507Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the ASOIAF universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of GRRM; I make no claim to ownership.
Edited by: Bub3loka
Year 129 After Aegon's Conquest
Jon Stark
Returning without any fish, all solemn, had not evaded his household's attention.
"Where are you going, m'lord?" Aethan asked, cautiously eyeing him as Jon regarded his collection of Velaryon armaments that had remained untouched since it was stored in one of the cellars next to the kitchen. "Usually, you fish until much later."
"I do, but I was rudely interrupted. Now, I am going for a hunt," Jon said, picking one of the spears that had belonged to the Silent Five. It was of the finest make, with a solid ash handle seven feet long, and an elongated leaf-shaped spearhead forged out of the finest castle-forged steel. Needlessly fancy for a spear, but Jon was glad it was in his possession. A thousand thoughts swirled through his head, forcing him to sit on one of the chairs. "But first, I'll fill my belly. Get Colin to make me something while I take a nap."
"Hunting?" the former fisherman muttered. "And what will you be hunting? Mountain goats? The red foxes by the eastern moors?"
"A pest." A very dangerous, fire-breathing pest the size of a small hill. "I might be out for two, perhaps three days if I'm delayed."
"Very well, m'lord. Should I prepare some supplies?"
"That won't be necessary," Jon declined. Dragons, as he had found when slipping into Vermithor's mind, had very sharp senses, and the smell of food could very well alert the Cannibal.
Jon retreated to his bed without changing his garments, quickly closing his eyes.
Three hours later, as dusk approached, he left his house well-rested and fed, with a war spear in his hand and Skyfall on his belt, wearing only light linen, leather boots, and a cloak to ward off the nightly chill.
Jon could have confided with Aethan and the rest of his small household about his quest to hunt the Cannibal, but he had decided against worrying them for nought. Some might question his eagerness to hunt the black Kin Eater, who remained hale and hearty despite the many brave men who scaled the Dragonmont in an attempt to slay him.
Dragons were feared and worshipped in equal measure as a power that could not be reached or bested by the might of mortal men. Not without luck that could be said to enter the boundaries of divine providence, like the day Meraxes had been felled by a scorpion bolt in the eye. These days, dragons were rulers of the skies, harbingers of death and flames, a sign of the royal power in the flesh, invincible as they were untouchable. And with dragons, the Targaryens were considered just as invincible.
Today, slaying a dragon was a fool's dream, a madman's boast. Only a dragon could best another dragon. It was known.
It would be easy to ignore the Cannibal as he had done before. Rarely did he attack men unless they came to his lair to bother him, and he had a taste for dragon flesh. With Grey Ghost gone, the Cannibal would have no reason to bother Jon.
But was this truly the case?
The Kin Eater had tasted human flesh before and had eaten brave knights and wayward villagers who wandered too far up the Dragonmont. In truth, he could ignore the attack. Perhaps Jon could forget it with time. But Jon couldn't forget, nor could he forgive. He had come so close to death, as close as he had been when his brothers had betrayed him that day.
The indignation at the deliberate attempt to cook him alive still burned in his throat. The memory was still fresh in his mind.
Could he forget Shelly's sacrifice?
Could he forget the brave pelican who dared attack a dragon for Jon?
It was not Jon's prompting—Shelly had felt his desperation and had chosen on her own to risk her life in an attempt to save him.
Jon could forget the brave pelican's sacrifice no more than he could forgive it, which was to say not at all. The Cannibal could have simply left with Grey Ghost's carcass, leaving Jon and the others alone, but he did not. The Kin Eater took joy in pain and wanton destruction, even if he had picked his targets carefully and avoided angering the dragonlords of Dragonstone. There was no guarantee he would not do so again now that he had acquired a taste for it.
Even if none of that happened, the grudge had formed, and Jon knew it in his heart.
Some might call him a fool for thinking he could slay a dragon. Perhaps he was a fool. But Jon knew dragons could be slain. Within the next year and a half, many dragons would fall, and the myth of their invincibility would be forever shattered.
That was not to say dragons were easy to kill—they were not. None of the known dragonslayers or their aides survived to bask in the glory of their feat. But Jon knew how to hunt them. It would not be easy, nor would it be safe. There was a good chance he might perish. But the fear in his chest was outweighed by the burning hatred and desire for revenge.
