9.False Pretenses

Year 129 After Aegon’s Conquest

Jon Stark

Rhaenyra had decided to throw a feast to celebrate the ‘resolution of that pesky misunderstanding’. Unfortunately, Jon couldn’t decline the offer made before the whole court without insulting the Lady of Dragonstone. Alas, no matter how tempted he was to do it, his common sense prevailed in the end.

And so, here he was in the Great Hall of Dragonstone, a terrible building in the shape of a dragon lying on its belly. Draconic motifs dominated the castle, down to the merlons, the curtains, and the door handles. Just in the last hour, Jon Snow had seen more things shaped like a dragon’s wing, dragon’s tail, dragon’s head, dragon’s breath, dragon’s balls, or merely scales than in his entire life.

He was wearing a doublet of grey cotton slashed with black, with the sleeves embroidered with a gaudy silver thread in the shape of scales, a gift from Daemon Targaryen.

The attention of the nobles was what irked him the most. False smiles hid the thinly veiled barbs and pointed questions as the supporters of Rhaenyra Targaryen did their best to prod. It was not merely the Celtigars, the Velaryons, the Bar Emmons, and the Sunglasses, the traditional bannermen of Dragonstone. Jon could see lords and knights bearing the coat-of-arms of Massey, Staunton, Darklyn, Rosby, even a Darry and a Vance and a few houses from the Westerlands like Reyne. It was almost as if he were attending a miniature royal court, only there was nobody from the Stormlands, the Reach, the Vale…or the North.

This was the core of the Blacks who supported Rhaenyra’s bid for the throne. The black gowns and doublets that were commonplace further reinforced the fact. Daemon and Rhaenyra’s children were conspicuously absent. Two white cloaks shadowed the Crown Princess, whom Jon later found were Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Erryk Cargyll.

It was not the sort of feast Jon was used to. There were no chairs, and the tables were lined to the side as knights and nobles mingled freely with one another under the bards singing their songs and ballads.

Wine flowed like water as they all feasted, and the tables were laden with a wide variety of food, from steaming pig roasts to exotic fruits from the Summer Islands. Jon did notice the conspicuous absence of beef and couldn’t help but feel a morbid sense of glee.

Of course, Jon was not one to pass up a hearty meal. The laughter, the bright eyes, and the well-fed faces made a queer contrast to the gaunt bodies of the smallfolk in Ashcove, all of whom had been struggling to eke out a living, as if they were in the midst of winter, not the tail-end of a bountiful summer.

As the ‘honoured guest’ of this feast, Jon was the centre of attention, but the stigma of bastardy seemed to linger, as many were too cautious about approaching him. Knights and lords were far more interested in Skyfall as their gazes slid towards the hilt resting on his belt with undisguised greed, but none dared to be the first to approach him. After accepting the offered bread and salt from the steward, he was allowed to enter the feast armed, which was a welcome show of trust and willingness to reconcile.

Legitimised by a royal decree or not, there was still plenty of disdain aimed at him. Though that could have been because he was a Northman, a follower of the Old Gods, or both. The Sea Snake was the most surprising observer; his gaze never left Jon but was filled with caution instead of malice. His purple eyes kept looking and looking as if they were searching to find something. What that something was, Jon knew not and cared even less.

There was a sliver of respect and wariness, doubtlessly earned by his daring during the duel. Jon found it amusing that it was always his capacity for violence and his willingness to use it that gave men pause.

After half an hour, Lord Darklyn and his wife were the first to approach, their curiosity finally winning over their wariness. The Lord of Duskendale was clad in a showy doublet of black silk with golden threads, while his wife wore a seemingly modest silvery gown, if the bodice was deliberately too tight and adorned with too many emeralds. Lord Gunthor Darklyn subtly inquired about his youth and his life in the North, and Jon did his best to deflect most answers. His wife, Lady Meredyth, seemed to be shamelessly undressing him with her gaze while doing her best to position herself in a way that gave Jon a full view of her ample cleavage.

“We would love to welcome you to the Dun Fort,” she finished with a tone that suggested that Jon was personally welcome in her bed anytime.

Jon almost choked on his cup of ale when Lord Gunthor agreed, nodding amiably. “Yes, you would be most welcome any time, Lord Jon.”

