8.The Angler’s Trial

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

Jon Snow

The dungeons of Dragonstone were far warmer than the ice cells of Castle Black. The air here was hot and humid, heavy with sulphur. There was no light here, aside from the single ray coming from a finger-sized hole in the ceiling made for breathing. Each cell was walled up with that impossibly smooth black rock for which Dragonstone was famous. Instead of a wall and a door, iron bars as thick as a man’s wrist separated each cell from the hallway, giving each prisoner a view of his fellow cellmates. The gaps between them were too thin for Jon to slip his hand through.

It was a small mercy he wasn’t shackled to the wall itself like some others were. Probably the Rogue Prince’s influence.

Unlike the ice cells, the dungeons of Dragonstone were overflowing with prisoners. Many of them were crammed together in a small cell, unlike Jon and the Broome knight.

Merchants caught cheating were imprisoned here, waiting for a trial that would take moons to arrive… if ever. Poachers who had fished without a permit or cut down trees for firewood. Thieves and pickpockets who had refused to lose their fingers and pleaded to take the Black were now waiting for a wandering crow to pick them up.

“They’re the lucky ones,” Ser Alfred Broome rasped despondently from the cell across Jon. “Her Grace hates spies, traitors, slanderers, and those who steal from her. No matter how they plead, they are not even allowed to take the Black, executed on the spot.”

“And she hates incompetent fops like you, too,” some greybeard spat from one of the overcrowded cells. The Broome knight didn’t deign to respond and merely kept staring at the ceiling.

His story was quite famous in the Dance. Ser Alfred Broome, the most senior knight on Dragonstone, was the man who betrayed Rhaenyra Targaryen to her brother for being passed over when the Castellan of Dragonstone was selected. He was the reason Maegor with Teats met an ungainly end. He was a man in his late thirties but had not neglected his martial skills, judging by his lean body, muscled arms, and stolid demeanour.

Yet another ripple caused by Jon’s presence. Jon, however, couldn’t bring himself to dwell, let alone care for those matters.

He had to keep sharp and prepared for the inevitable duel that was coming in half a moon. It was a duel that would most likely decide his fate. Jon didn’t harbour much hope for the Hightower Hand to move without any evidence, and he hadn’t lingered around Shelly’s mind for too long, as looking through the pelican’s eyes made his head throb painfully the further away the bird was. It certainly felt far more challenging than slipping his mind into Ghost, which was always as natural as breathing, smooth and painless regardless of the distance.

From what Jon had gathered from the history books, Otto Hightower was a man who adhered to the rules, despite being the main architect of the Green faction’s rise to power and the main perceived enemy of Rhaenyra and the Blacks. But it was precisely because Otto did things by the book that Jon did not harbour much hope for any aid from him. He was on the wrong side of the law. It was an old law that solidified the hierarchy of the noble class, protecting the dignity and inviolability of the nobility from smallfolk by the power of the laws. And since the nobles in question were the ones to mete out justice…

For everyone involved, Jon Snow might as well be a smallfolk. His lack of Andal knighthood left him outside the protections warriors enjoyed in the South, too.

In the end, Jon Snow had no way of proving he was a Stark bastard but his word. There were no witnesses who could truthfully claim or back his existence. There was no family that would stand behind Jon Snow, only out of a desire to defend their prestige. If they were alive, they would have probably backed him, but even his great-grandparents had yet to be conceived!

Vermithor’s rumbling snort sent a wave of fiery pain through his head as if to remind Jon of his existence. He had not forgotten about the Bronze Fury, but he merely did not care. The dragon might have forged the bond between them, but as long as Jon did not acknowledge it, the prideful behemoth would not move, only observe.

The hole allowed Jon to keep track of the time, which flew quickly. By evening, a guardsman arrived with food, carrying bowls full of gruel. Everyone received some, but not him. Hunger was an old friend for him, and the necessity of campaigning during the thick of winter had been harsh and unforgiving. Jon merely closed his eyes and let his mind wander.