Jon had just decided to live his life to the fullest, so he might as well live boldly.
What was there to fear?
'At most, I will die.'
The sun slowly dipped, sliding over the horizon as the darkness gathered, and Jon ascended the slopes of the hilly outskirts of the Dragonmont, his heart filled with resolve. Since he had made up his mind, he would not waver, so he discarded his hesitation.
Then, a gargantuan shade descended from the darkness to bar his way. Jon did not flinch, for he could feel the fiery presence in his mind.
Vermithor landed with a thud, shaking the hill and standing between Jon and the Dragonmont.
There was no question why the Bronze Fury had come here, for the Northman could feel the answer in his mind, burning through his thoughts. Despite being incapable of human speech, Vermithor was no less intelligent than most men. Just like Jon could peek into the mind and emotions of the dragon, so could the Bronze Fury do so in turn.
And now, Vermithor was here to bar Jon's way from attempting to slay a dragon alone. His draconic thoughts were plain enough—Jon should turn away, for humans were small and fragile and squishy, incomparable to the majesty and power of dragons.
"I will not run away from a challenge," Jon retorted.
The dragon released a discontented snort that sent a rumble through his bones and blasted him with more heated thoughts, now sharper but filled with a smidgen of respect. Attack the Cannibal together.
It would be easy to kill another dragon with Vermithor's help. But Jon was more than aware of the possible consequences. In the chance this got out, he would oust himself before the Red Sowing, leading to countless troubles collapsing upon his shoulders. Even if Jon had decided to live his life to the fullest, he was not eager to involve himself in the Dance. Not for Rhaenyra and not for Aegon. What did either of them have to do with Jon Stark?
Worse, the war had reached a point where words of wisdom and prudence had long been discarded, and it was a question of whether either side could ever be satisfied with mere victory anymore.
It would be easy to kill the Cannibal with Vermithor's assistance. Jon was not afraid of the consequences, but something inside him stirred. Something he had thought was long discarded, yet was rearing its ugly head like a hungry beast.
Pride. The desire to prove himself before the world.
Was there any greater prey to hunt than a dragon?
"I do not need your aid to slay the Kin Eater!" Jon declared, his heart thundering with excitement. "You want me to acknowledge the connection, do you not? Watch, then. Watch as I slay the Cannibal and prove myself worthy. You might have chosen me because of some fleeting resemblance to your first rider or to amuse yourself with my folly, but I shall not be considered second or lesser. Watch me as I prove not merely worthy to ride the Bronze Fury but greater than any other!"
Vermithor roared so loudly that the world itself shook, and Jon's very soul was rattled, but he was not fooled. The overproud dragon felt more pleased than angry. With a mighty beat of his wings, he took to the skies, freeing Jon's path. His presence receded from Jon's mind, reduced to a small ember, as if to say, 'You're truly on your own now.'
It was dark then, but the waxing moon illuminated Jon's path up the Dragonmont. Now, it was time to make good on his claims.
His plan to slay the Cannibal was simple. Trying to kill a dragon in the sky on his lonesome was folly, so the only way was to ambush the Kin Eater in his lair. Many before had tried—whether to kill the Cannibal or to tame him—and failed, for dragons had sharp senses. Not only to scent and noise but to magic, as he had realised during his short trip through Vermithor's mind. That was why he had not taken any supplies and the bare minimum of clothes.
The dragons in the Dragonpit had been slain only because they had all been chained down, unable to take flight or move, and the crowd had taken the twisted hallways leading to their unguarded flanks. Even then, all who had entered the Dragonpit that day had perished along with the dragons.
If Jon wanted to ambush a dragon, he had to approach when the beast was asleep and his alertness was at its lowest, covering his magic and scent. That was why he spent the next three hours scaling the Dragonmont to the nearest vent and bathed himself with the volcanic soot and ash from it. Even the spear and Skyfall were dipped into the mound of ash.
The problem with ambushing a dragon in his sleep was that dragons didn't sleep regularly. They could go for days, even weeks, without sleep, just as they could slumber for nearly a moon at a time if they chose to. It was a gamble, but one Jon had taken willingly as he crept towards the eastern side of the Dragonmont, where the Cannibal's lair was supposed to be.