With the Darklyns being the first to approach, the other noblemen seemed emboldened, but Jon was quickly besieged by the three ladies who usually shadowed Rhaenyra. It was done at the behest of the Lady of Dragonstone, who had gracefully approached the nearby table, just close enough to listen to the conversation. Of course, the Rogue Prince and the Sea Snake were accompanying her.

They introduced themselves: Alysanne and Gwenyth Strong, both sisters with long chestnut braids who looked to be in their late twenties, and Elinda Massey, a coltish, doe-eyed blonde maiden who looked no older than seven and ten.

“Beware of Lord Darklyn,” Gwenyth Strong said after the courtesies were out of the way, her face dark as she glared at Meredyth Darklyn’s back. “He doesn’t shy away from trading his wife for favours, and that whore takes great relish in it. Her modest gowns are merely a veneer that hides an insatiable harpy underneath.”

The bitterness in her voice suggested prior history, but Jon didn’t care to pry.

“I’m not truly interested in Duskendale or the Darkylns,” he offered. “But does not Lord Darklyn fear being made a cuckold?”

“He has an heir and a spare from Meredyth, two hale boys at seven and three,” Alysanne Strong explained, her words laden with disdain. “He’s the one trading his wife’s body for favours. The slut is not without her cunning and even takes relish in it. When she brings lovers to her bed, she doesn’t shy away from drinking Moon Tea, so even the other Darklyns can’t truly complain.”

“Let us not speak of such dreadful things,” Elinda Massey interjected, giving Jon a pouty smile. “Tell us more about the North, Lord Jon. Northmen are quite the rarity on Dragonstone, and one such as you is an even bigger mystery.”

“You want to know of the North?” Jon asked, his lips quirking with dark amusement.

“Yes,” the three ladies echoed in tandem, and even the nearby nobles clustered closer to listen.

“The North can be quite a dreadful topic, my ladies.”

“Must you tease us so, Lord Jon?” Elinda pouted while the Strong sisters tittered. “We want to hear even more, now.”

“The North is a hardy place,” he said fondly. “The summers are chilly, and snow is oft seen even in the height of summer.”

Someone scoffed from the side. “Snow in the middle of summer? Do you take us for fools, Stark?”

“Fools? Only fools speak blindly, my lord, and I do not believe you are one,” Jon drawled out. “I am merely telling you what I’ve seen with my own eyes, but do not take my word for it. Don’t be so eager to dismiss me, without seeing the North for yourself, my lord. Or you could inquire with any Northern merchant, and he would tell you much the same.”

A thickset man reddened like an overripe pepper at the insult. The Strong sisters looked at Jon with a tinge of newfound admiration and even hunger.

“Now, let us not interrupt Lord Jon’s most interesting story, Morgan,” the lord of Sweetport chided. “Please continue, Stark.”

“Very well. Where summers prove cool, winters are long and harsh, and when autumn dwindles, the snow falls and falls without end, reaching up to thirty feet in places. The cold can grow so fierce that even stones can be cracked open, and the sea can freeze. When winter lingers for too long and food starts to run out, the greybeards venture into the snow to hunt. Either they find more food for their kin and kith, or they perish in the attempt. Wildling raiders climb the Wall and raid the Gift as the Night Watch grows thinner by the decade, for the Conciliator deemed fit to turn it into a penal colony, a place of dishonour fit for brigands and outlaws. Reavers from the Iron Islands, eager for thralls and timber, plague the Stony Shore, Seadragon Point, and the Saltspear. Not to mention the occasional slaver who slips through the Royal Fleet’s net and strikes at our shores.”

“…That’s terrible!” Alysanne Strong gasped out. “Why hasn’t the King been petitioned for help?”

“When has the Iron Throne cared about the North?” Jon riposted. His gaze roamed around the eavesdropping noblemen, none of them daring to meet his gaze until it stopped on Rhaenyra, who met him without flinching. “There’s rarely proof that the Ironmen are the ones doing it, when they often take just a little enough that war is not worth it, and never leave evidence behind. The less said about the Essosi, the better; no one wants to shake that hornet’s nest for a few daring captains. Even if the king wanted to do something, he could no more halt the onset of winter than he could stop the clouds from gathering.”

Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting looked shaken and promptly retreated, only to be replaced by the Princess of Dragonstone herself. Garbed in a gown of purple silk with Myrish lace of black and crimson threads, she looked almost stunning for a pregnant woman in her thirties. There was a plumpness to her body that did not come from the bulge in her belly, but not to the point where it would make her ungainly. Jon could see why she had been called the Realm’s Delight.