Trying to get Saltbeak to spy on Dragonstone proved a futile endeavour. The garrison’s marksmen started peppering him with arrows and bolts on sight, and it wasn’t long before the Rogue Prince rushed out to mount Caraxes and started chasing the pelican. Jon could barely flee towards Silverwing in time, swearing inwardly. It seemed that he had met his match in pettiness.

Aware of the dangers of lingering in the mind of birds for too long, Jon returned to his body, staring at the smooth ceiling of his cell, trying to ignore the rug beneath him that smelled like piss. At least a glance through Shaggy’s eyes assured him that Aethan was doing well.

As the time passed, the hunger sharpened his senses, and he could feel the fiery presence in his mind stronger than before. Worse, Vermithor sensed him too. The dragon was keeping an eye on the situation, quite literally stumbling his way through Jon’s mind and eyes like a giant in a glasshouse. It was merely disturbing, not painful, and the bastard did not lose control over his body even for a second. Thankfully, the dragon’s attention quickly disappeared. But within an hour, Jon somehow knew the Bronze Fury was feasting on a herd of cows. After he had devoured a whole dozen, Jon could feel the uncomfortable heat slither from his head to his belly, where it stayed, banishing the feeling of weakness wrought by hunger.

Not only that, but Jon felt a surge of strength as if he had feasted on the cows in question himself.

At that moment, Jon Snow did not know whether to laugh or cry.

On the second day, he received no food again, and on the third, a bowl was pushed through the tiny feeding hole. The bowl was smaller than what the other prisoners received, and was barely half-filled with watered-down gruel.

His lips curled with amusement. Of course, Rhaenyra wouldn’t play fair. In eleven days, he would be too hungry to walk, let alone swing a sword or fight.

A burst of anger slithered through his veins. He knew it was not personal, but that did not soothe his fury. Jon Snow was merely being sacrificed out of excessive pride and expediency. Was this the best the woman who aspired to rule the Seven Kingdoms could offer? A queen she styled herself, yet lacked a single shred of honour.

His opinion of Rhaenyra Targaryen fell even further.

He was tempted, then. Tempted to acknowledge the Bronze Fury and call upon Vermithor, bathe all the fools who would gather to watch the sham trial in dragonflame, including that cuckolding whore Rhaenyra. But Vermithor kept eagerly eating his way through herds of cows from Dragonstone’s hinterlands—and even hunted the occasional shark from the sea. Jon felt so full of strength that he could tear away the iron bars keeping him imprisoned here with his bare hands.

What could have been a lethal dilemma and a very undignified death quickly turned into a chance for revenge. They would expect a hungry Jon Snow who could barely walk, not… someone eager to fight half a hundred warriors in a row.

Feeling the surge of strength prickling in his limbs and underneath his skin, Jon decided to keep himself sharp lest his instincts wane from half a moon of inaction. Under the goggled eyes of his inmates, he started throwing jabs and punches, practising forms of fisticuffs and any other form of physical conditioning that the narrow cell allowed.

“Oy, are you mad?” one of the prisoners asked.

“Don’t speak to ‘im, Jeff. He’s clearly lost his wits.” Another scoffed. “Challenging Her Highness Maegor.”

“Don’t say such a thing, Pate,” a third hoarse voice murmured. “King Maegor’s reign is fondly remembered here. He did no wrong but upheld the law, protected the smallfolk against brigands and robber knights, and suppressed the rebels and traitors. Comparing Princess Rhaenyra to him is an insult.”

“You dare insult the Lady of Dragonstone so?” Ser Alfred Broome all but roared in indignation.

“Of course I do,” was the mocking response. “What is she going to do, flog me again? Take my tongue like those Seahorse knights that got beheaded two days ago? Perhaps send me to the Watch? Finally hang me? Everything is better than rotting in these damn cells!”

The sheer vitriol in the man’s voice struck the knight speechless. Jon was surprised the man would still defend his liege lady, but in hindsight, it wasn’t too surprising. It was one thing to fail his duties and be punished, and entirely another for him to be passed over for promotion by a silver-tongued lickspittle.

The fourth day arrived, and Jon received no food again. Oddly enough, more footsteps were heard shortly after the guardsman who brought the food.