Jon wandered in the darkness of the night for hours before finally finding it as he traversed a narrow, treacherous goat path. Nestled on a cliff overlooking the sprawling skirts of the Dragonmont, the dark, foreboding opening seventy yards in the rock was hidden out of sight. The charred bones and scaled eggshells strewn before the entrance mingled with the stench of decay and brimstone, making it clear that this was the Kin Eater's lair.
From inside, the sounds of tearing flesh and crunching bone echoed ominously, doubtlessly the Cannibal feasting upon Grey Ghost's remains. Jon was tempted to slip into Saltbeak's mind and scout the insides, but he dared not. Dragons were precisely sensitive to this sort of magic.
Like every experienced hunter, Jon knew how to be patient, so he chose a small crevice between the nearby rocks and slipped within, lying in wait while wrapped in his cloak. However, dawn soon came as the first rays of the sun crept from the east. Alas, the Cannibal did not return to sleep but instead crawled out of his lair and took to the sky. His heart halted, and for just a moment, Jon caught a close glimpse of the dark behemoth. The Cannibal was a lean dragon, nearly the size of Vermithor, but his scales, horns, and crest were all as black as the darkness of the night. There was a savage, sinister feeling to the jutted spikes running down his spine, making the Cannibal look as ominous as his name suggested.
For two days, Jon Stark lay in wait for a chance, feeling hungrier by the hour but not daring to move a muscle. There would be no help from Vermithor this time, he knew; the Bronze Fury observed at the very edge of his consciousness as if afraid to meddle, whether out of pride or amusement at Jon's earlier grand claims.
It did not matter; Jon's doubts had all but melted, and all his being was focused on his task, even if it was merely waiting.
The first day, the Cannibal flew around, returning for a little while to his lair. On the second day, the Kin Eater remained inside his cave, but Jon could feel the ground beneath him tremble as the dragon kept shifting inside, clearly not asleep. Jon napped for a few minutes at a time as the creeping hunger and stiffness only sharpened his mind further.
The evening after the second day of waiting, his target finally settled down. Jon waited for hours until he was certain the Cannibal was indeed asleep instead of lazily lounging inside. Climbing out of the small crevice, he cautiously worked his stiff muscles and joints, discarded his cloak, and prowled forward. The sun had just set, but the ominous cave looked even more sinister under the pale moonlight. Clouds had gathered, threatening to swallow his last source of light, but it did not matter.
His heart thundered like a war drum with each step, and Jon had to halt and regulate his breathing until he calmed down, lest it wake the Kin Eater. The draconic senses were that sharp, and he loathed to take any risk if he could avoid it. Jon even shrugged off his boots as he slowly took another step.
Each inch forward was careful and deliberate as he placed his heels first and rolled the rest of his foot forward to bring his toes onto the warm yet uneven bedrock beneath. Jon progressed slowly, waiting as his eyes got used to the darkness of the cave, avoiding the bones and eggshells strewn across the floor. The stench inside was unbearable, a choking mix of privy and spoiled eggs, forcing him to breathe in through his mouth.
In half an hour, he could feel cold sweat running down his spine, and he was only a third of the way to the gargantuan shadow at the bottom of the cave, whose chest slowly rose and fell. Gusts of searing wind accompanied the rhythmic breathing, caressing Jon's skin as the Cannibal had lain his head facing the entrance, doubtlessly prepared to spew dragonfire at any daring intruder.
Jon's spine only tingled at the danger as he slowly continued inching his way forward. He could feel his sweat trickle down his ash-covered body, and the itchiness of sitting in ash and grime for days returned with a vengeance. The spear felt heavy in his hands, his body weakened by the lack of sustenance.
A flash of lightning made his heart leap into his throat, but the following thunderclap echoed a few seconds later. Jon paused, feeling his nerves stretched taut to the limit, but the Cannibal remained blissfully asleep as if the fury of nature was but a nuisance to the dragon.
The pittering of the rain outside muffled the frantic drumming of his heartbeat and the sound of his sweat dripping down his body and to the ground. 'The gods were with him tonight,' Jon decided.
With the song of the rising drizzle outside, Jon prowled forth with far greater boldness.