“Lord Jon,” she greeted with a solemn nod. Her purple eyes were guarded yet sharp, as if she were trying to see through him. “These issues the North is facing have never reached us before.”

“It’s nothing new.” Jon shrugged. “Life in the North has always been like that—harsh and filled with struggles. It’s not a problem to be solved but merely a part of life.”

With Rhaenyra Targaryen had come all of her close family, all inspecting Jon like some horse on sale. The two white shadows by her side were also seizing him with caution, their eyes on his right hand and shoulder, ready to act should he draw Skyfall.

“Yet you’re here, away from your… home,” Corlys Velaryon prodded. He didn’t look sad, angry, or happy, merely resigned, and a tad irritated, all previous signs of animosity gone. He even gave Jon a slight nod, as if he had not tried to have him killed earlier today.

His eyes, however, remained cold and cautious. Corlys Velaryon was a dangerously proud man who had not forgotten the slight from earlier; he had merely found something else to gain that he could not obtain through feuding. Jon had met enough men like him to know that the Sea Snake would not move again unless it became profitable for him and his House.

“There’s nothing left for me in the North. My kin and kith are all long dead now.” Jon closed his eyes, trying not to think of little Rickon. His last living sibling-cousin. And the ones that had died or disappeared—Sansa, Arya, Robb, and Bran. And his father, who perished, tangled in the plots and schemes of the vipers dwelling in King’s Landing. Rhaegar might have sired him, but it was Eddard Stark who had raised him and taught him everything he knew, like a father would. How could he love a man he had never seen, or a House that had never shown him affection, let alone give him anything?

The Starks were not dead… yet. They had not even been born. But when the time came, they would all perish when the sky was set aflame as the giant comet fell.

“I know that Northmen favour candidness, so I shall be frank,” Rhaenyra said. “Swear your sword to me, Jon Stark. I can be a generous woman, and honours and titles can be plentiful if you serve me well. What do you think of Elinda?”

“I’ve barely spoken to the lady,” Jon noted dryly. “She’s pleasing enough to the eye, if a bit too vain and coquettish for my taste.”

“And the daughter of a lord of the realm besides. Elinda has taken a liking to you, and should you swear your sword to me, she can become your wife.” Rhaenyra smirked, her purple eyes gleaming with something. “The latest events have shown that I need to pay greater attention to the safety of my family. I have five sons, and not one of them has a proper sworn sword.”

She was not even offering to make him into a landed knight with some paltry fishing village, merely a glorified minder. Perhaps even a kingsguard, as if he would swear his life away again. In the end, Rhaenyra lusted for his Valyrian steel sword, just like the other knights and nobles. Perhaps if Jon Snow had been some no-name bastard, he would have been honoured by the generous offers. Perhaps if he had not been commanding thousands of men and lorded over castles. Perhaps he would be honoured if he had not been offered a princess, even if it was a wildling one, and a kingdom and the command of a whole army.

Instead, Jon felt slighted and had to stop himself from gnashing his teeth. He had not forgotten, nor had he forgiven Rhaenyra’s attempts to murder him because she had deemed his death expedient. This paltry peace offering felt more like a slap to the face.

“I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, Your Grace,” he declined, bowing with all the respect he could muster.

Rhaenyra’s eyes turned flinty.

“You would deny the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I am a wilful man,” Jon confessed. “I do not take well to following orders. I’d rather disappoint Your Grace now than lose my head for disobedience later. Besides, I much prefer… the quiet of fishing.”

“You’re declining a royal favour because you want to fish?” Rhaenys Targaryen, the lean older Princess, asked with a snort.

Jon had received plenty of royal favours and honours from Stannis before, and this was nothing like it. Rhaenyra’s favour was an insult wrapped in a chain.

“It’s a far less bloody trade than killing, Your Grace,” Jon agreed with a smile. “I’ve grown weary of violence. Spending my days fishing sounds like a far more honest endeavour than cutting the lives of men short. I’ve had my fill of destruction and slaughter in my life. Perhaps I ought to buy some more goats and cows and try my hand at making cheese. The Old Gods have no clergy and lack septries where weary souls like men can retreat from the mundane life, so I have been forced to choose this place for my contemplation.”