“M’ladies, this place is filled with scum, and Her Highness will have my hide if she gets wind of your presence here–”

“Just pretend you have not seen us,” Baela’s unmistakable voice echoed from the stairwell, and all the prisoners instantly perked up. “I have no fear here. Moondancer is with me.”

Surely enough, Daemon’s twins came, accompanied by a sentry holding an oil lamp, looking ready to cry. The obvious reason why he couldn’t really turn away the Rogue Prince’s daughters was doubtlessly the pony-sized drake curiously crawling behind Baela. The slender beast curiously inspected the hallway with two pale green eyes that shone like lanterns in the darkness. Its presence also silenced the other inmates.

This very queer procession halted in front of Jon’s cell, and the guardsman started muttering a prayer to the Father.

“Ladies,” he inclined his head in greeting as he settled on the stinky cot. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Still in a mood for jests, Master Snow?” Baela smiled mournfully. “I tried to plead mercy from Mother Rhaenyra, but she insists on this trial.”

“It is only right,” Jon agreed. “I called for the trial. If you must plead mercy for someone, do it for Ser Alfred Broome. If not for your wilfulness, he would be a free man, with his reputation intact, not rotting here in the dungeons with his fate uncertain.”

“I will,” Rhaena promised, even though her nose was scrunched up. The prison was probably the vilest thing her nose had ever encountered. “I’ll plead for his mercy with Kepa. But what of you? What if you lose your trial?”

“I won’t,” Jon said. “Even if I do, I trust the justice of the gods and my sword more than I trust the justice of Dragonstone.”

The naive twins looked amusingly surprised, doubly more so when the other inmates clamoured with agreement, and Moondancer quickly let out a roar, cowing them into silence.

“Lady Rhaena,” Ser Alfred rasped out. “They’re not feeding Master Snow. He might hold strong faith in the justice of his gods of tree and stone, but no amount of piousness will fill his belly.”

Baela frowned fiercely and glared at the guardsman, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the ground. “Is this true, Mervyn?”

“I’m just followin’ orders,” he eked out fearfully, glancing at Moondancer’s maw.

“Whose orders?” Baela barked out. “Come now, speak. Or are you perhaps deaf?”

“Don’t make trouble for the poor man,” Jon interrupted, earning himself a surprisingly grateful nod. “It must be either your grandfather’s or stepmother’s orders.”

Alas, Jon could see they didn’t understand. All that pointless death and pain was a direct result of their actions—their blind hubris and naivete. Worse, they didn’t learn from it and continued making the same mistakes, dragging him deeper into hot water.

It made Jon angry.

“We’ll go there and plead—”

“The more you plead in my name, the more they will want to kill me, you foolish chits!” Jon roared, and the twins hastily stepped away from him. Moondancer showed him a maw full of teeth and growled, but he ignored the drake and continued, “I’ve told you this before. They probably think I’m your secret paramour or something similarly damning. Why else would you plead for a man you never knew? The time for fun and games is over, you two. Neither of you is simple-minded, so stop acting like it. Grow up and use your wits more!”

The silence stretched as Baela fidgeted uneasily as if she were a child who had just had her first scolding–perhaps she was. Her sister looked ready to cry.

“A-Apologies, Master Snow.” Rhaena curtsied shakily. “We’ve brought you harm.”

For some reason, the genuine regret in her words made all of his anger drain away.

“I forgive you both,” he said with all the earnestness he could muster. There was no point in holding grudges against children. “Just don’t do it again. I won’t be forgiving a second time. A wise man once told me that the mind is like a sword–it requires a whetstone to keep it sharp. Use your wits more, lest they rust.”

Rhaena eagerly nodded.

“You think you’d win, then?” Baela asked brightly as if she hadn’t heard a word earlier.

“Aye. It wouldn’t be the first time I fought to the death,” Jon offered, resisting the urge to groan. “Do not think me so weak. Go now, lest you infuriate your grandfather or stepmother more.”

With that, the twins turned around and left, deep in thought. The guardsman threw him another grateful glance as he rushed out.