Within a few minutes, he was just a handful of yards before the Cannibal's slumbering body, which curled into a small hill of scales and bone nestled at the bottom of the cavern. It was barely distinguishable in the darkness with the scales as dark as sin, but Jon's eyes were now used to it, and could vaguely make out the details.
As Jon wondered where the eyes were, his empty stomach chose the moment to growl hungrily in protest. The sound was louder than a thunderclap in his ears, and to his apprehension, the rhythmic breathing halted, and two poisonous green pools the size of a swan glared open at Jon.
Being given an obvious target, Jon did the only thing he could. He leapt forward, but the behemoth was already stirring. He barely managed to land on the snout, not close enough to reach the eyes properly.
The scales underneath his feet shifted as the dragon made to shake him off, but Jon was already in motion. Lunging forward, he stabbed at the enormous green eye with all the weight he could muster. The draconic eye closed at the last second, yet the spear struck true, sinking forth between the tiny gap in the eyelids.
The whole spearhead had gone through.
It was not enough.
A pained roar rattled his body as the world shook. The Cannibal thrashed, his head flinging above. Jon held onto the spearshaft with everything he had; his muscles strained as they fought against the momentum that almost flung him at the cave's ceiling.
The spear tip was lodged into the eye but had not reached the brain—it was too short. He didn't have the footing to try to push it further inside or twist it, so Jon did the only thing he could.
Skyfall was tugged free from its sheath as the dragon slammed his side into the wall. Jon's insides were rattled yet again, but he barely managed to find his footing. With his left hand, he held onto the lodged spear, and with his right, the Valyrian steel sword stabbed into the other eye, earning himself yet another angry roar that echoed endlessly in the cavern. It felt like every bone in his body would break from the cacophony.
Yet the thrashing instantly got weaker, and the Cannibal's frantic movements grew slightly slower. Out of desperation, the dragon started spewing torrents of poisonous green flame in every direction, almost blinding Jon with the sudden light. The air grew heated to the point it started simmering, but he was not deterred. Emboldened, Jon tugged Skyfall free and slammed it back into the eye again, and again, and again, each time to the hilt.
With each stab, the Cannibal's movements grew weaker until finally, the dragon let out a rumbling whimper as his body collapsed to the ground with a loud thud. No longer having to hold onto the spear, Jon immediately slammed Skyfall back into the now mangled eye with both hands all the way into the hilt, ignored the squirt of burning blood that splashed across his chest, and twisted.
Steaming blood dribbled from the mangled eyes as the silence in the cave grew deafening after the earlier rumbles. Even the storm outside had passed.
Jon barely managed to pull his sword free and then climbed down (more like tumbled off) the draconic head twice the size of a large snowy bear. The rims of his pants were aflame, and the rest was nearly torn to shreds, so Jon shrugged the last of his garments off, being as naked as the day he was born.
Sweat mingled with the ash, his chest felt hot, and his skin tingled on the place where the dragonblood had splashed across. His legs stung from where the sharp scales had cut through his skin in the struggle.
Half of the nearby rocks, boulders, and walls were melted into slag, which filled the air with noxious steam.
Strength left Jon's limbs as hoarse chuckles escaped from his throat.
He had done it.
He had slain a dragon.
Yet the sense of accomplishment and success could not wipe away the surging exhaustion and hunger.
If anything, his belly felt like a void that could never be filled, and Jon wanted to devour something, anything more than he had ever wanted before.
For a moment, exhaustion and hunger battled inside Jon's body, and the hunger won.
His mind felt distant, but somehow, he knew what to do without hesitation. He drank from the sizzling blood dripping down the Cannibal's bony maw, quenching his thirst. It felt like drinking molten iron and tasted like it, too, but somehow, strength returned to his limbs as the heat pooled into his belly. Dragging his feet, which no longer felt as heavy as lead, Jon approached the Cannibal's chest. He slid the tip of the sword between the scales and tried to pry them loose.
After a few moments of toiling and struggle, he managed to carve out a dozen scales, just enough for a man his height to continue—a feat only possible by the surge of strength from earlier and the sharpness of Skyfall.
His mind felt distant, as if stuck in a quagmire and unable to move. But the body moved on its own with relentless certainty.