Forced by Vermithor’s choice.

Thankfully, the mention of religion and faith seemed to placate Rhaenyra, although she still seemed a tad irritated.

“A pity.” Daemon sighed, looking mightily disappointed. Why was the Rogue Prince regarding him with even more fondness than before? “You have such a great talent for killing.”

“You speak as if you expect a lot of bloodshed to happen soon,” Rhaenyra noted suspiciously. “The Seven Kingdoms have been at peace since the Cruel’s reign.”

“In the North, there’s a saying,” Jon began, tasting each word with relish. “Peace is like the summer. Sweet and bountiful and always welcomed, for it allows all to get drunk and fat on it. But just like summer, no peace lasts forever. Winter is coming.”

Corlys outright snorted, while Daemon shook his head with amusement.

“What do you intend to do now, Lord Jon?” the Rogue Prince prodded. “Will you truly spend your days fishing and raising goats like those dreadfully boring Valemen?”

“Perhaps for a time. I always wanted to travel the world, Your Grace. With the king’s generous reward, I might as well see everything it has to offer, from the exotic fares in the Summer Isles to the distant legends of the tall men of Leng, from the hairy men of Ibben to the Perfumed City.”

“So, not merely a fisherman but an adventurer as well.” Corlys Velaryon’s lips twitched. “Should you find yourself pulled to travel the world, come visit me in Driftmark. I have sailed places few have heard of and seen things others can’t even begin to imagine.”

The offer sounded genuine enough, but Jon wasn’t sure if this was an attempt at reconciliation or a dagger hidden by honeyed words.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” In the end, Jon had seen plenty of things others would scarcely imagine.

“Don’t be so stiff, Jon Stark,” Rhaenys Targaryen drawled, waving a servant over, who carried a glass pitcher holding a deep purple liquid with a tint of red. “There is no need for unpleasantness between House Stark and Velaryon. This is wine from Lord Redwyne’s private stock, and no amount of coin can purchase even a drop. You will find no better beverage in the world than this. Consider it as an apology.”

Was the Sea Snake too proud to apologise properly, for his wife to do it in his stead? It allowed him to keep his pride, and a dragon-riding princess’s offering of peace was a subtle reminder that House Velaryon still commanded dragons.

To show that it wasn’t poisoned, the Queen Who Never Was generously filled a chalice and took a deep gulp.

Jon sighed and took a sip. It was mellow and sweet, too sweet, sending shivers down his tongue as the liquid drained into his belly, pooling into pleasant heat. It was not bad, but he preferred a good horn of proper ale.

“No harm, no foul,” he said, swallowing his irritation. It was far harder to lash out against the smiling face of the proud Rhaenys Targaryen, who was still lean and comely despite being five and fifty.

For a moment, Jon wondered how the Seven Kingdoms would have been different if she had been the one to sit on the Iron Throne. Alas, the Queen Who Never Was lost that Great Council—probably by her grandfather’s designs.

With that, the Crown Princess and her entourage seemed finally satisfied and left Jon to the other noblemen who swarmed him like locusts.

Sadly, the most entertaining thing at the feast was the dwarf, who was somehow even shorter than Tyrion Lannister and played the court jester. The infamous Mushroom was garbed in motley as he juggled with apples, spun around on his hands, and sang a bawdy song accompanied by his loud farting—which could apparently be produced on demand.

It was one hour later that Jon managed to extricate himself from the tangled web of courtesies, oily smiles, and curious noblewomen. Jon lingered long enough to be considered polite and left just after the sun had set. None of the guardsmen stopped them, and the knights, lords, and ladies continued revelling in the food, wine, and music, dancing and feasting to their heart’s content.

There was an irony about entering Dragonstone like a prisoner condemned to death and leaving it a free man and a Stark. Never in his wildest fantasies would Jon have imagined Viserys would do such a bold thing. As much as he appreciated becoming a Stark in name, the Lord of Winterfell was probably never consulted, as would be appropriate. But this was the king who had foolishly split the royal court into two factions and orchestrated a war that would tear his House and legacy apart, so merely establishing a thorny precedent that would trouble highlords for generations to come was a paltry annoyance.

It was late at night when he reached the cottage, which he had begun calling home. Shaggy’s enthusiastic barks were the first to greet him.

