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Chapter Text

It was one of the stranger dreams he’d had, which was saying something, since Jon used to dream through Ghost’s eyes. His senses were human in this one, but his hands, small and smooth, were free of sword calluses, and the world around him loomed large in the way it would a child.

Because he was a child, but he was also him. Jon had caught a glimpse of his face in a washing basin. His dreams as Ghost meant he was never truly startled to see something else reflected back when peering into water, but the face staring at him was one he hadn’t seen in at least ten years. Solemn grey eyes, dark hair hanging down to his shoulders, and the rounded cheeks of a child of perhaps seven or eight.

“Jon?”

Jon shot to his feet, knees free of the creaks earned too young in cold and combat. The voice calling him had come from outside the door to what he assumed was his bedchamber. It was small but comfortably furnished, and the air was warm in the early morning hours without the aid of a fire, which meant it must be somewhere in the south.

“Jon!” the voice called again, much closer and with a hint of concern.

Jon hurried to the door just as it opened, to the pinched face of a woman in her mid fifties, dark hair pulled back into a severe bun, her dress simple and modest. She was as unfamiliar as anything else in his dream, and he stared at her blankly.

“Are you ill, child?” she asked, hand going to his forehead. “It’s unlike you to sleep late. The maester is waiting, go and join your brother.”

Brother? A dull ache settled in his chest at the memory of carefree days spent chafing under the tutelage of Maester Luwin with Robb, both of them preferring to be in the yard with Ser Rodrik instead. He had spent so much of his childhood longing to be a man grown, able to prove himself more than a bastard, only to find himself forever after missing those simpler days.

“I don’t want to go,” he said, half afraid that if he did, he would find Robb’s ghost waiting for him, and half hoping that it was.

The woman frowned, then took him by the hand. “What has gotten into you? You will take your lessons, or you will explain yourself to his lordship.”

Jon sighed and let her—and the dream—lead him down the strange halls. He caught glimpses through the passing windows of stone castle walls nestled within a narrow pass, craggy rock sloping upward on either side. It was an unfamiliar landscape, but he had spent very little time in the south, and most of it on dragonback.

They eventually arrived at a door on the third level that opened to a small library. The window there offered a sweeping view over the castle’s walls to a large, green valley expanding outward from the mountain pass. A grey-haired man with the chain of a maester cocked an eyebrow at the woman escorting him, his questioning look passing then to Jon.

There was another child in the room, already seated at the small oaken table by the window. Not Robb, though he hadn’t truly expected that in a dream so far removed from any of his memories. When the child turned to him, his first startled thought was Daenerys? The silver-blond hair was nearly as long as hers, but the subtle differences became plain the longer he stared. For one thing, though pretty, he was clearly a boy, and his eyes were a darker violet than hers, his hair a few shades paler. But they were enough alike they could have been siblings.

The boy stared back at him with a curiosity almost equal to his own, something sharp in his gaze as he scanned Jon’s face. The maester cleared his throat expectantly, and Jon hurried over to the empty seat beside him.

The other boy’s name was Raymar, he learned over the course of their lessons, which covered history so old yet so comprehensively that he was fascinated in spite of himself. The bones of it he recognized from his own lessons long ago, but his dreaming mind had fleshed it out with surprising believability, adding details and names to conflicts and squabbles during the reign of Jaehaerys I.

He stole the occasional glance at Raymar, catching the boy doing the same before pretending otherwise. Aegon, he decided eventually. His mind had conjured some world where his half-brother had lived, and they’d grown up alongside one another somewhere in the south.

They paused for lunch midway through their lessons, and after another two hours of tedious instruction in reading and writing, in which both he and Raymar easily surpassed Maester Donnel’s expectations, they were granted a break before afternoon weapons training in the yard.

Jon followed Raymar out the door and to the end of the hall, where the other boy halted, turning to him. “Did you forget that today is my name day?”

“Oh.” Even though he didn’t even know the boy, Jon felt a flush of guilt. “No, I’ve been distracted. Happy name day.”

Raymar frowned at his response, the expression overly serious for a child. “It is not my name day, Jon. And if it were, it would be yours as well.” At Jon’s confused look he added, “We’re twins.”

Not just a brother but a twin? As dreams went, this one was an odd blend of the outlandish and the mundane, and he found himself suddenly impatient for it to end. “Does it matter?”

He started for the stairs, only to be stopped by a hand catching his arm. “Does it not?” the boy asked, gaze unexpectedly piercing. “Why?”

“Because it’s not real. It’s—”

“—a dream?” Raymar said, hand on his arm tightening briefly before releasing him. He looked stunned. “Do you mean to say you dream as well?”

Jon stared back at him, equally thrown. The other boy seemed to be implying that he believed this to be a dream, but as far as he knew, it wasn’t possible to share dreams. “Of course I’m dreaming. I don’t have a twin brother, I’m not a child, and I have never been wherever this is—”

“The Gates of the Moon,” Raymar said.

The Vale would explain the morning warmth, which had grown hotter as the day had progressed into afternoon. It had been on his mind, too, a topic of heated discussion with Daenerys given Baelish’s hold on the Eyrie and the credible rumors that his sister Sansa was being held there by him. Perhaps that was why his dreams had given him a sibling, albeit a long-dead one.

He started down the stairs, and he could hear Raymar move to follow. “Do you remember falling asleep?”

Jon’s next step faltered.

“I do not,” Raymar continued. “I was at Summerhall. There was a door I hadn’t noticed before, and darkness beyond it, save for a faint orange glow deep within that called to me. And when I walked through, suddenly I found myself here.”

“Summerhall?” he repeated, the first stirrings of doubt entering his mind. He had stopped at the ruins on his way back from Dorne, seeking the cache of dragon eggs that had been gathered there for the ritual that had doomed the palace and Aegon V himself.

He too could remember a door, and a calling within.

“This is a dream,” Jon said stubbornly, and he all but sprinted down the stairs.

He avoided Raymar for the next hour or so, weaving between the tolerant blue-cloaked guardsmen manning the outer walls as he took in the castle and its environs. The sight of the towering Eyrie to the distant north confirmed that this was indeed the Gates of the Moon, winter seat of the Arryn family, which meant the jagged mountain to its west must be the Giant’s Lance. Its current keeper, based on overheard conversations, was a Royce.

Eventually he found himself atop the northeast tower, staring at the evergreen forests high up on the mountains. They reminded him faintly of home, though the pines and spruce north of Winterfell rarely lost their dusting of snow, except at the height of summer. The blue-green needles here seemed almost naked without it.

“This is a dream,” he repeated to himself, peering over the parapet to the ground below.

But the dreams he could recall always wandered, logic twisting from one moment to the next such that nothing ever quite made sense yet there was never cause to question it. The march of time here felt real, each minute consistent with the last. Jon couldn’t remember dreams ever being quiet, allowing for reflection or even boredom, yet he had time aplenty for both here.

Jon leaned further over the parapet, safely out of view of the guardsmen on the ramparts below. You cannot die in a dream. He couldn’t remember who had told him that. Perhaps it had been Old Nan.

It would be, potentially, a very final way to be certain.

Arms closed around his waist then, startling him, and wrenched him away from the edge.

“Are you mad?” Raymar had found him, purple eyes wide with alarm. “If you think this a dream, then it will end soon enough, without the need for you to risk your life.”

Life was much easier to be cavalier about when you had already died, but he couldn’t exactly say as much. “I’ve taken more foolish risks than that.” Jon extricated himself with a frown. “Why should you care? You don’t even know me.”

“If we are truly here, then who would believe such a tale? They would think it a child’s imagination at best, and madness at worst.” Raymar met his gaze. “You are the only person who understands. We are, if nothing else, allies in this.”

Jon begrudgingly let himself entertain the notion this time. He had been plucked from death before, would it be so strange to be plucked from one life to another? And if somehow he truly had become a child again and been plopped into a Vale castle with what was clearly a Targaryen for a brother, then what?

The Others had been defeated, but the North, though secure, had been shattered—Robb dead, his surviving brothers too young to rule alone, his sisters both lost. The Iron Throne was far from settled. His ties to kin on both sides tugged him in every direction: Sansa in the Vale, rumors of Arya across the Narrow Sea. Daenerys and the dragons, working to unite Westeros once more under Targaryen rule.

He had sacrificed love for duty again and again, until the great threat of the Others had been eliminated. There had seemed to be, at last, a chance to pick up the shattered pieces of his family and forge something new from it. If he was to have any hope of doing so, then they needed to find a way to reverse what had been done.

“You think we might find answers back at Summerhall,” he said finally, having reached that conclusion on his own. If a door had led them here, then perhaps that door could take them back.

Raymar nodded. “You were there?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I saw the same. A doorway leading into darkness.” That they had both been called to it the same way spoke to another force at play. “We were lured here. Why?”

“I do not know,” Raymar said with a frown.

“Or this could be a dream,” Jon said, partly because he believed it, and partly to see how the other boy would react. He had expected irritation perhaps, but instead, Raymar’s shoulders tightened, the smile that played across his lips faintly bitter.

“I doubt it.”

The certainty in his voice was enough to make Jon doubt himself. “Why?”

Raymar turned slightly, gaze going to the distant Eyrie. “My dreams are rarely so kind.”

Their afternoon lessons were miserable in a different way. Jon, who was never without a sword at his side, had taken some comfort in even the wooden practice swords handed to him and Raymar by the castle’s master-at-arms, Ser Perkins. But his body was a child’s body, and instincts honed over his years with the Night’s Watch proved more a hindrance than a help.

His only consolation was that Raymar seemed equally frustrated, though the other boy hid it much better, shouldering the sharp insults hurled their way with impressive grace. Jon had to bite his own tongue more than once, both in defense of himself and his newly acquired brother. Ser Perkins seemed to view their clumsiness as born of either inattentiveness or mischief, and they both gathered quite the collection of welts before he dismissed them.

It left him with pent-up anger and no outlet afterward. Raymar deserved none of it, and Ser Perkins had easily sidestepped his swings. To his utter mortification, the anger settled in his chest as a half-sob, and he swiped furiously at the hot tears that sprung up with it. It was a child’s anger, quick to rise and quick to ebb.

Raymar mercifully gave him a few moments to compose himself, turning his back to Jon as he removed the padded training armor, though he left his hair in the long braid he’d gathered it into for their lesson.

“You must be a skilled swordsman,” Raymar said as Jon wriggled out of his own armor.

Jon shot him a sharp glance, looking for any signs of mockery, but he found none, just a quiet curiosity. “I spent half our lesson in the mud.”

“You would not be so furious if it were a common occurrence.” The boy brushed wisps of sweat-damp hair from his forehead. He hesitated, then added, “It was frustrating.”

“We will drill,” Jon growled. “Every morning before lessons, and between lessons, and in the evening before bed, until we have mastered ourselves and can wield a blade as before.”

There was a trace of surprise in Raymar’s expression, perhaps at the unexpected zeal, that gave way to a small smile. It brought a strange warmth to his chest, and Jon found himself smiling back.

“Quite a skilled swordsman, then,” Raymar said dryly, “to be such a tyrant of a taskmaster.” He scanned the training yard, presumably for Ser Perkins, then disappeared into the armory, emerging with their wooden practice blades. “We will be needing these, I suppose.”

He tossed one to Jon, who managed to catch it, despite his senses insisting his arms were half again as long.

“Come,” Raymar said. “We’ll need to wash up before supper.”

While Jon had been brooding on the tower, as Raymar put it, his brother had spent his time taking stock of their circumstance. They were orphans, as best as Raymar could tell, kin to the keeper of the castle, Allard Royce, and living here as his wards. Allard Royce was nephew to Lady Royce, who held the family seat of Runestone.

They were twins, as Raymar had alluded to before, with Jon the elder of the two, and their eighth name day was roughly four moons from now. Trueborn, since they were both called by the Redfort surname, though their exact relation to Allard was unclear. The maester had referred to him as their cousin.

The castle itself was in a flurry of preparation in advance of an expected visit from Lady Royce, with apparent pressure on both Maester Donnel and Ser Perkins to ensure that Jon and Raymar conducted themselves well in her presence.

Allard Royce was a somber-faced man in his mid twenties who took them both to task at supper for Jon’s tardiness earlier in the day, as well as their purported misconduct during weapons training. For some reason, most of his ire fell on Raymar, whose expression went still during the lecture, gaze fixed on the man. It seemed a dance the boy was accustomed to, one careful response following another, until the man’s disapproval waned.

It was an odd position to find himself in. At Winterfell, Jon had been the one singled out for any transgression involving him or Robb, forced to endure Lady Stark’s reprimands in stony silence. Here, he found an unexpected sympathy for Robb. It was uncomfortable to be on the other side of it, watching someone else shoulder the brunt of the blame, and it was all he could do to bite his tongue throughout.

The rest of supper was relatively peaceful, most of the murmur of conversation between Allard and his wife, Lynda, who was visibly with child. Jon was grateful to escape back to his room, which had turned out to be their room.

“Why does he dislike you?” Jon asked, only to realize almost immediately that it was unlikely Raymar would know either.

The other boy seemed to give the question some thought regardless. “Perhaps I challenged him in the past.”

It was an insecure man who could be successfully challenged by a child of seven, Jon thought privately. “I should have said something,” he said, regretting it now.

“Better that you didn’t. It was rather tame, as rebukes go.” A  wry smile rose on his lips, though there was a touch of melancholy behind it. “It seems I am to be a disappointment wherever I go.”

“Here,” Jon said, grabbing their stashed practice swords from beneath the bed and tossing one at him. “We can disappoint each other for the next hour.”

“Oh.” Purple eyes blinked at him with dawning realization. “You were in earnest about the late night drills.”

Jon set the pace for their training, something his time as a brother of the Night’s Watch had prepared him for well, though Raymar was far better trained than the raw recruits he had drilled the basics into. Jon started them both out progressing through various guard stances, followed by simple strikes and counterstrikes against air.

He finished the session with a handful of bouts, albeit at half-speed. It felt silly, and he could see the same rueful self-consciousness on Raymar’s face as they struck and countered, but neither of them stumbled over their own legs, or over-reached badly enough they would have lost a limb to live steel.

“Better,” Jon said at the end. They both were out of breath, even at the more leisurely pace, and a startled glance at the candle revealed it had been not one hour but two. “We’ll continue in the morning.”

Raymar shot Jon a beseeching glance. “We have lessons in the morning.”

“Early in the morning,” Jon said, unmoved.

He saw the protest gather on Raymar’s lips, only to be swallowed by a rueful smile.

“What?” Jon asked, curious about what had prompted it.

“You remind me of someone,” he said. “A friend, equally driven by the sword.”

“By the sword, or good sense?” he retorted.

Raymar laughed, the high pitched giggle of a child, and then looked so startled by the sound that it set Jon off in turn, the absurdity of the situation lending an edge of hysteria to their laughter. By the end of it, his sides were aching, and he felt lighter as he readied himself for bed.

The room was dark and the night quiet once they snuffed the candles and settled beneath the blankets. 

Neither spoke, but Jon was sure the other boy’s thoughts mirrored his own. It feels so real. The soreness from their bouts in the yard, the soft fabric of the blanket on his skin, the warmth of another body next to his.

He closed his eyes, clinging to the hope that when he next woke he would be back at Summerhall with this a fading memory, but in his heart he knew he would not be so lucky.

Chapter Text

Jon woke to the crow of a rooster, sunlight bright against his closed eyelids. There was a weight beside him on the bed, the sound of quiet breathing, and he knew before he opened his eyes that he was still in the Vale. For one thing, he didn’t feel the pull of scar tissue across his chest with each breath, nor the dozen small aches his body had already accumulated before the age of twenty.

This wasn’t a dream.

He opened his eyes, the blinding sun forcing him to turn his face to the side, where he could see Raymar, face peaceful in sleep, braid glowing silver where the sunlight fell upon it. It was a strangely nostalgic sight. Though they’d each had separate rooms, he and Robb had shared beds on occasion when they were younger, talking and giggling into the night—quietly, so as not to summon Lady Stark and her wrath.

Some days he didn’t quite believe he was gone, the accounts of the Red Wedding so ghoulish that it sounded like a story told to frighten children. He could almost pretend that Robb was out there somewhere, along with his other siblings. Not gone, simply lost.

Other times, it took every last ounce of self control to stop himself from bearing down upon the Twins with Rhaegal and burning it all.

Were they truly brothers, he and Raymar? It was a thought he hadn’t entertained yesterday, so desperate had he been to believe all of this a product of his imagination. Was he himself, merely younger? Or was he someone else, similar but subtly different?

He could see some of himself in Raymar. They shared a nose, perhaps, and though they were different in color, the shape of his eyes and his brow were familiar. Jon snorted faintly. It shouldn’t surprise him, he’d found much the same in Daenerys.

Had the gods, in taking from him three brothers and two sisters—four and three, if you counted his true siblings among them—chosen to salve the wound with the offer of a new sibling, one not lost or dead? It was not a trade he would have knowingly taken; he barely knew Raymar. Fitting, of course, that those same gods had determined that he would never know the love of a parent.

Did Raymar feel the same? Jon realized abruptly that they knew nothing about each other. He could easily have a family that he’d been stolen from. Parents he loved, siblings he cherished. Plans and dreams of his own.

Or could he be Aegon, some version of his brother whose skull hadn’t been dashed against the unfeeling stone of the Red Keep?

The gods had decided to take them both, but they hadn’t forced either on this path alone. They had bound them together. Jon didn’t think the gods cruel, but he didn’t think they had much cause to be kind, either. There was a purpose to this, to tying them both to this fate.

Jon turned back to the bright sunlight, squinting out the window for a glimpse of the sun’s position. Early still, the angle low on the horizon, only a trace of warmth in the air. They had at least another two hours before they were expected by Maester Donnel, and Lord Royce had been quite clear that further tardiness would not be tolerated.

Jon approached the washing basin again, studying his reflection. Was he different? It had been so long since he was a child that he couldn’t remember exactly how he’d looked. Even with the rounded cheeks of a child, he thought he could still recognize the features that marked him as a Stark.

Neither of them looked particularly like Lord Royce, save for the dark hair he shared with Jon, but how distant a cousin he was, he had no idea.

With a sigh, he returned to the bed, where he gently shook Raymar’s shoulder. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, going wide with alarmed confusion for a moment before recognition entered them. He sat up, gaze still fixed on Jon.

“I did not dream.”

Jon’s eyebrows crept up. “You were the one who insisted it wasn’t.”

“No, I—” Raymar smoothed a hand over his braid, expression unreadable. “Never mind.”

Jon briefly considered allowing him the few minutes he’d taken for himself to brood over their new reality, but there would be plenty of time for that later. “Morning drills. Get dressed.”

Raymar gave him an odd look, and for a second he thought the boy might object, but then he nodded and dressed quickly. As before, Jon set the pace at about half speed, and while it still felt awkward to move so slowly, it didn’t require as much concentration as before. When they progressed to bouts, they both had to override the reflex to react quickly, but Jon didn’t feel in danger of overbalancing anymore and falling flat on his face.

“You’ve done this before,” Raymar remarked once they’d finished, sitting down on the bed to rebraid his hair. “Taught swordsmanship.”

“Aye, to a much greener crop of recruits.” The memory was bittersweet. Some had gone on to give their lives for the Watch. And others still had turned their blades on him.

“And you’ve led men.” At Jon’s look of surprise, Raymar inclined his head. “You are accustomed to command.”

Jon would guess the same of Raymar; at the very least, he did not seem one accustomed to taking orders. “I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Truly?” Raymar’s hands froze mid-plait. “I thought—how old are you?”

“Nineteen,” Jon said, which seemed to only add to his shock. “But I was elected at seven and ten.” And dead that very same year.

“You do not jest.” He stared at Jon, shaking his head in apparent wonder. “Lord Commander at seventeen.” He seemed to hesitate, then asked, “Did you know my Uncle Aemon? He is maester there.”

“I knew Maester Aemon, aye. He taught a foolish boy how to be the man the Watch needed.” He’d been saddened to learn of the man’s death. It had felt crueller still once he’d learned of his heritage. “What about you?”

“Me?” Raymar went quiet, gaze sliding to the wall. “I have accomplished nothing of note, save living where my siblings did not, to hear my father speak it.”

“How old are you, I meant.”

“Oh.” He did not sound embarrassed, exactly, but he was clearly thrown by the conversation. “I am fourteen.”

Arya’s age, Jon thought with a pang. An age just enough removed from childhood to think oneself a man grown. He’d been such a boy at fourteen when he’d set out to join the Night’s Watch, and though he’d grown up fast, it had been out of necessity.

“Well.” Jon smiled at him and reached out to ruffle his hair, as he used to Bran and Arya, loosening the top of the braid and teasing a few shorter locks free. “I am the older twin, then.”

Raymar heaved a weary sigh, but seemed to relax. “I just fixed my hair.”

Jon laughed. “And I improved it.”

Their lessons with Maester Donnel began with sums this time. It was clear that the maester had intended it to occupy them for most of the morning, so their quick mastery over it was met with an almost dismayed astonishment. Their reward was equally dull: a review of the houses of the Vale and Riverlands. Raymar was the star pupil this time, recalling heraldry and words with uncanny precision. The only time he faltered was with some of the more minor knightly houses, but even Donnel could not find fault with that—though Raymar seemed to, judging by his frown.

It went smoothly until near the end of their history lesson, which covered the folly of the Fourth Dornish War, and the overwhelming triumph of dragonfire over the Dornish fleets of Prince Morion’s short-lived invasion.

“King Jaehaerys himself led the attack on Morion’s fleet, scouring them with dragonfire on his dragon Vermithor. He was aided by his son Aemon atop Caraxes, and our king’s own father, Baelon, who rode Vhagar. The fleet was destroyed in a day, ending the war without a single life lost.”

It took Jon longer than he cared to admit to realize why Raymar had straightened in place, breath rushing out of him in a sharp exhale.

“King Viserys,” Raymar said, sounding for once all of seven years old. “He rides Balerion?”

Rides. Not rode.

“In his youth, yes, but Balerion has been dead for…” the maester paused, brow wrinkling in recollection. “Goodness, nearly twenty years now.”

Jon’s interest in history growing up had been mostly confined to grand battles and heroic knights. He didn’t know the precise years of King Viserys’s reign, but the Dance of the Dragons was a period that every child of noble upbringing learned about. The Targaryens had been at the height of their power then, dragons all but disappearing from the world in the decades after.

If Viserys ruled, then the Dance could not be far away.

Jon had realized before that this could not be his own Vale, as the Gates of the Moon that he knew currently played host to Petyr Baelish and his loyalists, but somehow he had not also considered that the difference might be one of time.

Raymar meanwhile was gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles were white. Jon put a hand on his shoulder, able to feel the quiver of tension beneath, which remained a constant through the last half hour of their lesson.

The boy all but fled once Maester Donnel turned them loose, forcing Jon to hurry after him. It was the northeast tower that he made a beeline for, Jon’s refuge the day before, and he bounded up the stairs after him, to the very top.

They were both breathing heavily by then, and Raymar braced himself with both hands against the parapet, gaze fixed on the Eyrie in the distance, as though it were an anchor.

“There is no Summerhall,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It won’t be built for another seventy years.”

Oh. Jon hadn’t been convinced it would be as easy as finding the doorway and stepping back through, but Raymar must have been clinging to that belief, to be so shaken now.

Jon laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “Whatever power brought us here, I doubt it will be so easily undone.”

“My mother—” he said tightly.

Raymar had mentioned being the only surviving child amongst his siblings. “She still has your father to care for her, does she not?”

Raymar’s response was a choked laugh. “He will blame her, as he blames her for all my dead siblings. And if I am gone, it will be even worse.” He glanced at Jon, expression flat. “He told me once that if she could not birth me a wife, better that I had been born a daughter.”

Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion. A male heir was any lord’s ambition. “But why—” He fell silent, mind going to Craster and his daughter-wives before he dismissed that line of thought. Targaryens did not hesitate to wed brother to sister, but they had never paired parent to child. Perhaps there was a male cousin that would have been suitable for Raymar.

“It was not your choice to be stolen away,” Jon said finally. “Perhaps there is a purpose to our presence, and once fulfilled, we will be returned.”

Raymar’s expression remained bleak. “We are children, Jon. Whatever purpose we are meant to serve, I doubt it will be until we are much older.”

He raised a fair question. What use could they possibly be as they were, orphan children of a house that, though ancient, was not one of the great powers of Westeros?

“We won’t find it brooding up here,” Jon said, sighing when Raymar’s shoulders tightened. It wasn’t a very kind thing to say to a boy who was worried for his mother’s well-being, but that was beyond their control. “This doesn’t mean we don’t try, but we are powerless…for now.” The lilt in his voice drew the boy’s gaze, and Jon smiled. “Did you forget? We live in an age of dragons.”

The slight widening of his eyes suggested that he had. “Dragons,” he echoed, hushed with wonder. “You think we might bond with one?”

We. So Raymar believed Jon equally Targaryen, despite his coloring. An assumption because they were brothers here, or had he also recognized himself in Jon’s features? It didn’t matter, he decided. Whether they were brothers born or made, brothers they were, bound by this fate.

Jon bumped his shoulder into Raymar’s, drawing another of those fleeting smiles. “We will.”

Lady Royce’s visit came two days earlier than planned, less than an hour into their fighting instruction. She arrived with a far smaller escort than Jon would have expected for the head of a noble house, riding through the open gates flanked by only two men-at-arms. 

She dismounted with the ease of a woman well-accustomed to horseback, and exchanged pleasantries with her nephew, who had hurried to the yard to greet her. It did not take long for her gaze to find Jon and Raymar, however, whose bout had been paused at her arrival.

She strode toward them, dark hair pinned up into braids made unruly by wind. Like her nephew, there was a sternness to her face. She looked to be at least a decade his elder, nearer in age to Lady Stark as he remembered her, though her skin, well-tanned, held more lines.

Jon felt his first flutter of nerves as she halted in front of him. They might be children, but there were people who would expect them to know certain things, and her gaze as she studied him was very keen.

“How fare my young nephews, Allard?” she asked, voice lower than he would have expected for a woman of her height.

Their aunt, then. Sister to their dead mother, he assumed, who had married a Redfort. That would make Allard their first cousin, though it failed to explain where Raymar’s very obvious Targaryen blood had come from.

“They are progressing well, my lady. The maester is pleased with their studies, and they began their instruction in arms with Ser Perkins shortly after your last visit.”

She shifted her gaze to Raymar, who straightened at the attention, and her lips drew into a faint frown. “Let’s have a bout, then, while I’m in the yard.”

Ser Perkins bowed his head. “Of course, my lady.” Both Jon and Raymar still held their wooden practice swords, so he simply stepped back. “As you’ve practiced, lads.”

Jon exchanged a look with Raymar, who quirked a brow as though to ask how he wanted to proceed. He nodded back, hoping the boy would read the message: best effort.

Even just their two private practice sessions had helped considerably in lessening their clumsiness, which meant they gave a much better showing than would have been expected of two boys who had only recently begun learning the sword. Raymar was very good, his style more a mirror to Jon’s, favoring quick, fluid motion over brute strength. Jon had years of experience on him, however, and was much better able to anticipate and bait counters.

He won the first of their three bouts easily, and was relieved that the other boy seemed to take it in relative stride, his frown seemingly directed inward, as it turned to a faint smile of acknowledgement when Jon helped him up after.

What caught him by surprise was Lady Royce’s very clear favoritism, her face—as stern, it seemed, as her nephew Allard’s—betraying a smile with each of his victories. This, Jon realized, must be the source of Allard’s harshness towards Raymar. He knew from personal experience how the lord—or lady, as had been the case with Lady Stark—of a house could harden a household against someone not in her favor.

For their last bout, he allowed himself a few clumsy errors that Raymar punished instinctively. At the third, he shot Jon an inquiring look, but gamely played along, the edge of his wooden sword coming to a halt at Jon’s collarbone.

Jon snuck another glance at Lady Royce, whose mouth tightened briefly as Ser Perkins called the final bout in Raymar’s favor, but her apparent displeasure didn’t translate to harsh words.

“Well fought.” She inclined her head at Ser Perkins. “And well taught. I have seen worse out of trained squires six years their elder.”

“Aye,” Ser Perkins said, surveying them with an almost mystified expression. “They seem to have a knack for it.”

“Come greet your aunt,” she called to them.

Jon exchanged another uncertain glance with Raymar. As the ruler of Runestone, he would guess her visits to be infrequent, perhaps once or twice a year, so hopefully their lack of familiarity would be somewhat expected. It didn’t help, he thought with an internal wince, that he didn’t even know her name.

After setting their practice swords aside, they approached as one, halting before her. There was an edge of tension to the silence as they regarded one another. Raymar watched her with a wariness that told Jon he too had picked up on her ambivalence toward him, while Jon felt himself a boy again in mind as well as body, standing before Lady Stark’s judgment.

For her part, Lady Royce also seemed to hesitate, but she pulled each into an embrace. There was a stiffness in it that told Jon she wasn’t easy with her affection, and he relaxed slightly. That distance would only work in their favor.

“You’ve grown,” she said, sounding almost wistful. She pulled back to place a measuring hand on both their heads. “You will catch up to me in but a few more years.”

“You are an easier target than some,” Jon joked, the way he used to with his uncle Benjen, before realizing that it might give offense. In the moment, something about her had reminded him of his uncle for some reason. Her eyes, perhaps, which were a similar grey-blue.

But a smile tugged at her lips, her first display of real warmth. “Then I shall offer your cousin as the challenge to beat,” she said, nodding toward Allard Royce, who was a full foot taller.

“Come, Aunt,” Allard said. “Doubtless it’s been a long road for you, and a muddy one with all this rain. I had a bath drawn as soon as my men spotted your approach, and we can sup together after.”

Lady Royce gave an unladylike snort. “Is that a delicate way of telling me I look like a drowned rat?”

Allard nodded. “Even from afar.”

“Such impertinence,” Lady Royce said, clapping her nephew on the shoulder with another smile. “Very well. I will spare your halls the mud I’ve tracked from the Trident.”

With her departure, it became clear that their own training was finished for the day, and they were also sent to wash up for an early supper. This time they were supervised, scrubbed squeaky clean, Raymar forced to take his braid down so that they could both have their hair brushed out.

“Rhea,” Raymar whispered to him as they were sent on their way to the dining hall. “Her name is Rhea.”