There was only hunger as he hacked his way through the flesh, splattering blood and chunks of dragonflesh all over his naked body. Soon, he was covered from head to toe in the sticky, dark blood to the point it stung his eyes. He could feel something tingling underneath his skin, as if the acrid liquid had seeped into his flesh. The feeling was queer, distant and ever-present as he waddled through the blood-soaked flesh, but not wholly unpleasant, so his numbed mind ignored it.
Time lost its meaning as Jon continued to tunnel deeper into the Cannibal's chest until he reached the heart, a great black lump of flesh bigger than Jon's whole body. The very same heart that had powered the behemoth, allowing it to soar into the skies and spew fire.
Jon Stark opened his mouth and hungrily tore a piece of the raw flesh in front of him. A mouthful of it was far from enough to satiate his empty belly, and he dove with relish. It felt like he was eating flames; his mouth was seared by pain, but he kept greedily chewing through the flesh. At this point, he was driven by instinct more than thought, as staying awake for three days and the deathly clash earlier had exhausted the Northern warrior to the limit, and his mind was already lost to the dreams.
But his teeth continued tearing through the Cannibal's heart as if his mouth had a mind of its own.
Rhaena (Three days earlier)
Never before had Rhaena been so close to death. Not even when the Bronze Fury rejected her presence, which was done with growling and roaring, not torrents of dragonfire.
Even now, her knees could not stop shaking.
Thankfully, the horses had not run too far away, and the shame-faced Ser Lyonel managed to bring them back quickly.
Neither she nor the Bentley knight uttered a word. What was there to say?
They were not eager to return to the castle of Dragonstone.
It took her an hour to stop shivering and twice as much for her heart to stop racing like a frightened deer and for the sun to dry her riding garments. She still looked like a mess with her tangled hair, forcing her to take out her comb from Chestnut's saddle. Removing the seaweed from her hair and untangling the knots allowed her a measure of calm.
Her legs were too weak to even ride her mare, so she despondently sat on a small boulder by the hillside.
Her mind, however, was filled with questions. The reason why the Cannibal attacked them did not require much contemplation. The beast had attacked because it could.
She was more than glad to be alive, of course. There was no doubt in her mind that Jon Stark's swift and timely actions had saved their lives. Rhaena wasn't sure if she wanted to forget that desperate kiss underwater or cherish it for the rest of her life, but the main question remained.
Why had Vermithor come to their rescue?
Perhaps a year prior, she would have chalked it off to luck. Or never thought of questioning the gods smiling upon her at all.
The Bronze Fury had never attacked the Cannibal before and held no love for Rhaena. The dragon certainly wouldn't care about Ser Lyonel Bentley either—the warrior who was scared even by Grey Ghost.
Just thinking of the grey drake made her sad again. Rhaena had been so close, so close to having her own dragon. Soaring through the sky had been within her grasp until it was violently torn away from her, along with the shy but pretty drake. A spike of dark rage twisted through her chest, but the fear drowned it.
It has been so close. Rhaena had been so close to being roasted, being cooked alive in the seawater, and then to drowning. And she would have ended in one of those three ways if not for Vermithor.
But why had the dragon come to their rescue? How would it even know that they were in danger? Why would the Bronze Fury even care?
Neither of you is simple-minded, so stop acting like it. Grow up and use your wits more!
Jon's chiding words sent her deep in thought. Wild dragons only moved to fill their belly, Rhaena knew. Yet Vermithor had not been there to hunt.
She mulled on this topic for what felt like hours on end, but none of her conjectures made any sense. Unless… unless Vermithor was no longer an unclaimed dragon and had a rider. Such dragons only moved to protect themselves or their rider.
Had Vermithor flown to protect Jon?
It sounded fantastical. Utterly preposterous. But the nagging suspicion in the back of her head grew stronger.
They all said Jon was her uncle Viserys' son, even if he looked nothing like him and now held the Stark name. The Blood of the Dragon. But then, her stepmother's sons by Laenor looked nothing like him or their mother either, with their brown hair, pug noses, and chestnut eyes.
Again and again, the only thing that made sense was that Jon Stark was a dragonrider. A part of Rhaena got angry—even her bastard cousin had gotten a dragon before her!