Aethan was waiting for him on the bench outside, shaking his head.

“Congratulations, Milord Stark,” he said.

“Just call me Jon like before,” Jon groaned in dismay. Milord Stark made him feel as if someone was speaking to Eddard Stark again. “Or at least Lord Jon. Anything happened in my absence?”

“The king’s men came earlier, all wearing silvery ringmails and breastplates of castle-forged steel so polished they could be used as mirrors, leaving two chests of gold here. They returned those… arms and armour from the Velaryon knights, saying it’s all your spoils. Seven spears, six swords, two axes, three dirks, four daggers, five sets of ringmail, greaves, coats of plates, and shields of the highest quality I’ve seen. Nine destriers to boot—I spent the whole afternoon hammering an encasement in the west for them. And they even spooked away those men-at-arms who came to collect the tax and inspect the house before reminding him of the Lord Hand’s offer as they left.”

That certainly explained how Aethan knew of his legitimisation. And it seemed that Hightower was a petty if thorough man–if the Velaryon knights had been treated as outlaws, it meant that all of their armaments and armour belonged to the man who dealt with them. He ignored the bit about Otto Hightower leaving his offer open; it was no different from the one given to him by Rhaenyra.

In the end, to Jon the only difference between Aegon the Elder and Rhaenyra was that one had a cock, and the other one had teats.

Still, the presence of the tax collectors was odd.

“It’s too early,” Jon noted tightly. “Dues are collected in the middle of the year and at the end, and we’re approaching the end of the second moon. Silver Denys’s doing?”

“Probably,” the greybeard said. “Word got out you had been arrested, m’lord, and the trouble started appearing shortly after. What shall we do now?”

“Find me some farmhands to cultivate the land,” Jon decided. “Two or three of them. Buy more goats—and some cows, and a herder. Now that I’m a Stark, I shouldn’t struggle so hard buying large cattle. And find me a cheesemaker.”

Aethan tilted his head.

“We’re going to be making cheese, m’lord?”

“Cheese and butter. Cabbage, onions, and leeks.”

Running a farm didn’t sound too terrible. Being responsible for creating things instead of murdering and slaughtering and killing was a refreshing idea. Jon would still merely oversee these matters and take his time fishing and swinging his sword.

A part of him was tempted just to count his blessings and leave for the Summer Islands immediately. But the fiery rumble in his mind told him that Vermithor would follow, and with him, a lot of woe and trouble. Sooner or later, someone would connect the dots that the Bronze Fury, who never left Dragonstone, was following someone.

If only the dragon had not claimed him… Jon could only sigh with exasperation.

“What of Silver Denys?” Aethan asked. “He’s always been a slippery one.”

“I’m not going to do anything.” Jon scoffed. He knew of Denys’s sort—he loved bullying the weak and grovelled before the strong. “When word gets out, he’ll be here first thing, trying to assure me of his friendship.” Or, if he were a fool, Jon would merely have to visit Dragonstone and tell Rhaenyra that one of her tax collectors was stealing from her, and Silver Denys would have a close meeting with the gallows.

Surely enough, Silver Denys arrived the following morning with Fat Jeyne in tow, as his sons brought rolls of Torrentine cotton and some Myrish silk. “My lord, you’ve risen quick and fast in the world! Take these gifts as a token of my admiration for your skills with a blade and valour that even awed the king himself. Why, I must say I have—”

“This is the last time, Denys,” Jon interrupted, his face a cold mask as he rested his hand on Skyfall’s direwolf pommel. “Because you have not crossed the line, I’ll forgive you. Just this once. Next time you try something with me and mine, I’m going straight to the Lady of Dragonstone. I do not like to be disturbed.”

“Yes, yes, my lord,” the silver-haired man hastily bowed and dragged his children out of Jon’s house.

Jon could only sigh at the gifts that were left behind. The sly headsman knew that gifts given could not be returned.

“Lord Jon,” Aethan said as they shared a meal of mutton for breakfast. “Shouldn’t you have your own… coat of arms with all those tabards, padded surcoats, and shields? I can get old Hoth to paint it properly, his wife is very good with the needle, too.”