With his hair down, he looked more Targaryen than ever, and based on Lady Royce’s reaction when she watched them enter, that was the source of her discomfort. Bastards, Jon concluded, fairly confident at this point. That was the most likely explanation. Some Targaryen had got Lady Royce’s sister with child—well, twins, in their case—and she’d hurriedly arranged a match with a Redfort. Some son far down in the line of succession, or perhaps a widowed man with sons already. Maybe she had promised a favor in return. Perhaps she’d hoped the delivery late enough that the husband believed them to be his.

And then Raymar’s coloring had ruined it all, both putting the lie at risk as well as serving as a reminder of the man who had dishonored her sister.

“Allard tells me you have been diligent in your studies,” Lady Royce said.

“Yes, Aunt Rhea,” they chorused, so perfectly synced that Jon felt a stir of melancholy. Once, that had been him and Robb.

“What do you say, Allard?” she continued, a casualness to her voice that was belied by her careful stare. She nodded at Jon. “Do we have a knight in the making on our hands?” Then at Raymar. “And perhaps a maester?”

Raymar exchanged a glance with Jon. They had both easily shown the skill to become capable knights. Jon wondered if the suggestion of the Citadel had the same underlying motivation as him being encouraged to join the Night’s Watch—a means of hiding away an inconvenient secret. Many maesters started their training young, Jon recalled, likely not too much older than they were now.

Allard set his wine down and inclined his head. “Both honorable callings.”

Jon locked gazes with Lady Royce. “Where Raymar goes, I go.”

“That will not always be the case, Jon,” she replied, firmly but not unkindly. She pushed her plate to the side. “But enough of that. I will not be here for your name day, so I have brought your gifts early.”

They retired to the castle’s solar, which was furnished for both lordly duties and lounging, with cushioned chairs arrayed around the fireplace and a desk near the window. A plate piled high with grapes and dates was carried into the room by a servant who placed it on the small table by the fire.

Jon, who had gone from harsh winter to what appeared to be mid autumn here, eagerly dined on the dark red grapes, Raymar watching him with a slightly raised brow as he bit more delicately into one of the dates. Jon battled the sudden childish urge to pelt him with a grape.

Lady Royce presented them their gifts, bundled in cloth, and Jon knew from the shape and heft of it in his hands that it held a small blade of some kind. There was a note of anticipation as she watched them, as though waiting for something.

“It is too heavy to be anything of wood,” Raymar said, and the pleased glint in their aunt’s gaze confirmed that he’d discerned the correct name day ritual. Jon was quite sure Raymar also knew what it was.

“Perhaps it’s a maester’s chain,” Jon said with a pointed look at Lady Royce, who did not react to the dig. Jon did not want to extend the guessing game, lest he accidentally name something she’d gifted before, so he set it down in his lap. “Is it a dagger?”

“Close,” their aunt said, then gave them a nod that he took to mean it was time for the reveal.

They unraveled the tightly-wrapped cloth, baring first a sheath of stiff, oiled leather with the Royce crest engraved onto one side, and then a hilt of bronze and black, the pommel and guard burnished to a glowing sheen that formed a striking contrast with the dark grip. The blade was also bronze, with runes delicately etched along either side of the spine. And beneath it, compactly rolled up into a neat spiral, a leather belt to hold it.

It was a hunting knife, not a dagger, but Jon did not have to feign his joy. He’d felt naked since waking here without any means of defense.

“It is beautiful,” Raymar said, angling the blade to catch the light of the fire so he could read the writing etched into the blade. “‘We remember.’”

The words of House Royce. Their cousin frowned, appearing displeased by the gift. Jon could not tell if that was because he was the one who would have to contend with two boys of seven now armed with deadly weapons or if he merely thought them undeserving of the gift.

Jon tested the edge lightly against his thumb and gave a nod of approval. “It’s sharp.”

“Our smith in Runestone is without equal in shaping bronze,” Lady Royce said. “And this is only part of your name day gift.”

Jon glanced at her in surprise. The knives were an exceptionally fine gift on their own, equal in quality to what a lord of one of the great houses might commission his own heir.

“You will go hawking with me tomorrow and learn how to use your new blades.”

Allard’s frown deepened. “Is that wise, Aunt? To—” His gaze shifted to Raymar. “To venture very far from the castle?”

She shot him a quelling look. “I have been hawking in the Vale of Arryn almost as long as you’ve been alive. I know which paths to take so that we are not disturbed.”

Allard reluctantly let the matter drop, and Jon and Raymar continued to study the detailing in both knife and sheath. Their aunt seemed less reserved around Raymar here in the solar, even taking him onto her lap when he asked about the runes he’d noticed inscribed into their belts to explain them to him.

They were cautioned by Allard on being responsible with their knives, but he seemed reluctant to outright forbid them carrying them on their person, especially after Lady Royce helped them fasten their new belts and loop the sheath through.

By the end, both he and Raymar were stifling yawns. It had been a long day, and they were still adjusting to the heightened need for sleep that came with being seven once more. They thanked their aunt yet again, and she sent them off to bed with a kiss to the cheek.

“Do you think she’ll do it?” Jon asked once they were back in their room. “Send you to the Citadel?”

Raymar rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “I’m not certain. It might have only been a passing remark.” He unclasped his gifted belt and knife, running a thumb over the bronze and black hilt before setting it aside. “Do you realize who our father likely is? I’d forgotten, because she died many years before the Dance.”

Raymar was normally hard to read, but he looked off balance now, staring at Lady Royce’s gift rather than meeting Jon’s gaze. It made Jon uneasy in turn. “Who?”

“The king’s brother. Prince Daemon.”

Jon blinked, almost numb to surprises at this point. “Oh.” The Rogue Prince. One of the most central figures to the Dance, future husband and consort to Rhaenyra Targaryen herself.

“He’s married to Lady Royce, but they have no children. Given his reputation and their animosity toward one another, I would guess he bedded her sister at some point.” Raymar glanced at him. “Keeping us hidden is as much a matter of preserving her dead sister’s honor as it is spiting him, I expect.”

“Some lords would find that a favor,” Jon pointed out, more well-versed than most in the plight of a noble’s bastard child, even if it had turned out that he was trueborn.

“If that were so, then why not flaunt us instead as a stain on his honor?”

“Perhaps she loved her sister more.” Lady Royce seemed somewhat reserved, especially in public, but Ned Stark had often struck those who didn’t know him well as cold and grim. “Or she simply wanted to protect her family’s reputation.”

Raymar twined a lock of hair around his finger, studying it. “Perra told me they used to dye my hair when I was younger, but as I got older, the color wouldn’t hold, so they stopped. And now our aunt is possibly considering sending me off to the Citadel.” He released the hair with a huff of amusement. “If it is discovery that she fears, she must not realize how much gossip there is amongst maesters. This is hardly the reign of Aegon the Unworthy, where the dragons were spent and dragonseed sprouted all across the land. A highborn child with my coloring showing up at the Citadel in this era would not go unremarked.”

“Then we convince her not to, and spare us both that fate,” Jon said firmly. “I meant what I said. I’ll go where you go.” 

Raymar raised an eyebrow at him. “Spending time at the Citadel is hardly a death sentence, Jon.”

“Maybe for you,” he retorted.

Raymar smiled, looking amused, and offered a mock salute. “Fair enough, Lord Commander. I am sure the Night’s Watch was much safer.”

Jon gave him a playful shove, which seemed to catch him by surprise at first, but then he responded with a bump of his shoulder against Jon’s.

“On that note,” Jon said, reaching beneath the bed for their practice swords. He grinned at the heavy sigh he could hear behind him. “Let’s give our dear aunt a reason to keep us both from the Citadel.”

Chapter Text

Their promised hunt came with the morrow, bright and early, Lady Royce herself appearing to rouse them from sleep already dressed in riding leathers. She supervised them with barely concealed enthusiasm as they dressed for the ride, nodding with approval as they both secured their new belts into place.

Their aunt had brought her hawk with her, her intended final destination the Eyrie, where Lady Arryn was hosting an extravagant weekslong hunt through the Vale of Arryn. Jon had never been hawking before, though he had joined his father and Robb twice on more traditional hunts. He was far more accustomed to hunting for practical reasons than as the leisure sport it was for the lords and ladies of Westeros.

The horses were already tacked when they finally reached the yard, where one of Allard’s guardsmen who had been chosen to accompany them was waiting, a lean man in his early twenties with wavy brown hair and an easy smile who introduced himself as Marten Crayne. He helped both Jon and Raymar onto their horses and quickly proved to be extremely talkative, much to Jon’s dismay.

Still, Jon felt something in his chest loosen as they rode through the gates and then north along the high road. He’d grown accustomed to constant travel over long distances; it felt good to finally venture beyond the walls of the Gates of the Moon.

“You ride well,” Lady Royce said, once the castle walls had receded from view.

“Derrick has been a good teacher,” Raymar replied, to Jon’s relief. At least one of them was learning the names of the various members of the household.

Although Lady Royce tried to engage both of them in conversation, Jon was happy to let Raymar handle most of it. The two of them chatted about hawking, a pastime Lady Royce was quite passionate about, before the conversation transitioned to House Royce itself, then Runestone. Raymar peppered her with endless questions about her rule that she seemed to enjoy answering. If he was trying to convince her that he was unqualified to be a maester, Jon mused, he was doing a terrible job at it.

Jon only had to navigate what seemed to be Crayne’s clumsy attempt to get Jon to warm to him, their conversation moving quickly from one topic to another, half smalltalk and half smiling interrogation. Had he been north of the castle before? Did he have a favorite horse? Did he have ambitions of becoming a knight?

It was the kind of attention that a seven-year-old orphan would likely bask in, but Jon found himself wondering at the guardsman’s motivation. He could very well just be a friendly sort, but something about the man didn’t sit right with him. At times he was too interested and others almost bored, and his gaze often strayed to Raymar. Curiosity at the puzzle of their origin, perhaps? The guardsman had mentioned that he’d only been in Allard’s service for a few moons.

The conversation came to a merciful end as they neared their intended destination, with Lady Royce bidding quiet. She had spent part of the morning explaining the basics of hawking, but since they had no birds of their own, he and Raymar were instead to observe and take part in handling the game itself, once caught.

The valley forest, warm in mid-autumn and nothing alike the evergreen forests of the North, still triggered a twinge of homesickness, and though it had been two years since he’d lost Ghost, every flash of white in his peripheral vision caught his gaze, the expectation of seeing his direwolf loping along beside him not yet faded.

Ultimately it was not deep forest that they hunted in, but rather on the outskirts, where the trees were fairly well spaced, slightly up the hillside. Jon had assumed the hawk would bring down other fowl, but over the course of the next few hours, as they roamed on the horses at a leisurely pace from location to location, its haul was instead a pair of squirrels and two more rabbits, each surrendered to Lady Royce in return for scraps of meat she’d brought with her.

Crayne had traded him for Raymar during that time, and even though he mistrusted the man, Jon took some amusement in the exchange. Raymar danced circles around him, spending minutes at a time saying absolutely nothing, but so eloquently that it was only apparent when he was done speaking that Crayne’s questions had gone unanswered.

As promised, their aunt took time after her hawk had finished its work to teach them to butcher the game. Jon did his best to feign ignorance, and honestly couldn’t tell if Raymar was also pretending. As kin to Aemon, he likely had grown up in the Red Keep, possibly even in the line of succession. He wasn’t sure if princes were taught such things.

Their efforts met Lady Royce’s satisfaction, at least, and they headed back to the castle with their prizes in tow.

“What do you do with your catches?” Raymar asked on the ride back.

“Most of it goes to Fallow later,” Lady Royce said, nodding toward her now-hooded hawk. “If we are on a longer hunt and in want of something fresh, I will sometimes claim any grouse he returns with.”

“Is he ever reluctant to surrender his prize?”

“This old boy?” Lady Royce smiled fondly at the hawk. “He is like a little lord himself. After the chase is done, he would rather someone else go through the trouble of butchering the kill and enjoy his cubes of meat instead.”

They were side by side on their horses now, Raymar and their aunt, Crayne trailing in the back with Jon once more. Hopefully their outing would be enough to keep the Citadel out of their near future; Lady Royce had seemed to soften very quickly to Raymar, enough so that Jon wondered if he’d been mistaken in his initial impression at the yard yesterday.

They continued to converse throughout supper, to Allard’s clear bewilderment, even drawing his wife Lynda into the animated discussion. Jon was honestly grateful to retire early to their bedchamber for some quiet after the others had gone on to the solar. The quiet, however, made space for heavy thoughts.

He could already feel himself growing accustomed to this new life, and it seemed a betrayal of everyone he had known and loved, even though he knew there was nothing he could do. He didn’t even know if they could return, or if they did, whether their world would have moved on without them.

He missed home, and he didn’t even know what home was anymore. Winterfell, ravaged but standing, stewarded by Bran and Rickon under the heavy shadow of all the family they’d lost? The icy expanse of the Wall and Castle Black, where his brothers had murdered him? In Dragonstone with Daenerys, its halls gloomy and unfamiliar?

All he had learned in his short life so far was that you couldn’t go home. Memory made an orphan of the present, with its yearning for ghosts of what had been. Had he managed to free Sansa and find Arya and bring them to Winterfell, it still would not be the home he knew.

Jon traced a small finger over a dent in the wood of the dresser, along a scratch on its side. They meant something to someone else, but not to him. It was a dresser in a room that wasn’t his, shared with a brother who wasn’t his.

His throat tightened, even the resulting swell of emotion unfamiliar. Too strong, the tears building in his eyes those of an overwhelmed child rather than the man he was. Nothing felt right.

That was how Raymar found him when he finally came to bed, staring hollow-eyed at the wall, and he was at Jon’s side in an instant, hand light on his shoulder.

“Jon?”

The question was gentle with concern, and when Jon met his gaze, that was what he found. It made the lump in his throat throb all the harder. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

Jon swept his hand in an unsteady arc meant to encompass the room, the castle, their new family. “Act as though you belong.”

“Oh.” Raymar settled beside him, shoulder against his, and was silent for a time. “It does not quite feel real to me yet. I can almost believe it is some strange sojourn, and in a few weeks we’ll be home again.”

Pretend until enough time had passed that the lie became comfortable. “Only we won’t be home. We’ll be here until this is home. Until everything we knew is the dream instead.”

“Let us make a pact, then.” Raymar clasped his hand, drawing his stare away from the wall. “Each night, before we go to sleep, we shall tell each other something of our lives. So long as we do that, our past cannot die.”

He spoke with such confidence that something in Jon eased. “I’d like that.” He released an unsteady breath, squeezing his hand in silent gratitude. “You first.”

“Oh, so that’s my reward?” Raymar teased. But he tilted his head, brow crinkling in thought. “One of my first memories of the Red Keep was getting lost in Maegor’s Holdfast. I’d wandered off down a network of tunnels and discovered an extensive cache of books and scrolls. I was barely three, so I could only read some of it, but I remember being fascinated by the drawings in the ones I could reach.”

The fascination was apparent, even in the recounting of it, and Jon felt a well of fondness at it. “Barely three and already able to read? No wonder you don’t fear the Citadel.”

“I have always loved to read,” Raymar said, something wistful in his voice. “I must have been gone for hours, I do remember being hungry. Nearly everyone in the castle was looking for me by then. My grandfather had sent away all but a single Kingsguard to join the search, but he was the one who found me.” He smiled faintly. “Apparently it was one of his old hideaways I’d wandered into. I was scolded quite sternly, but afterward, he read to me from the book I’d deemed most interesting.”

“What was it about?” Jon asked, curious about the sorts of things Raymar found interesting.

“Minting.” Raymar’s mouth twitched at Jon’s disbelieving scoff. “Truly! It was an archmaester’s history of coinage since the reign of Aegon the Conqueror, with sketches of the coins—there were dragons, and riders, and all manner of fierce and imposing profiles of kings. And pictures of the mints and stamps used as well.”

Though they could not look more different, and they shared very little even in temperament, Jon couldn’t help but be reminded of Samwell Tarly for a moment. “Were the words as enthralling as the pictures?”

“Somewhat less so,” Raymar admitted. “At least to a three-year-old.”

The other boy unclasped his belt and set it aside. Their knives had been cleaned earlier, the remnants of blood and bile washed away. Before he could further ready himself for bed, Jon cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes.” To his credit, Raymar didn’t seem as dismayed at the prospect of late night practice this time, just tired from their long day. “You owe me your story after, though.”

Jon kept it short this time, just shy of an hour. Now that they’d proved themselves capable of fighting at full speed, he wanted a better sense of Raymar’s capabilities, so they alternated between bouts where Jon poked and prodded at his defenses, and bouts where he stood back and bid Raymar to attack into his own.

Raymar’s technique was nearly flawless, but there was the tiniest hesitation behind every decision. Jon wasn’t certain if it was a matter of the boy second-guessing himself, or the lack of an instinct to go for the kill. Neither would surprise him. Raymar seemed the type to drive himself toward perfection to the point of overthinking everything, but he also was only a boy of fourteen. He would not have had the harsh lessons imparted only by real combat—that hesitation could kill.

Either was fixable. One by coaching, and the other by time and experience. That didn’t mean Jon couldn’t help the latter along, though. Some men didn’t live to learn from such mistakes, and he had no intention of Raymar becoming one of them.

“Your turn,” Raymar said when they had finally put their practice swords away and settled into bed.

There were many early memories to choose from, but one stood out in perfect contrast to Raymar’s. “When I was three, my—uncle took my cousin Robb and me with him to the smithy. I don’t remember what for.” A smile found his lips. “Like as not to buy some peace back at the castle. We were the same age, and constantly spurring one another on.”

The smithy from a child’s perspective had been a place of wonder—the orange glow of the forge, the loud clang of the hammer striking the anvil, and weapons all around. Even then, Mikken’s whiskers had been mostly grey, but his eyes had been kind, and he’d answered their childish questions with patience.

“A dagger had fallen to the ground, half hidden behind a bucket filled with rags. Easy for a child to spot.” Three was old enough to know when something was forbidden, but young enough not to quite understand theft. “We’d play-fought with sticks before, but we envied the guardsmen in the yard, of course, who drilled with real blades. When Mikken and—my uncle were distracted, we wrapped it in some of those rags, and hid it under my coat.”

Jon couldn’t remember whose idea it had been, though he’d been the one blamed by Lady Stark later. It had definitely been a co-conspiracy to smuggle it out, however.

“When we were back in Robb’s room, we took it out and started to play with it.” Raymar’s wince was audible and Jon smiled wryly up at the ceiling. “The worst damage was to Robb’s bed frame, but I did manage to cut my hand badly enough to bleed all over the room. I was determined not to cry, but there was no hiding it come morning.”

“How terrible was the scolding?” Raymar asked, almost sounding apprehensive.

“My uncle rarely yelled. When he was disappointed, if anything he became quieter.” That initial silence had been terrible, weighty enough for even a young child to understand the severity of his offense. “We were forbidden to leave the castle for a whole moon, and were only allowed outside for an hour—supervised—each day.” It had felt like an eternity. He remembered that much. “And we were treated to a series of lectures about the dangers of weapons and the evils of theft.”

If you knew enough to hide your actions, then you knew they were wrong. That had stuck with him. It had been a shameful memory for most of his young life, especially since it was one of his first memories of Lady Stark’s undeniable coldness towards him. But the years away from Winterfell had softened it. Any memory of Robb now felt like a good one.

“You grew up with your uncle’s family?”

Jon wasn’t sure if that was a guess, or Raymar was just perceptive. “Aye. Robb was my age, and then Sansa three years younger. Arya was born two years later. Bran shortly after, and then many years later, Rickon.” Remembering what Raymar had said of his own parents, he asked, “Did you have any cousins around growing up?”

He felt Raymar shake his head beside him. “Only me.”

It sounded lonely. Jon tried to imagine growing up in the grand halls of the Red Keep, with parents in an unhappy marriage. As a child, he would have made that trade in a heartbeat if it meant removing the stain of bastardry from his blood, and a prince no less, but he knew better now.

“It must be strange, then, sharing a bed now.”

“A little.” There was a pause, then Raymar added, “But I don’t mind it.”

The day’s fatigue was beginning to catch up to Jon, heavy on his eyelids. When he closed them, he saw the plain steel of the stolen dagger, until it morphed to the fancy bronze hunting knives Lady Royce had given them, and sleep came not long after that.

Their aunt lingered for one more day, most of it spent in Allard’s company. There must have been some heated discussions involving them, because there was a palpable tension between the two when they came to watch Jon and Raymar’s afternoon drills. Lady Lynda was the only one oblivious to it, cheering them both on as they traded blows.

Lady Royce took them out again afterward for a short ride, this time without any hawking, and thankfully without Crayne accompanying them. She made a point of involving Jon in her conversation with Raymar, drawing him into a discussion about preparations in Runestone for the upcoming winter, now that autumn was upon the realm. Jon, with ample experience as both Lord Commander and later in commanding his and Daenerys’s combined forces against the Others, had to bite his tongue a few times, lest he betray too much wisdom.

It felt almost like a lesson with the maester, albeit one where Lady Royce first sought their solutions before offering her own. It was the kind of conversation Jon could imagine a lord—or lady—having with an heir to help prepare them for ruling one day. Given what he and Raymar assumed, which was that they were carefully hidden bastards, it was quite unexpected.

Had Lady Royce gone from plotting to hide Raymar away in the Citadel to considering one of them for an heir? She had no children of her own. The next logical choice must be Allard, who was older and a Royce rather than a Redfort in name only. And adopting either of them into the family would only invite scrutiny.

“Might we visit you in Runestone someday, Aunt Rhea?” Raymar asked as they neared the gates, his glance at Jon suggesting he’d reached a similar conclusion.

“I’ve spoken with your cousin about the matter,” she said, and they exchanged equally surprised looks. “I thought I might have you stay with me over winter.”

Over winter, when the Gates of the Moon became House Arryn’s temporary seat to escape the cold of the Eyrie. That would invite a different scrutiny, this time from her liege lady, Lady Arryn.

“Would you like that?” she asked, her smile almost tentative.

“So long as you promise not to send Raymar off to the Citadel,” Jon replied, seizing the opportunity for negotiation.

Raymar whirled on his horse to shoot Jon a quelling look, but their aunt seemed amused by his cheek. “You are quite the fierce protector. A true knight indeed.”

“We would love to see Runestone,” Raymar interjected, but Jon continued to stare at Lady Royce, unwilling to let the matter drop without an answer.

“I will not send your brother to the Citadel unless that is his wish,” she said. “Does that meet with your approval?”

Jon gave a short nod. “We will accept your invitation, should you extend it.”

Supper held more of that uneasy tension, with Allard pointedly asking after their ride, and Lady Royce making no mention of her offer. Lady Lynda, Jon was beginning to realize, was not so much ignorant of it as trying desperately to distract from it, filling the longer silences with questions about Lady Arryn’s upcoming hunt and praise for their prowess in the yard. There was quite a lot to digest once they made it back to the privacy of their room.

“What do you think of the invitation?” Jon asked.

“It will not sit well with Allard, assuming he does not already know.” Raymar combed his hair out, wincing slightly as the brush caught on knots from their windy ride. “He was a bastard, apparently. Natural born son of Lady Royce’s elder brother, who died young, and legitimized at her request eight years back.” Right around when they would have been born. “And then made keeper of the Gates of the Moon three years later.” Shortly after their parents had died of Spring Fever.

The pieces seemed to be falling into place. As a reward for watching over them, and maintaining the secret, Allard had been given both legitimacy and— “He is her heir, currently?”

“I would assume so. Especially given his experience as keeper here.”

But should Lady Royce have a change of heart and take them into her household, then Allard’s position as heir to Runestone would become considerably more precarious. Precarious enough to send a few discreet ravens to the wrong people? Accidents could also befall children, though Jon had not gotten the sense that Allard was cutthroat enough to resort to kinslaying.

Jon frowned. “The Arryns would have stayed in the castle last winter, and she was happy enough to leave us here then.”

“We would have been perhaps three? Easier to keep us hidden away, especially if they were still dyeing my hair then. As Allard’s wards, it would be unusual not to meet Lady Arryn’s court at our current age.”

The question came down to whether their aunt was simply trying to manage the risk of discovery or cultivating other options for an heir. It must be on her mind. She was nearing the end of her childbearing years, and her husband shunned both her home and their marriage bed.

“Even estranged, she is still wife to a prince. It is far more likely that there are spies in Runestone than here.”

“That is true,” Raymar said. He tapped his fingers against his arm in thought. “Enough strangers pass through the Gates of the Moon that even if everyone in Allard’s service were loyal enough to stay silent, it would be odd for no one to have noticed us before.”

The thought had occurred to Jon before, but he’d dismissed it. “Would we still be here, if someone had?”

“That depends on if word reaches the right people. The Greens control many positions within the king’s court. It may even be that Lady Royce reached out to them directly for aid in maintaining secrecy.”

They would certainly share a common enemy in her husband. “What does it benefit the Greens to keep us hidden away here?”

“Our potential as dragonriders, perhaps?” Raymar sounded uncertain. “The Blacks had to scour the lands for dragonseed, however distant, to fully leverage the dragons under their control. The Greens may intend to keep us from becoming a resource for them, or even perhaps hope to secure us for their own faction.”

Jon’s thoughts returned to yesterday’s hunt, and the less than subtle interrogation they had both endured. “Do you think Crayne is one of theirs?”

“Perhaps,” Raymar said, the unease in his expression a match to Jon’s. “His immediate goal, at least, seems to be to secure our trust.”

Only to achieve the very opposite. Jon wondered if the man had realized as much, and whether he would give up on whatever purpose had driven the attempt or change tactics entirely. If what he sought could be achieved through force instead…

“We will do something different tonight,” Jon said, decision made. “No swords.”

Raymar regarded him warily. “No swords? Dare I ask what you have in store instead?”

Jon circled around the other boy, who tensed in the anticipation of some manner of attack. He struck quickly, pulling Raymar into a grapple that twisted one arm behind him.

“Break free,” he said.

This was one contest of skills where Raymar was hopelessly outmatched, as Jon had suspected. Defending against unarmed attack was not something a prince would be taught. Even growing up the bastard son of the Warden of the North, most of Jon’s arms instruction had been in weapons. It hadn’t been until his time at the Wall in the company of the kinds of cutthroats that are recruited to the Night’s Watch—and later in the company of Wildlings—that he’d honed such skills himself.

And he’d at least grown up with siblings. Rough-housing was a given.

Progress that night was slow, and Jon felt guilty by the end of it. He didn’t like playing the bully, even to teach something, and although Raymar understood the intention behind it, he seemed dejected by the end of it, quiet as they readied for bed.

Jon was the one who began their nightly ritual once the lights were snuffed and they’d settled into bed. “Whenever I wanted to be alone, I would go into the godswood at Winterfell.”

The woods were quiet, and usually empty. Most importantly, it was not a place that Sansa or Lady Stark ventured into very often. Robb had been the one to come find him brooding there, or on rare occasions his father.

“One of the hot springs there has a large boulder at the edge of the pool, half covered in moss.” Jon closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring the memory of it with perfect clarity, almost able to feel the sun on his face. “I would sit there and dangle my feet in the water.”

“What sent you into the wood?” Raymar asked once he’d fallen silent.

“My cousin Sansa could be cruel sometimes.” It had been a child’s cruelty, he understood now. Where he and Robb had crossed sticks in a mimicry of valorous knights of old, Sansa had looked to her mother for an example of the lady she hoped to someday be. That had meant mimicking her disdain and distrust of Jon, and as a child, all he knew was that his sister now saw him as lesser.

More often it had been his father’s behavior driving him to seek solitude. He’d never known anything but icy tolerance from Lady Stark, and over the years, he’d grown accustomed to Sansa’s coolness. Robb and Arya treated him as a brother for the most part, and Bran and then Rickon were too young to know any better.

It was his father—uncle—who’d constantly thrown him off balance. At first, he was Ned Stark’s son, natural born or not. But the years chipped away at that truth. There were hunts he wasn’t invited on, lessons with Robb he was excluded from. He was seated with the family when some lords visited, and other times set aside.

Eventually, Jon had come to accept that he would never be just Ned Stark’s son, or Robb’s brother. That there would always be a but. That no one else would see him that way. He was a bastard first, and family second, and the world would never let him forget that. Eventually, even Robb had come to call him by what he was—Snow, rather than just Jon—and laugh at Theon’s sly digs. He still loved him, but they were not quite brothers anymore, and certainly not equals. Stark and Snow, rather than Robb and Jon.

“Jon?”

Raymar’s voice called him back to the present, and he scrubbed at the tears hovering at the edge of his vision, blurring the cracks of the ceiling just barely visible in the nighttime gloom. Stupid, he thought. It’s been years and you’ve experienced far worse since.

“Sometimes I just wanted to forget,” he said, when he trusted himself to speak without hinting at the tears. Forget who he was, pretend he was Ned Stark’s trueborn son, that he was Robb’s twin brother, or sometimes that his mother would ride through the gates, beautiful and highborn, and his father would embrace her, and somehow she would marry him.

His dearest wish back then had been to be trueborn. It had come true, only for him to lose half his family.

And you are a bastard once more, with the rest of your family gone.

“I understand,” Raymar said softly, and Jon wanted to snap no, you couldn’t possibly, but he didn’t know the boy well enough. Perhaps he did.

“Where did you go?” Jon asked instead. “When you needed solitude?”

“Solitude is not a luxury I was often afforded.” It was so long before Raymar spoke again that Jon had begun to think he’d decided to leave it at that. “I spent a great deal of time as a child exploring the tunnels and passages of the Red Keep. There was one small chamber that I would go to, and no one could find me there, deep below the Tower of the Hand, where several of the tunnels meet. There is a mosaic on the floor of our family’s three-headed dragon, and three braziers shaped like a dragon’s head.”

Jon wasn’t sure that he’d personally enjoy a tiny room deep underground. “Did it not feel suffocating?”

“No,” Raymar said slowly. “It was the one place that did not. Nothing could find me down there. No one wanted anything or expected anything. It was a room without a purpose, or one lost to time. To it, I was merely one more nameless Targaryen among nameless Targaryens who had stood there before. One day I would be gone, and it would still be standing.”

As sanctuaries went, it seemed quite grim to Jon. “What did you do there?”