Then, the fury quickly melted beneath the shame. Jon had done everything he could to save her. She would have been a charred husk if not for his swift actions.
Jon Stark had no right to ride or bond with a dragon, though. That was reserved for the House of the Dragon and their kin, the Velaryons of Driftmark…
Rhaena pulled her hair in frustration. Jon Stark was also descended from the House of the Dragon, was he not? Even if he had been born on the wrong side of the sheets, her uncle Viserys' decree had washed away the stain of bastardy.
But why hadn't he said anything?
Rhaena grimaced as she quickly realised the reason. Putting aside the scandal and the precarious position claiming a dragon without permission would put him into, Jon Stark had no interest in dragons, titles, courts, and honours. If he did, he would not have spent his days fishing or eating cheese. But then, why had he claimed a dragon?
The questions in Rhaena's mind only swelled in number, and the answers in her mind were far from enough.
"We should go back," Ser Lyonel's hoarse voice broke her from her musing. "If we linger for much longer, nightfall will come."
"Very well," Rhaena acknowledged, suddenly being reminded of how uncomfortable the rock beneath her bum was. Her legs still felt weak and shaky, but not to the point where she struggled to stand. Despite combing her hair and the dry dress, she still looked more like her sister after wrestling with a squire, albeit in a dress. Gods, she felt filthy. "Let's return before they start worrying. And not a word of today's events to anyone, Ser."
"But Lady Rhaena, Her Grace must know—"
"And you'll tell her how you fled, leaving your charge like a craven?" Rhaena interrupted knowingly as the knight sagged. "I thought not. Let us just… forget about it. We merely saw Cannibal swoop down and kill Grey Ghost from afar, ser."
The Bentley Knight just nodded with resignation.
If she could reach the conclusion about Jon and Vermithor, so could others. And while it would be the right thing to inform her family, Rhaena was reluctant. The Northman was not her enemy; she knew it down to the marrow of her bones, for he had saved her twice without hesitating. And twice now, she had put Jon Stark's life in mortal peril and did not intend to be responsible for a third.
She could always confront him later on and get answers for herself, for this particular Northman did not shy away from voicing his thoughts honestly.
Contrary to what Rhaena expected, nobody seemed worried about her prolonged absence throughout the day. In fact, her dishevelled appearance went unnoticed. The castle of Dragonstone was abuzz with excitement.
Rhaena thanked the gods, ignored most of the whispers about 'dragons' and 'titles', and got Alyssa, her handmaid, to draw her a hot bath in her quarters.
It wasn't long before the door slammed open, and Baela entered the chamber as if she owned it.
"Did you hear, Rhae?" She asked, her face flushed with excitement. "Jace has promised knighthood, lands, and wealth to anyone who masters a dragon!"
"Why?" Rhaena asked hoarsely. "Why would he do such a thing? Does the Queen agree?"
"She does," Baela said with a chortle. "As for why, it's quite simple. We have a lot more dragons than riders here on Dragonstone, but most of them are young and small, unable to offer significant advantages in battle. And why would we risk our lives against Vhagar as grandmother did when dozens of hotheaded knights would do it for us?"
"Dragons aren't easy to master," the tired maiden said, groaning with confusion. She had a feeling this would end poorly, but what did her feelings matter in front of already-declared royal decrees? "Even if some hapless dragonseed could master a dragon, it takes time to learn High Valyrian and how to ride one—"
"We have time," her sister countered. "As you see, the war isn't ending anytime soon. You can try to claim a dragon, too. Hey, why the long face?"
"I saw Grey Ghost being eaten by the Cannibal today," the words came out more like a sob. "And I was so close to taming him, Baela! I was this close…"
She started weeping as everything came back, and her sister rushed to her side and whispered sweet words of comfort, stroking her wet hair. Everything felt right again, even if Rhaena still felt the anger and the sorrow in her chest, they didn't hurt as much. She didn't tell her sister everything and convinced Baela to keep her secret despite feeling a tinge of guilt.
"We should still tell the Queen," Baela proposed hesitantly, half an hour later.
"Without Father and Grandmother, the biggest dragon here is Syrax, and she hasn't been flown in years and is barely half the size of the Cannibal. Would our stepmother risk her dragonriders to slay the Kin Eater, who otherwise never attacked House Targaryen?"