“Hey now, you two look like you’re in need of a real man. C’mere and forget about the savage.”

The previously silent prisoners started jeering and leering at the backs of the Rogue Prince’s daughters.

“Yeah, we promise to show you a good time.” Another prisoner fondled his groin as he leered at them. “I heard all the Princesses since Saera are all harlots. Didn’t Rhaenyra spread her legs like a whore for that—”

The twins must have ignored or not heard most of the jeering, as they did not even pause, whispering to each other about something. Moondancer was the last to depart. He glared evilly behind him and belched a gout of flames at the leering inmates after Baela murmured a quiet ‘Dracarys’.

The two men who jeered had their roughspun clothes set alight by the pale green flames, which quickly spread across their garments. Their last cellmate instantly fled to a corner. One of them managed to quickly shrug his burning tunic off and throw it in the corner, while the second failed and screamed and howled in agony as his body was slowly roasted on the spot.

The air was now choked with the stench of charred meat and black smoke. The dragonflame had run its course before he could perish. The worst part was that the man was still alive and piteously screamed himself hoarse until he could only moan in pain, and his two cellmates dared not approach.

Daemon Targaryen’s daughters had not even halted their stride for a moment. It seemed the capacity for callous cruelty ran strong in all members of the House of the Dragon when sufficiently provoked.

But they were not heartless. Half an hour later, Rhaena sneaked back in again, bringing him a platter with venison, roast fish, gravy, and freshly baked bread. This time, none of the inmates dared to jeer at Rhaena, even though Moondancer wasn’t there.

She did not spare the moaning prisoner even a glance.

“Thank you,” Jon said softly. “But you didn’t have to.”

The rumbling of his stomach betrayed him. No matter how brimming with strength he felt, his mouth still watered at the sight of food before him.

“This is the least I could do,” Rhaena said with a wan smile before disappearing in the shadows of the hallway like a spectre.

Later that day, Ser Alfred Broome was freed. It seemed that the twins had somehow convinced their stepmother to pardon the poor knight.

Sometime before dawn, the moaning stopped, and the man never got up from his cot again. Rhaena came twice the next day, bringing him even more food. Jon could see the envy and hunger in the other inmates’ eyes, but they did not make a sound or dare meet her gaze. He continued his training, channelling the searing surge of strength into something productive.

The guardsman who brought in food looked at the half-roasted corpse and announced that it would remain there, doubtlessly, as a punishment and a warning to the rest of the inmates.

On the fifth day since his imprisonment, things changed. Rhaena didn’t visit early in the morning, as she had the previous day. Even the guards did not bring gruel to the inmates. Something was happening on Dragonstone.

Instead, around noon, he was dragged out of his cell with far more wariness than expected. They didn’t even clasp Jon in irons as he was led into the outer courtyard—the same place he had demanded a trial by combat.

It was once again crowded with knights, men-at-arms and servants.

The Rogue Prince and the visibly pregnant Princess Rhaenyra were here, and so were the three Strong boys, unmistakable with their red dragon surcoats. The Sea Snake and his dragon-riding wife, as well as Rhaena and Baela, were clustered to the side.

Jon Snow did not need to guess to know the reason.

An old, dignified man clad in a silken surcoat of green and white bearing a golden hand-shaped pin stood opposite the gathered Blacks, flanked by two white cloaks and a dozen knights in full plate and thrice as many men-at-arms. Every warrior proudly displayed the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen on their surcoats. Otto Hightower was here, and the scroll in his hand could only be the royal edict. And he wasn’t even intimidated by the dragons circling in the skies above, carrying himself with the ironclad confidence of a man who had wielded near absolute authority in the Seven Kingdoms for over a decade.

No wonder Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Corlys looked like they had swallowed a lemon whole.

“Are you Jon Snow, the warrior who rescued the royal nieces Rhaena and Baela Targaryen from the hands of wicked brigands?” His stern voice echoed in the courtyard, quieting everything else. The subtle jab at House Velaryon only had the Sea Snake close his eyes as if unwilling to look at the mummer’s farce.