“Once I counted every single tile in the mosaic. Five thousand and eighty-two. Half of them were dragonglass, most of it black but also some a strange red. Brought over from Dragonstone by Maegor, I assume.” Raymar’s head turned to him for a moment, then back at the ceiling. “I suppose it was my way of dangling my feet in the water. A way to free my thoughts. To forget.” He shrugged. “And other times I would bring a book and just read.”

“I would go mad, I think,” Jon said.

“From reading?” Raymar said wryly, earning himself an elbow in the side. “Ow!”

“From not being able to see the sky.”

“The sky was still there when I emerged, the wind all the stronger.” Raymar’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “I can only imagine how it feels from dragonback.”

“Alive,” Jon said, missing it already as he closed his eyes. “It feels alive.”

Chapter Text

Their aunt left at dawn, and they rose early to wave at her from the northern wall. She turned in her saddle to wave back, and once more just before she disappeared beyond view. Then it was back to the routine that had been established over the first few days, each week bleeding into the next: morning lessons with the maester, afternoon lessons with Ser Perkins. Sometimes they practiced their riding with Derrick, the master of horse, who seemed to conclude rather quickly that there was not much more to teach them, so instead he let them go on rides outside the castle, accompanied by one of the guardsmen.

Jon couldn’t help the knot of tension in his stomach whenever it was Crayne that joined them. He instinctively rode closer to Raymar, and usually sought an excuse to keep the ride short. The man had at least stopped the questioning, keeping the conversation to light topics, or asking about their day.

When Jon finally raised the issue to Allard—privately, since he suspected it was a sensitive topic—their cousin gave him a sharp look, followed by a telling pause.

“I trust all of my guardsmen, Jon. Crayne served a friend of my father’s honorably. Doubtless he only wishes to be kind.”

To two fatherless children, the implication. Jon couldn’t help the scowl that found its way to his face, his control over his emotions as a child much more difficult to maintain. He couldn’t find the words to express how the man put him at an unease because the questions were fairly innocuous, if perhaps overly familiar.

It was the way his gaze seemed to find them whenever they strayed into an area of the castle where he was on duty.

“He is always watching us,” Jon said stubbornly. “Even when he’s on the wall.”

“It is his duty to be watchful. I cannot fault a guardsman for that.” When Jon opened his mouth to argue further, Allard’s frown deepened, an edge of tension to it. “I will hear no more on the matter.”

Jon gave a crisp nod and left, hating the sense of helplessness he felt as a child, utterly without any power. Crayne was at best a spy, and Allard’s dismissal of his concerns seemed to confirm that their cousin was at the very least aware of it. All he could do was caution Raymar to be careful around the man and make him promise to go nowhere alone with him.

“I am improving at escaping your confounding holds,” Raymar said, only the faintest note of censure in his voice hinting at his continued dislike of those lessons. He looked up from the book he’d been reading in the quiet of their room. “Do you think him more than a spy?”

Jon released his frustration in a long, hissing exhale. “I am unsure.”

That was what bothered him. There had been ample opportunities to harm them during their rides, but it depended on whose agent he was. If he belonged to the Greens, then likely all that they wanted was eyes on them unless something changed, and that would take a raven or some other discreetly passed message. If there was another party at play, Jon had no clue as to their motivations.

“We should write to Prince Daemon,” Jon said finally.

Raymar closed his book with a thump, lips pulling into a thoughtful frown. “That is also a risk. Crayne may not be the only one watching us, and we do not know where Daemon is. I know he spent much of his time before the Dance moving from place to place. He even lived in the east at one point.”

To say nothing of the fact that Maester Donnel would be the one in charge of the ravens, and they would either need to secure his aid or do so without him finding out.

“We are not safe here.” That was the heart of the matter, and their powerlessness gnawed at him.

Raymar’s faint wince signaled his agreement. “Once we are at Runestone, we could try and convince Lady Royce to tell us the truth. Then it would be a matter of persuading her to tell Daemon.”

Having seen Raymar in action, Jon thought their odds fair that he could eventually persuade her, but the two of them departing the Gates of the Moon for Runestone might spur the Greens, and through them Crayne, into action.

Jon moved to the small window beside their bed, his gaze drifting to the southern wall and gate. The guardsmen were too distant to make out their features. His hands tightened around the windowsill. “I hate this.”

Hated the helplessness and the uncertainty. Hated the retreading of sword and lance training he’d mastered years ago, far beyond the skill of their arms master. Hated the pointless history lessons when they were living that history, knowing what was to come, but not their role to play in it.

Hated the feeling of being some mummer’s puppet, yet not knowing who held the strings.

“Follow me.”

Jon turned in surprise. “What?”

But Raymar was already halfway to the door, book discarded on the bed. Jon trotted after him, then matched his pace, which was brisk. “Where are we going?”

Raymar didn’t speak until they were at the northern gate and Jon was tugging at his elbow. “He’s on duty at the south wall this afternoon.”

He was very good at that, Jon thought ruefully. At knowing what he was going to say. “How can you be sure?”

“Benton knows the postings for the day. He tells me.”

Jon didn’t even know who Benton was—presumably one of the many guardsmen whose names he was still learning—but one of those small knots of tension eased at the knowledge that Raymar took the danger as seriously as him. 

Raymar spun some tale to the guards posted at the northern gate about Ser Perkins wanting them to relieve some energy outside the gates, and it was so convincing that Jon half believed him. They spent enough time cooped up within the castle walls that it was a relief to step beyond them, onto the rocky grasslands that filled the narrow valley between the mountains on either side.

“What is it?” Jon asked, once Raymar had finally stopped. They were still within sight of the wall, as Raymar had promised the guardsmen, but well out of earshot.

Raymar gave him a look that had by now become familiar, like Jon was one of his books, to be studied and read and reread until fully understood. The tiny furrow of concentration on his brow relaxed after a moment, and the other boy smiled slightly.

Then he shoved Jon and the smile became one of his rare grins. “Catch me.”

Jon flailed his arms, barely managing not to fall, and stared after his retreating form in shocked outrage for a moment before instinct took hold. He sprinted for what felt like the first time in weeks, giving chase. There was no room for it in the cramped quarters of the castle, or even its slightly more open yard, but out here, there was only vegetation and the occasional protruding rock to avoid.

Raymar was fast, but Jon had determination on his side. Bit by bit, he closed the gap between them. He wasn’t sure how long it took. Enough that they were both heaving for breath by the end, fatigue slowing both their strides, but eventually he found himself just within arm’s reach and snagged the collar of his shirt.

Raymar turned and grabbed Jon by the arm, dragging him to the ground with him as he went into a roll. He pulled Jon into one of the grapples he’d taught him, and it quickly devolved into a wrestling match, Raymar employing all he’d learned to visit the same indignities on Jon that he’d endured, until they were both laughing too hard to continue.

Jon found himself eventually on his back, staring up at the sky as he fought to recover his breath. There were a few clouds, high and thin, and though it was the hottest part of the day, the sun shining down on them had the muted warmth of autumn.

“What was that?” he asked finally, still bewildered.

Raymar, equally breathless beside him, rolled onto his side to face Jon. “You were in your head back there, twisting yourself into knots.” He studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “You favor action but had none to take. So I gave you one.”

Jon cocked an eyebrow. “A game of chase?”

“We are children, however much we may wish otherwise. For all these heavy thoughts, some things about us are quite simple.” Raymar gave a small shrug. “Like the joy of running without a care.”

He had a point. That was all it had taken for Jon to forget about everything else. “You were trying to cheer me up.”

“And myself.” Raymar twitched his shoulders in a self-conscious shrug. “There were other children in the Red Keep growing up, but I was kept apart from them. I would watch their games sometimes.” His face turned back towards the sky.

“You’ve never played chase,” Jon said slowly, shocked. Or any other child’s games, then. No monsters and maidens, no hide the treasure. 

“Sometimes I’m glad,” Raymar said, the words barely more than a whisper. “About being here. I know it’s selfish. I have a duty. Responsibilities. But here…” He looked at Jon, and there was something vulnerable in his gaze, the purple of his eyes dark as Jon stared back. After a moment, Raymar turned his head aside. “I am sorry. I know you have those you miss dearly.”

Jon thought he understood, then, at least some of it. He doubted it was an intentional kindness, but he was grateful that whoever had brought them both here hadn’t forced them to endure it alone. He might have gone mad—or at least been far more reckless—without someone else who understood.

“You are no less real than they are,” Jon said, a statement that was becoming more true as the weeks passed. “You matter to me too.” He elbowed him, forcing the other boy to look at him once more. “We are brothers.”

“I know.” A faint smile flitted across his face. “That is why I suffer you beating me up every night without complaint.” At Jon’s raised eyebrow, he amended, “With minimal complaint.” He shrugged again. “It’s not as though I was completely alone before. I had—have friends. But…” Raymar frowned, this time in confusion. “It is somehow different. To have a brother.”

“It is different,” Jon agreed quietly, a familiar ache pulsing in his chest.

Raymar sighed. “We’ve stopped being children again.”

He was right. There was a time for gloomy thoughts, and it wasn’t with the sun shining down on them in a rare moment of freedom. “Fine.” He sprang to his feet and gave his brother a light kick in the side. “It’s your turn.”

And with that, he took off.

Their aunt was in high spirits when she finally returned from Lady Arryn’s hunt, which she recounted in ample detail during supper while they both peppered her with questions. Allard’s wife Lynda, feeling unwell, begged off when they retired to the solar, where Allard was more a spectator in the continued conversation than a participant.

The name Redfort caught their attention when Lady Royce spoke about one of Lady Arryn’s companions, which she seemed to notice. “A fine hawker,” she said, which for their aunt Jon already could guess was among the highest of praise. “Jessamyn would be a cousin of yours, your father’s grand-niece.”

They knew very little about their supposed father’s family, but even that much would have raised questions if he and Raymar hadn’t already suspected bastardry. The two of them being raised by their mother’s family when their father had plenty of living kin was certainly unusual.

“Could we meet her?” Raymar asked, the picture of innocence.

Lady Royce’s smile faltered. “Perhaps some day.” She set her wine down. “But enough of my adventures. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Raymar, apparently judging that enough of a prod, launched into his own recounting of the past few weeks. It was a blend of truth and fiction, a thread of wistful longing for family tying it all together, the twist of a knife to judge by Lady Royce’s expression.

“I am glad your lessons are going well,” she said at the end of it. Her gaze flicked to Allard, then back at them. “With your cousin’s babe coming soon, I thought it might be a good time for your visit to Runestone. What say you, nephew?”

“Of course,” he said, his cheer clearly forced. “But I trust there are preparations to be made first?”

“Yes.” Her lips pursed in thought. “I will need perhaps one or two moons once I’ve returned to make the proper arrangements.” Her hand reached out to settle on Jon’s head. “You will like Runestone. There are knights aplenty, the finest in the Vale, and all the books your brother could care to read.”

Raymar perked up. “I have just exhausted the remaining books in Maester Donnel’s library.”

Lady Royce’s smile held a note of disbelief, but Jon didn’t bother correcting her. She hadn’t witnessed firsthand how quickly his brother inhaled books on even the driest of subjects. 

“I am sorry that I will miss your name day, but we can hold a belated celebration when you arrive.”

And perhaps it was partly the wine, but as they said their good nights, Lady Royce pulled each of them into a hug, one in either arm, and pressed a light kiss to Jon’s forehead, then Raymar’s. It still felt odd, their aunt more a stranger than Allard at this point.

“My sweet boys,” she said, taking one final moment to tidy Jon’s hair before reluctantly releasing them. “I will be leaving early on the morrow, so I will not see you until you are at Runestone. I shall bid you swift and safe travels.”

“Safe travels,” they repeated back to her.

It was late enough into the night that they skipped their nightly activity—currently back to sword drills—to ready themselves for bed, but both were still buzzing with excitement when they settled under the blankets. They were one step closer to drawing the truth from Lady Royce. And best of all, they would finally be rid of Crayne.

One person was considerably less thrilled about their improved prospects, and that was their cousin Allard, who seemed to make it his mission over the next week to prove them unworthy of their aunt’s esteem. Suppers, previously amiable affairs where Lady Lynda would ask after their day, became nightly grilling sessions as Allard quizzed them on history and etiquette and house customs throughout the Vale and neighboring Riverlands.

Jon held his own for the first few nights, no slouch himself, but Allard seemed to adjust, digging deep into Donnel’s books for increasingly obscure questions. He could not best Raymar, however, who matched question with answer, quiet confidence never wavering. Difficult questions became impossible ones, and yet Raymar never faltered, to Allard’s visible bewilderment.

The most impressive thing, Jon decided, was not the depth of knowledge itself. It was his unfailing manners. If he were in Raymar’s position, Jon would have stared the man down to rub in the fact that he’d been bested by a seven-year-old, but there wasn’t a trace of smugness in the other boy’s answers. It may as well have been a discussion about the weather.

It left Allard with no recourse other than to finally drop the flurry of questions in an unspoken admission of defeat. Which didn’t stop Jon, of course, from staring daggers at him for the remainder of that supper, wishing the man had instead opted to try him at arms. He might lack the reach of an adult, but he was quick, and that humiliation would have been much more difficult for the man to recover from.

If anything, his anger grew as they walked back to their room, a roiling knot of heat in his chest. What kind of man sought to humble two children—children no older than Bran had been when Jon had first left Winterfell, and orphans no less—simply to feel justified in his resentment?

“Jon.”

Raymar sounded tired, and when Jon glanced up from his mindless pacing to see him sprawled out on the bed, arm thrown over his eyes as though to combat a headache, it only further stoked his fury at their cousin.

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about these stupid tests of his.”

To his surprise, Raymar huffed a quiet laugh. “This game of his is child’s play, Jon, petty and meaningless. He thinks to cow us, perhaps, but he has no real power. He answers to our aunt. She is the one who pressed the king to legitimize him, and she is the one who secured this post for him.” He moved his arm, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “I much prefer these to the games my father would play.”

They both had subjects they danced around during their nightly stories. Raymar spoke often of his mother, but almost never his father.

“He would test your knowledge?”

“Everything is a test to him, not a single one winnable.” He smiled tightly. “Best him, and I am an arrogant, ungrateful son seeking to supplant him. Fail, and I am a hopeless disappointment who should have died in place of my siblings.”

Jon fought back a frown, hoping Raymar’s father was one of the Targaryens who had died young and left his family in peace. “What did you choose, then?”

“It depends on the day,” Raymar said, mind clearly elsewhere. “On his mood. On what he seeks with that particular test. Sometimes he merely wants an excuse to rage. Other times, he seeks to remind himself of the glory of our house. And still others, he wants someone to punish.”

There was barely any inflection at all in his voice now. “He would beat you?”

Raymar’s gaze flicked to him. “Me? No.” His fingers caught in the blankets of the bed, tightening. “My mother, sometimes, though I never learn of it until after. But he goes through whipping boys nearly faster than I can get to know them. He killed two of them. Maimed a third.”

Jon stared at him in horror. “That’s—awful.”

Many things about Raymar made more sense now. The way he had quietly borne Allard’s ire in the beginning, and how expertly he’d disarmed it. How he had been able to manage Lady Royce so perfectly, and talk circles around Crayne. Given the cost of misreading his father, it was no wonder that he had learned to master that skill.

“It was not always so bad when I was younger, but every year he grows crueler. I fear—” Raymar’s gaze returned to the ceiling, and he shrugged. “Allard’s game is nothing. His pride is hurt, and he is only injuring it further in playing it. He cannot go too far, lest we say something to Lady Royce when we visit.”

It was clear that he wished to move on from the subject of his father, but there was still a tension in his small frame, even lying down. Jon stared at him a moment longer, then went over to the bed and sat down beside him, his back against the baseboard. Without giving Raymar a chance to protest, he shifted him over so that his head was resting on Jon’s lap, silver-blond hair loose and sprawled.

He’d sat like this with Arya sometimes when she’d been this age, after Sansa said something cruel in the way only sisters could be. Like Jon, she’d usually retreated into the godswood, though she often sought the refuge of the large, mossy trees instead, legs gathered in at the base where trunk opened up into roots. That was where he would find her, listening patiently as she raged and sobbed, until the anger and sorrow was spent.

Just as he had then, he ran fingers through his brother’s hair, slow and soothing, and that intense furrow of concentration as he stared up at Jon slowly eased. The tension was slower to fade, settling in his jaw first, so tight Jon could hear him swallow. A quick succession of blinks eventually betrayed him—one tear, then another.

Jon was the one always crying here—from anger, often, and sometimes grief, robbed of control by the wilder swings of emotion that came with being a child. He hadn’t seen Raymar cry once, and now it made perfect sense that it was still and silent, even though it was only the two of them.

This could be gone as quickly as a dream, he thought suddenly. That had been the hope, those first few days and even weeks. Whoever he was, Raymar was long gone from Jon’s present. Perhaps he had been one of the many Targaryens who had burned at Summerhall. Jon would never see him again, and that knowledge came with a pang now.

And somewhere, some time, Raymar would be back at the Red Keep. No siblings, no cousins. Just a boy with a cruel father and a mother he couldn’t protect and no one to protect him.

Raymar’s eyelids fluttered as Jon’s hand faltered, and he resumed stroking his hair. He has me. Maybe not back home, if they ever returned. But here and now—

He has me.

They had not yet begun their nightly exchange of memories, and tonight, Jon decided on something different. He had danced around it before, because it still felt in many ways like a shameful secret, even though he knew by now that Raymar would not view him any differently for it. He took a deep breath.

“I grew up a bastard in my uncle’s household…”

Chapter Text

Raymar had his revenge at last—on Jon, that is. After he’d made the mistake of revealing that he could neither speak nor write any Valyrian, much less High Valyrian, his brother had stared at him in pure dismay, then raided Maester Donnel’s library for resources to teach him. The maester rarely taught them these days, both having demonstrated their mastery of what he seemed to think appropriate to teach children of their age. At Raymar’s insistence, he’d ceded their lessons time to him for free study.

In the past, that had meant using the time to venture through the north gates for some fresh air, away from the castle. But now, Jon was a prisoner of the library.

“You have been pummeling me every morning and night for nearly three moons,” Raymar said mercilessly when he’d dared complain on one particularly beautiful autumn day. “You can bear a few hours a day to learn our family’s mother tongue.”

Jon scowled at the book that lay open between them, two hours into the day’s lesson. “How do you say ‘my brother is an evil tyrant’?”

“You know how to say brother already.”

Jon withheld a sigh. There were two ways to say brother, depending on whether they were younger or older. Confusingly, the terms could also be used for cousins. It seemed to be a common feature of the language: it was oddly specific about some things, like time or particular blood relations.

That was not actually the difficult part either. Every word was a particular type of speech, and how it was used changed the word itself, especially objects. In the Common Tongue, an apple was an apple, no matter what you said about it.

“Ñuho valonqar—”

“Ñuha valonqar,” Raymar corrected. “I am the subject of the sentence.” He smiled. “Or so I assume.”

“Ñuha valonqar…” Jon continued, pausing because his brother had not yet provided the translation for tyrant.

“Qrīnio.” His lip twitched. “As ‘evil tyrant’ seems redundant, simply ‘tyrant’ will have to suffice.”

“It is hardly redundant from my perspective,” Jon grumbled. “Ñuha valonqar qrīnio issa.” Because for some reason, their forefathers had decided to hold listeners in suspense and tack the verb on to the very end of the sentence.

Raymar gave a pleased nod. “Your pronunciation is improving.” He glanced down at the parchment where Jon had been practicing its written form. “Your handwriting less so.”

Some days, impulses struck him that truly made him feel his physical age. Currently it was the overwhelming urge to grab a strand of his brother’s light hair and dip it into the inkwell on the table. “Some of us do not bleed ink.”

But Raymar viewed that as an invitation to tell Jon about a book he’d found in the Red Keep that actually had been written in blood, until Jon finally dropped his head onto the table in despair.

“Am I truly so boring?” Raymar asked, tone playful rather than hurt. “I thought the blood might appeal to you.”

“I simply cannot bear any more Valyrian today. Or books. Or parchment.” Jon gestured toward the window. “We have the entire afternoon free, and we haven’t been riding in three days.” He knew Raymar enjoyed those rides beyond the walls as much as he did. “Think about it. There’s a southwesterly breeze, so it won’t be hot, and Derrick will gladly let us take the horses.”

Allard had finally left them alone the past few weeks, so they wouldn’t even need to worry about drawing his ire.

“Oh, very well.” The speed with which he’d caved told Jon he’d been secretly longing to be outside as well.

Jon got the horses ready while Raymar stopped at their room to braid his hair back and cover it beneath a cap, as he’d taken to doing during their outings. In their haste, however, Jon forgot about Crayne. He was at the northern wall today, and Jon could feel his stare digging into his back as they departed through the gates.

“Let’s ride into the forest today.”

Raymar glanced at him in surprise. They usually kept within a mile or so of the castle when riding—closer when they were on foot. But Jon knew he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the outing while he could feel Crayne’s eyes on them.

They didn’t venture too far, stopping near the edge of the wood where the trees were still sparse and tying the horses up to enjoy the small creek that ran through it, parallel to the road. Even with the breeze, the lack of clouds overhead meant it was a warmer day than Jon had expected, so the shade of the trees while splashing their feet in the cool water felt nice.

Raymar took off his cap and patted his neck with water, looking relieved to be out of it. “I suppose this is summer’s last gasp, as winter draws near.”

The late autumn also meant that the forest was teeming with wild raspberry bushes, their fruit ripe and sweet. Without even leaving sight of the horses, they managed to completely fill Raymar’s cap, which they took back to the stream so they could snack on their bounty.

It was…nice. It had been three moons since their arrival here, and as time passed, it grew easier to set aside adult concerns, like the war to come or the past they’d left behind. Winterfell and the North had never felt further than in the hazy heat, and for once he didn’t feel a sting of guilt at the thought.

He wondered if Raymar felt the same about King’s Landing. He was watching the steady flow of water, pensive as always, but his shoulders were relaxed and his expression untroubled. Jon flicked a berry at him, an idle test of his reflexes that he failed—the overripe berry pelted the bottom of his braid and burst.

Raymar shot him a long-suffering look as he brushed the berry remnants aside, then leaned forward to dunk the now-pink ends of his hair in the water. “Your choice of dye is even more conspicuous than my natural color.”

He then flicked a berry back at Jon, who was waiting for it and caught it in his mouth, biting down in smug satisfaction at his brother’s astonished headshake.

Jon lobbed a gentler toss at Raymar, who tried to mimic Jon’s catch, only for it to bounce off his bottom lip onto the ground. He raised a brow invitingly. Raymar tossed another his way, and it became a game of increasingly tricky arcs, until a particularly tough one led Jon to trip and fall into the stream itself. He reached for Raymar, who’d already read his intention and was backing away, but he still managed to grab his sleeve and pull him into the shallow water with him.

When Raymar emerged from the water, he fixed Jon with such a betrayed stare that he felt a twinge of regret, but as soon as he moved closer to help him up, those purple eyes narrowed with what Jon belatedly realized was mischief, and he was promptly treated to a precisely aimed wave of water that went straight up his nose.

Naval warfare ensued, their efforts equally matched, until they finally called a truce to tend the horses, giving them another drink from the stream before sprawling out on the ground in a patch of sun to dry. The heat of the sun felt nice now, as the faint breeze now stirring cooled the surface of his skin.

“You never finished your story.”

Jon blinked, eyes having fallen shut in lazy contentment. “Hm?”

Raymar had rolled onto his side, head propped up on his arm as he gazed at Jon. “You told me about growing up with your cousins, thinking you were their bastard brother. But you never mentioned how you learned about your Targaryen blood.”

“It is a long story,” Jon said, hesitating for more than a few reasons. It was a pleasant day, and the tale itself grim at times. There were certain details he’d rather skirt around for Raymar’s sake, like the near extinction of their family.

If anything, the promise of a lengthy tale seemed to entice Raymar, his expression brightening. “No one is expecting us at the castle until supper.”

That wasn’t entirely true; the guardsmen at the northern gate might grow antsy if they didn’t return soon. But there was time yet, and it wasn’t an unpleasant tale either. “Have you heard of the Others?”

He should have expected Raymar’s nod. “I’ve read about them. My uncle Aemon wrote of them as well. Many archmaesters seem convinced they are mere folklore.”

“They are not.” Which he amended to, after a moment of grim satisfaction, “Were not.”

He described his first encounter with a wight as a new brother of the Night’s Watch, and the reports that had been dismissed at first, but in retrospect would have been their early warning, had they heeded it. He told him of Craster’s sons, and the first of the Others he had seen with his own eyes, pale and otherworldly, and the slow march of their armies of wights through wildling settlements, towards the Wall.

“The Watch stood alone against the threat. The realm itself was at war, no one willing to believe what sounded like ghost stories with infighting and armies at their gates.”

Stannis had at least come to the Wall, but ultimately he had prioritized the struggle for the crown over what seemed to him the less urgent advance of the Others. If anything, his actions at Castle Black had destabilized the already tense relations between the Night’s Watch and the free folk.

And Jon, blind as he had been, had paid the price. He shoved the memory away for a happier one. “Only one person answered the call,” he continued. “My aunt, though I didn’t know she was my aunt at the time, nor did she know me for her nephew. We did not get on well at first.” Both of them battle-hardened, both thrust into command too young and suspicious of being used to further another’s agenda at the cost of their own.

“How did she not know? You look like kin,” Raymar said, looking puzzled. “How then did you come to learn of your kinship?”

This part he had been looking forward to, his eyes fixing on his brother’s face in anticipation. “Dragons.”

He was not disappointed. Raymar’s eyes widened, and he immediately sprang into a sitting position, hands flattening on his knees as he leaned closer. “Dragons? They have returned?”

“Aye,” Jon said with a smile. “There were three with her, full grown.”

He could almost hear the frantic gallop of Raymar’s thoughts, the dozens of questions turning over in his mind. “Are there others? Did you bond with one?”

“Just the three.” The other question gave him pause. “I am not sure,” he admitted. Although he’d mainly ridden Rhaegal, all of Daenerys’s dragons had felt like hers, none of them his own. “But one allowed me to ride him in battle against the Others, which confirmed some blood tie between us. Eventually I had the truth from one of my uncle’s bannermen.” And then later, Sam’s research.

Jon kept the details of his parentage vague. His parents had died when he was a mere infant, and he had been hidden away for his protection during a time of what Jon carefully phrased as “unrest” rather than “the slaughter of every remaining Targaryen still within Westeros.”

Raymar, who had at first looked like he’d gladly spend the rest of the afternoon questioning Jon on the dragons, was drawn in once more as he shifted the focus back to the struggle against the Others: the armies of wights that had grown with every battle, the assault upon the Wall, his own battle against one of the Others when he had been cornered beyond the Wall. He pulled back the collar of his shirt to bare the scar where the Other’s blade had pierced him, only to realize at the last second that he had none. Not anymore.

Raymar was near silent as he described the chaos once the Wall had been breached, and the terror unleashed upon the North in the weeks before what had been the final battle. How fire had been at times their only weapon against so many wights, and then dragonglass and Valyrian steel at the very end against the Others commanding them.

The forest itself seemed hushed when he finally finished. Raymar, meanwhile, stared at him with something like wonder. “It was you. I thought it was whatever brought us here but—it was you.”

Jon returned the stare, confused. “What do you mean?”

“All my life, I’ve had a particular dream.” He crossed his arms tight around his chest, seeming chilled. “More nightmare than dream. It is almost always the same. I stand alone in a field of ice and snow. A cold wind blows from the north, so strong it rips the air from my lungs. I cannot breathe. I look up and see a great cloud rolling over the midday sun, blotting out all light. There is only darkness and cold.”

His gaze was distant now, peering through Jon, like he was somewhere else.

“I see the darkness roll over villages and cities alike, and hear screams that fall to silence. There is something behind me, and when I turn, two eyes glow in the darkness with a cold blue hatred, and I know they wish me dead.” Raymar closed his eyes, as though to blot out the memory—or perhaps in concentration. “Then a great roar pierces the silence, and the sky is lit with flame. Three dragons fly overhead, and their fire pushes back the darkness.”

It sounded eerily like his own war with the Others, which might explain Raymar’s shock in hearing him tell of it.

“That is when I wake, usually,” Raymar said, eyes opening to lock onto Jon. “Sometimes I wield a blade against the flame-eyed creature. Sometimes I am atop one of the dragons. Other times I am looking up at the sky, water flowing around me as my vision fades.”

“Every night?” Jon asked once he’d fallen silent.

“Every night until we came here. I have not had the dream since.” He chewed at his lip. “I’d assumed that here, the threat must be so far away that the dreams would not reach me. But perhaps it is you.”

“Me?” Jon echoed, stomach slightly unsettled because he could follow the logic, and it was strange to imagine that a boy from the distant past could have foreseen it.

“You stopped the Long Night from sweeping the land again. You and your aunt, and her three dragons.” Raymar’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “In my dreams, there was a pale cream dragon, and one green like jade, and the third the colors of our house, black-scaled with red wings.”

Jon stared at him a moment, stunned. Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon. Jon had not described Daenerys’s dragons to him, but that matched them exactly.

“I had always thought—” Raymar dropped his gaze, voice quieting. “I had thought it my burden. That a second Doom was coming, this time for Westeros, and that I must stop it. At least then it would mean—” He shook his head, hands closing into fists at his sides before relaxing. “I have no purpose.” And when Jon opened his mouth to reassure him, Raymar shook his head. “No, it means I am free. Or that it was never my burden alone. Even before the gods brought us together, we were still somehow…connected.”

Jon blinked, not having considered that angle. It spoke to a larger design than he had assumed, and yet there was something comforting to the thought that they had been tied together by some shared purpose before finding themselves bound as brothers here.

“Do you think that’s the reason we were both taken?”

“I don’t know. I’ve had no dreams to guide me here and—” He released a breath, tension leaving his spine, and a faint breeze stirred as though to carry it away. Sunlight flickered in his hair, across his face, dappled through the swaying branches overhead. “I am glad.”

“That does not mean the gods don’t have a purpose in bringing us here.”

But Raymar simply turned his gaze to Jon, quietly measuring. “Did you fight the Others because the gods bade you to?”

“Of course not,” Jon said. Melisandre had tried to sway him to R'hllor, and had even brought him back from the dead, but that had never driven him. The fight had been in him long before that. “It was fight them, or lose everything.”