Her sister didn't answer—probably because she couldn't. The scary part was that Rhaena was not sure of the answer to that question either.
The next day, her stepmother called her to Dragonstone's solar, where she was waiting with a stone-faced Corlys.
"You will go to the Vale of Arryn to accompany my son Joffrey," Rhaenyra ordered from her newly carved wooden chair, an oaken copy of the Iron Throne lined with gold and silver along the armrests.
"A hostage for the Arryns?" Rhaena scoffed. "I don't want to."
"You would not be a hostage, Rhaena, but a guest of honour," her grandfather spoke softly. "The war has grown fiercer, and Dragonstone proved to be dangerous as of late, with Aegon sending a sworn brother of the kingsguard to assassinate the Queen. We're also sending your younger brothers to Pentos, far away from the risks and horrors of this grisly war."
"What of my sister?"
"She'll remain here with Moondancer," Corlys said. "She has a dragon and might be a target of an ambush if she goes alone in the Vale like your grandmother did. Furthermore, Baela could very well play an important role in the war, no matter how little we like it."
It felt bitter. Gods, they were punishing her for failing to claim a dragon. Joffrey and Aegon had a dragon, but unlike Baela, they were being sent away. Rhaenyra was considering the well-being of her own sons first.
It stung. Rhaena knew Rhaenyra would never love her like her late mother, Laena, but seeing it cut deeper than any sword. It felt like a betrayal, a slight, no matter how minor or well-intended. Voicing her protests would only land her in further trouble right now, she realised, for Rhaenyra Targaryen did not like being challenged or questioned.
"I want to stay here and claim a dragon, too," Rhaena declared with far more boldness than she felt. It was true, even though the previous day had scared her out of her wits. "If some nameless dragonseeds scattered around Dragonstone are allowed to, why would I be denied my right as a Targaryen?"
Rhaenyra squinted as she stared at Rhaena as if seeing her for the first time. The silence in the solar stretched. The gaze was intense, harsh almost, and the young maiden barely resisted the urge to squirm. Rhaena felt sweat trickling down her back, but refused to back down out of sheer stubbornness.
It would be easy to just nod her head and agree to be sent away, but it felt unfair. It felt bitter. Was she lesser because she lacked a dragon? Because she acted prim and proper?
"Perhaps she has a point, Your Grace," her grandfather mused, finally breaking the tense silence. "Sending her away now might not necessarily be for the better. My granddaughter is the Blood of the Forty more than most and has every right to claim a dragon of her own. Certainly more than some… smallfolk, merely blessed by a sliver of dragonblood."
"Very well," Rhaenyra acquiesced sternly, her face remaining a cold mask. "You shall remain here, then. And I hope you manage to claim a dragon instead of fleeing this time, Rhaena. They say the third time is the charm."
She was calling her a craven. Perhaps Rhaena was craven, but it still hurt.
A rush of rage pooled in her belly at the insult, but the maiden swallowed it, gave a practised smile, and curtsied. "Thank you, Your Grace."
'I will claim a dragon,' she angrily chanted in her mind as she stormed back to her chambers.
Soon, the cold reality hit her. The memory of the Cannibal and the green rivers of dragonfire crashing on the shore struck her like a hammer. Dragons were as terrifying as they were dangerous.
There was an irony to being a Targaryen who feared dragons. The gods were surely laughing at Rhaena, as were her ancestors. The only dragon who liked her, Grey Ghost, was killed and probably devoured clean yesterday.
The rest of her day was spent pacing around her room in indecision. Joffrey had already left later that evening, but Aegon and Viserys stayed—the negotiations with the Prince of Pentos were still underway.
Through her window, she would catch a glimpse of Baela and Moondancer soaring above the castle, and the envy returned to her chest. Rhaena wanted to fly, and she wanted it badly, but she feared dragons more than she wanted to fly.
The next day, Ser Steffon Darklyn and Lord Gormon Massey approached Silverwing and Vermithor and were roasted on the spot by the Bronze Fury, tempering the hotter heads eager for the glory of becoming a dragonrider. Three more smallfolk from the nearby port village with silver hair and purple eyes made an attempt to claim a dragon but were savaged to death. Word of Jacaerys' proposal saw dragonseeds and folk eager for glory and power flock to Dragonstone from Driftmark, too.