“Aye,” Jon said, feeling somehow befuddled. If looks could kill, Rhaenyra would slay him on the spot. “That is me.”

Judging by the fidgety Baela and Rhaena and the resigned look on the face of their grandfather, Otto Hightower had arrived some hours earlier and had already gotten confirmation of the truth from Daemon’s daughters.

“And you claim to be a descendant of the Starks of Winterfell?” Otto Hightower paused, scrutinising Jon with such a heavy gaze that he might as well have been trying to read his mind.

“Aye, my lord,” he said stiffly. “But a very distant one. My grandfather called himself… Brandon Stark.” There were too many Brandons to make it even remotely feasible to check the validity of his claims. “I’m not even sure if there are any records of our line anymore.” The lie was heavy on his tongue, but it was necessary. This was becoming even bigger than Jon expected.

“Having the blood is enough.” For good or bad, the Hightower man nodded, finding his answer satisfactory. “Then, receive the royal decree.”

Otto coughed as the taller white cloak handed him over a gaudy-looking scroll.

“By the Decree of His Grace, Viserys of the House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

Let it be known to all the subjects of the realm, whether lord or pauper, that a great act of courage and loyalty has been recognised by the Iron Throne and shall not go unrewarded. Jon Snow has done a valiant show of chivalry by placing his life in harm’s way to save the lives of my beloved nieces, Rhaena and Baela, a selfless display of honour and valour far beyond expected to that of his station.

It is my will and sacred command that Jon Snow of the North will be pardoned from any crimes he has committed, perceived or otherwise. Furthermore, he will rise from his station and henceforth be known as Jon Stark, with all the name and dignity afforded as a man of such a storied lineage. He will also be richly rewarded with a generous sum of coin as a recompense for the troubles.

Witness my hand and seal in the Year 129 After the Conquest, in the halls of the Red Keep, King’s Landing.“

Jon blinked, confused. It felt like his mind had been frozen. Silence filled the courtyard as the words sank in.

“Show me this!” Daemon demanded.

“Are you questioning His Grace’s authority?” Otto scoffed.

“No such thing, Lord Hand,” the last part was spat out like some curse. “Only your integrity, Hightower. It would certainly help if we could verify that this is indeed what my royal brother has written.”

“I never thought the day would come where the likes of you lecture me on integrity,” Hightower said, his voice dripping with disdain. “It’s almost as audacious as a whore trying to preach virtue to a septon.”

“Let us not trade petty insults for nought, Lord Hand,” Rhaenyra said stiffly. “But I would also want to read my father’s decree.”

It was a demand, not a request.

The Hand stiffly passed over the decree to one of the White Cloaks, who brought it to the Rogue Prince as his wife peeked from the side and scowled.

“Congratulations, Jon Stark,” Daemon said, looking torn between amusement and disdain. “You are now a free man.” Then, he reached for Dark Sister and sighed. “Kneel.”

“I care not for titles of knighthood, Your Grace,” the words tumbled from Jon’s lips. “The Seven and their ordinance mean nothing to a man of the Old Gods.”

Otto chuckled as he stroked his chin, looking at the mutinous Rogue Prince with amusement.

“Lord Jon, I can offer you a place in the royal household,” he said, voice firm and inviting. “A man with martial skills and valour such as yours is in high demand everywhere, and King Viserys is a generous man who will not slight you.”

The offer came in Viserys’s name, but it was an invitation to the Green faction, Jon knew.

Daemon Targaryen looked like he was about to spew fire, but Rhaenyra grabbed his arm, and his stormy expression turned to stone.

“My apologies, Lord Hand—I’m afraid I’m not worthy of the honour.” Jon bowed his head. “I’ve found that I’ve grown too fond of the peace and quiet that fishing over at Ashcove offers me. It’s… liberating.”

Otto inclined his head, looking quite disappointed. “Then I won’t insist. I suppose you Northmen lack septries where the weary followers of the Old Gods can seclude themselves from secular affairs. Your other reward will be delivered to your home, then.”

Jon clenched his fist hard enough to hurt and blinked. No, he wasn’t dreaming. It was true.