“Then it was your choice.”

Jon frowned. “Or you could say there was no choice.”

Only there had been. Stannis had offered him one: be legitimized as a Stark and turn his attention instead to the same struggle for the Iron Throne that had embroiled the rest of the land. Perhaps another would have risen to fight the Others alongside Daenerys and her dragons. Perhaps, like Raymar, it had never been his burden alone.

“Wonderful,” Jon said, making a face. “You’ve finally found a topic more confounding than learning Valyrian.”

Raymar laughed. “Are you saying you’d like to return to the library?”

Jon reached for the berry-laden cap, now almost empty, and threw one at him that he dodged with another laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I only mean—” He hesitated, seeming uncertain how to voice it. “Perhaps it is better that we choose our own path, rather than guess at some greater design.”

It would not be so easy, Jon wanted to say. They were two children—royal bastards—on the cusp of a violent, bloody struggle. One faction was clearly already aware of them, and it would be very easy to arrange a tragic accident the moment they were perceived as a threat rather than a potential resource. They could decide together that they wished to roam the countryside as hedge knights, and yet the moment anyone familiar with the royal family met Raymar, there would be no mistaking him for anything but who he was.

But there was a hopeful naivete to his brother’s expression that Jon could not bring himself to darken. “What is it that you want to do?”

“I—” Raymar paused, at a clear loss. “I do not know. There has only ever been one path for me. There seemed little point in imagining otherwise.” His glance at Jon was almost shy. “What about you?”

He could not control what happened in the capital, not while they were sequestered away in the Vale. So for Jon, the answer was quite simple. He had no more appetite for duty at the cost of what he loved. He had paid that price tenfold. “I want to protect my family.”

“But they are—” Raymar blinked then, face coloring at Jon’s raised eyebrow. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Jon echoed teasingly.

There were other things Jon was too old for now, even if his child’s heart still longed for it, but it would be enough to build a family here. He had Raymar, and their burgeoning relationship with their aunt. One day perhaps even Prince Daemon and their many cousins at the palace. Perhaps his greatest adversary in protecting his family would ultimately be his own family.

“There must be something you want,” Jon prompted.

Raymar’s expression turned thoughtful, but as he opened his mouth to speak, an uneasy snort from the horses disturbed the quiet. Jon lurched to his feet, reaching instinctively for a sword he didn’t have. He hadn’t brought his hunting knife either, and cursed himself for it as he scanned their surroundings for whatever might be spooking the horses.

The murmur of voices reached his ears, which was better than a predator of the forest, but his tension remained even as he hesitated. His instinct was to hide, but their horses were in plain sight and would still betray their presence before they could get far. For all he knew, these could be guardsmen from the castle sent to find them. He doubted any hill tribesmen would venture this close to the castle.

Two men on horses trotted into view, both bearing the arms and armor of knights and clearly drawn to their location by the tied up horses. The one in the lead looked to be a man in his thirties, his light brown hair clipped short along with a matching beard. A hefty scar ran from the bottom of his earlobe to the top of his temple, bisecting his facial hair before disappearing into his hairline, but his expression was friendly, if curious.

It grew more curious as his gaze fell on the two of them. “Good afternoon,” he called out, dismounting with the heavy thud of armored boots. “I see we had the same idea,” he added, nodding toward the stream. “We thought to give the horses some respite before continuing south down the pass.”

His companion, a young man that up close was even younger than Jon had guessed at first, dismounted as well. A squire. He didn’t recognize the coat of arms on the knight’s surcoat: three hart’s heads on a white bend, atop a vair of blue and white.

“It is a pleasant resting stop,” Raymar said behind him. “You serve House Harte?”

The elder man nodded and began leading his horse to the stream. “I am Ser Thoren Harte, and this is my squire, Robin Massey.”

His voice was low and non-threatening, likely so as not to alarm two young boys alone on the edge of the wood. After stooping to cup a handful of water to splash his face, he turned back to them, curiosity plain in his face. Jon didn’t blame him. Two highborn boys at their age would not ordinarily be this far from home without some escort.

His expression stilled as his gaze fell on Raymar, and that was when Jon realized his cap was still on the ground, holding the last few handfuls of berries. Raymar’s quiet intake of breath behind told him he’d just realized the same.

Jon tensed as he closed the distance, halting a mere arm’s length from them, gaze roving over Raymar, from the crown of his silver-gold braid to the telltale purple of his eyes. Then he looked Jon over, eyes narrowing faintly as he scanned his face, as though in confirmation of something.

“Who might you lads be?”

“I am Jon Redfort,” he said, hoping to keep the man’s focus on him. “And this is my brother Raymar.”

“I know a few Redforts,” Ser Thoren said slowly. “Who is your father?”

Jon’s mind blanked, their parents not a frequent topic of conversation, forcing Raymar to his rescue. “Corwyn,” his brother said. “He died when we were very young of Spring Fever.”

“I’ve crossed lances with one of your elder brothers in a few tilts, then. Ser Orson.” Jon fought the urge to look to Raymar, who was usually the keeper of their new family history. From the careful way the knight was watching them, he seemed to pick up on their lack of familiarity. “I had not known that Corwyn remarried. Who is your mother?”

If the man knew their supposed father and his son, then there was no answer to that question that would explain Raymar’s coloring. Or if the man was sharp, it would wholly explain it.

“Lady Elys of House Royce,” Jon said, and judging by Ser Thoren’s sudden tension, he was indeed sharp. “She died of Spring Fever along with our father.”

“I am sorry,” the knight said, with a sympathy that seemed genuine, if distracted. His gaze drifted briefly south, and Jon could practically see the man putting the pieces together. “You are wards, then, of Allard Royce?” At their nod, his lips pulled into a frown. “Does he often allow you to ride beyond the walls of the castle without escort?”

It was careless, perhaps, for a man to allow his two young wards to do so, but not egregiously so if the children in question were orphans far removed from the line of succession of House Redfort. The surrounds of the Gates of the Moon were well patrolled, with wild animals the primary danger they would have to fear.

To allow two children of royal blood—even bastards—to do so, however, would seem reckless at best and malicious at worst, and the consternation showed on Ser Thoren’s face, strong enough that Jon wondered if the man knew Prince Daemon personally.

“Usually there’s a guardsman with us,” Jon said, which was true. But with Allard distracted by his wife’s advanced pregnancy and running the castle, they had found an increased independence, and the guardsmen had grown used to their ventures beyond the gates by now.

That didn’t seem to mollify Ser Thoren, whose conflict was visible on his face as he presumably weighed his options. Would he seek to confront Allard? Their cousin would likely deny everything and send him on his way, but there was nothing to stop Ser Thoren from taking the news to King’s Landing.

Nothing except the Greens. A few ravens dispatched to the right people could ensure that the knight and his squire never arrived at their intended destination, whatever it may be.

Jon watched the knight’s silent struggle, torn. It would be best if the man continued on his way as though nothing had happened. Let him bring the news to Prince Daemon himself, either by raven or in person.

But Ser Thoren glanced at his squire and jerked his head toward Raymar. Jon tensed as the man’s hand came to clasp his shoulder in a grip that was gentle but firm. His squire, after a moment’s hesitation, moved to do the same with Raymar, who shot Jon an uncertain look.

“We are on our way back to King’s Landing. I’d like you to accompany us.”

Too risky. Should a raven reach the Greens that they’d been plucked out of Allard’s care, the tiny escort of a knight and his squire on such a long journey would bring many opportunities to intervene.

“We do not know you, ser,” his brother said, fixing the knight with a cool stare that did not help their cause. He looked and sounded every inch a hidden prince, bastard or no. “Such a petition should be made to our guardian, Lord Royce.”

“I’m afraid not, child.” Ser Thoren looked more certain than ever now. “I cannot take that risk.”

“You would take us against our will, then?” Raymar frowned, eyes narrowing. “Where is your honor, ser?”

“It is my honor that requires it,” the knight said, his resolve seeming to harden. “Your father would not forgive me for leaving you here, unprotected.”

Skirting around the truth. Jon wondered what would make him state it outright. “Our father is dead, and we are safe in our cousin’s care.”

“Jon? Raymar?”

Ser Thoren swore quietly, hand tightening on Jon’s shoulder as they turned in the direction of the shout. Allard must have learned of their outing and sent someone to collect them. Ser Thoren’s undoing was the same as theirs: the horses were easy to spot from the road.

Jon’s burgeoning relief turned to trepidation when the figure rode into view: Crayne. There was a stiff tension in the man’s face as he surveyed the situation, but he smiled and dismounted.

“Good sers! I thank you for finding my wayward charges.” His smile remained fixed as his gaze landed on Jon. “Lord Royce was very upset to learn that you took off unescorted.”

“You know this man?” Ser Thoren asked Jon, who could see the rapid play of emotion on the man’s face as he reassessed the situation.

Jon gave a reluctant nod. “He is one of our cousin’s guardsmen. Marten Crayne.”

Crayne being the one to find them could prove disastrous. Jon did not doubt that the man had already realized that the knight knew who they were. Assuming he was a spy for the Greens, he would quickly send word to them—at which point he and Raymar might be considered too great a risk to let live.

“Crayne, is it?” the knight nodded toward the stream and released Jon’s shoulder. “I would speak with you.”

They strolled over to the bank, voices lowering to a murmur as they stopped just beyond earshot. Jon could only watch, reduced to a mere observer in a matter that could decide whether he and his brother lived or died.

After a few minutes of quiet conversation, they returned, Ser Thoren looking more at ease now as Jon wondered what Crayne had said to him. His squire, Robin, still had Raymar by the arm and just as his mouth opened in question, there came a flash of movement.

Jon stared in horror as Ser Thoren dropped to his knees, hand moving weakly to his throat, which had been sliced from the underside of his jaw down to his collarbone. Crayne stepped over the body without losing stride, closing the distance to the squire, who barely managed to unsheath his longsword before Crayne batted it away to plunge his dagger, viper-quick, into his throat and thrust upward.

The boy, no more than fourteen, collapsed with a wet, gurgling rattle, leaving Raymar standing frozen, fresh blood dripping down his hair and along the side of his neck as he stared up at Crayne. Jon looked around desperately for anything he might use to defend them, but the weapons were all within reach of Crayne, who was wiping down his dagger on the fallen squire’s surcoat.

“You know how to be quiet. Good.” Crayne grabbed Raymar by the arm.

“Leave him alone,” Jon snarled.

Crayne shot Jon a flat stare, eerily calm for a man who had just murdered a knight and his squire. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you? Quite the talent in the yard.” He pulled Raymar closer, the threat plain in his smile. “The maester says you’re also clever. I suggest you be clever, rather than brave.”

“What do you intend to do with us?” Jon demanded, but the answer seemed plain as Crayne dragged Raymar over to the stream. Heart leaping into his throat, Jon sprinted to the squire’s body, tugging frantically at his fallen longsword, but his arms strained to even lift the heavy blade. He let it drop, hands clenching at his sides, ready to charge if need be, however hopeless it might be to face Crayne without a weapon.

Crayne’s eyes had not left him during his panicked search for a weapon, lit with something almost like amusement. “Nothing at all,” he said finally, turning to Raymar. “Wash up,” he ordered, and his brother stared at the man for a moment, then waded into the water where he began to take down his braid. “I am going to bring you back to the castle, where you belong.”

Jon almost did not dare hope, tensing as the guardsman took his dagger out again, but he merely dunked it into the stream to clean it while Raymar rinsed the blood from his hair and face. Some had sprayed onto his tunic, which Crayne pulled off him to scrub separately before returning it. The violence seemed at an end, but Jon refused to let himself relax.

“You killed them,” he said. “Why?”

Crayne grabbed a fistful of Raymar’s loose silver-blond hair, holding it up in the sunlight as he glanced at Jon. “Are you clever or not?” He let the wet strands drop. “Tell your cousin if you wish. He’ll do nothing, save confine you to the keep for your carelessness.”

That all but confirmed Allard knew about Crayne. And not just knew, would support him.

Judging Raymar sufficiently clean, Crayne hoisted him out of the stream with a single arm. “Wouldn’t want you to catch a chill, now, would we?”

The shadows of the trees overhead were long in the late afternoon sun, leaving fewer patches of sunlight, and the breeze had picked up. Raymar shivered silently, and Jon hurried to his side, though his gaze didn’t leave Crayne, who dragged the bodies deeper into the wood and was now staring contemplatively at the extra horses. 

“Come along,” Crayne said finally, gesturing toward their own horses.

Raymar’s berry-filled cap was still on the ground, stained red with juice and blood, and they left it there. The ride back felt like an eternity, Crayne’s watchful stare a constant pressure against Jon’s back from his position in the rear, even with Raymar’s horse between them.

The gates swung open, men none the wiser as they were welcomed in. Crayne ruffled Raymar’s wind-dried hair after he helped him down, calling out something light-hearted to the other guardsmen at the gate. Jon stared pure death at the man as he moved to do the same to him, dismounting on his own and dodging his hand before settling at Raymar’s side. Though his clothing had long since dried, Jon could feel a faint tremble as he rested his shoulder against his brother’s.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, his own body vibrating, though with tension and fury.

He took Raymar’s hand, which felt ice cold in his, and led him back to their room, where Jon took the role of sweet-talker, securing a hot bath despite the odd look it got him on such an otherwise warm day. The tub was small, but plenty large for a child, and Jon helped Raymar strip out of his damp clothing and into it. There was still a trace of pink close to his scalp, and Jon gently scrubbed at it.

“I am sorry,” Raymar said after a few minutes, the first he’d spoken since the outburst of violence. 

He bit back a frown, lest he think Jon angry with him. “There is nothing to be sorry for.”

Raymar continued to stare at the distant wall instead. “I have seen worse. I’ve seen boys of ten beaten to death on my father’s orders. I do not know why—” His voice faltered, shoulders hunching in something halfway between a flinch and a shrug.

“It is different when you don’t know if you’ll be next.” As awful as Raymar’s father was, there was a reason he’d used whipping boys rather than harm his only child, and Raymar would have been aware of that on some level. “We were helpless. If he’d wanted us dead, we would be.”

“But you were—”

“I have fought in more battles than I can count.”

For Jon, who had tasted death and danced with it countless times, his reaction hadn’t been fear—not for himself, at least. It had been fury. Fury at his helplessness, and fear at the realization that Raymar could be hurt, and he would be helpless to stop it. When Crayne had dragged Raymar to the river, he’d assumed the worst.  Even now, the thought of it was a cold trickle down his spine. He let his fingers clench in his brother’s hair. They were safe. He was safe.

Jon’s grip tightened, throat tightening with it until he could hardly swallow. It suddenly was too much, all of it, everything jumbled and blurred and wrong. Raymar was fourteen but he was also seven. Robb was his brother, but Raymar his twin. Jon was a man grown, and a helpless child. He was a bastard, and he wasn’t, and he was again.

“I’ll kill him,” Jon said, and even that was a child’s growl.

A hand closed around his wrist, the touch light, and Jon loosened his grip. Raymar had turned to him, and though his face was still pale, his expression was clouded with worry as he looked at Jon, which was stupid, because it was Raymar who Crayne had threatened, whose death Jon had been able to envision in horrifying clarity.

“We are apparently valuable enough, to him or the Greens, that he killed two people to keep us here,” Raymar said, reading him effortlessly. “I do not think he will harm us.”

“I don’t care,” Jon gritted out. He thought about his hunting knife, and how, as had been demonstrated twice today, it was all too easy to bleed a man’s life from him. “For all we know, he will come with us to Runestone.” What Allard knew and condoned, there was a good chance Lady Royce did as well.

Raymar’s eyes widened slightly, breath catching. “Surely not.”

Jon bit the inside of his lip, regretting his words now, because what little color had found his brother’s cheeks had left them again. “Maybe not.”

It seemed the greatest of ironies that they had been speaking of charting their own course only hours before, as though merely daring to consider it had merited a swift lesson on how powerless they were.

“I am better now,” Raymar said, which was true and not, hauling himself out of the tub to dry off and dress in the fresh clothing Jon had fetched from their bedchamber along the way. His gaze sought Jon’s, the purple dark and solemn as he wrung the water from his hair. “Thank you.”

His brother was not one to seek contact, but Jon needed the reassurance, so he pulled him into a tight hug, digging his chin into the back of his shoulder before relaxing into the answering squeeze. He could feel the steady beat of Raymar’s heart against his chest, the rhythm soothing.

I will protect my family, he had declared in the forest. And the gods, seemingly in answer, had said, try.

They skipped supper, neither of them hungry, and took refuge in their bedchamber, where Raymar pulled out one of his books from the library on Aegon’s Conquest and read aloud until Jon stopped his restless pacing to listen, drawn into the tale. He lost track of time, only realizing how late the hour was as the room grew dark.

As soon as Raymar stopped reading to ready himself for sleep, however, Jon’s thoughts returned to the forest. It had been his idea. He was the one who’d insisted on taking a break from the library, and it had been his decision to ride beyond sight of the castle, to the edge of the forest. In the open grass of the valley just beyond the gates, he and Raymar would have easily spotted Ser Thoren’s approach and been able to avoid him entirely. Raymar would have been wearing his cap still, and perhaps it would not have mattered at all.

A man and a boy dead, all for a lazy afternoon in the forest. Jon stared up at the ceiling, gripping his forearms. He’d sensed that Crayne was dangerous, he should have—

“Jon.” 

He turned his head on the pillow, able to make out Raymar’s faint outline beside him in the dark of the room. “What?”

“You’re chasing your thoughts again.”

Jon was silent for a moment. “It’s my fault.”

“When my father killed a boy because I could not answer questions to his satisfaction, was that my fault?”

“That’s different.” That violence would have been at his father’s whim, not a direct result of Raymar choosing to go for a ride.

“Here.”

The bed shifted as Raymar sat up, and this time it was Jon who found his head on his brother’s lap. His hands went to Jon’s temples, fingers pressing light, slow circles into them. Then he started to sing quietly, voice soft and sweet. High Valyrian, Jon recognized, unable to understand any of it, but if anything, that helped. Rather than focus on the words themselves, he could feel himself drifting, carried along with the gentle melody. Lady Stark had sung to her children in times of sickness or sorrow, albeit less prettily, and hearing it from outside the door—unwelcome, unwanted—had always left him with an ache.

This was the opposite, the song seeming to fill his chest instead. You are loved, it seemed to say, the words of a mother to her child. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him and chase away all other thoughts, until sleep took him.

Chapter Text

No training dummy in the yard was spared Jon’s wrath over the next few days. With his child’s strength, he couldn’t irreparably damage any, but he killed them a hundred times over with knife and sword and lance, imagining Crayne’s face with every blow. Sometimes he would find Crayne watching him, but the man seemed more amused by it than anything.

Ser Perkins deemed it no more odd than anything else Jon had demonstrated in the yard, though sometimes he had to chase away the small crowds of bored guardsmen who gathered to cheer him on.

Raymar joined him, though not in the destruction, focusing on defense instead. Jon wondered if he was imagining the sprays of blood back in the forest, where both Ser Thoren and his squire had been caught entirely off guard.

Neither broached the subject of venturing north of the castle again until Derrick sought them out, plainly curious why they hadn’t taken the horses when they’d done so nearly daily before. Jon and Raymar exchanged equally uncertain glances, but let him talk them into a ride.

As soon as they approached the gate, however, they were halted by one of the guardsmen at the wall. Jon recognized him as the one who had let them through last time.

“Lord Royce says you are not to venture unattended,” he said, with the propriety of a man who had received a dressing down for allowing it before. Crayne must have spoken to Allard about it.

It was Crayne who was then summoned, apparently having volunteered himself for that duty, and Jon nearly turned his horse around right then, but neither did he want the man to think him cowed. The three of them left, Raymar’s spine straight with the tension of a bowstring pulled taut while Jon dug grooves into his palms from gripping the reins so tightly.

The ride was utterly silent for the first part of their circuit, until they made their turn east, bringing them just in view of the forest in the distance. “Did you go back for the bodies?” Jon asked, causing Raymar to jerk in his saddle.

Crayne shrugged. “The horses made it easy. They’ll be found in the hills—the hill tribes can be dangerous, after all, especially as winter approaches.”

Jon was conscious of the hunting knife he was wearing in plain sight. He refused to venture out of the main hold without it now, and made Raymar do the same. But its visibility meant Crayne was aware of it, robbing him of any chance at surprise.

“You needn’t be so wary,” Crayne said later, as they turned back toward the Gates of the Moon. “My charge is to keep you safe, and I intend to do so.”

“Because it benefits you,” Raymar said, the first he’d spoken. “Because you want something.”

Crayne’s expression flickered before smoothing into a smile. “Who doesn’t?”

That brief flash of something bothered Jon all the way back to the castle. Crayne had murdered a highborn knight without hesitation. He could have demanded the boys be returned to his care instead; Jon doubted Ser Thoren would have risked harm to them by refusing. Word could have been sent to the Greens to deal with the problem as they wished. Instead, Crayne had taken a great risk. Why?

Jon set upon the training dummies in the yard once more to clear his head, while Raymar kept him company practicing with the bow, until supper brought a fresh problem.

“You wish to send us to foster at Blackcrown?” Jon stared incredulously at their cousin, who had delivered the news with such finality that it seemed a done arrangement. The castle was as far southwest as one could go from the Vale, the journey itself over two thousand miles. It would easily take three moons on horse. “We are to spend the winter with Lady Royce.”

“I will confer with our aunt, of course, but this is not an opportunity to be squandered. You already have kinship with House Royce. Fostering with House Bulwer would build ties to the houses of the Reach, and if it is the path of knighthood you seek, you will find knights aplenty there in need of squires.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at Allard, unmoved by the transparent attempt to make the prospect more enticing. “Are the knights of the Vale not superior in training?”

Their cousin was rendered silent for a moment. The kingdom was famously proud of its knights, and to admit otherwise would stick in the craw of any Valeman. “Those of the Reach have their qualities as well.”

“We are of the Vale,” Jon said, stare challenging him to deny it. “We belong here.”

Allard returned his stare, unmoved. “It is already decided; House Bulwer has begun preparing for your arrival. It is not necessary for both of you to go, should you prefer to join our aunt at Runestone, Jon, but one of you will go to Blackcrown.”

It was a clever way to present the illusion of choice. Agree, or be separated.

“When would we leave for Blackcrown?” Raymar asked, expression betraying nothing but polite interest.

Allard took a sip of wine. “Shortly after your name day. The journey will be long, and we will be racing against winter.”

Raymar could play along as much as he liked, Jon refused to let the man believe he’d won. “I am sending a raven to our aunt.”

“As you like, but she will see the wisdom of it as well.”

The first letter Jon penned when they returned to the room was so full of vitriol he was forced to crumple it up and burn it. The second one, Raymar sighed and took to with his own quill for amending.

“You understand what this is about,” Raymar said with a faintly questioning tone.

“I may not have mastered all of the houses, but I do know that much,” Jon said with a scowl. Blackcrown was southwest of Oldtown, seat of House Hightower, and the Bulwers sworn to them. “The Greens are making a move.”

Raymar nodded. “Allard must have told them about our aunt’s offer.”

Clever of Allard. Offering them for foster removed them as a potential obstacle to inheriting Runestone while pleasing his allies within the Greens. The risk of anyone finding them at Blackcrown, at the heart of their power, and bringing word back to Prince Daemon was vanishingly small.

“We are very young,” Raymar mused. “If they wish to cultivate our loyalty, fostering provides the best opportunity.”

Take two orphan boys and raise them on stories of the evils of Prince Daemon and the Blacks and it would not matter if eventually they learned the truth. Any kinship they felt would be with the Bulwers, and by extension, the Hightowers. They couldn’t possibly expect that he and Raymar were anything but two malleable young children.

“Allard seems convinced that Lady Royce will agree.” His certainty made Jon uneasy. “Do you think she is also allied to the Greens?”

Raymar’s gaze dropped to Jon’s letter, where his corrections were still drying. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he thinks he can be more persuasive than us. I doubt she will see this for anything other than it is, on either his part or the Greens’.” He sighed and crumpled up the second parchment. “Your first was better. She likes fire when it comes from you.” He slid a fresh sheet over to Jon, then took one for himself. “I will be the mournful child longing for a mother.”

From the melancholy that stole over his face, Jon guessed he was thinking of his own mother. There were no words of reassurance he could offer, given what he knew about his father, so he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his brother’s hair.

Then he picked up his quill once more, with the resolve of one readying for battle, and began to write.

The waiting was the worst. A raven to Runestone was one to two days in good weather, and the days passed slowly. After almost a week, there was still no response from Lady Royce, leaving them locked in uncertainty. The Valyrian lessons continued, as did their arms training. Jon managed to scrounge some old strips of linen to use to secure his hunting knife out of view, bound to his thigh beneath his clothing. It was uncomfortable to wear like that all day, especially when sitting, so he kept it concealed only when venturing beyond the inner hold.

The stress of the wait, along with the loss of their carefree ventures beyond the castles, took its toll. Sleep often eluded Jon without Raymar’s singing to quiet his thoughts, which meant keeping Raymar from sleep, which made him feel guilty, which made him feign sleep, which upset Raymar when he found out, which ultimately led to daytime bickering, the two of them heavy-eyed with exhaustion.

“I should be the one to go.”

Raymar glanced up from his porridge, which he’d been picking at half-heartedly, elbow crooked as he rested his chin on his fist. “Hm?”

“To Blackcrown. Allard said only one of us must go, and of the two of us, you are the more persuasive. If you cannot convince Lady Royce, you could still send a raven to Prince Daemon. He need only look at you to know that you’re kin.”

Raymar’s frown had an edge of irritation. “We look alike, Jon. If he recognizes my features, he will recognize yours.”

He just barely swallowed his counterargument, which was that Ser Thoren had gotten a good initial look at Jon, but it hadn’t been until he’d glimpsed Raymar that he’d guessed at their parentage. His lack of sleep meant that he knew Raymar’s dreams were still troubled by their deaths. “He might recognize me, but you for certain.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Raymar set his spoon down, pushing his bowl away, its contents barely touched. “If we choose not to go together, they will decide who, and for that very reason, they will send me.”

Jon shoveled the last of his own porridge into his mouth, not particularly hungry either but knowing he would need the energy later when he continued his assault on the training dummies in the yard. “Then you admit it does make a difference.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Raymar repeated. “The Greens would never allow it.”

“They wouldn’t know until after I arrive, and by then it would be too late.”

“I don’t want to!” It took Jon a second to realize that the quiver in his voice wasn’t anger, but unshed tears. “Why are you so eager to part ways?”

“I’m not,” Jon said, his own frustration rising. “But neither am I willing to sit about and mope about the inevitability of being fostered there.”

Jon regretted the choice of words immediately. Raymar rose to his feet, back straight and rigid. “It should be me, then. I should go.”

Jon stood with him. “I already told you—”

“You’re the hero, Jon!” It was the closest he’d ever heard Raymar come to shouting, the words seeming to catch in his throat at the end before he brought himself back under control. “You’ve led armies. You’ve ridden a dragon into battle. You defeated the Others, and stopped the Long Night. I am nothing.” His gaze dropped, hands clenching at his sides. “Just a foolish boy who cannot even—” He turned his face aside until he had composed himself, then met Jon’s eyes. “You are the one the gods wanted.”

You are a boy, he wanted to say. Jon at fourteen had thought that the men of the Night’s Watch were as honorable and valorous as any knight, and got himself drunk at the welcoming feast for King Robert, sulking over not being seated at the high table with the rest of his family. He had dreamed just as hard about proving himself and being a hero.

“Then why are you here?” Jon asked. He had meant the words to be a counterpoint, but Raymar flinched as though struck. He sighed. “Raymar—”

“I need some air,” his brother said stiffly. “You are excused from our morning lessons. Your time is better spent in the yard anyway. You’ll have no need of Valyrian in Blackcrown.”

But Jon was useless in the yard, too upset and distracted by the argument. To build up his arm and grip strength, he’d convinced Ser Perkins to allow him to practice with a real blade, albeit blunted, against the training dummies. Over the course of his post-breakfast practice, however, he managed to get it stuck, his attempts to break it free growing increasingly wild with mindless fury, until it finally pulled loose and he went flying backward with it to land in the mud, freshly wet and squelching after last night’s storm.

He could hear a few guardsmen laughing, and he tossed the blade aside after standing. Mud dripped from the back of his head to the bottom of his boots, thick and cold, and he felt his breath hitching with tears. He fled the yard for the stables, slipping into them silently to find Clover, the horse he usually rode.

He poured his sorrows out to her between hiccuping breaths, drawing a concerned knicker from the dark brown mare, who lipped at his hair.

“I don’t want to be separated,” he explained to her. “But I don’t know what else to do.” He would rather be the one to face the dangers of being effectively a hostage for the Greens, a card for them to play against their father should he ever find the truth, or a tool to be used if not. “He is my brother. I just want to protect him.”

The way you protected Robb? something whispered, cruel and mocking. Jon had been two thousand miles away when the Freys had murdered him. The same distance from the Vale to Blackcrown.

It was Derrick who found him finally, the man’s coal-black eyebrows rising halfway up his forehead at the sight of him, mud-caked and tear-streaked. “C’mere, lad.” The master of horse fetched a damp cloth and helped him wipe the worst of the mess from his face, tears and snot and all. “What’s got you upset on such a fine day?” There was a knowing look on his face. “You get in a fight with your brother?”

And that was all it took to set Jon off again. Derrick kindly left under the pretense of fetching a clean cloth, giving him time to get himself back under control.

“Now, I haven’t seen the two of you fight before,” he said after he’d returned and Jon had freshened himself once more. “But that’s what brothers do.”

“I know that,” Jon muttered, because he had been a brother before. But Raymar hasn’t. 

“Is that why you haven’t been riding?”

Jon bit back a wince. “No. That’s different.”

“Here.” He led Jon to one of the stalls, where Derrick had been removing the tack from one of the patrol horses, and handed him a brush before going to fetch a stool for him. “You can be my stablehand for the day, if you like.”

Jon started brushing, the motion calming in its repetition. It was nice to do something that wasn’t barely restrained violence or twisting his mind in knots learning High Valyrian. He spoke to the horses, commiserating about being penned up and led around.

“Do you ever want to run away?” he asked one, a dapple grey who accepted a carrot from him with calm brown eyes.