That evening, Alysanne Strong tried her hand at claiming Silverwing away from Vermithor and was struck by the she-dragon's tail, her spine broken as grandmaester Gerardys claimed she would be crippled for life. Her sister had attempted to tame Sheepstealer at the same time but had her head bitten off.
Doubtlessly, the Greens in King's Landing would hear about this 'Red Sowing', as the servants in the castle called it.
On the third day since the Cannibal attack, the headsman from Ashcove—named Silver Denys—claimed Seasmoke and was instantly knighted, as her sister eagerly charged into her room to announce.
A no-name smallfolk had claimed a dragon before Rhaena. The gods had to be laughing at her. The feeling of shame was like a slap.
It took her a few hours to gather her courage, and then Rhaena ventured outside the safety of Dragonstone's walls again, once again shadowed by the silent Ser Lyonel Bentley.
Both kept fearfully glancing at the skies above, expecting the Cannibal to swoop in and breathe torrents of bright green flame. Yet all they saw was a vast blue expanse illuminated by the autumn sun, dotted with the occasional cloud that looked like a piece of cotton in the distance.
"Where are we going today, my lady?" the Bentley knight asked after a few minutes of tense silence.
The question stumped Rhaena. She didn't exactly have a plan after Grey Ghost died. For a heartbeat, she was tempted to flee back to the safety of Dragonstone.
"To Ashcove and visit Jon Stark," she decided after contemplating for half a minute. There were plenty of questions Rhaena wanted to ask the mysterious Northman.
The dirt roads of Dragonstone were as desolate as ever—most of the newcomers landed in the fishing village by the castle and went no further. It took an hour at a slow trot, but they reached the outskirts of Ashcove.
It looked even more desolate than usual. Soon, Rhaena found out the reason—a crowd gathered outside Jon Stark's farm.
They weren't an angry mob like the one Rhaena had seen in Pentos in her childhood, but more like desperate, half-starving greybeards and men. There were even women and children here; half of the nearby village had gathered.
"It's the Rogue Prince's daughter!" someone shouted, and the crowd hastily parted for her.
There was more fear and worry in their eyes than respect.
"Perhaps she knows where m'lord Stark is," another murmured, and the crowd perked up.
"My apologies. I know of his whereabouts as much as you do. Lord Jon is missing?" she asked the old dragonseed—probably a steward or a servant who seemed to be in charge of the house.
"He's gone hunting, m'lady," the steward said, bowing his head.
She could feel her veins turn to ice. "When did he go?"
Beside him stood the taciturn Ser Alfred Broome, clad in a full suit of plate, sternly eyeing the crowd. The knight was flanked by two burly boys who looked to be Jace's age, wearing padded surcoats depicting the heraldry of Houses Cave and Pyne.
"The evening three days ago," was the thoughtful reply. "Master Jon said it'll take some days before he returns."
The evening three days ago. The evening after the Cannibal had attacked them.
A terrified gasp escaped from her lips, "N-No!"
"M'lady, do you perhaps know where he went?" the steward asked.
"...I think—I think he's gone to slay the Cannibal," Rhaena whispered hoarsely.
The whole crowd stilled for a moment, and the silence was oppressive. Many had tried to kill the Cannibal, with a few braver fools attempting to even tame him, but all had perished, no matter how brave or skilled.
Ser Alfred Broome was the first to stir.
"I'm going after him!" he declared. "We can't let Lord Jon face the Cannibal alone!"
"Me too!" one of the smallfolk roared, waving his fist angrily in the air.
"Down with the Cannibal!" one homely woman with a gaunt face chanted.
Then a second followed, and a third.
"Kill the Kin Eater!"
"Kill the Man Eater!"
Before Rhaena knew it, the whole crowd was aflame, faces filled with zeal.
"KILL THE KIN EATER!"
Author's Endnote: Something-something. Jon slays a dragon and unknowingly invokes an ancient rite of passage. Then, I slapped some extra magic on it cause I said it'd be a crack fic. No ragrets.
The timeline has officially entered the toilet, too. Fisherman Jon has somehow managed to inspire more loyalty from the locals in less than a year than House Targaryen after decades of peaceful rule.