He had become a Stark now, for all that little it mattered. His innermost desire, the sole thing he had always yearned for, the wish that was always out of reach. Jon had wanted it from the moment he realised what it meant to be a Snow. Now, it had been handed to him on a silver platter, and it felt… empty.

Despite still feeling numb from the madness—because this could clearly only be madness—Jon was not blind to Corlys Velaryon’s disgruntlement and Rhaenyra’s thinly veiled anger. Their plans had just been shattered, but since it was the king’s decree, they had no choice but to bow their heads and accept.

Daemon, however, looked happy. Happy that Jon had declined Hightower’s offer, more than anything else.

For all of the numbness, Jon’s fury from earlier still lingered, coiled like a snake in his belly.

“Lord Hand, if I could request one minor favour from you,” he uttered slowly.

“Speak, Jon Stark, and I shall consider it if it is within my powers.”

“Lord Velaryon still doesn’t seem convinced of my innocence. But it is perhaps because he is a pious man and thinks that the arbitrage of the gods has been denied, preventing him from receiving proper satisfaction.”

The courtyard erupted in whispers as Corlys Velaryon glared daggers at Jon. His purple eyes were cold as ice, but the old lord was not without his cunning.

“There’s no such thing,” the Sea Snake lied with a straight face. “I recognise His Grace’s authority on the matter, and the Iron Throne’s decision is final.”

Jon Snow could still walk away, not muddying the waters any further. But a part of him was indignant at the attempt to murder him so blatantly. Angry at being treated like some nuisance that could just be stomped out with a whimper on a whim of a whore and a proud coin hoarder.

Was it petty in a way that could see him in a lot of trouble later? Absolutely.

Did Jon care? Not one bit.

“But I already issued a challenge for Single Combat,” he said, training his gaze on Corlys Velaryon with all the intensity he could muster. To his satisfaction, the Sea Snake looked away. “And I am willing to stand by it. Me against your Champion, fight here and now to the death.”

“And what would be the point of such a show of needless savagery?” Otto inquired, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“The king has pardoned me of any wrongdoing, it is true, but the stigma would remain.” Jon bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I would rather have no need for a pardon, for a trial by combat can wash away any doubt of wrongdoing from my name. Naturally, it will convince any naysayers.”

Or see him killed in shame.

It was not only a farce but a gamble. It was a sweet trap that Corlys Velaryon could take. Jon would die if the Sea Snake won, and Corlys would be humiliated in a way that would force him to swallow all his indignation if he lost…or exacerbate it.

The question was whether Corlys Velaryon was a gambling man.

The Lord of the Tides stared at Jon for half a minute as the hushed whispers only grew in strength.

“I will accept this challenge if the Lord Hand and Princess Rhaenyra agree to it,” he said.

“I shall allow it!” Rhaenyra declared imperiously while Otto Hightower nodded, face unreadable.

The Rogue Prince

An hour later, Jon Snow—Stark—was clad in a standard issue ringmail and arming doublet and a half-helm, shifting on his feet as he faced off against Ser Orys Yarwick, the most dangerous knight in Corlys’ service.

Ser Orys was a muscled giant of a man nearly seven feet tall, clad in a full suit of lobstered plate and wielding a long poleaxe, all made by the finest castle-forged steel gold could buy. Compared to him, Jon Stark looked like a green boy playing battle.

“Don’t be so hasty to celebrate,” Daemon warned Corlys and Rhaenyra, who looked the happiest he had seen them in years.

“Why?” Rhaenyra asked, her silver brows scrunched in confusion. “The Northman has no chance. Worse armour, a shorter weapon. I’ve seen Ser Orys fight before. He’s going to crush the Northern bastard like a cockroach beneath his iron heel.”

“I’ve seen the Northman fight, and you have not,” he offered languidly. “I’ll bet twenty dragons on Stark.”

“I’ll indulge you,” Corlys all but growled. “You’re being awfully amused by all of this, Daemon.”

“You should think why my brother legitimised a Northern bastard,” Daemon said, tutting with amusement.