It would be madness to try. Two boys of nearly eight setting out on their own would be found, either by their cousin’s men, or the bandits that watched the roads for easy pickings. They would never make it as far as King’s Landing, even if they did manage to steal some coin before setting out. Any kind traveler who might help them would take one look at Raymar and try to take them to the nearest castle.

He smelled of horse by the end of it, and though some of the mud had dried and fallen from his hair and clothing, was in desperate need of a bath. But Derrick surveyed his work with an air of pleased surprise.

“That’s good work. Feeling better?” At Jon’s nod, he added, “Still angry at your brother?”

Jon frowned. “I wasn’t angry at him. He just—doesn’t understand.”

“And he usually does.” Derrick smiled at his surprised blink. “He’s a perceptive lad.”

That was part of the problem. Raymar often knew Jon was upset before he did, half a step ahead of him with a well-timed distraction or luring him into a game to take his mind off of his troubles. He was so good at it that it was hard to recognize when he was the one struggling.

Guilt stabbed at him. He’d been perfectly happy to let his brother comfort him this past week while giving nothing in return, content to lose himself in mindless practice in the yard and offering only gloom when they spoke of the future.

Jon heaved a sigh so heavy it made Derrick’s eyebrows shoot up again. “I should talk to him.”

“That’d be a good start. And mayhap you and your brother can take up riding again. Once winter’s here, days fit for it will be scarce.”

“We will.” Jon gazed up at the man. “Thank you.”

“Consider it payment for your hard work today.”

It was later than Jon had expected when he emerged from the stables, the last rays of the sun casting deep shadows through the yard. He’d clearly missed their afternoon arms training with Ser Perkins. Given that the knight didn’t immediately seek him out for a scolding when he appeared in the yard, Jon would guess that Derrick had told him that he was spending the day with him. He felt another rush of gratitude toward the man.

It occurred to him then that Raymar would still have shown up, and perhaps interpreted his absence as Jon avoiding him. But when he found Ser Perkins to ask him about the training, he informed him that Raymar hadn’t made an appearance either.

Puzzled now, Jon started with his brother’s favorite haunt, the library, but only Maester Donnel was there, and he hadn’t seen Raymar either. Jon tried their room next, with no success. Trying to ignore his growing apprehension, Jon checked the northeast tower, and then asked one of the guardsmen there if he’d ventured outside the walls, but he hadn’t seen him either.

Jon did a sweep of the halls within the hold, all three levels, and found no trace of his brother. A cold rush of fear swept over him as he strained to recall if he’d seen Crayne at all either. He hadn’t.

He’s taken him. He isn’t working for the Greens at all, and we’re about to be out of his reach, so he’s taken Raymar—

Jon sprinted back to their room for his hunting knife, which he secured out of view, fingers clumsy with panic. He had been focused on tending the horses and couldn’t remember who had come by to take any. Jon ran back to the north gate and found Benton, an older guardsman with steel grey hair who Raymar had befriended.

“What is Crayne’s posting for the day?” he asked, half out of breath.

“He’s at the south gate today, what—?”

But Jon had already taken off, hardly noticing the odd looks his mad dash was attracting. His focus was so single-minded that when he collided with another figure at the doorway to the southern guard tower, it took him a second to recognize that it was Crayne.

Jon stopped his hand, which had immediately started toward his concealed knife. “Where is Raymar?” he demanded.

“I have not seen him today,” the man said, after an initial flash of surprise. “I am not your brother’s minder.”

Jon stared at him hard, searching for any trace of dishonesty, but Crayne seemed genuinely thrown by the question. And if he’d taken Raymar, he would already be gone.

“My mistake,” Jon said stiffly. “I thought he had gone this way.”

He did not wait for Crayne’s response, immediately turning back toward the hold. His worst fears allayed, his nerves settled into a faint unease. He found Perra, who recalled seeing him near Lynda Royce’s solar, and when he neared it, he heard the final trailing notes of a song.

Jon halted just outside the door, emotions swinging from relief to anger to apprehension, but did not knock. After a few moments, Raymar began to sing again, and Jon stepped to the side, back against the cold stone of the wall, and slid down until he was sitting, legs splayed out in front of him. He had started the day tired to the bone, and now that his frantic search was complete, all that was left was the exhaustion.

This song he hadn’t heard before, and he leaned his head back and listened, helplessly drawn in, in a way he had never been at the Wall, where Dareon had sung at every possible occasion. Jon was no trained musician, so he couldn’t name the difference between the two, other than that one was a boy and the other a man. Both sounded beautiful to the ear.

But Dareon’s singing had always been a performance, the man reveling in the attention of his audience. Perhaps that was the difference. When Raymar sang to him, it was as though the song were for him alone. He sang to comfort, to cheer, to soothe—a gift with no thought of repayment. And even though this was for Lady Lynda, he assumed, the comfort spilled under the cracks of the door to draw him in its wake.

His eyes drifted shut. Safe, the song crooned. I am safe, you are safe, you can rest now.

Jon dozed, half aware of the song at the edge of his consciousness, and woke only when the door creaked open at last.

“Jon?”

He blinked his eyelids open, entire body heavy with the lingering remnants of sleep. Raymar was staring down at him, expression faintly alarmed.

“Mmph,” he protested, very comfortable where he was, but a hand gripped his arm and tugged until he finally gathered his feet back under him to stand with assistance.

“You’re covered in mud,” Raymar said, catching a dirt-caked lock of Jon’s hair between delicate fingertips. “And you smell terrible.”

“I was helping Derrick,” he said, trying to clear the fuzziness from his mind.

Raymar tugged him in the direction of their room. “You’ll need to wash up before supper.”

“Fuck supper and fuck Allard,” Jon growled, thinly buried resentment rising to the surface.

“We’re not yet eight, Jon,” Raymar said. “You cannot say ‘fuck’ and certainly not outside a lady’s solar.”

“I don’t want to sup with our cousin,” Jon amended, because it had been an egregious slip.

“He’s not here. He left for the Eyrie this morning to discuss winter preparations with Lady Arryn for when her court moves here, and he won’t be back for another two days. We are supping with Lady Lynda.”

There was a particular emphasis in his voice at the mention of Allard’s wife, and Jon studied him more closely. The hurt and doubt from before was entirely absent in his brother’s bearing, replaced by a quiet confidence.

“You have a plan?” Jon asked, hope stirring in him.

“Bath first,” Raymar said, throwing a glance down the hall.

Away from any listening ears, Jon assumed. Perra took one sniff of him and helped them ready the tub before leaving them to it. The water wasn’t steaming, but it was hot enough that it felt nice on the unfamiliar aches he had gained from his work in the stable. His hands in particular were rough and blistered in places that his sword calluses couldn’t protect him.

“Lady Lynda has been struggling with her pregnancy,” Raymar said, a tiny frown betraying his worry. “My mother had difficulty with many of hers as well. I kept her company when I was allowed, and acted as her page when I was younger, fetching things she needed.”

Jon scrubbed at his hair, watching the water darken with the dirt. “You hope that if we ingratiate ourselves, she will persuade Allard not to send us off to foster?”

“No, I doubt there is any argument that would sway him. But I volunteered to help her with errands. Fetching things or people she needs—or delivering messages.”

Messages. Jon’s hand froze mid-scrub. “Via raven?”

Raymar nodded. “The rookery is on the topmost level, and it is dangerous for her to climb so many stairs. I took a letter for her today, to see what ravens Maester Donnel keeps there. Most are for King’s Landing or the Eyrie and other locations within the Vale, but—” He met Jon’s gaze. “There is one for Dragonstone. Donnel told me he always keeps one on hand for when Lady Arryn visits the castle, as she is close with Princess Rhaenyra.”

The greatest risk of sending a raven to King’s Landing had always been that the Greens might intercept it before it could reach its intended eyes. The current Master of Whisperers, they had learned, was Lord Reyne of the Westerlands. Given his house’s allegiance to House Lannister, he was almost certainly allied to the Greens. If such a note fell into their hands, there would be consequences—potentially fatal ones.

Dragonstone, however, was Princess Rhaenyra’s seat, as King Viserys’s heir. Any ravens sent there would almost certainly reach her eyes, and through her, eventually Prince Daemon.

“But how do we convince Maester Donnel that we should use the raven to Dragonstone?” Jon asked, mind already moving on the next obstacle. If they were desperate, they could try sending it without permission, but Allard would almost certainly be alerted and action taken.

“Allard’s visit to the Eyrie,” Raymar said promptly. “After he returns, I can claim that he brought a missive from Lady Arryn to be sent. Since I have been delivering other messages for Lady Lynda, it would not seem strange for me to do so for our cousin as well. We need only fashion a convincing enough seal.”

Jon leaned back in the tub, impressed. Rather than mope about all day like him, Raymar had instead sought a solution, and it was a clever one—a confluence of luck and compassion. His kindness toward Lady Lynda had unlocked the rookery for them, but it was Allard’s visit to the Eyrie that would provide access to the Dragonstone raven. 

“So you are not as stupid and useless as you believed?” Jon teased. Raymar shrugged in response, looking embarrassed to have his words from before dredged up. “Meanwhile, I spent the day battering training dummies, falling into muck, and then crying in the stables.”

“Well.” Raymar smiled then. “You seemed determined to sacrifice yourself on my behalf. I had to do something.”

The water was a light brown now, discolored from the mud. Jon rose, judging himself as clean as possible without a fresh change of water, and donned a set of unsoiled clothes. He let Raymar brush the worst of the tangles out of his hair, his brother a much gentler hand of it than Jon.

When Raymar had finished and moved to set the brush aside, Jon caught his wrist and turned his brother to face him, locking gazes. Seconds passed in silence, long enough for Raymar’s expression to turn questioning, though he did not pull away.

“I thought Crayne had taken you,” Jon said finally. He had expected to feel embarrassment at the admission, but instead it was an echo of that cold fear, and his grip tightened briefly. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

Understanding flickered in those purple eyes. “I never left the hold,” Raymar said softly, before his voice turned wry. “Of the two of us, I deem you the more likely to encounter trouble.”

It would be easy to take the escape of the offered humor, but Jon continued to hold his gaze. “You are no less important than me. I would not have you think otherwise.” He released his wrist. “We agreed that we would forge our own path, and I already told you what I want.”

Raymar’s head tilted, as though he’d suddenly pieced something together. “To protect your family.”

“You were right before. I should not have suggested we separate.”

A tension he hadn’t even noticed in Raymar seemed to ease, and Jon was caught off guard when he threw his arms around him in a tight hug. He gave an answering squeeze, feeling a rush of understanding of his own. Raymar must have truly feared that Jon would force them to separate.

“Come,” Raymar said once he’d pulled back. “Or we shall be late.”

Lady Lynda seemed brightened by their presence—or at least Raymar’s—and Jon felt a small twinge of guilt at having largely ignored her before now. Allard was not one for light talk, which usually made for quiet suppers when he wasn’t trying to test them, but in his absence, they had a lively conversation. Jon discussed his stint in the stables, minus the crying, and she was fascinated to hear that he was learning High Valyrian from Raymar, leading to an impromptu lesson at the table that drew a mischievous smirk from his brother at Jon’s nearly inaudible groan.

“Have you thought of anything you would like for supper on your name day?” she asked after the lesson had left her about as cross-eyed as Jon normally felt.

Jon swallowed a curse. He had forgotten that it was so soon, a mere three days away. He didn’t have a gift for Raymar, and even though he would not be expected to, as a child, it bothered him. He knew with utter certainty that Raymar would have something for him.

“The minced chicken pie, perhaps?” Raymar suggested, and Jon nodded in absent-minded agreement. The cook had prepared some a fortnight ago, and they’d both devoured their portion.

“Oh! A splendid choice,” Lady Lynda said with a smile.

She winced after supper was finished and she finally stood, prompting a concerned look from Raymar. “Do you need an escort back to your room?”

“No, sweetling,” she said with another smile, this one tired. “That is a kind offer, but I will feel better once I’m off my feet.”

Back at their room, they tried to figure out what to write in the letter they would send to Dragonstone. Princess Rhaenyra might dismiss it as a child’s prank if they penned the letter as themselves, but if they pretended to be someone else at the castle, there was the risk of her sending a raven back to whoever they’d chosen. The safest course, they decided finally, was to leave it unsigned.

Jon read over Raymar’s shoulder as he wrote, doing his best to disguise his handwriting. “Should we not ask that she pass the letter along to Prince Daemon?”

Raymar shook his head. “I think it best that our mysterious benefactor present himself as more interested in undermining the Greens than reaching Prince Daemon. Why should it matter to him if we are ultimately taken into our father’s care?”

Jon saw the wisdom in that, but it still felt strange to read the words written through the lens of an indifferent stranger. “And the seal?”

“That will require some skullduggery.”

Being children played in their favor this time as they crept through the darkened nighttime halls and into their cousin’s solar. Should anyone catch them, it could be explained away as childish mischief. The room was almost pitch black inside, save for a few glowing embers in the fireplace, which they used to light the candle they’d brought from their room.

“Could we just use his seal?” Jon asked, voice hushed. It was out in plain view on his desk.

“Perhaps.” Raymar looked tempted. “I do not know how well I’ll be able to replicate Lady Arryn’s. I would have to shape it into the wax by hand, and I have not seen it before.” His eyes widened then. “Wait.”

Raymar had been paging through the various papers on Allard’s desk, and he held up one letter that was still slightly curled, its braided twine dangling from the stamped wax that had been used to seal it into place on the rolled up parchment. When he held the letter up to Jon, it was clearly signed by Lady Arryn.

“Let me,” Jon said, withdrawing his hunting knife. With the wax still affixed to the parchment, he would need to carefully free it. He slid his blade just beneath the seal, slowly peeling it away from the underlying paper, until they had only the wax and attached twine.

His brother rolled up their own letter, then flattened it with the closing flap faced upward. Jon stretched both ends of the twine between his hands to dangle the wax over the candle until the edges began to soften—slowly at first, then rapidly, and he hurriedly lowered it to close over the flap.

Once it had cooled enough, Raymar tied the twine and they reviewed the result. The impression on the seal was less defined than before, the reheating having smoothed some of it away despite their care, but it looked convincing enough without careful scrutiny.

As they were putting Lady Arryn’s letter back beneath the pile of other letters, another caught his eye and Jon slid it out from the pile, skimming past the opening pleasantries.

I have received confirmation from my brother that Lord Bulwer would be amenable to building ties with House Redfort by fostering your young wards. I advise that you move with haste, before the onset of winter, to avoid any unforeseen difficulties. If this arrangement is to your satisfaction, I have already begun making preparations for an escort at Darry to take them for the remainder of the journey. It should arrive there within a fortnight.

It was signed by Otto Hightower: newly reappointed Hand of the King, father to the queen, and one of the key leaders of the Green faction. Jon wordlessly slid it over to Raymar, whose eyes narrowed as he read it.

“It is carefully written. There is nothing untoward on the surface, though sending an escort is certainly unusual for two unimportant orphans, even highborn. Protection on the road would ordinarily fall upon our own house to provide.” He handed it back to Jon. “By ‘unforeseen difficulties’ I assume he means the arrival of Lady Arryn’s court.”

“A fortnight is far too soon for anyone from Blackcrown to make it to Darry.” The journey would take well over two moons. “They must be coming from King’s Landing.”

“Or Harrenhal. The new Lord Strong is an ally of his.” There was worry in Raymar’s eyes as they met his. “It would be nearly a fortnight’s journey for us to reach Darry. Allard must mean to send us soon, lest he keep Hightower’s men waiting for too long.”

The letter was not dated, either, but Allard must have received it at least a week before. Jon frowned then. “He lied. There is nothing in this about possibly taking only one of us, and he claimed it would take time to make arrangements.”

“He might not have accepted yet.” But there was clear doubt in Raymar’s voice. “He did say it would be sometime after our name day.”

Now curious, Jon thumbed through the other letters, but there were none from their aunt—at least, not any recent ones. Was Allard also awaiting a response from her?

“We should go,” Raymar said, glancing anxiously at the door. “Someone might notice if we linger.”

There was a window, and even the faint candlelight could potentially be spotted by a keen-eyed guardsman on night watch. Jon rearranged the papers and blew out the candle. They waited a few more minutes in hushed silence, then snuck back to their room, undetected.

“At least we know for certain,” Jon said, once they’d hidden the letter away and slipped into bed. “Allard is working with the Greens.”

Raymar hummed in thought. “We do not know if it is by threat or by choice.”

Nothing he’d seen from Allard over the past few moons had left him with a particularly charitable view of the man. “That letter seemed friendly enough. And let us not forget that he knowingly gives Crayne free rein.”

“Neither may be a problem for much longer.” Raymar turned to him. “Have you considered what will happen if our letter makes it to Princess Rhaenyra, and she chooses to act on it?”

Jon frowned in thought. He hadn’t been nearly the student Raymar was at his age, so his knowledge of Princess Rhaenyra and even their father was limited to what most highborn children were taught about the Dance, which was that it—and she—was a prime example of why women should not inherit the Iron Throne ahead of male relatives. Who either of them actually were had been lost to time and hyperbole.

“I suppose we’ll be taken to King’s Landing or Dragonstone,” Jon said after a moment. Would they be raised alongside Princess Rhaenyra’s sons, or shunted aside for the stain of bastardry? That was one aspect of the truth coming out that Jon was not looking forward to. “Why? Has it been on your mind?”

Raymar nodded. “Despite how it has felt at times, we’ve enjoyed a great deal of freedom here. It will be different in King’s Landing.” His head turned back to the ceiling. “There will be expectations, even of bastards. There will be many people who will want many things from us.”

Jon remembered Raymar’s simple joy in their games of chase, and his confession that he had not been allowed such games as a child. With every story he shared, it had become increasingly clear that his memories of King’s Landing were seldom happy ones. It made sense that he would have mixed feelings about returning there.

“There will be dragons,” Jon said, and Raymar turned back to him.

“I had forgotten,” he said softly. “I keep forgetting. Strange that dragons of all things are what don’t feel real about this place.”

Jon’s reply was split by an enormous yawn. His brief nap earlier had barely made a dent in his exhaustion, and they had yet to do their nighttime storytelling. He wracked his mind for something short and simple, to offset the day’s twists and turns.

“Favorite color,” he said.

“Favorite color?” Raymar sounded somewhere between incredulous and amused. “Do you expect that to change while we are here?”

“Favorite color,” Jon repeated stubbornly.

“Blue,” Raymar said after a pause. “The color that falls between twilight and true night, when the stars have begun to fill the sky.”

“That is a good color.” Jon could picture it exactly. There had been countless watches on the Wall to view all the gradients of the night. “I fear my own answer will mark me a traitor.”

“Oh, no.” The bed quivered slightly with laughter. “Green?”

“Aye. There was very little of it on the Wall, and most of it covered in snow.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” And for a moment Jon thought that the end of it, but then he added, “What shade?”

“Any shade.” He caved eventually to his brother’s patient stare. “The color of sunlight through leaves.” 

A bright, waxy green with a twinge of gold. It was such a unique color compared to the otherwise dull greens of the evergreen trees outside of Winterfell. The greenhouse had been the best place to see it, but that had always carried the danger of an encounter with Lady Stark, who liked to frequent the garden there. More often, Jon had sought it out in the godswood.

“You will like the gardens within the Red Keep, then. There is much greenery there.”

“How fortunate that we will find the nighttime sky there as well,” Jon teased.

“It is not at all like here in the mountains,” Raymar said, voice quieting. “The smoke from hearths and lights throughout the streets blot out the stars.”

So they were not so different after all, each coming to love the sights that were rare at home. Jon had the perfect answer to counter his brother’s sudden gloom, however, and he had to fight back a laugh. “On dragonback, however…”

An elbow found his side, and this time he did laugh. “Oh, very well.” Although he couldn’t see it, he could hear the smile in Raymar’s voice. “Yes, dragons will cure all.”

Jon moved his pillow so that it formed a physical buffer between them to ward off any further questions. “Now sleep.”

Chapter Text

A new period of waiting was upon them, as torturous as the last but for different reasons. The dread from before was gone, replaced by nervous anticipation. No longer did they badger Maester Donnel for word on whether their aunt had sent back a reply. Instead, they waited on Allard’s return, so that they could send their letter to Dragonstone.

Raymar continued to make his presence in the rookery a familiar occurrence, fetching messages from Lady Lynda’s sister in Gulltown and then bringing her reply back the next day to be sent. 

At Jon’s insistence, they took up riding again. Both were going slowly mad within the walls of the castle, and they were able to be strategic about their timing to avoid being forced to suffer Crayne’s company. They kept within sight of the castle, having learned that lesson at great cost, but although the sunshine and breeze were a welcome reprieve, the outings lacked the carefree nature of before.

Meanwhile, Jon had decided on not one but two name day gifts for his brother, the first barely complete in time with the short notice he’d given the tanner. The other, he conspired with both Lady Lynda and Benton to prepare, requiring a delicate dance to avoid alerting the suspicion of either Raymar or Crayne, albeit for very different reasons.

Unfortunately, his brother was very perceptive. “You are up to something.”

Jon had arrived a few minutes late to the library for his High Valyrian lesson, as it was one of the few times that he knew exactly where Raymar was so that he could meet with Lady Lynda alone.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon said, feigning ignorance. “I was hungry, so I stopped by the kitchens.” That was not entirely a lie. He had stopped by the kitchens.

His reward for his deceit was a lesson focused entirely on food. It covered a truly impressive breadth of fruits and vegetables alone, from the ordinary to obscure produce that had no Common Tongue equivalent and Raymar himself could only describe, grown in Old Valyria and lost along with it. Jon hadn’t actually grabbed anything to eat from the kitchen, so he spent the entire study period famished while Raymar raised an eyebrow at every growl of his stomach, looking all the more vindicated by the end.

“Ñuha valonqar qrīnio issa,” Jon said at the end, to Raymar’s clear amusement.

“Let that be your lesson, then,” his brother said loftily. “Do not keep secrets from your jailor.”

“Then you admit these lessons are an exercise in torment.”

Raymar fixed him with a stare. “Do not speak to me of torment. You were cheerful enough all those evenings you spent folding me into various pretzel shapes.” His eyes narrowed at Jon’s fond smile of remembrance. “My bruises had bruises, Jon.”

“All the more incentive to make progress,” he sang back.

It was a strangely rewarding experience sometimes, being an older brother. They were twins, true, but Jon had five years of experience on him. Little mischiefs and playful teasing he would have been hesitant to try with his younger siblings growing up—all too conscious of Lady Stark’s unfriendly eyes waiting for him to betray himself as cruel and ambitious as all bastards were known to be—he could partake in with Raymar.

And he could tell that Raymar, for all his protesting, was secretly delighted whenever Jon indulged himself in such antics. 

“What is your favored weapon?” his brother asked, closing the book in front of him with a determined thud.

The question had come out of seemingly nowhere, which meant there must be a trap. “The sword,” Jon said, curious to see what it was. “Why do you ask?”

“So that I may know which weapon I must master to someday humble you.”

“Bold words,” Jon said with a smile. He much preferred this fire to the self doubt his brother sometimes let rule him.

The sound of voices and activity outside ended the back-and-forth as they both hurried to the window, where they glimpsed Allard and the handful of men-at-arms who had accompanied him to the Eyrie dismounting in the yard. They exchanged looks of matching excitement, then took off down the several flights of stairs to ground level, where Raymar slowed, then caught Jon by the sleeve.

“We cannot show too much enthusiasm,” he whispered. “We were not on the friendliest of terms with Allard when he left.”

That much was true. It was not the joy of seeing their cousin that had made them fly through the halls. It was what he brought with him: a plausible reason for Raymar to bring a letter for Dragonstone to the rookery.

“There you two are.”

Lady Lynda had also entered the entrance hall, albeit with the more honest intention of greeting her husband. She moved slowly, ankles notably swollen; Jon hadn’t noticed when he’d visited her before.

“I am glad Allard made it back in time for your name day,” she said, halting beside them to lay a hand on both of their shoulders. As much, Jon would guess, to rest as to show affection. “I remember when I first came here, you both were barely to my waist.”

They were chest-level now, or slightly above, and Lady Lynda was not a short woman.

She kissed the top of Raymar’s head, then Jon’s, and if either leaned into the embrace that came with it, neither acknowledged it. “I know it will be exciting to go to Blackcrown, but I shall miss seeing your faces.”

“We shall write to you often,” Raymar promised, a wistfulness in his expression that surprised Jon. He hadn’t considered that spending these few moons with Lady Lynda would build such a strong bond.

“We’re not leaving yet,” Jon reminded them both.

“No, of course.” She linked arms with them. “Shall we go welcome Allard home?”

Raymar waited until an hour after supper to take the letter to the rookery, which was when he usually delivered the day’s messages. By a stroke of luck, Lady Lynda had given him a new letter to send as well. Jon waited back at their room, circling the small space on restless feet, until his brother returned, meeting his gaze with a nod of confirmation.

“It is sent. Maester Donnel hardly glanced at it.”

“All your hard work with the seal for naught,” Jon teased, feeling himself finally relax. “And not a whisper from Allard since supper. If he noticed anything amiss about his solar and suspected us, I think we would have heard something by now.”

“Now we wait. It’s a day and a half’s journey by raven, if the weather is fair. Perhaps two if not.” Raymar sat on the edge of the bed, and whereas Jon’s reaction to the letter being in flight had been pure relief, his brother seemed unsettled now.

“Do you think we’ll receive a raven in response? Or a dragon?”

It was the perfect question to distract him. Raymar frowned in thought. “I think that depends on whether Princess Rhaenyra tells our father. She might try to gather additional information before making a move. From what we know of his reputation, I think Daemon would fly directly here.”

The Rogue Prince. Lord Fleabottom. Kinslayer—though that stain had touched nearly every Targaryen by the end of the Dance. Their father had many names, but both detractors and admirers seemed to agree that the fire in his blood was strong.

Raymar was staring at the wall now with a distant expression Jon had come to recognize. “You are worried about meeting him.” His brother nodded after a moment, frown deepening. “You fear he may be like your father?”

“If he were at all like my father, our aunt would have been killed years ago. No, it is only—” Raymar hesitated. “Allard has no great love for us, but he mostly left us alone until we started to threaten his position as heir. There is no telling what Prince Daemon will decide to do with us, and since we are but children, we will have very little power.”

“What do you think he might do?”

“I do not know.” Raymar sounded frustrated. “Perhaps nothing at all.”

That would be the most devastating outcome—for them to have sent the letter for nothing and be left in the hands of the Greens for whatever purpose they might serve. It was also an unlikely one. This was Raymar’s version of chasing his thoughts, Jon realized. Imagining possibility after possibility, each gloomier than the last.

Jon sat down beside him on the bed and grabbed for his hand, which had been fidgeting with the ends of his braid for the past minute, stilling it. “What do you hope he might do?”

“Why should that matter?” Raymar said sharply, snatching his hand back.

“Because I want to know,” Jon said.

That seemed to pierce straight through Raymar’s defensiveness, and as the tension drained from him, he suddenly looked very small. “I—”

Jon would not have thought it the kind of question to flummox his brother, who often seemed to have an answer for everything.

“Take us back to King’s Landing, I suppose,” he said finally. “It would be nice to meet our cousins. And if we should bond with any dragons, then we could go anywhere.” He glanced at Jon then, a shy curiosity in his eyes. “How far could you fly on your dragon in a day?”

“I never tested his limits,” Jon said, wracking his memory for the longest stretch he’d done. “Flying for an entire day gets uncomfortable after a time, and though dragons can go for a day without food, like you or I would, they get cranky about it.”

Raymar’s eyes widened. “Cranky?”

“Aye,” Jon said, amused. “They are not horses. If Rhaegal decided it was time to eat, he would take a break for us.”

“Rhaegal,” Raymar repeated slowly. “That was the dragon you rode?”

“The green,” Jon said, adding with a laugh, “which was entirely coincidental, I didn’t pick him for his color! My aunt often rode Drogon, the black, and Viserion was the odd one out.” He thought back on the original question. “It took me three days to reach Summerhall from Dragonstone. Had we pressed harder, I could have perhaps done it in two.”

Pressed harder and not taken a wide berth around King’s Landing to avoid its ballista defenses, which had extended many miles beyond the city at that point.

“That was the last flight you took?”

Jon nodded, and at the faint flicker of concern across Raymar’s expression, he said, “Rhaegal knows the way back to Dragonstone. He will be fine.” Jon felt his own mood dim as he thought about others who might not fare as well in his absence.

“I am sorry,” Raymar said, leaning his shoulder into Jon’s. “I did not mean to dampen your spirits. We have done what we can within our control. All the rest is—” His breath escaped in a hiss that was half sigh, half wince. “Beyond us.”

Out of reach, just a collection of memories to tell one another. Jon felt his own gaze drift to the wall. There had been plenty of time for regret and worry during his time with the Night’s Watch, when his heart had raged against his decision to remain when Robb needed him. He was practiced by now at burying such things, and so he did again, swallowing the tight knot at the base of his throat.

“It is our name day tomorrow,” Jon said after a time, as though Raymar didn’t know.

“It is.”

“How did you spend your eighth name day?”

“We do not need to do this tonight,” Raymar said, which Jon took to mean it was not the most cheerful story, but as the silence dragged out, he eventually caved. “It was half a moon after my mother gave birth to my first sibling. A sister, stillborn. My mother was still recovering, and my father was in a black mood, so I spent the day with a few of the Kingsguard.”

From the terse delivery, Jon would guess there was more to it, and not pleasant, so he did not press. “It was still summer during my eighth name day.” Winter had been a long time coming, and they’d known none of it during their childhood. “Robb was three moons older, and we often received similar gifts, so I knew what to expect.”

His name days had been quieter affairs in comparison, more befitting of a bastard than the celebrations for a Lord Paramount’s firstborn son and heir. And though the gifts were usually of the same kind, Lady Stark had always seen to it that Robb’s were notably finer.

“We got our first swords that year, Mikken’s work. They were small and light, but they seemed proper weapons to us.” Looking back now, they couldn’t have been much larger than the sword he’d had made for Arya before leaving. “We were not allowed to practice with them, but we carried them everywhere, pretending to be famous knights of old. My uncle took us out on a ride, and let us practice against him after we got back.”

With training blades, of course, but it was rare enough an occurrence that they had both been delighted, especially when he had fallen under their combined arms at the end. A staged defeat, but one they had treasured nonetheless.

