had been little more than sheepherders scattered across the Lands of Eternal Summer, many of the Westerosi Houses had been lords or even kings for centuries. “You can still leave, my good man. Take the coin and make yourself scarce, and nobody will blame you.”

For a heartbeat, Aethan paused to consider his offer for real. He stood up then and disappeared into the kitchen, only to return with the grilled drumfish, slicing it in two over the table as he chopped in a smattering of onions and pepper.

“Nay, Jon Snow,” the old man said as he pushed the steaming serving of fish towards Jon. “I have already decided to follow you, so I shall not give up when difficulty finds us. We’re in the same boat now, and my bones are too old to start over from scratch. Who will look after the chickens and goats if I’m gone? Who will take care of the gardens? Not toiling over the whims of the sea has been a welcome respite for me, even if farming and rearing cattle are not without their challenges.”

A surprising show of loyalty to a stranger he had met only recently. But Jon couldn’t find it in himself to spurn the man’s honesty.

“Very well, then. I need you to do me a favour and rush to Ashcove to purchase a roll of parchment for me,” Jon said as he tugged on the lesser connections in his mind to summon his pelicans.

A challenging rumble in his mind came from Vermithor, loud enough to make his whole skull vibrate, but he ignored it with some effort. In the end, Jon was not without means to resist the Sea Snake or Maegor with Teats if they came to blows, and the matters might not be nearly as bad as he imagined them to be. Perhaps his sense of fatalism was grossly misplaced, even if he could understand Dolorous Edd a little better these days.

A small part of him, which he would never admit existed, was glad for his link with Vermithor. Judging by the dark amusement pouring into his mind, the dragon had sensed it, too. But regardless, it provided Jon Snow with a way out where there was none before. No matter how bad it got, he could always use the Bronze Fury to escape somewhere. Even if there was no saddle, and Jon had never ridden a dragon, he somehow suspected he would survive. He had survived worse, after all.

But once he mounted the dragon, it could never be unmounted. King or pauper, the realm would know of Jon’s presence, for there was nothing that spread faster than a scandalous rumour. A Northern bastard turned dragonlord—a living impossibility would set the tongues flapping from the Wall to Sunspear. Even across the Narrow Sea, he would be known far and wide. Without a base of support, Jon would be either chased around or forced to pledge himself to a crown, a prince, or some powerful Free City for safety. Most would be tempted to dispose of him should he prove hard to control. The dragonlords were desired as much as they were feared, and the only reason House Targaryen remained unmolested by many was their numbers and the soft power they commanded. All things that Jon Snow lacked in this day and age.

Alas, no man was an island. No matter how powerful a dragon or a warrior were, they needed to rest. The dragons were nigh unassailable by weapons of men, but their riders were no better than ordinary men when their flesh met steel. They needed a safe place with trusted people to sleep, lest they meet the fate of the dragonlords of the Three Daughters, who were killed shortly after the Doom.

So, Jon Snow was reluctant to take such a monumental step. This was not his time; these were not his wars or foes, and it all felt meaningless. He had seen the Great Game and the brutish devastation it would leave in its wake as the realm was torn asunder over ambition and greed. Jon knew how to play it; he just… disdained doing so.

It would all burn within two centuries. Jon had borne witness to it with his eyes—the wrath of the gods would spare neither lords nor beggars. Even if the proud dragonlords wanted to survive to see that day, where could they escape when the whole world was consumed by a fiery inferno? Was that how the Forty felt during the Doom?

Half an hour later, Aethan returned, and soon Saltbeak flew westward with a roll of rough parchment attached to his leg.

Nearly four hours later, a vast red shadow descended from above, heralding its presence with a bone-shaking roar, and Jon had to seriously struggle to suppress Vermithor’s rising irritation as the Blood Wyrm blatantly encroached on what the bronze behemoth considered to be his territory.

When the crimson dragon greedily snatched one of his goats and roasted it with a burst of fire in his mouth, Jon realised he had already disliked Caraxes and the overproud figure that stood on the saddle and looked down upon the world.