At that moment, the Septon was brought forth, and the crowd quieted as his solemn voice echoed.

“Are the two combatants ready?” The septon was a hunched-over man in his fifties; his once reddish mane was more white than russet.

Jon Stark chose that moment to look at Daemon.

Sighing, the Rogue Prince threw the direwolf-pommel sword at the Northman, who caught it deftly.

“What is this, Daemon?” Corlys furiously whispered.

“It’s the Northman’s sword,” he explained nonchalantly. “Asked me to keep it safe as a favour for saving my daughters. How could I call myself a father if I refused?”

The crowd gasped as the blade left the scabbard, revealing the black, smoky ripples of Valyrian steel that all but glowed under the sunlight. Even the Septon and Otto Hightower looked stunned for the moment.

“Valyrian steel?” Rhaenyra’s angry hand grasped his elbow. “Did you give him Dark Sister?”

Daemon merely unlatched Dark Sister’s scabbard from his belt and handed it over to his wife. She tugged it open from its sheath, revealing the unmistakable ripples, identical to the blade in Jon Stark’s hand, if a shade darker and the blade thinner.

“How could some no-name bastard own a Valyrian steel sword?” Corlys asked, face growing wary. “This is clearly not Ice, the ancestral greatsword of the Starks, but another one entirely.”

“A bastard no longer, by my brother’s royal decree,” Daemon reminded tightly. “And it doesn’t surprise me.”

The septon chose that moment to rouse from his stupor and cough loudly.

“Let the Seven bear witness to the challenge of battle by Jon Stark against Corlys Velaryon on the matter of honour and dignity.” His words echoed through the courtyard, silencing the whispers. “Should Ser Orys Yarwick die or surrender, the Seven Who Are One will consider Jon Stark free of sin, indignity, or wrongdoing, and all grievances between House Velaryon and Jon Stark will be null and void. Should Jon Stark fall or surrender…”

“I’ll be dead, then,” Jon finished laconically. “Let’s get on with it. I’m eager for a meal after only eating a single serving of slop in five days.”

The septon glared at the Northerner with outrage but quickly swallowed it and declared, “Let the duel begin!”

Ser Orys was now cautiously eyeing the Northman, doubtlessly wary of the dragonsteel blade. But Jon Stark had no shield or the protection of a castle-forged plate and was wielding the bastard sword with two hands. The Yarwick knight levied his poleaxe, getting ready to strike first. One good strike with his poleaxe, and neither the ringmail nor the arming doublet would save Jon Snow.

But Daemon knew how slippery a foe the Northman could be.

The giant knight moved first, poking his polearm at the former bastard, testing his foe. Jon Stark carefully swatted away the weapon, aiming for his chest while stepping out of the way. They kept circling each other, prodding and seeking an opening. After half a minute, Ser Orys lost his patience and sprang in first, trying to pierce Stark’s chest with his spike.

The Northman lunged at the same time like a viper, barely avoiding the halberd’s deadly spike as he thrust his sword into Ser Orys’ side, where the gap between the breastplate and the pauldron was.

It was the perfect counter-thrust, leveraging the momentum of both men.

Rhaena and Baela gasped as the Valyrian steel sword struck true, skewering through the chainmail, arming doublet below and sinking halfway to the hilt. Rivulets of blood started gushing as Jon Stark twisted. Jace, Luke, and Joffrey watched with rapt attention, trying to commit every moment to memory. This was the first time they had seen someone die in a fight.

“Judging by the angle, he pierced his heart,” Daemon said with admiration. “It’s over. This has to be the shortest duel in history.”

Sure enough, Ser Orys Yarwick slumped on his knees as his halberd slipped from his grasp. But the Northman wasn’t done yet.

With a single smooth motion, he pulled the dragonsteel sword free of his foe’s torso and, with a furious strike that looked more like a woodsman trying to fell a tree, cleaved into the man’s gorget.

TING!

The keening sound lingered in the air as Daemon shook his head. The Northman was indeed far stronger than he looked, for the sword had sunk halfway through the neck, cleaving through the armour as if it were butter. He tugged it free, splattering a rain of blood in a crescent, before putting his whole momentum into the next swing.