“That is a good memory,” Raymar said, a wistful note to his voice.

He bumped his shoulder into Raymar’s. “The memories here will be what we make of them.”

Jon was now doubly determined that tomorrow would be a good one for Raymar, prepared to will it into truth if need be. His scheming with Lady Lynda had remained a secret, he was certain.

“Shall we practice tonight?” Raymar asked.

It had been several days since they’d last crossed training swords before bed, the sleepless nights from the long wait sapping both of any desire to stay up even later.

“We should,” Jon said, just as a yawn stretched his jaw, wide enough to creak.

Raymar cast him a dubious look. “Or perhaps not.”

Jon gave it some thought, then tugged his tunic over his head, accepting defeat. “It is our name day tomorrow.”

Daylight had the power to chase away many ills, among them the gloomy thoughts of the previous night. When Jon woke to the early morning rays streaming through their window, it was with childish excitement for their name day. Without even pausing to dress, he retrieved Raymar’s first present from its hiding spot, then returned to the bed to sit cross-legged on his side, staring down at his sleeping brother.

Sometimes he thought Raymar had a special sense for when Jon was watching him, though it could also have been the fact that he was now blocking the sunlight from their window. His brother’s eyes squinted open, accompanied by a quiet groan at the early hour.

“Happy name day,” Jon proclaimed, shoving the small, cloth-wrapped bundle at him.

Raymar made a noise of protest, and when he moved to pull the blanket over his head, Jon peeled it back. “It would be happier at a later hour,” he grumbled. But he seemed to have surrendered to the inevitable, and rose to a sitting position as he rubbed at his eyes with his forearm. Finally, he noticed the outstretched bundle. “What is this?”

“Your present,” Jon said patiently, amazed that someone ordinarily so sharp could be rendered this dull by an early rising.

“Oh.” Raymar stared at it for a moment before comprehension dawned. “Oh!”

Then he was leaning over the side of the bed, reaching for something beneath it. A much more nicely wrapped parcel, its thick dark cloth secured by two thin ribbons of red, was thrust toward Jon, who exchanged it for his own gift. It was larger than his, with more heft.

“You first,” Jon said, ignoring the sudden flutter of nerves that Raymar would think it stupid.

His brother untied the fraying twine that held the cloth closed, revealing the length of braided leather within: two strands of calf’s leather, a pale cream that was nearly white, intertwined with two more strands of dark brown leather. At one end, the ends of the braid closed into a small loop, while the other was secured to a pea-sized bead of iron.

Lady Lynda had lent him the five pennies he’d needed to pay the tanner for the piece, which had taken no more than an afternoon, the small job wedged between gaps in his busy schedule.

“I thought about using hair,” Jon blurted, realizing that the symbolism might be too subtle, “but mine is too short, and I thought you might murder me if I took a knife to yours. The light strands are you, and the dark one is me.”

We are in this together, our fates intertwined. I will not leave you.

“Thank you.” Raymar smiled softly and pulled it around his wrist, pushing the bead through the tiny loop to secure the bracelet in place. “It’s wonderful.”

There was a lightness in his eyes as he met Jon’s gaze that told him he understood perfectly. He lunged forward, catching Jon off guard as his arms wrapped around him in a tight hug, and where normally there was a hesitation behind it, an uncertainty that seemed to ask is this acceptable, am I doing this right, this one held only joy.

“Your gift is far better than mine,” Raymar said once he’d pulled back, with a hint of dismay. “Mine is more utilitarian, I fear.”

“I am more experienced at this,” Jon said archly, as though he hadn’t been doubting himself just moments before.

Raymar’s expression turned anxious as Jon undid the two ribbons securing the cloth wrapping in place, peeling it back to reveal another gift of leather—this one a pair of adjustable straps the width of a finger, along with a separate piece that appeared to be a sheath for a small blade.

“For your hunting knife,” Raymar said, reading his confusion. “So you don’t have to use those rags to hide it. It can be adjusted to be worn above or below clothing, anywhere you like.” He pointed to the two loops attached to each strap. “This can hold the sheath that our aunt gave to us, but it’s rather bulky, so I had a plainer one crafted.”

“This is very well made,” Jon said, running a thumb over the thin metal buckles that could be used to tighten or loosen the fit. This would have been a much more time-consuming—and costly—job. And though it was practical, the gift was also thoughtful. His brother had clearly noted Jon’s unease at going about unarmed. He drew Raymar into a hug of his own. “Thank you, this looks far more comfortable than what I was wearing before.” He pulled back, then, curious. “Where did you get the coin?”

“I copied a few scrolls from Maester Donnel’s collection, and dealt them in trade.”

That was one option Jon hadn’t considered, though his own penmanship was not the best. “Will you get in trouble if he or Allard find out?”

“I do not see why I should. Knowledge should be shared, not hoarded.” Raymar frowned faintly. “Besides, he’s already arranged to be rid of us, what more could he do?”

He knew it bothered his brother more than it did Jon that their aunt had yet to reply to their letters. For Jon, that had been a means to an end, a way to avoid being sent deeper into the mouth of the serpent, and her reply had stopped mattering the instant they’d sent their raven to Dragonstone. But Raymar seemed to take the silence as a rejection, that with distance, she had reconsidered her feelings about them and chosen spite over any familial bonds.

It was quite possible she wasn’t currently at Runestone and hadn’t received their letters yet, but Jon swallowed those words of reassurance. Better that they forget about her entirely for the day.

Jon sprang off the bed to fetch his knife, which served to distract his brother, who watched as he slid it into the new sheath, the fit perfect. Raymar must have provided the smith with his own knife to size it so well. He spent the next few minutes trying out various fits for comfort and ease of motion. The straps were easy to adjust, but held firm when secured.

Outer thigh worked best, he decided, and since the straps could rotate independently, he was able to find an angle that was reasonably comfortable when sitting too.

He glanced up from his experimentation to find Raymar watching him with a smile. “What?”

“Crayne would be wise to fear you. You are by far the deadliest eight-year-old I have known.”

Jon had yet to meet anyone with Raymar’s ability to both tease and yet seem wholly serious at the same time.

“Well,” he said, pulling his pants over the sheathed knife. “You don’t need Valyrian steel to kill a man. Even a needle like this will do.”

Jon would not have thought he’d miss having lessons, but time seemed to drag on forever as he waited for midday—his own fault for waking them both up so early. After the rest of the castle finally stirred, they ate a hot breakfast with Allard and Lady Lynda, receiving what amounted to a warm welcome from their cousin. Doubtless, Jon thought sourly, the man was counting the days until he would be rid of them and his position secured.

Their name day gifts were a reminder of that impending trip: new clothing for each of them, along with a set of warmer, tougher wear for travel and shin-height boots. Even Lady Lynda’s gift, a set of fine quills and tinted inks that hearkened back to her request that they write often, felt as much a goodbye as a well-wish.

“You have two more gifts,” Allard said once Lady Lynda had retired back to her room, and he had led them up to his solar.

Jon exchanged a glance with Raymar as they followed him in. Their cousin seemed to want privacy, which was itself curious. “Gifts from who?”

“A patron,” Allard said with clear discomfort. “Who sees potential in you and your brother.”

“Does this patron have a name?” Jon asked, more to see Allard squirm than because he thought he would actually answer.

Allard merely frowned at him. “These are very fine gifts, from someone moved by your plight. You should be grateful for such generosity.”

Which plight was that, Jon wanted to ask. Their status as orphans of House Redfort, or their inconvenient parentage? Given what they’d seen in Allard’s study, the unnamed patron was almost certainly Otto Hightower.

Jon’s gift was, ironically enough, a small sword not unlike the one he had received on his eighth name day before. Mikken did good work, but this was a cut above that, with pearl inlay in the hilt that would not have been cheap. The balance was good, at least; it was not purely ceremonial.

He realized belatedly that any normal eight-year-old—and especially him, given his known love of arms training—should be ecstatic to receive a sword for a present, especially one as fine as this. He forced a smile and slashed the air with it with what he hoped was appropriate boyish excitement.

But he need not have bothered. Raymar’s reaction more than made up for his when Allard presented him with his gift, an elegantly carved wooden harp. It was large for a boy their age, but Raymar handled it with ease, immediately sitting to run his fingers across its strings. From his satisfied nod, Jon assumed its quality to be on par with his sword.

After a few more plucked notes that amounted to Jon fiddling with his leather straps earlier, Raymar began to play, and the tune that emerged, sweet and soothing, caught both him and Allard off guard. Moreso Allard than Jon, who had at least heard him sing before. But given that neither had likely ever been given instruction in any instrument, Raymar had to appear a savant to their cousin.

Allard’s mouth, which had opened in question, closed as the song continued, drawing them both in. His resentment at the Greens’ intrusion into their name day celebration faded into the background. Past and present blended together. He was in a field, wrestling his father to the ground as he and Robb shrieked with laughter. But he was also lying in bed, gentle fingers massaging his temple as his brother’s song formed a shield between him and the fears trying to crowd in.

He felt happy and loved, even with the underlying ache of longing for what could never be again, and the feeling lingered long after the last notes faded to silence. Even the sight of Allard staring at Raymar, rendered speechless, did not immediately conjure the expected animosity.

“It is beautiful,” Raymar said, breaking the quiet at last. “Please give my regards to our patron.”

Allard cleared his throat. “I shall.” He gave a hurried nod to each of them, though his gaze did not leave Raymar, and all but fled the room.

“I think you frightened him,” Jon said, and the spell seemed to break with that, anger flooding back in even as he tried to hold it back for Raymar’s sake. “You realize that these gifts are meant to curry favor.” To render them awed at the generosity.

“I know.”

“And that Allard must have passed along a great deal of information about us.” The gifts were very precisely targeted. Jon could only guess that Lady Lynda had told Allard some time in the past about Raymar’s talent for singing, because it would have taken a few moons for the gifts to be commissioned, let alone brought all the way to the Gates of the Moon.

“I did realize as much,” Raymar said, hands tracing the outline of the harp. “But accepting them does not beholden us to anyone.” Amusement colored his voice. “For one thing, our benefactor failed to name himself, and if we do end up in our father’s care, I highly doubt he would step forward.”

Because it would betray his knowledge of their existence. Jon bit back a scowl. He still didn’t like it, but he also understood practicality. It was a good sword, and could prove useful until he outgrew it. And Raymar was staring at him, purple eyes beseeching, as though he had the final say.

As though Jon could possibly be heartless enough to take something from his brother that he so obviously loved on their name day of all days.

“I suppose there’s no harm in it,” he said gruffly.

All the preparations for his midday surprise for Raymar went off without a hitch, though his brother clearly suspected something when Jon innocently suggested they go for a ride and Benton appeared with horses already saddled for the trip.

For once, they went through the south gates rather than the north, and Jon locked gazes with Crayne, who observed their passage with a glint he didn’t like. But he put him solidly at the back of his mind once the castle fell out of view, determined not to let the man sour this outing.

Benton, who was well-versed in the narrowing pass between the Bloody Gate and the Gates of the Moon, led them up the eastern slope, into a nook that held a grass-ringed pond some hundred feet across, nestled within a mature grove of white-barked aspen trees.

Raymar shot him an inquiring look after they drew to a halt.

“We are having a picnic,” Jon declared, dismounting to lead Clover to the pond for a drink.

Benton brought out the packed lunch once they’d watered and tied the horses: sweet rolls from the kitchen that morning, cold slices of ham from last night’s supper, a wheel of soft cheese, and a dozen apples from the orchards north of the castle.

“So this is what you were sneaking around about,” Raymar accused, grabbing one of the apples to feed to his horse.

Jon pulled out his hunting knife to slice his own apple into quarters. “Lady Lynda was my co-conspirator.” He offered an apologetic shrug. “She wanted to join us, but the ride was too far.”

“That was kind of her.” Raymar settled beside him, accepting the offered apple slice with a nod of thanks. “Your idea, I assume?”

“I thought you would enjoy a day outside the walls,” Jon said easily, grabbing another apple to slice before plopping onto his back to look up at the clouds passing lazily overhead. They were white and puffy, unlikely to be bearing any rain to spoil the day.

Raymar smiled down at him, then flopped onto the ground to join him. “It is a good gift.” Jon passed him another piece of apple, and they ate in companionable silence, the apple sweet but slightly soft, as when harvested late from the tree. Eventually his brother turned to him, silver-blond hair fanned out between them, mingling with the grass. “I am lucky.”

Jon’s brow raised. “Lucky?”

“I know that you have—” Raymar’s gaze shifted slightly, to their silent guardian, and Jon could see him stop himself. “I am lucky to have you as a brother.” He held his wrist up, studying the bracelet in the bright midday sun. “You are fire in a way that—” His voice lowered then, mouth dipping into a frown. “In a way that my father said I never was.”

Fire and blood. Jon studied his brother, the doubt that lingered in his frown, and marveled that he could be at times so supremely confident, the very embodiment of a prince, and at others so uncertain of his own worth. Jon’s heart was a warrior’s heart, and though his brother tried to match him in training, Jon could tell that it was duty that drove him to excel at arms. He had a gentle heart, and that led him to give more of himself than sometimes he could, or force himself into what others needed him to be, Jon included.

To his father, a cruel, proud man, Jon supposed that would have seemed like weakness.

“Fire isn’t one thing,” he replied, reaching for Raymar’s hand to lace his fingers through his. “There is the gout of fire from a dragon’s breath, and the mindless fury of a forest aflame. There is the warmth of the hearth, after days of travel through wind and cold.”

Raymar’s hand squeezed his, though when he spoke, it was with mock outrage. “Are you calling me a campfire?”

“I suppose so,” Jon said, treating the question seriously. “But a campfire can set a forest ablaze. And I’ve no doubt there’s fire in your lungs.”

It was exhausting to burn at all times. That was what the past few years had felt like, to Jon. In some ways, his time here had provided a respite he hadn’t known he needed, further aided by Raymar’s grounding calm.

“You feel like home,” Jon said, realizing the truth of it as he spoke. And somehow it didn’t feel like a betrayal of anything.

“Because I am a hearth,” Raymar grumbled, clearly not forgetting that analogy anytime soon. 

Jon bit back a laugh. “Make me eat my words then.”

He sprang to his feet and gave his brother a light kick to his shin, then took off at a sprint, past an unfazed Benton who was enjoying a bite of the yet-untouched bread and ham. Raymar rose with quiet curse, and Jon could hear his footfalls behind him as they wove through the trees and grasses.

They took turns at chase, and then dunking one another in the pond. Benton, with the experience of a man who had been a father, tossed each of them into the water as far as he could until the cold forced them to warm themselves under the sun. It was, Jon was startled to find by the end of it, somehow better than his previous eighth name day.

The ride back was difficult because they both were sleepy enough beneath the late afternoon sun that it was hard to keep their eyes open, until the sight of Crayne atop the wall brought Jon to full wakefulness.

They bathed and changed before supper, where the requested minced chicken pie was served with a medley of autumn root vegetables cooked to buttery perfection, and not even Allard could dampen the conversation with Lady Lynda, who wanted every detail of the picnic. When she heard about the harp, she excitedly ushered them into the solar, where Raymar played an up-tempo tune that Jon thought he recognized as a tavern song, especially when he caught his brother quietly humming along to keep from singing something he most certainly shouldn’t know at eight years old and possibly not even at fourteen.

The melody ending removed the final barrier between Jon and his body’s insistence on sleep after such a long day. He barely remembered the walk back to their room, reliant on Raymar’s occasional nudges to not stumble into walls.

His head hit the pillow, their nightly ritual entirely forgotten until Raymar’s voice dragged him from the edge of sleep. “What was your name before?”

“Jon,” he said, to a startled laugh from his brother. “If my parents gave me any other, I don’t know.” He’d thought about asking Raymar before, but it had felt easier not to know and piece the name together with what history he knew of their family. “What about you?”

“Rhaegar.”

His eyes shot open, all vestiges of sleep ripped away. Clue after obvious clue slotted together, one after the other, to form a matching mosaic. He continued to stare at the ceiling, mind racing as Raymar’s—Rhaegar’s breaths slowed with sleep, and it was many hours before he finally joined him.

Chapter Text

The next morning held a bite in the air, winter’s shadow come to loom over the final days of autumn. Jon, who had stirred restlessly throughout the night, only able to catch sleep in short spurts, woke once more just as the first rays of sunrise lit the sky.

In the dim morning light, staring at the sleeping form beside him, Jon felt a fool. It had been his very first thought upon seeing Rhaegar: that he looked like he could be Daenerys’s brother. And then his many stories of his father, carrying the seeds of the mad king he would become. His life at the palace, devoid of siblings or cousins when all the generations before had held Targaryen kin aplenty.

When he had called Aemon his uncle, Jon had assumed he was being literal, that he was one of Maester Aemon’s many long-dead nephews. But with as many greats as he would have needed to tack on, it was perfectly reasonable to simply call him “uncle.”

His twin brother was his father, who was five years younger than him, and Jon could do nothing but stare at him, caught between the impulse to laugh and scream.

Did you know what would happen when you ran off with my mother? That your love would doom not only our family’s rule, but your wife and children?

Only Rhaegar couldn’t know. He was four-and-ten, a boy who feared his father and feared for his mother, and dreamt of the coming darkness. He could never give Jon answers to the questions that burned in him now.

It was his mother Jon had always longed to know about, since he’d had no reason to believe anyone other than Lord Stark to be his father. And when he’d finally learned the truth, there had been few left alive who had known either of his parents. What little he’d heard of his father outside of the North that cursed his name had been through Daenerys’s stories, themselves passed along from others.

If his mother was a ghost, flitting forever out of reach, her memory dead with her brothers who had barely breathed more than her name, his father was the dying echo of an echo, all but lost in the reverberation.

And he would not find him here. Not in the way he wanted. Raymar was Rhaegar, but he was not Jon’s father. He could only look at him and imagine what might have been. The boy he’d come to know would have been a good father, Jon thought with an ache. Kind and playful and deeply loving. Ned Stark had done his best, but there had always been a reserve to him. He had forever held Jon at arm’s length, and only widened that distance as the years passed.

If their time here during the age of dragons ended tomorrow, and they woke as though from a dream, would history play out the same for Rhaegar? Would he die at the Trident, chest caved in by Robert Baratheon’s warhammer?

“Other times I am looking up at the sky, water flowing around me as my vision fades.”

A chill traveled down his spine, and he clutched at the blanket bunched up beneath his legs. Had he dreamt his own demise?

“Jon?” Rhaegar’s voice was thick with sleep, eyelids cracking open to a bleary squint through dark lashes. “It is too early. And too cold. Go back to sleep.”

“Sorry,” Jon whispered back.

He crawled back under the blanket, gaze still fixed on Rhaegar, whose hair had spilled over onto Jon’s side of the bed, tickling his cheek. He was so small. Just a boy. And in that moment, he hated Robert Baratheon, both for what he had done and might still do. It burned in his chest, fury and flame, until he was nearly choking with it.

He had stood mere feet from the man once, back at Winterfell. The man who had murdered his father, and laughed with glee as the mutilated bodies of his half-siblings were presented to him. He suddenly regretted more than anything that the kinslaying whoremonger hadn’t survived to meet him and Daenerys on the field of battle. If anyone deserved to meet the roaring inferno of a dragon’s breath…

“Raymar,” he said, because here at the Gates of the Moon, he was still Raymar.

He stirred once more, eyes opening fully as he registered the agitation in his voice, the purple darkening with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you sing?” he asked, voice breaking midway through, fury giving way to tears.

“Of course,” he said, worry wrinkling his brow as he pulled Jon into his side, tucking his head against his chest where Jon could hear the steady beat of his heart. And that, along with the soft melody of a Valyrian lullaby, lulled him into deep sleep at last.

Raymar was gone when Jon woke once more, just shy of midday. Panic gripped him briefly, taking his breath with it, before reason asserted itself. Jon had overslept, and his brother had left him to his much-needed sleep.

Rhaegar. Not Raymar.

Jon wandered into the kitchens, snagging a hot roll from the cook that he ate plain, its steaming warmth welcome. How quickly he’d lost his tolerance for the cold. Or perhaps he’d had none to begin with. Jon Redfort’s last winter would have been six years ago, when he was still but a toddler.

Mornings were usually High Valyrian lessons, with arms training in the afternoon. Raymar—Rhaegar—would likely be in the library waiting for him, content with the company of his books should Jon sleep even later.

His first impulse was to avoid Rhaegar and the library altogether, but that would only provoke further suspicion from his brother. And with some actual sleep achieved, and the sun bright where it spilled from the windows above, he felt almost normal.

Right up until he neared the library and heard the ethereal notes of a harp escaping through the door crack. Rhaegar and his silver harp.

Wooden harp. This was a wooden harp, and when the melody stopped, a light string of cursing followed it. Jon took a breath, steeling himself, and stepped into the room.

Rhaegar glanced up at him, lowering the fingers he’d held up to his face in study. “This may be the latest I’ve ever known you to sleep.”

Jon made a noncommittal noise, jumping on the distraction of the harp. “Did you hurt your hand?”

“The harp hurt my hand,” Rhaegar said wryly, holding both out for Jon to see. The fingertips of his right hand were red and blistered, and there seemed to be a cut on the index finger of his left hand. “I lack the protection of my calluses from before.”

“I hadn’t realized the harp could be so dangerous,” Jon said, the teasing rising from pure brotherly instinct.

Raymar’s eyes narrowed. “Come here.” He extended the harp toward Jon. “Now hold one of those strings near the bottom.”

Jon touched a careful finger to it, the resistance greater than he’d imagined, and the thin string dug painfully into his skin as he pressed harder. He released the tension, sticking his index finger in his mouth to briefly suck at the sting. “Perhaps you should consider knife-throwing instead. It is probably safer.”

“But rather less melodious,” his brother said, setting the harp down on the table. “I take it you would prefer Valyrian lessons, then, rather than instruction in the harp?”

Jon glanced dubiously at his blistered hands. “Are you in a condition to even offer harp lessons?”

Raymar frowned at his fingers, as though personally betrayed by them. “Give me a moon.”

“High Valyrian it is, then.”

“Are you feeling better?” Raymar asked, just as Jon had begun to feel safe from interrogation. Rhaegar, he reminded himself yet again. Not Raymar.

“Nightmare,” Jon said, seizing on the first plausible excuse. “I’m better now, after some sleep.”

Those purple eyes narrowed at him. “You are a terrible liar.”

It was not even that Jon was bad at lying, which was true enough. It was more that his brother was impossible to lie to, especially the better he knew a person, and there was no one he knew better here than Jon.

“I had a nightmare,” Jon said again, this time with a kernel of truth that tightened his throat. “There was a battle, and you died, and I never met you.”

Rhaegar studied him a moment longer. “You have met me, and I live.” He held up his wrist, baring the cream-and-sable bracelet Jon had given him the day before. “Any battles yet to be fought, we will face together.”

Jon swallowed, and it ached all the way down. “You cannot die.”

Rhaegar blinked slowly, confusion plain, a thread of worry mixed with it. “It was a dream, Jon.” He took Jon’s hand and brought it to his chest. Whole and solid, beating with the quickened pulse of a child’s heart. “I am here.”

He closed his other hand around Rhaegar’s wrist, holding it in place. “It was real to me.”

He didn’t know why the pain felt so fresh, when his father had never been someone he had known to mourn. Because Raymar was? Even before, the thought of him coming to harm had terrified him.

A dream. That was all the Battle of the Trident was, here.

“Shall we go riding instead?”

Jon’s gaze refocused on the room, where Rhaegar’s strained voice made him realize he was squeezing his wrist, grip painfully tight. “Sorry.” Jon released him with a stab of guilt. “Riding?”

“I do not think you in a mood for Valyrian lessons.” He stepped back, letting Jon’s hand fall from his chest. “If we ask, Lady Lynda will let us go with Benton.”

“Aye.” Jon took an unsteady breath, trying to ground himself. “A ride would be welcome.”

The ride was the first of many distractions Jon desperately filled the day with, hoping to find something would quiet his thoughts and loosen the tightness in his chest. He demanded bouts during their afternoon drills, watching Rhaegar matched against Ser Perkins as he silently picked apart his form. When it came time for Jon to face him, he attacked those flaws mercilessly, again and again, until his brother’s light-hearted complaining fell to blank-faced silence.

“Again,” Jon demanded, staring down at Rhaegar, who had been thrown onto his knees by Jon’s last blow.

Rhaegar stood shakily, uncharacteristically covered in mud by now. Jon felt Ser Perkin’s gaze on him and returned it coolly. “What is it?”

The knight’s brow rose, and Jon realized he’d used the clipped tones of his command voice, like he was back in the yard of Castle Black. “That’s enough for the day, lad.”

“You may leave, if you like.” Jon turned his gaze back to Rhaegar, whose mouth had flattened to a tight line as he picked his training sword back up. “We are not finished.”

Ser Perkins stepped out of the way, but remained at the edge of the training area. Jon waited for Rhaegar to steady himself once more and assume a ready stance, then signaled the start of their next bout. Despite their mutual fatigue, his brother’s footwork was improved this time, letting him respond more quickly to Jon’s probing strikes.

He was also better at guarding his left flank after the last three times Jon had driven the flat of his training sword into it. It wasn’t technique that failed him this time, it was fatigue. His sword met Jon’s, inches from his chest, in a parry, but Jon did not pull back for another swing. Instead, he pressed harder, the tremor of failing muscles traveling through Rhaegar’s sword to his, until his arms gave under the onslaught.

Jon carried his weight through the blow, knocking him hard onto his back, sword thrown from his brother’s hand at the jarring impact. His lips parted in a gasp for air that did not come, chest seizing as he fought for one breath, then another. Jon’s own sword fell through limp fingers at the sight, vision greying at the edges as he listened to him struggle for air.

An image entered his mind, as clear as though painted: a man in black and ruby armor, sprawled flat on the muddy banks of a river, the chest plate concave, beaten in. His silver hair, long and loose, mingled with the watery mud, blood burbling from his lips as they moved in a soundless whisper.

When Jon blinked again, he was on his knees beside Rhaegar, shaking his shoulder with mindless panic. Strong arms caught him in a hold, pulling him back, and he screamed in fury, flailing with all his might to break free and reach him.

“Jon!” It was a shout in his ear, the hold squeezing tighter, until he himself could barely breathe. “He’s fine. Your brother’s fine. You knocked the wind from him, that is all.”

Rhaegar had managed to sit up, and though his breathing was pained, it was regular. Jon went limp, the arms around him waiting a moment longer before releasing him. He watched Rhaegar, rooted in place, torn between the desire to run to his side and make sure he was all right, a thousand apologies hanging on the edge of his tongue—and the impulse to flee.

“Sweet Mother’s mercy!” Lady Lynda’s voice split the silence. She had hobbled into the yard, hands hiking up her skirt to avoid the worst of the mud, and hurried to Jon, eyes scanning him first. “What happened?” She went to Rhaegar next, her gasp audible as she let her dress fall loose, taking his hands in hers. “You’re hurt!”

Jon peeked around her and saw now the bloody mess of Rhaegar’s fingers, blisters from before popped and worn raw from the hours of drilling, the pain borne silently.

“Ser Perkins.” She had whirled to face the armsmaster now, drawn to her full height in fury. “They are yet boys.”

“It was me,” Jon said, shrinking in misery as she turned to him, surprised. “I made him keep fighting.”

But her ire was still directed at Ser Perkins, who shrugged after a moment. “They had a quarrel to settle. This is how it is done, even amongst boys.”

“I shall have words with my lord husband,” she said coldly, expression softening only once she’d turned back to them. “Come, the maester will need to look at your hand. And you both are in dire need of a warm bath, lest you catch a chill.”

“I’ll go first,” Jon said, taking the coward’s path. “While you take Rhae—mar to Maester Donnel.”

She leaned down to press a kiss to his sweaty, dirt-streaked forehead. “You are not to blame, Jon. Go warm up.”

As she left with Rhaegar, his brother did not look at him.

Jon fled the bathing chamber before Rhaegar’s arrival, hiding in the kitchens as the cook and scullions prepared supper. He knew his presence was a hindrance, so he tried to make himself inconspicuous in the corner. It was pointless, he knew. Come bedtime, it would be just him and Rhaegar, and nothing to shield him from those too-sharp eyes.

But also—he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain why he’d pummeled him into the mud again and again. You cannot have weakness. If you can fall to me in the training yard, you can fall in battle.

Jon had been in enough battles to know that luck could doom even the most skilled of fighters. Their own granduncle had died to an arrow through the throat while nowhere near the battlefield.

They could not control luck, but their skill at arms was within their control. Rhaegar had died to Robert’s warhammer, and Jon didn’t know how. Had it been the fatigue of a lengthy battle? Greater endurance on Robert’s part? Or simply a mismatch in skill? Fix that and—

And what? Somehow save his father, who had died twenty years ago? Save some version of his father from meeting the same fate?

But Jon knew the answer, curled up in the corner as busy legs wove through the small space around him. Save his brother. Prevent anyone from hurting him here, just in case they were somehow separated, because Jon himself would strike down any who dared get close.

“Jon?”

The cook, Jorah, had halted beside him. He was a stout man in his late thirties, cheeks permanently red, whether in the heat of the kitchens or the cold of the yard. He had a soft spot for Jon, always ready with a treat when he came to visit, and his smile now was kind.

“It’s about supper time, lad. His lordship will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

“I know,” Jon said, stomach knotted up so tight he didn’t know if he could manage even a bite.

But he stood nonetheless, on legs stiff from the afternoon’s exertions, and marched slowly to the dining hall. Lady Lynda was already there, but Rhaegar was not. His tiny exhale of relief was premature, however, as Lady Lynda spotted him and walked over.

“Jon!” She took a moment to check him over for any hurts she had missed earlier, and any other time he would have secretly basked in the motherly concern. Instead, guilt roiled in his gut, sour and biting. “I was looking for you before. Are you well?”

“Yes,” Jon lied, even that much getting stuck in his throat.

She pulled him into her side, arm squeezing around him in an approximation of a hug. “Do you want to talk about the yard? Your brother barely spoke two words.”

“No.” His gaze dropped to the floor, fixing on the forked crack in the stone slab at his feet. “I will apologize to him.”

“Did something happen on your name day?”

“No,” Jon said quickly. It had been one of his best name days, up until the very end. “Thank you for the picnic. And my present for Raymar.”