“I do have a coat of arms,” Jon said, closing his eyes. Oh, how he missed Ghost’s presence at times like this. Claiming the Stark sigil felt… inappropriate without the permission of the Lord of Winterfell. Using the reversed colours of his House was no longer appropriate, for he was not a bastard. “White direwolf head on black. Make sure the eyes are red.” To symbolise his identity as a former Lord Commander, and to honour Ghost.

Aethan nodded and left after they were done eating.

Still feeling irritated, Jon shed his tunic, grabbed his fishing rod, his bucket, tourney blade, and a handful of corn, and made his way to the shore. A heavy splash from the depths heralded the kraken’s looming presence, but Jon ignored the sea monster as he made his way to one of the twists of the shoreline that served as a natural stony pier and threw his fishing line into the waters.

The kraken might posture and splash all he wanted, but his gargantuan body couldn’t make it into the shallows, so Jon held no fear. Should the kraken turn into a nuisance, he could always try to hunt the behemoth. After all, the bigger and more challenging the prey, the greater the thrill and the accomplishment.

As the hours passed, his thoughts drifted. Marriage offers, promises of honours, lands, and positions all sounded sweet, but Jon knew better. He knew the fate of those hapless dragonseeds that managed to claim a dragon without backing. They were merely a tool to be used and discarded by both sides. Dragons were the symbol and the might of the royal power that had forged the seven kingdoms into one, and none would tolerate another line of dragonriders that could threaten the throne, not after the Queen Who Never Was or the coming Dance.

The Dance would start soon. Jon remembered Viserys had died at the beginning of the year, and the end of the second moon was already fast approaching. Only, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Black or Green, they both had some good and some rotten. No matter what Jon did, the dragons would dance, and once Viserys was dead and brothers and sisters were crowned as foes, a collision was inevitable.

The Dance was the ugliest sort of war that had no winners, only those who barely managed to survive. With or without Jon, with or without Vermithor, all the feuds and the conflicts would not disappear or be magically resolved.

The idea of more death on such a scale was always unsettling. It was tragic, even. Only, it didn’t matter. Jon Stark had no attachments in this time that was not his own. Worse, he had no patience left to deal with tittering ladies, scheming lords, ambitious knights, and overproud dragonriders.

Fishing was better. And so long as he owed no fealty to either faction, whether by virtue of owning land or by vowing his sword in service, Jon would remain undisturbed.

The rhythmic beating of the waves and the caress of the warm sea breeze upon his skin soon chased away his worries. It was like a balm upon his weary soul after the vexing events of the last week. An amused smile spread across his face as Shelly and Saltbeak quickly flew over as soon as he caught two eels. A few hours in, even the fish thief came around cautiously, and Jon would have felt heartened by his presence… if he wasn’t eyeing his bucket full of fish.

Rhaena

The last sennight felt like a bad dream. A nightmare worse than anything her mind could have conjured. Rhaena and Baela were confined to their quarters for a whole moon without any visitors—the first serious punishment they had suffered. Even their father was not willing to let them off. It didn’t take much to figure out why; they were doubtlessly punished for so eagerly answering Ser Otto Hightower’s questions instead of excusing themselves with a bout of nausea as Princess Rhaenyra had ordered.

“I can’t believe they lied to us,” Baela hissed out. “Not only did they try to kill Jon for saving us, but they still treat us like some errant children!”

“But we are children, at least for another year,” Rhaena reminded morosely.

The twins felt betrayed when they realised that neither their grandfather nor stepmother intended to spare the Northern bastard who had saved them. They understood the reasoning behind it, but they did not accept it or the lies.

“Maybe I should set Grandpa’s ship on fire,” her sister murmured. “That will teach him not to mess with me!”

“Baela!” Rhaena spluttered, panicking at her twin’s devilish expression. “You can’t just—just light the Velaryon ships on fire-“

“Can’t I? Who will stop me? Grandma? I’m sure I can convince her to help. Besides, aren’t you angry that Grandfather’s precious pride is more important than us?” She furiously waved her fist in the direction of Driftmark. “None of them even apologised for lying to us. Not even one of them! Do they think we’re stupid? Why aren’t you angry, Rhae?”

“It’s my fault, though,” she muttered, bowing her head. “If I had the courage to tell you no, we would have never gotten in trouble in the first place.”

Baela’s lips thinned as she glared at her. For once, Rhaena stood her ground and glared back.

“Do you regret seeing Grey Ghost, then?”