TING!

The head rolled off the corpse, which now fell, and the crowd erupted in cheers while Corlys looked like someone had killed his favourite nephew again.

“Jon Stark is victorious!” The septon announced, looking queasy at the decapitated head. The Hightower wretch looked at the Northman with the same greed a whore gazed at a purse full of gold.

“It can’t be!” Princess Rhaenys gasped as she gazed at Jon Stark with frightening intensity.

“What can’t be?” her husband echoed unhappily. “Did you figure out why Viserys favours some Northern bastard so much?”

“You mean besides saving our granddaughters?” she retorted. “Yes, I have a good idea. He’s Viserys’ get, isn’t he?”

“Where did that wild conjecture come from?” Corlys asked, a heavy frown setting on his face as he glared at the Northman.

“I mean, I kind of see it too,” Daemon agreed, rubbing his chin as he took the measure of Jon again. “The colouring might be right, but he doesn’t have the build or the look of the First Men.”

That instantly got the attention of the children and the nearby knights and servants.

“How does that make him my half-brother? My father would never cheat on Mother!” Rhaenyra protested vehemently.

“He didn’t need to. Jon Stark looks slightly older than Alicent’s eldest,” Daemon offered. “My brother loves his feasts and balls. A moment of weakness after Aemma died, before his marriage to the current… queen. The Northerner is a learned man, well-versed in laws, courtesies, and histories, and a skilled warrior who somehow acquired a Valyrian steel sword. A surprising amount of lordly education for a no-name bastard.”

“That and he looks a bit like Jacaerys, if with a long face,” Corlys’ wife agreed with dark amusement as if implying those traits came from House Targaryen, not Velaryon. “Too many coincidences.”

“That would mean His Grace had him raised somewhere in secret,” the Sea Snake noted with distaste. “After so many years, surely someone would have heard of it.”

“Perhaps if the Snow was in the Crownlands, not the North,” Rhaenys countered. “When was the last time you cared about the North beyond the traders of White Harbour or the wandering crow who passes twice a decade?”

“I am much of the same mind,” Daemon agreed cheerfully. “Otherwise, would my brother have given him a noble name so easily and confidently if not his own? There’s no way Viserys could have ever written to Winterfell or the North in time to confirm anything unless he was confident of the young man’s origins.”

His wife did not seem at all convinced.

“Why would my father hide such a fling, then?”

“Perhaps he felt ashamed,” Princess Rhaenys offered mercilessly, throwing a dirty glance at her husband. “Men would cheat and then lie to their wives to salvage their pride if they think they could get away with it.”

“So, this Jon… Stark could very well be my young half-brother?” Rhaenyra’s lips thinned dangerously as she all but glared at the Northman, who was busy wiping the blood off his sword on Ser Orys’ cloak.

“Aegon’s brother, too,” Corlys said glumly, pretending to ignore his wife’s glares. “Elder one, at that. I… I can see it now. Few would remember, but this Northman certainly possesses Prince Baelon’s boldness and fights with a similar ferocity.”

“If…” Jace spoke up carefully. “If he’s truly our uncle, why make him a Stark instead of a Targaryen?”

“To not interfere with the succession, of course,” Rhaenys explained with a scoff.

“A bit hypocritical of him to care about the succession now,” the Sea Snake murmured as Rhaenyra’s face curdled.

“Anyway, I was right. Twenty dragons, Corlys,” Daemon reminded, reaching out with an open palm. “I won that bet.”

Watching the sour-faced Sea Snake reluctantly fork out twenty golden dragons made all of his earlier indignation evaporate. Today was a good day, despite seeing the face of that smarmy Hightower snake. He even recouped the reimbursement he had to fork over those overly expensive goats! Daemon only regretted not betting more.

The household continued whispering furiously, and Baela, Rhaena, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey were all looking at them wide-eyed, doubtlessly having heard every word. Daemon did not doubt that by tomorrow, all of Dragonstone would know what was probably a tightly guarded secret.

But perhaps it was for the better.