“I did very little. It was your idea.” She guided him over to the table, where he reluctantly took his seat. Her hand came to rest on his hair, which was nearly dry now from the heat of the kitchen. “You are a good brother, Jon.”

I am a terrible brother. He’d abandoned Robb, failed to rescue Sansa, failed to find Arya, and left Bran and Rickon to fend for themselves at Winterfell to help Daenerys win her throne.

He sat, legs swinging shy of the floor as he watched the entrance to the hall, waiting for Rhaegar to appear, which he finally did after what felt like ages. His hair was damp but free of mud, and the fingertips of his right hand were wrapped in white cloth. His eyes sought Jon immediately, expression unreadable, and Jon tensed in place, a leaden ball of guilt and worry churning in his stomach.

His brother settled in his seat beside him, and Jon could see the dark pattern of a bruise already forming on his left forearm where Jon’s wooden training blade had caught him. Neither was the first to break the silence, which grew heavier by the moment. Finally, Lady Lynda filled it with an update on her sister’s family in Gulltown, where her niece had taken her first few steps. When it became clear that neither of them would speak up in the lulls, she hopped from subject to subject.

Allard was late. Ordinarily he would have arrived some time ago and might have spared her the sole effort of maintaining conversation. Eventually she fell silent as well, his absence lacking an explanation, and Jon shared a look of concern with Rhaegar before hurriedly shifting his gaze away.

Supper was brought out eventually without him, and they ate in silence, the food gone cool from the wait. Jon picked at his, even the heavy exertion at the yard not enough to stir his appetite, and when he peeked a sideways glance at Rhaegar’s plate, he found his brother doing the same.

The meal was nearly finished when the doors opened to admit a perturbed-looking Allard, who made no move to join them at the table.

“Allard?” Lady Lynda asked softly, brow wrinkling.

“A raven’s come from Runestone,” he said roughly, looking past her to Jon and Rhaegar. “There was an accident while Lady Royce was hawking. She is—” He hesitated, then continued gruffly, “She is not expected to live the week. I am sorry.”

“Oh.” Lady Lynda sat back in her chair, hand covering her mouth. “Oh, dearest.”

Jon wished he could say he felt more than a faint regret at the news, especially when he heard Rhaegar’s choked gasp beside him. Far stronger was the ratcheting of tension along his spine as he followed the news to its likely conclusion.

“I will set off for Runestone over the mountain passes with a small company.” He held up a hand to stave off Lady Lynda’s protest. “They are yet clear of snow, and will save us at least a week.”

Otherwise, it was a twelve-day ride at breakneck speed south to the Saltpans, then five days via ship to Gulltown, with another three to reach Runestone from there. Jon suspected the urgency had less to do with arriving before her death, as even the route over the mountains would be nearly a two week venture, and more about securing his seat—and ensuring Daemon came nowhere near them.

Lady Lynda’s hand moved to her swollen belly. “What of myself and the boys?”

“I will send for you, once everything is in order.” Then he looked at them, mouth setting in a hard line. “The boys will leave for Blackcrown tomorrow. Lord Bulwer has sent trusted men ahead to meet them at Darry. Benton and a few others will escort them that far.”

“Allard!” This time Lady Lynda’s voice was sharp with reproach. “She is their closest kin. You would deny them the right to pay their respects? Or even time to grieve?”

“There will be much to do in the coming moons,” Allard said stiffly. “This castle still needs to complete its winter preparations to receive Lady Arryn’s court, and I will need to transition our household to Runestone as well as handle matters there. The longer we wait, the sooner winter will be upon us, and it will not be safe for them to journey south.”

“Can they not remain with us? Surely Lord Bulwer would be willing to take them after winter.”

“We do not know how long the winter will last, and much can change in that time. They will receive no better opportunity to foster than this, Lynda. It is for their own benefit.”

No, Jon thought with a rush of anger. It is for your benefit. To keep Hightower for an ally, and avoid our father ever learning that we exist and that you conspired to keep us hidden.

“Allard—”

“Enough!” he snapped, fist pounding against the tabletop, the thud loud in the otherwise still room. “It is decided. I have made the arrangements and sent the necessary ravens. I leave within the hour.”

Lady Lynda pressed both hands to her stomach, looking dazed. “So soon. Can you not wait for the morning?”

It was not impossible to travel for part of the night, but it was not particularly safe. Allard must truly feel a sense of urgency to risk it. Their cousin gazed at her, looking conflicted for a moment before shaking his head. “I am sorry, but I must.”

Lady Lynda seemed to slump in her seat, and Jon felt for her; the babe was due at any time. Allard continued to watch her with a frustrated helplessness, then his shoulders set and he turned to leave.

“Cousin,” Jon said, sharply enough to stop him in his tracks. He turned a questioning gaze to Jon, who flashed him a thin smile of promise. “We shall not forget you.”

Sweet words from a child, but Allard stared back at him, reading it for the warning it was. He nodded stiffly, then strode out of the chamber, pace just a hair quicker than before.

No sooner had he gone from view than Lady Lynda rose, bracing herself on the table before taking off after him—whether to attempt to renew her attempts at persuasion or to have a chance for a more private farewell, Jon couldn’t say. That left only him and Rhaegar, and now they had much more urgent matters to discuss than Jon’s odd behavior. They exchanged a single glance, then slipped back to their room.

“It is too soon,” Rhaegar said, as soon as they’d shut the door. “Our raven would only just have arrived today, assuming Princess Rhaenyra is even at Dragonstone to receive it.”

Jon did some quick calculations. It would be two days of travel to reach the Gates of the Moon on dragonback from Dragonstone. That was the earliest anyone could possibly come for them, and Jon doubted they would act so swiftly.

“A dragon will easily catch up to a horse caravan,” he said finally. “Lady Lynda has no reason to lie, and it will be two weeks at least before we even make it to Darry. Allard’s men won’t hurt us.”

Crayne, however—

Jon saw a similar apprehension in his brother’s eyes. “You know he will send Crayne with us. Hightower has no reason to keep him here if we are gone, and he likely already has spies in Runestone if he still cares to have eyes on Allard.”

“Crayne would have to be utterly without care for his life if he decides to kill us as a dragon is bearing down. His own life would be forfeit.” Jon’s sense of the man was that he was loyal to himself first.

The real danger came if Princess Rhaenyra—or their father—took weeks to act. Once they were in the company of Hightower’s men, anything could happen. At that point, Hightower couldn’t risk his men being caught with them. It would be disastrous to be caught conspiring against the king’s brother by all but kidnapping his children, even natural born. He had been dismissed as Hand before, and that was the best he could likely hope for.

But the evidence of their blood ties was in Jon and Rhaegar themselves. If they were disposed of, there would be nothing else to suggest they were anything but who Allard and their aunt had claimed them to be—the orphan sons of her late sister and her Redfort husband. Their disappearance would be waved off as a sad ending to Lady Elys’s tale, nothing more.

“We will have horses,” Rhaegar said hesitantly. “If we secure coin, we can slip away before we reach Darry. Make for the Saltpans and buy passage on a ship. To Runestone, or Dragonstone—somewhere safe.”

“Crayne will be watching for it.”

Rhaegar fiddled with the bandages on his fingers, gaze distant with thought. “We could tell Benton.” He glanced at Jon. “He might believe us. We could say that our aunt told us the truth before returning to Runestone.”

Benton seemed a good sort to Jon, and he had shown himself more than once to be fond of them. But he was also a loyal retainer of Allard’s, which was why their cousin was giving him command to begin with. “Perhaps if we are unable to break free on our own.”

Speaking up sooner, if Benton didn’t believe them or already knew and was in on Allard’s plans, would mean all of the men would be watching for them to attempt something.

“Could we flee north instead? Lady Arryn is an ally of Princess Rhaenyra’s. We could leave in the night, once Allard is gone, and take two of the horses.”

It was a two day ride north. They might be able to make it without anyone catching them, but that also carried danger. Allard’s men would come looking for them, surely led by Crayne, and Crayne would be relentless, Jon knew. He could bring extra horses and continue at pursuit pace long after they would need to rest their own horses.

“It is too risky,” Jon decided. “Our best plan is to hope Princess Rhaenyra acts before we arrive in Darry, and break away if that doesn’t happen.”

At the end of the day, they were still two boys. Easy targets for many dangers on either road.

“I will go to Lady Lynda tomorrow morning,” Rhaegar said, and Jon took that for agreement. “Perhaps she can delay our departure and if not, I can ask for some coin. I still have some stags from the scrolls I copied, but I do not know what passage will cost.”

Although he spoke with outward confidence, Jon could see the trepidation in his eyes. For Jon, this felt not unlike the calm before a battle, but Rhaegar had likely never faced such danger and uncertainty before. He drew close, putting a hand on either shoulder to steady him.

“Whatever happens, we will face it together.” His hands tightened reflexively, a flicker of the morning’s fear fluttering in his chest. “I will let nothing happen to you while I draw breath.”

Jon realized his mistake when Rhaegar’s head tilted, the disquiet turning to careful study, piercing straight through him. “You were afraid.” He caught Jon’s wrist with his good hand before he could pull away. “I thought that I had angered you somehow. Is it the nightmare?” At Jon’s silent nod, half truth and half lie, he frowned slightly. “Have you had it before?”

He was thinking of his own dreams, of the coming of the Others, and wondering if Jon too dreamt of the future. Jon shook his head. “No, it is—” It was history, the past. He had died long ago. Jon flailed for some other explanation, seizing on another half truth. “My brother, Robb. Cousin. I was far from him when he was killed.”

“Did he die in battle?” Rhaegar asked softly.

“No,” Jon said, grief and anger rising once more, control already worn thin by the day’s swings of emotion. “He was betrayed after taking salt and bread from the Lord of the Twins, who broke guest rite to slaughter my brother, his mother, and his retinue.”

“I am sorry.” Rhaegar released his wrist to clasp his shoulder back. There was a gentleness in his eyes that made Jon ache. “But if you had been there, would you not have been killed along with them?”

No, Jon wanted to snap, but that was wishful thinking. As skilled a warrior as he was, every Stark bannerman and retainer there had been unarmed, as would have been expected for guests, let alone guests at a wedding. He alone would not have been enough to turn the tide.

“Your cousin would not have wanted you to die with him,” Rhaegar said firmly. “Nor would I want you to throw your life after mine, should I find myself in an impossible situation.”

Kind as the words were, he gritted his teeth against the impulse to shake him. Do you not understand? We are alone here. We have only each other. If you are to die here, then let me die with you!

“You have never been a brother,” Jon said, because that was the heart of it. He didn’t understand.

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed slightly, though not with anger. “You would ask that I die by your side, if our positions were reversed?”

Jon frowned. “That’s different.”

“How?” Rhaegar asked, eyebrow lifting in pointed inquiry.

“I am older,” Jon said finally, lacking a better argument.

“Was Robb not older than you by three moons?” At Jon’s stubborn silence, he gave a nod. “Then he would have felt the same as you do about me.”

Jon exhaled sharply. There was no point in applying reason to matters of the heart. Knowing that Robb would not have felt betrayed by his absence made it feel no less a betrayal to Jon.

“If you do not want me to die with you,” Jon said, with a merciless logic of his own, “then simply do not die.” He moved his hand to Rhaegar’s mouth, muffling whatever response he might have prepared. “Enough talk of death.” There was a flash of sorrow then that Jon knew meant he was thinking of their aunt. “Or what could have been.” Jon thought of his own fears, of Rhaegar’s old dreams of doom. “Or what might be.”

“That does not leave many topics for conversation,” Rhaegar said, once Jon had finally removed his hand. “Including what we will do tomorrow.”

Jon glanced down at Rhaegar’s bandaged hand. “I am sorry about the yard. I forgot you were hurt.”

“I do not think there will be much time for playing the harp on the road,” his brother said with a shrug.

And that was that, the apology he had been dreading for hours over in seconds. Only time and future bouts against each other would tell whether Jon had truly damaged his opinion of him, but he allowed himself an inward sigh of relief.

This could very well be their last night to indulge in their ritual of telling one another stories of their past, he realized. Out on the road, surrounded by Allard’s men, there would be no privacy. Dozens of questions swirled in his head, now that he knew who Rhaegar was, but there were few that didn’t betray his newfound knowledge, and that was a burden his brother did not deserve to bear.

“What made you decide to learn the harp?” Jon asked, settling on a safe topic.

“My grandfather gifted me one for my sixth name day,” Rhaegar said, with the fond smile that often appeared when he spoke of his grandfather. Jon wondered when he had died; he didn’t think Jaehaerys II had reigned for very long before Aerys succeeded him. “I liked to sing even before that, and my mother had learned to play as a girl. He hired her old tutor for me, a woman named Symona.”

“Were you the prodigy then that you appear to be now?” His question was only partly teasing.

“No, it took time to master. But I loved it from the start.” Rhaegar’s glance toward the harp in the corner was filled with longing. “When I play or sing, I feel—” He frowned. “It is difficult to describe. Like there is music all around, at all times, waiting to be given voice.” He looked at Jon. “You have a melody—many melodies. Everyone does. When I play, I try to—find one that resonates.” He shook his head then, looking embarrassed. “I am explaining it poorly.”

“I am not sure I understand,” Jon admitted, because it had made little sense to him. “But few things have ever brought me such sound sleep as your songs.”

Rhaegar’s mouth twitched. “That is not a compliment any musician longs to hear, but thank you.”

Rather than stopping with one apiece, they traded stories back and forth late into the night, long after they should have both gone to sleep, and things almost felt normal again, but for the looming threat of their journey south. They both found themselves struggling to keep their eyes open by the end, and Rhaegar got no further than a verse into his lullaby before sleep dragged Jon under.

Despite Lady Lynda’s clear willingness to keep them around as long as they desired, Allard had anticipated they might approach her and taken precautions, passing his orders to the commander of the guard as well as Maester Donnel to ensure there would be no delay.

Their belongings were packed up and loaded onto the horses, along with provisions for the multi-week journey, which would be broken up by only one early stop, at the Bloody Gates. Jon allowed his gifted sword from their “patron” to be wrapped up with the rest of the belongings, but he secured his knife with his new straps and sheath beneath his clothing, out of sight and knowledge of anyone but the two of them.

Their travel party included four guardsmen. Benton, as named by Allard the night before, and Crayne, to neither of their surprise. The other two were Fergus, a dark-haired, bushy-bearded man of thirty who had sometimes been called in by Ser Perkins during their arms training to assist; and Gerold, the youngest of the group at a fresh-faced nineteen, whose own attempts at facial hair were a wispy dark blond beard and mustache that Jon thought the man would be better off shaving until he could produce better.

Benton, having served under Allard’s father during his brief stint as keeper of the Gates of the Moon before his early death at twenty-one, was a logical choice to lead. Allard was likely counting on his loyalty to see the task through.

“You must write to me often.” Lady Lynda, who had followed them to the southern gate, held each of them against her, arms tightening as she kissed Jon, then Raymar. “And be careful on the road. Mind Benton, he will look after you.”

“We shall,” Jon said.

She fiddled with the fastening of the travel cloaks they had been gifted for their name day, which were thick and warm by southron standards and well up to the task of holding off the chill of the cold autumn nights.

“It will be quiet here, without you,” she said softly. “I shall miss your fire, Jon.” Her fingers brushed through his hair, and she leaned to press another kiss to Rhaegar’s cheek. “And your sweet songs, Raymar.”

“I am sorry we could not be here for the babe.” Rhaegar smiled at her, sadness giving way to quiet reassurance. “You will like Runestone. Our aunt told us how beautiful it is.”

Her return smile wavered. “I would take you if I could.”

“My lady.” Jon was entirely unsurprised that it was Crayne who came to hasten the farewells. “We must be away to make the most of the day’s light.”

“Of course.” She released them with one final squeeze, and stepped back.

The mounting blocks were back at the stable, so Jon was forced to suffer through Crayne’s assistance getting seated on Clover. He helped Rhaegar next, patting the side of his mare fondly. There was a coiled energy to the guardsman that set Jon more on edge than usual. It reminded him of the excitement some men showed on the eve of battle.

Jon and Rhaegar were positioned in the middle of the group, with Benton and Fergus at the fore, and Crayne and Gerold at the rear, as they rode through the gates, settling into a trot once they were clear of it. They turned to wave one final farewell to Lady Lynda, and Jon caught Crayne’s gaze on Rhaegar, before he noticed Jon’s attention, meeting his warning glare with an easy smile.

Jon didn’t relax until he heard Crayne take up a conversation with Gerold, interspersed with the occasional chuckle. Mountains loomed tall on either side of them, casting the narrow valley in shadow. It would be late morning before the sun finally crested over the eastern range.

The day was otherwise mild, the crisp chill of the coming winter present only in the wind that occasionally stirred, and the valley itself quite beautiful. The trees at lower elevation were in the last weeks of fiery color, the grasses of the valley tall and golden as they swayed. In any other circumstance, Jon might have enjoyed the ride.

Instead, he kept as close to Rhaegar as he could on horseback, able to sense his matching nerves. This was only the first of what would likely be many anxious days, the two of them at the mercy of Princess Rhaenyra even receiving their raven, let alone acting on it. And as much as Jon hated being at anyone’s mercy, even someone likely to be an ally, it was their best chance.

She will act, Jon told himself, because there was no point thinking otherwise yet. Someone will come.

Chapter Text

Despite leaving King’s Landing early in the morning, the shortening of days ahead of winter meant Rhaenyra’s last hour of flight was in the gloom of twilight, the last remnants of the day visible on the horizon as a faintly brighter blue that eventually faded to dark.

The lights at Dragonstone glittered like the stars above at a distance, beckoning them closer, until they set down at last in the castle’s vast yard, which had been built for mounting and dismounting a dragon. The smell of cooking meat and bread wafted out of one of the nearby towers, and Syrax turned her head toward Rhaenyra with a hunger echoing her own.

“Go on,” she said, reaching up to briefly touch a hand to her snout. “You shall be bored of mutton by the time we are ready to return.”

Ser Caryl and Maester Reysen awaited her at the entry to the holdfast, her arrival expected but later than she had planned. A bath was already drawn, a warm balm after the chilly flight, and she stared upward at the ceiling in the large bathing chamber, which was covered in the glyphs of Valyrian sorcery, as most rooms were. The water at Dragonstone always smelled faintly of sulfur, but it was a scent that she had come to enjoy. Dragonstone had always been a refuge, and she badly needed one.

Supper, fresh and hot, had been set out in her solar, and it was after her meal that Maester Reysen brought the letters that had grown to a goodly-sized pile since her last visit. She regarded the stack with a weary sigh. Her steward, who ruled in her stead save for her occasional visits, handled most missives that arrived via raven, save for clearly personal ones.

That was the stack before her now. Rhaenyra ran a hand along the pile, spreading the letters out across the surface of the table. One near the front caught her eye, as it bore the seal of her cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and a smile crossed her face. No doubt filled with details of the grand hunt in the Vale that I missed.

But as she sliced through the seal to the contents of the letter, she found the writing to be in a vastly different hand than her cousin’s, skipping past any introduction or forms of address.

It may interest you to know that an acquaintance of your uncle’s, Ser Thoren Harte, was murdered at the Gates of the Moon for discovering a secret your enemies wish to keep concealed.

Two young boys live there as wards of the castle’s keeper, Allard Royce, nephew to Lady Royce of Runestone. They are said to be the twin children of Lady Royce’s sister, the late Lady Elys, and Corwyn Redfort, and yet they bear the Valyrian features of your family. Ser Thoren believed them to be sons of Prince Daemon, but he and his squire were killed by an agent of Otto Hightower to prevent him from acting on this knowledge.

The children will soon be sent to foster with Lord Bulwer of Blackcrown, likely to ensure that no one else learns of their heritage. I am no friend to the Greens, so I leave this information in your hands to do with as you will.

Rhaenyra set it down, a thousand thoughts racing through her mind. “When did this arrive?”

Maester Reysen, seeming to note her alarm, answered promptly. “Not three days ago, early in the afternoon.”

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Three days. That was far better than she’d feared. She had been away from Dragonstone for the past four moons, dealing with the fallout of Harwin’s death in the only possible way—by being utterly unmoved, to the eyes of all.

Her hope had been to take some time in Dragonstone to grieve, far away from the unfriendly stares at court, where her enemies slavered over the possibility that she might crack and feed the rumors further. The children had remained behind with Laenor, saddened by the loss of a man who had been a kind presence in their lives, but no more than that.

Harwin had been one of her few comforts in an increasingly hostile court. A dear friend, a trusted ally, and a kind lover. A release from the pressures that closed in around her day by day. His death, she knew, was no accident. The Greens, utterly shameless, now spread rumors that it had been her own doing, to quiet the whispers about her children’s parentage. And still others that it had been Daemon, jealous of her lover, nevermind that he was fighting in the distant Stepstones.

There would be no time for mourning now. Rhaenyra ran a finger over the seal, noticing the imperfections she had missed at first, caught up in her pleased surprise at receiving a missive from her cousin.

It could be a trap, but if so, she struggled to see the shape of it—or its purpose. Daemon would fly there without a second thought, she knew. Few men desired so desperately to be a father while spurning the marriage bed. He would love a bastard as dearly as any trueborn, and this letter hinted at two.

She could see no benefit in lying about it, either. Daemon would either know immediately, or when he paid visit to the Vale. If they sought to harm him in some way, there were cleverer ways to go about it.

And if it were true, what then? Claiming his bastard children would neither threaten nor enhance his standing with her father, whose anger had long since cooled, and turned to longing for his brother’s company. It seemed more likely that whoever had written the letter had done so in earnest, perhaps hoping to curry favor with her at some later point.

That would mean two innocent boys were about to be at the mercy of Otto Hightower and whatever use he might find for the bastard sons of a man he feared and loathed, and the thought of it made her blood run cold. He had almost certainly played some role in the deaths of Harwin and his father. He would not blink to order the murder of children if he thought it would drive Daemon to ruin.

And if she did nothing, who could say what lies he would feed her young cousins to poison them against her family? That would bring Hightower far greater satisfaction than something as simple and fleeting as murder, she knew—to take something Daemon wanted more than anything and twist it against him.

Three days. The letter made no mention of how soon they would be sent to foster, but she could not be the one to act in her uncle’s stead, not in a matter as delicate as this. She could only advise him, and calm his wrath as best she could, lest he rain dragonfire down upon the entirety of the Vale.

A raven could make it to the Stepstones as quickly as a dragon, but a letter could fall into anyone’s hands, especially given the renewed conflict there. And yet, the attention it would attract if she delivered the news personally could put the children at risk should Hightower realize what it meant.

Raven it must be, Rhaenyra decided, thoughts already moving to the composition itself. She would need to take precautions in case it fell into unfriendly hands, though there would be far fewer of those in the Stepstones—of the lordly variety, at least.

“I shall need ravens to the Stepstones with great haste, Reysen. How many do we have on hand?”

“Only two, my princess,” the maester said, head bowing in apology. “We lose one out of three we send to Bloodstone.”

And it took several moons to bring trained ones back from the islands. “Then two it shall be,” she said, reaching for her quill. If all went as she expected, there would be no need for ravens to Bloodstone in the coming moons.

Jon sagged with relief when Benton called for camp early, the guardsman managing to keep an eye even from at the head of the column to note their fatigue. Although both he and Rhaegar had ridden almost daily at the Gates of the Moon, those rides had never been more than an hour or two. Into their fourth day of travel, at a steady trot almost from sunrise to sunset, with only a few short pauses throughout the day, the chafing and soreness was the worst it would hopefully be.

His walk was more of a waddle for the first few steps that he took after Fergus helped him off Clover, and Rhaegar looked like he regretted even standing, his expression so unhappy that Benton swung him over his shoulder with a fond smile and carried him over to where Crayne and Gerold were building the campfire, setting him down gently.

Jon shook his head when the man looked to him with the same silent offer, walking slowly but with purpose over to the site. He couldn’t decide if sitting or standing was preferable, so he remained upright as Benton and Fergus went in search of wood. Crayne was chatting away with Gerold, the two thick as thieves since the first day of the trip, which was one more thing to worry about. Crayne was problem enough, without the man recruiting allies.

Misery was a distraction, at least, and a welcome one as the days continued to pass without a dragon sighting. He sat down finally, legs giving out halfway through the motion, and he landed roughly beside Rhaegar.

“It is yet early,” he said quietly, so as not to be overhead.

Rhaegar gave a tired nod. “I know.”

It was. The earliest a dragon could have found them was two days ago, and that was in the absolute best case scenario. The time to worry would come after another week on the road. At that point, it grew more and more likely that Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t at Dragonstone to receive their letter.

“How are your hands?”

Rhaegar held them out, the bandages removed two nights before. “Better than my thighs.” The fingertips on his right hand were a mix of pink healing skin where the blisters hadn’t been worn bloody, and small scabs where they had.

It was cold with the sun having now fallen behind the western range, and the fire not yet built. Jon scooted closer to Rhaegar, throwing his cloak over them both while his brother leaned gratefully into his side. This was one of the more remote camps Benton had chosen, higher up in the hills, near a mountain stream that disappeared further south into the rocks.

They had stuck close to the road before, the narrow valley that extended south of the Bloody Gates well-patrolled, but the hill tribes were further north, concentrated along the edges of the Vale of Arryn. This at least afforded them some tree cover and opportunities for fresh game.

And indeed, when Benton and Fergus returned, it was with an armful of wood and a brace of hares, the large, tawny-coated variety that thrived in the mountains of the Vale. Fergus, equally skilled with his bow as cooking his catches, got to work preparing the hares for a soup while the others built up the fire.

He and Rhaegar moved in close enough to draw bemused glances from the guardsmen. “Careful,” Benton admonished. “Or your cloaks will catch fire.”

But the heat felt nice, and Jon had learned long ago that flame wouldn’t harm him. Rhaegar meanwhile, drowsy with warmth, kept nodding off against his shoulder as they waited on the soup, Jon half-ready to join him.

Around them, the men fell into amiable conversation, swapping stories about the best meal they’d had on the road. Jon listened absently, watching Crayne, as he often did. The man was easy with laughter, but it was as empty as the grin he flashed at Gerold as he teased him about his struggles with the flint in lighting the kindling.

He was still staring when Benton crouched down beside him and pressed a bowl and spoon into his hand. Jon gave Rhaegar a nudge, and he stirred with a plaintive groan. Once he judged him sufficiently aware, he passed the soup along to him, accepting the next bowl Benton gave him with a nod of thanks.

“Gods,” the guardsman muttered, wiping away a sheen of sweat as he backed away from the fire. “How you’re not roasting is beyond me.”

The soup was surprisingly decent, the fat from the plump hares rendered down to a hearty thickness in the broth. By the taste of it, Fergus carried seasoning on him, and Jon smiled as he heard a similar realization ripple through the men, who took to ribbing him for it.

“You can keep your spits and charred meat,” Fergus said, unfazed as he dug into his own bowl. “A man only gets so many meals in his life, and I mean to make the most of them.”

If anything, the pull of sleep grew twice as strong once their hunger was sated. They bore the short walk from the camp to relieve themselves, and by the time they returned, Benton had already set out their bedrolls at what he thought a more appropriate distance from the fire.

The men usually split into watches, with Crayne first, and Jon had made a habit of staying up to keep a discreet eye on him, but as he and Rhaegar settled down, the conversations continued, the night still quite early. Crayne brought out a set of playing tiles, challenging Gerold to a friendly match, and Jon struggled to keep his eyes open. He closed them for just a moment, and suddenly the fire was barely more than embers.

“Go back to sleep, Jon,” Benton said when he noticed him watching him feed a few more scraps of deadwood into the fire. “The rides only get longer.”

The fire burned with renewed warmth, but Jon still huddled closer to Rhaegar, so accustomed to sleeping beside him after all this time that distance made him anxious. Rhaegar, a sound sleeper, barely stirred as Jon readjusted the blanket atop their dual layer of cloaks and surrendered to sleep himself.

A muffled cry woke Jon, his eyes opening to the predawn sky, the eastern ridge lit from behind by the creeping sunrise. He blinked at the darkened campfire—not even embers glowing—in confusion, his mind still sleep-addled.

“Good morning,” a voice murmured above him, and Jon jolted to full wakefulness as he recognized it, along with the iron scent of blood on the breeze.

The layers of fabric on top of him stymied his attempt to rise, and a knee came down on his chest; not the full pressure of Crayne’s weight, but enough to hold him in place. The man’s arm was wrapped around Rhaegar, a hold that Jon knew he could twist out of, they’d practiced it more than enough—

But there was anguish in his eyes as Jon met his gaze, and he knew then without even looking what he would see, but he did so anyway: three bedrolls, two of them dark with the blood of their occupants. Jon recognized the bushy black of Fergus’s hair, and the steel-grey of Benton’s. Looking past them to the treeline, he spotted what he assumed was Gerold’s fallen form.

For all his suspicions of Crayne, and the violence he’d shown before, this was beyond what even Jon had thought the man capable of. Men he had served with for half a year, had bantered with not hours before—

Was that why he had been so friendly with Gerold, so that the young man would follow him out to the trees like a lamb to the slaughter? Why even bother, when it had been just as easy for him to murder Benton and Fergus in their sleep?

“What do you want?” Jon asked coldly, refusing him the fear he seemed to be expecting.

Crayne met his stony stare with an amused smile. “Fifty thousand gold dragons. Which is what I’ve been promised if I bring the two of you to the Saltpans.”

Jon couldn’t hide his reaction to that. Fifty thousand dragons was a prince’s ransom. An actual prince’s ransom. It was a sum of money even a Lord Paramount would not easily have on hand, and certainly not for two bastards so far down in the line of succession should they ever be legitimized as to be worth little more than the dragon’s blood they carried.

Hightower hadn’t ordered this. There would have been no reason, not when they were already on their way to meet his men, and if he’d ordered any blood shed at all, it would have been theirs. Either Crayne had never worked for the man at all, or he’d betrayed him for—

“Who?” Jon demanded. “Who promised?”

“For that sum? I did not ask, nor do I care.” He jerked his head in a nod toward the slain guardsmen. “I would’ve done the same for a tenth of that bounty. Hightower’s coin is a pittance in comparison.”

Jon could not think of anyone else in the realm, save the king, who would have the coin and inclination to spend it on them—and King Viserys would have simply ordered their return from Allard, had he known about them. Essos was a different story entirely, but how would anyone so distant have even learned of their existence, and what could they want?