“No!” Rhaena furiously shook her head. “But it wasn’t worth it. Father gave me two more eggs from Syrax’s latest clutch, and maybe one of them will hatch.”

The sisters glanced at the three eggs lying in a gilded chest near the fireplace. The pink one with black swirls was nestled between a silvery egg streaked with white and one that looked more like a scaly ball of rusty red splashed with muddy brown.

“I still don’t think it’s your fault,” Baela retorted fiercely. “You didn’t make cousin Rhogar and the rest attack us. You didn’t make Grandfather and Mother Rhaenyra lie to us with a straight face while planning to murder our saviour!”

“That is true,” she agreed. “But we did escape Ser Alfred Broome. We were alone with a stranger precisely in the way that is very inappropriate for betrothed maidens.”

“Eh, Jon Snow is lazy and harmless—” Baela choked on her own words once she realised how ridiculous her claims were and hastily amended, “Mostly lazy and harmless. You’ve seen his gaze. He doesn’t look at us like we’re some prize to be won or a pretty face to be bedded.”

Both sisters were well aware of their natural charm and beauty, and even if they were betrothed, many knights and lords admired their beauty. Neither was shy about using it to their advantage when the situation called for it. A smile here, a softly phrased request there, and it was easy to have knights, men-at-arms, and servants follow their bidding. It was a power far subtler than the steely authority her father wielded when he commanded the knights of Dragonstone.

Only that power didn’t work on Jon Snow. Or, well, Jon Stark. Judging by the way his eyes lingered on their faces, he had most certainly noticed their beauty and promptly ignored it as if it were something unpleasant.

“Yes, his irritation was amusing.” Rhaena chuckled, shaking her head. “Honest, too. Do you think he’s really Uncle’s bastard, as they claim?”

Baela puffed her cheeks and rubbed her chin as she tilted her head.

“I don’t know,” she concluded after thinking hard for a whole minute. “I mean, he looks like a Northman.”

“Does that even mean anything? Jace, Luce, and Joffrey are Princess Rhaenyra’s sons, and they don’t look like her,” Rhaena reminded absentmindedly. “Grandmother is a Targaryen but has black hair too.”

Her sister only rubbed her head and pouted.

“It doesn’t matter. We can’t see him again.” Baela’s lips twitched. “He’s probably back to fishing right now and would be glad to be left alone. It somehow pisses me off. How dare he chase me away like I’m some irritating gnat?! Ugh, if only Moondancer were big enough to fly…”

Rhaena could only laugh at her sister’s outrage.

Surely enough, their disgruntlement didn’t last for that long. The days passed quickly, especially after they overcame their previous irritation. Rhaena would sing and tug on her harp while Baela would dance to her tune. When they got tired of it, they would read tomes on history or even work on that riding dress of silk and cotton that Baela wanted to make.

It was hard to stay angry with their grandfather and stepmother, but the sense of betrayal and the following disappointment were not something they would ever forget.

On the twentieth day of their punishment, their father came, his face dark.

“Father!” Both of them rushed at him and were pulled into his embrace as he pressed them to his chest roughly as if fearing they would disappear.

“What happened?” Baela prodded cautiously. “Is our punishment over?”

“Your uncle is dead,” he said gravely. “He has been dead for ten days.”

“W-What?” Rhaena sobbed out, trying to stem the tears pooling in her eyes and failing—she suddenly felt very faint. “Why are we hearing of this just now?”

“Ser Steffon Darklyn barely managed to arrive just a few hours ago, carrying my brother’s crown.” The steel in her father’s voice spooked Rhaena. She tried to slip out of her father’s embrace, but he refused to let go. “Alicent’s spawn has crowned himself king. We’re going to war.”

“War?” Baela’s shriek had her flinch. “You said there will be no war!”

Their father finally released them from his embrace, and her sister leapt away like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

“Now is not the time to be childish,” he warned. “There wouldn’t be any if the Hightowers did not try to usurp the Iron Throne!”

The rest of the day felt like a blur as Rhaena still struggled to come to terms with the chaos. Her sister seemed even more disgruntled and confused than everyone else. The castle of Dragonstone was like one giant ant-hill as servants, knights, and lords rushed around hastily, while ravens flew out to summon the Blacks, who were not yet present. The worst was her stepmother, who had fallen into labour early out of fury, and her screams and howls of agony could be heard all over the Sea Dragon Tower.