His alarm must have shown, because Crayne patted him on the head, smiling with empty reassurance. “There now, no one is going to pay fifty thousand dragons simply to kill you, and you and your brother may be pretty little things, but that much coin could buy a Lysene pleasure house outright, with plenty to spare.”

Dragons, Jon thought. That was the only possible explanation. One of the Free Cities wished to have an answer to House Targaryen’s weapons of war. But doubt still prickled in the back of his mind. Surely there are other bastards with Targaryen blood out there that would make for a cheaper option. And where would they get the dragons?

“Now.” Crayne’s knee let up slightly. “I expect your best behavior on the road.” He gave Rhaegar a gentle shake. “Your brother will be riding with me, and I will be very unhappy if we’re forced to chase after you. Am I understood?”

His smile had dropped, leaving nothing but the chill of his flat stare at Jon, who nodded after a moment. The knee dug in again, Crayne tilting his head.

“I understand,” Jon gritted out.

“Good!” Crayne stood and released Rhaegar from his one-armed hold to grip him by the elbow, swinging him around to face him. “The same goes for you, my little songbird. I would hate to lose the full fifty thousand, but if two of you prove too much to handle, I can settle for half.” He caught a handful of silver hair in one hand, looking fascinated as he ran a thumb along it. “And it will be your brother I butcher, not you.”

Rhaegar stared at Crayne, expression utterly still. “I understand.”

“See that your brother does as well,” he let the fistful of hair fall, “and we will have an uneventful journey.”

The man gave each a turn to relieve themselves, then prepared the horses. He discarded the heavier satchels, like the ones that held their few belongings, in favor of strict essentials.

Jon was hauled up onto his horse first, Crayne knowing full well that he wouldn’t take off without his brother, especially given the threat earlier. Rhaegar exchanged a silent glance with him, and Jon could tell by the tense set of his mouth that, like him, he was furiously trying to think of a way out of their predicament. 

Then Crayne mounted, hoisting his brother onto the saddle with him. “Benton set a gentle pace, but he was a gentle man. I am not. If you don’t keep up, I will give you a reason to be sore.”

Jon looked back at the bloodsoaked bodies, allowing himself a moment of quiet sorrow for the men, who had been nothing but kind to them. But Crayne was already easing his horse into a trot, and Jon, gripping his reins tightly, turned his horse to follow.

Behold the splendor that is my kingdom. Or rather, my brother’s kingdom.

The entirety of the Grey Gallows was visible from Caraxes’s chosen perch, the tallest heap of rock amongst the scattered landscape of rock and damp and sand. No one lived on the island, but plenty had died on it over the past few years, only adding to its perpetual stink.

One final, loud crunch emerged from Caraxes as his jaw snapped on the last gulp of charred meat and bone. “You rather enjoy the taste of Dornish flesh, don’t you?”

It had been his uncle who’d ridden Caraxes against Morion’s doomed fleet, burning a hundred Dornish ships in a single day. And up high, in full view of ally and foe alike, Daemon was reminded of how his uncle Aemon had died: pierced through the throat by a Myrish scout as his dragon dined. It had been a shock to Daemon, who’d known his uncle nearly as well as his father for as much time as they spent in each other’s company, but it was his father’s unquenchable wrath afterwards that had stuck with him. Thousands of Myrish pirates burned in the wake of his grief, and yet it had brought him no peace.

And how would you mourn me, brother, if I fell here?

Daemon could imagine it. A grand pyre back at King’s Landing, should they recover his body, the vultures that circled his brother these days gorging themselves on their own glee. It would be Rhaenyra that Viserys would call to light the pyre.

Would those tears be of grief for who I was, brother, or who you wished I had been? Or is it relief that you would feel, freed of the ever-present thorn in your side?

There would be no wrath. Of that, Daemon was certain. His brother’s council would urge a withdrawal to cut the Crown’s losses, and Ryndoon’s brigands would establish their foothold. The King of the Narrow Sea would be as fleeting a memory as Morion Martell, save for his ignoble end.

The almost musical twang of an arrow shaft striking stone drew him from his thoughts. It skittered to a stop a dozen feet from him. Daemon walked closer to the edge of the outcrop where it had originated and peered down. Small dots scattered the shore, smoke rising from where he and Caraxes had strafed the Triarchy encampment earlier. Another arrow sliced through the air, two yards from his left ear, and bounced harmlessly off Caraxes’s scaled hide.

His dragon fluttered his wings, like a horse flicking its tail at the bite of a gnat. Through narrowed eyes, Daemon was able to spot a flicker of movement halfway up the rocky incline: a lone bowman, driven by ambition or bravery or perhaps vengeance.

Daemon stretched his arms outward in open invitation, and this time he could hear the rush of the wind as the arrow passed inches from his ear. He laughed, a wild abandon sweeping over him, leaving him light and empty. What does it matter? What does any of this matter?

Caraxes let out a rumbling growl, the ground shuddering under his footfalls as he approached, his flame-gold eyes watching Daemon for a moment with something like curiosity before another arrow split the air between them. A great shriek escaped the dragon then, pitched high with fury, and his long neck whipped around to the source of the projectile. A gout of flame erupted from his mouth, and Daemon could hear the very brief scream of the archer.

Caraxes’s wings began to flap, sending pebbles scattering and whipping Daemon’s hair about. He dove to the archer’s hiding spot, jaws snapping out to grab the charred corpse before he rejoined Daemon at the edge. There was something more primal than usual to this meal, blackened flesh ripped back from cooked entrails, a smell Daemon had grown accustomed to long ago.

He rested a hand against the thick red scales of his torso, able to feel an echo of his dragon’s hatred and recognizing his father in it. Aemon, felled by an arrow, Caraxes at his side.

“You would burn them for me,” he murmured, and when Caraxes turned to him, chewing noisily, he smiled, stroking a hand along the side of his snout.

Assuming one of his brother’s Hightower spawn didn’t spit upon his pyre by taking Caraxes to mount. His smile drew into a scowl. That alone was reason to take caution on the battlefield.

“Come,” he said, once Caraxes had finished his second, unplanned snack. “Let us return to camp.”

“My prince, there is a raven for you,” Ser Howard said, ambushing him mere seconds after dismounting back at camp. Reading the growing irritation on his face, the knight quickly added, “From Dragonstone.”

Daemon extended a hand, irritation replaced by interest as his gaze landed on a familiar seal. News of Harrenhal had reached even the Stepstones. He assumed his niece had retreated to Dragonstone to lick her wounds in peace, which made a letter all the more curious.

The curiosity only grew when he found it written in cipher, and he retreated into his tent for paper and ink to translate it to the underlying High Valyrian.

Daemon crumpled the translation in his hand once he’d finished, still-drying ink staining his hands. He stood, which was a mistake, the blood rushing from his head to his pounding heart, leaving him dizzy.

“That bitch,” he said, but it emerged as a croak rather than the growl he could feel building in his chest.

There was no throat to strangle, no gut to bury Dark Sister in, so he seized the inkwell and hurled it into the ground, where it shattered against the hard shale, black ink spraying outward, but that was nothing, nowhere near enough, and the desk followed, thrown hard enough against the side of the tent to take half the canvas with it.

Most of the men knew when he was best left in peace, but one fool peered through the opening left by the desk. “Prince Daemon, are you—?” The man took one look at his face, and disappeared.

Daemon stared after him, breath ragged, the math already done. Eight years. Eight years the bitch had kept this from him, had stolen his child—children from him. His gaze fell on the crumpled paper and he picked it up off the ground, reading it over again. Sons. He had two sons who did not know him, who he would never hold as babes or teach to walk or ride or grip their first sword. Who had grown up orphans, in the loveless household of a Royce—the bitch’s nephew, whose face he could recall, pinched and cold, the very image of his aunt.

And Otto Hightower’s wretched hand all over it, grasping now to pull them forever out of reach. You would love that more than anything, wouldn’t you? Having my children raised to lick your boots for whatever scraps of affection they might find.

“I will kill him,” Daemon said, and it still was not a growl, but a whisper through teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture them. Would they have the dark coloring of their mother’s family, like Rhaenyra’s sons? His eyes? Whose smile—his father’s, before Aemon’s death had stolen it from him? He did not know their names. Vale names, no doubt, to scrub away any trace of his family, of their heritage.

Make haste to Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had written. We must decide how to respond.

But there was only one possible response, and stopping at Dragonstone would only slow him down.

Chapter Text

For all his posturing, Crayne could not will the sun to set any later than it had the night before, and even if they kept to the road, darkness came with the risk of a horse tripping. The moon, barely more than a sliver in the sky at this point in its cycle, would provide only scant illumination.

And so, as the sun disappeared behind the mountain, Crayne turned off the road, continuing until they were far enough not to be spotted by anyone else—or for either of them to call for help to a passing caravan. During the day, he had Rhaegar in hand to prevent that, and even then, Crayne had taken a wide berth around any travelers headed north.

Once they had dismounted, horses tied, Crayne distributed dried provisions. Jon had thought he might try to cut their portion to weaken them, but they were given enough to eat. It was more than a week still to reach the Saltpans, Jon mused, and the pace had been punishing. Crayne must have decided that it was better to have them in optimal traveling condition.

Or he had already dismissed the threat of them trying to escape, but Jon greatly doubted that. His eyes were on Jon as soon as they made camp, and once they’d settled and eaten, he brought out a length of rope and beckoned him over.

Jon knew exactly what it meant and wasn’t looking forward to it. “I said I wouldn’t run.”

Crayne gave his cheek an amused pinch. “I have seen you in the yard. You would bash my head in with a rock, given the chance, and I prefer my sleep less final than that.”

Jon did not deny the accusation. It was one of many options he had considered, should the man find his concealed knife. To ensure he didn’t, he offered no resistance as Crayne bound his hands, tight enough to prevent any attempts at slipping it.

“Now sit.”

And in what was perhaps the closest to a gesture of respect from the man, he bound Jon’s feet as well.

“Perhaps you would like to gag me too,” Jon said sarcastically.

“No one will hear you scream out here,” Crayne assured him, picking him up then and plopping him onto his bedroll.

Rhaegar’s hands were bound as well, though his feet were left free. Jon thought Crayne had bound the two of them so that he might go gather wood for a fire, but he seemed content to go without for the night. It would be tolerable, but just barely; the temperatures had been nearing frost at night but not quite crossing the threshold, and their cloaks, though warm, would be tested in the extended cold.

“How are you?” Rhaegar asked him softly, though his eyes were fixed on Crayne.

“Tired,” Jon said, taking stock of his body’s aches. “Sore. What about you?”

“The same.” He hesitated, then added in High Valyrian, “What is our plan?”

Jon’s understanding of it was better than his ability to speak it, but he had a decent grasp of at least the basics after two moons. “He is watching. We should wait.” He still struggled with expressing time. “Tomorrow. Or after.”

The faintest smile curved on his brother’s lips, and Jon reviewed his words for the mistake, turning a questioning eyebrow on him when he couldn’t find it.

“No,” Rhaegar said, ”you spoke well.”

Despite his exhaustion and the grim circumstances, the praise warmed him. “My brother is a tyrant.”

“I know.” Rhaegar’s smile slipped then, worry pinching the corners of his mouth. “Jon, be careful. I believe him.”

About killing him, Jon assumed. His brother hesitated, like there was more he wanted to say, but Jon could tell he was deliberately simplifying his speech to what he had taught him.

“Enough,” Crayne said sharply. He moved away from his horse, where he had been fetching his own bedroll, and set it on the ground, a short distance from Jon’s. “Speak the Common Tongue, or I will assume you are plotting.”

Jon shot him a scathing look. “Yes, beware the plotting of eight-year-olds.”

Crayne scoffed, seeming unfazed by the dig. His head tilted as he studied them, eyes narrowed. “The septons like to preach that Targaryens are different than other men. That the same rules do not apply, and they can fuck their sisters as much as they like.” He crouched down, drawing uncomfortably close. “Always smelled like a crock of royal shit to me, dragons or no.” 

“And what do you believe?” Jon asked, staring back in challenge. He wished his hands weren’t tied. If ever there was an opportunity that called for a knife, his throat so invitingly close, this was it.

Crayne flashed an amused smile. “I believe that no one pays fifty thousand dragons for some Targaryen’s by-blows if that blood isn’t worth something.” Jon felt a fresh chill at the phrasing, thinking of Melisandre and her god’s hunger for king’s blood. “And you are no ordinary children. You wield a blade like you carried one in the womb.” He glanced at Rhaegar. “And I have seen men at their post reduced to weeping women by your songs.”

“But not you,” Rhaegar said, studying their captor back.

“No,” Crayne agreed, and there was something in his expression that was just the faintest bit unsettled, leaving Jon to wonder what the songs had inspired instead.

“What is it you expect us to do with our hands bound?”

“Sleep.” Crayne’s hand came down, pushing Jon flat onto his bedroll, and then pulling the blanket over him. “And if you do not wish to be gagged, you will speak only the Common Tongue.”

He had not taken out a bedroll for Rhaegar, and Jon started wriggling into a sitting position when Crayne led his brother over to his own bedroll, a new and ugly fear gripping him.

The man laughed when he noticed. “Calm yourself. I’m only making sure you don’t try anything foolhardy in the night.” In the waning twilight, Jon could barely see him, but Crayne seemed to have a sense for his glare. “You’ll be cold enough later to wish you were in his place.”

Jon rolled onto his back, unable to relax. Crayne could do anything with the two of them thus bound, and this more than anything had driven that point home. He stared upward at the darkening sky as the stars winked in. Rhaegar’s favorite color.

Touch him and I will kill you. Jon intended to kill him regardless, but there were quick deaths and there were slow deaths, and he’d seen enough of both throughout the years to know how to mete out either.

Jon was chilled to the bone when dawn finally crept over the mountains, his entire body aching from the unrelenting travel and his helpless shivering in the coldest hours of the night. He had barely slept, mind jumping from nightmare scenario to nightmare scenario. He’d longed desperately for the roaring heat of the night before, with Fergus’s hot soup and Rhaegar’s reassuring warmth at his side, and the sound of hearty laughter on the edge of sleep.

He could feel Rhaegar’s concern like a physical pressure on his skin as Crayne broke down their camp. When Crayne finally untied them, Rhaegar rushed over to him, clasping his cold fingers between his hands.

“You’re half frozen,” he said, guilt plain on his face as his hands tightened around Jon’s. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Did you?” Jon countered, marking the dark traces of fatigue around his eyes, but nothing else. He relaxed fractionally. Crayne had not harmed him.

Rhaegar shook his head, refusing to be distracted. “I was not the one with only a thin blanket for warmth.”

It was even colder now, out from under the blanket. The sun wouldn’t rise over the mountaintops for another hour at least, and a cold northerly breeze had picked up in the night. He leaned his side into Rhaegar’s, trying to minimize his exposure to the wind and pick up what warmth he could. The wind would only get worse on horseback, and while the horse would warm with exertion, Jon would not.

“You should ride with him today,” Rhaegar said. “You’ll be warmer, and you can rest.”

“No,” Jon said, thinking about the knife hidden under his clothing, a reassuring pressure against his thigh. That close to Crayne, one unlucky shift of movement could lead to him discovering it. “That is a gift I don’t need.”

Rhaegar, picking up on the subtle emphasis, gave a reluctant nod. “Then take my cloak at least.”

“No,” Jon said again, but Rhaegar was already unclasping it to throw around his shoulders, where he secured it atop Jon’s existing cloak. He frowned. “Now you’ll be cold.”

“I will manage.” And with a darted glance to ensure Crayne was out of immediate earshot, Rhaegar added quietly, “Please be careful, Jon.” His eyes were shadowed with fear as he sought Jon’s hands again, gripping them. “If the choice is between but a chance at escape or your life—”

We may already be going to our deaths, Jon thought, though he didn’t speak it aloud. He did not know how influential the followers of R'hllor might be in this era, or how much coin they could have at their disposal, but a god with the power to bring him back from the dead was the most likely candidate for sending him to a new life elsewhere, even if it did seem overly complicated to go through that effort merely to have them killed.

Instead, he drew his brother into a hug, the contact as much to comfort himself as Rhaegar. With Crayne separating them at every opportunity, this was the most they had been apart since their arrival. “I will be careful,” Jon said. Then he reached around his brother to unclasp the second cloak, pulling it off his back to drape it over Rhaegar’s shoulders, securing it in place as he pulled back from the hug.

Rhaegar shot him a reproachful look. “Jon—”

But Crayne was approaching them, the horses secured and ready. “Take a piss already,” he said with a hint of impatience.

Then they were off once more.

The next few days settled into a pattern: punishing rides during daylight hours, interspersed with roughly two breaks throughout, followed by a rough and ready camp for the night by the nearest stream. On the chillier days, even Crayne had to cave to his body’s limitations, and there would be a campfire for warmth. Jon’s time with Rhaegar was kept short, with very few opportunities to freely speak without Crayne overhearing.

After over a week on the road, he and Rhaegar had mostly adjusted, the soreness from the long rides fading to merely uncomfortable, and Jon could feel his acclimation to the cold returning. He still shivered in his bedroll on the nights where they had no fire, but exhaustion was more powerful than even the growing pit of anxiety in his stomach.

The Saltpans were a roughly two-week journey from the Gates of the Moon. At their pace, Jon would guess they’d be shaving a day or two off that. That didn’t leave long to act, and Crayne still bound him every night at camp, once they’d eaten.

It would need to be a cold night, he concluded, gaze roving absently over the dry, swaying grasses along the side of the road. Tonight, most likely, given how cold it still was at midday. Crayne usually took Rhaegar with him when he went to collect deadwood. Even bound, Jon thought he could wriggle his hunting knife out of his concealed sheath. Then it was a matter of waiting for Crayne to fall asleep, cutting his bonds, and opening the man’s throat while he slept.

Rhaegar looked tired when they finally stopped to camp, his voice slightly hoarse when he greeted Jon. That, he knew, was his brother’s project: a battle of charm, on a target far more formidable than their aunt had been. Crayne himself was quite practiced at winning people over with a handsome smile and a clever jest, but Rhaegar had a much softer touch, and even Crayne did not seem immune.

Rhaegar mostly used his goodwill to Jon’s benefit, coaxing their captor into a fire for the night, or an extra blanket for Jon, or an additional break during the day. But Crayne also seemed to treat him with something like affection when he helped him down from the horse, or set him to small tasks around the camp.

Then there were times when his brother overreached. Any request for more time together was coldly denied, and Rhaegar had failed to convince their captor that Jon’s feet no longer needed to be bound.

Today seemed another successful day, Crayne in good spirits as he went through the evening routine, so much so that they were each given an apple in addition to the standard dried fare. Rhaegar slumped down beside Jon, purple eyes flat with weariness. “How was the rear today?”

“Dusty,” Jon said, mouth watering as he took a bite of apple. The weather had been clear for the past two weeks, the mud of the road cracking as it dried out and yielding small plumes of dust from Crayne and Rhaegar’s horse. It wasn’t the worst he’d experienced, but his eyes felt gritty by the end of the day, and it left his snot a grimy brown.

Rhaegar reached out to ruffle his hair, shaking a fine cloud of dirt loose from it. “Better than rain, I suppose,” he said, though with a hint of skepticism.

“Rain is definitely worse,” Jon assured him, having endured far too many miserable days of travel through rain before dragon flight had freed him from it.

They ate their apples down to the very core, savoring the luxury of it. Jon flicked his over to Clover, who had been watching him with sad brown eyes. “How did you earn these?”

“Accounts of the succession struggle after Aenys’s death. It seems we have stoked his interest in our family’s history.”

It failed to surprise Jon that Crayne would be interested in Maegor, of all the Targaryen kings. They certainly shared a common ruthlessness. He did feel a stir of jealousy that Crayne should be the one to enjoy the distraction from the road of Rhaegar’s storytelling, which was always engrossing. Jon’s time in the back was a constant cycle of misery, boredom, and worry.

“I miss you,” Jon said, not meaning to say it out loud, but glad he did when it drew a soft smile from his brother, who kissed his cheek, then immediately made a face.

“There truly is dust everywhere,” he marveled, scrubbing at his lips with his sleeve.

A grin rose on Jon’s face and he tackled his brother in a bear hug, until he stopped struggling and resigned himself to the impromptu dust bath.

“How generous,” Rhaegar said wryly, brushing himself off as best he could.

They sobered instantly as Crayne approached, cutting short the brief moment of normality. “Can I assume you’re done eating, then?”

“No,” they said in unison—Jon with a scowl, Rhaegar with a contrite bow of his head.

They nibbled at the salt beef and hard biscuits he’d passed to them earlier, prolonging their short time together as long as they could before Crayne’s impatient stare hastened the meal. The ropes came out, and Jon suffered them stone-faced, even as they pressed into the bruises built up over the length of their captivity.

He could have told Rhaegar about his plan. Even just a whispered tonight would have been enough. But Crayne was very perceptive; if anything about his brother’s behavior altered, it could be enough to raise his suspicion. It was better this way, he told himself. Rhaegar might even try to convince him not to take the risk.

Getting his knife loose after Crayne had wandered away with Rhaegar in tow proved even more difficult than he had expected with his hands bound, but after a few minutes of keeping a constant eye on the treeline, he finally wriggled it free, earning a small cut on his leg in the process. He scooted it beneath his bedroll just as they returned, and then settled in for the wait.

It was a comfortable wait, at least, the heat of the fire warm against his back, though Rhaegar’s absence at his side still felt wrong. Jon did his best to occupy his thoughts, thinking one step ahead to how they should proceed once Crayne was dead. They would still have two horses, but the Saltpans—which had been their original planned escape route—no longer seemed safe. Even without Crayne, whoever he meant to deliver them to could still aim to capture them in the port town.

And Hightower’s men awaited in Darry. The next closest settlement would be Harroway’s Town, which was dangerously close to Harrenhal, whose new lord was also allied to the Green faction. It would have to be Wickenden. Or—

Jon frowned. Could they not return to the Gates of the Moon? Surely the murder of their escort and Crayne kidnapping them would provide reason enough to delay or even outright withdraw from the foster agreement. It was the safer path. But if what they wanted was to find their father, then killing Crayne and continuing to a port town was oddly their best chance.

It had already been a week since their letter would have arrived in Dragonstone, after all. If Princess Rhaenyra had been there to receive it, surely someone would have come for them by now.

Unless you’ve overestimated Prince Daemon’s affection for family, or Princess Rhaenyra’s interest in helping her uncle recover two bastards of their house.

Returning to the Gates of the Moon meant trusting their cousin or their father would come for them eventually, or that their raven had made it into the right hands. Wickenden would give them the freedom to sail directly to Dragonstone itself for an audience, but it would be another three weeks on horseback to make it there, and three weeks was a very long time for two young boys to be traveling alone with dwindling supplies.

Jon scowled at the darkness. It would almost be worth risking the Saltpans at that point. Slip in, slip out. They could cover Rhaegar’s hair, enter the town at night, and go directly to the docks.

But first things first. Jon turned his ears toward the bedroll opposite the fire. Unfortunately, Crayne did not snore, so there was no definitive sign that he was asleep, and the crackle of the fire made it difficult to make out the sound of his breathing. It had been no more than an hour since he’d gone to bed.

Jon kept his silent watch for another hour, then another. He gazed up at the stars and wondered what the future might hold for them. Whether a quick death awaited them in Essos, or pampered captivity. Or in the case of escape or rescue, whether they would be kept away from court, hidden away as bastards often were—especially for fear that housing known bastards with Rhaenyra’s sons might invite additional scrutiny on their parentage. After all, if King Viserys were so tolerant of his brother’s bastards, who was to say he would not be even moreso of his own daughter’s?

Perhaps they would be raised in Dragonstone. Jon had no great fondness for the place, but he hadn’t spent much time there, and that had been almost two centuries after the Dance, with the stronghold having fallen into further ruin in that time.

So long as no one separated him and Rhaegar, he decided, anything was bearable. Indifference from their Targaryen kin, scorn from the highborn lords and ladies of the realm, it did not matter.

After what had been, by his best guess, at least three hours since they’d turned in for sleep, Jon quietly shifted, pulling his knife out from under his bedroll. He wedged it into the ground and began sawing at the rope around his wrists, pausing every minute to glance over at the other bedroll.

Once his hands were free he flexed them, the improved blood flow bringing a rush of warmth and tingling nerves to his fingertips. He waited for their strength to return, then untied his feet, and waited again.

He rose slowly to his feet, casting a nervous glance toward the horses and praying they would not stir at the motion. But other than a glance in his direction and quiet whicker, they remained calm. Jon paused, entire body tense, and when no answering motion came from Crayne, he crept along the side of the fire, circling around to the other bedroll.

Rhaegar was the smaller lump, curled onto his side, only the crown of his silver head peeking out from under the covers, flickering gold where the firelight caught it. Crayne was on the side away from the fire, flat on his back, throat bared.

Jon kept his breathing calm and quiet, even as his heart raced, hand gripping the knife so hard he could feel the pulse of his blood. He moved slowly, ever so carefully, and this time he did not dare breathe as he maneuvered the knife into position.

As his weight shifted, so did the position of his feet slightly, and a twig half hidden on the edge of the bedroll snapped. Crayne’s eyes shot open, focusing on Jon with enough gathering awareness to shift his head aside as the knife came down. Jon’s blade caught the underside of his jaw in a long, shallow cut before an elbow punched into his ribs with enough force to expel the remaining air from his lungs. Jon fell onto his back and Crayne’s hand closed on his wrist, gripping it so tightly Jon thought he might crack it.

“Drop it,” Crayne said, the utter lack of inflection terrifying.

The hold on his wrist grew tighter still. Jon stared at him, body tense with fight, and knew that it was over.

“Jon!”

Rhaegar’s voice, shrill with fear, was what made him release the blade at last. Still gripping him, Crayne stooped to pick it up, then shoved him backwards into a tree, hard enough that Jon could feel the pain where his elbow first had struck. Broken rib, he thought grimly. At least one, perhaps more.

“I told you what would happen if you proved more trouble than you’re worth.” The blood streaming down the side of his neck, combined with the almost conversational tone, was more frightening than any angry roar.

“Don’t!” Rhaegar scrambled to Jon’s side. “You have his blade now, there’s no more he can do.”

Crayne’s head tilted, and his knife hand moved to rest the tip delicately beneath Rhaegar’s chin as he tsked. “You knew about this ploy, little songbird?”

Jon glared at him. “You played tiles with Gerold and then lured him into the woods to slit his throat.”

“You mistake me. I am impressed.” His gaze returned to Jon, the edge of the knife moving to his throat, and Jon saw only death in his eyes, flat and cold. “You, however. Keeping you alive has been a gamble, one that nearly cost me my life tonight.”

“Please—” Rhaegar’s voice trembled, hand clutching Jon’s, the grip painful with desperation. “He will be no more trouble.”

“He is nothing but trouble.”

The blade continued to hover at the underside of his jaw, a thin, burning pressure as the very edge of it caught Jon’s swallow. There was an obvious struggle happening behind Crayne’s mask. Was it the greed of the full fifty thousand dragons, still whispering in his ear?

Rhaegar’s hand squeezed at the bead of blood that dripped down Jon’s throat. “Hurt me instead,” he blurted.

Jon’s jaw clenched, but the blade kept him from locking eyes with his brother. “Rhaegar—”

“He won’t try anything again if it means you’ll hurt me.”

“Is that so?” Crayne said softly, gaze boring into Jon, who tried to keep the sudden rush of fear from his face. From the narrowing of Crayne’s eyes, he’d failed. “Very well.”

The blade withdrew, but then, viper-quick, Crayne reversed his grip to drive the hilt with shattering force into Jon’s right forearm. White-hot agony flashed through him, causing him to sway. Rhaegar’s arms closed around him, holding him upright as he gritted his teeth, blinking away tears of pain. Broken. Fractured at the very least.

Crayne’s hand reached out, grabbing him by the collar to hoist him up, bringing them eye-level. “I was told to deliver you undamaged, but I expect they’ll still be willing to pay for a few broken bones.” He leaned in then, uncomfortably close. “Do you know what some men like to do to pretty little boys?”

Jon bit down his immediate scathing response, giving a curt nod.

“I thought you might,” Crayne said, mouth moving into a hard smile. “Now, your brother is rather young for my taste, but if I catch you so much as thinking about escape again, I’ll see if he screams as sweetly as he sings.”

His grip eased, and Jon slid down the rough bark of the tree onto unsteady legs, dizzy with pain and despair and rage. Crayne took Rhaegar, pale and stiff by Jon’s side, by both shoulders and leaned down to press a kiss onto the top of his hair, eyes not leaving Jon. “Back to bed with you,” he said, the words taking on an ugly new connotation.

Rhaegar did not move. “He’s hurt—”

Crayne grabbed him by the throat, that false gentleness gone in an instant. “Do as you’re told, or I break his other arm.”

This time his brother went without protest, settling beneath the blankets. Jon could feel his gaze, but he didn’t dare take his own away from Crayne. Crayne marched him over to the horses, where he reached into the saddlebag for another length of rope and a small, unmarked bottle.

“What else are you hiding?” Crayne asked.

“Nothing,” Jon said. His heart stuttered in his chest, then, because he didn’t know what Crayne might consider Jon being uncooperative. “There’s a sheath under my clothes, strapped to my leg. That’s where the knife was.”

Crayne stripped him, not bothering to be gentle about it as fabric tugged at Jon’s broken arm. He unclasped the strapped sheath and stuffed it into the saddlebag, then watched as Jon dressed himself, teeth clenched hard around a whimper as he pulled on his shirt, then his tunic. The rest was doable one-handed, albeit slowly, but he was cold and nauseous from the pain by the end.

“Now drink.” 

His cheeks were caught between Crayne’s thumb and index finger, which tipped his head back and applied pressure until he opened his mouth. A sickly-sweet liquid filled it, and he swallowed it with a shudder. It tasted like wine sweetened with honey to mask that it had gone bad.

Jon was then escorted back to his bedroll, where he couldn’t hold back a strained cry this time as Crayne bound his wrists together, repeatedly jarring his arm. His feet followed, and Crayne threw the blanket over him when it was finished.

“Wait,” Jon said, head starting to go fuzzy, even though it had only been a mouthful of alcohol.

Crayne’s mouth tightened with impatience. “What?”

“Don’t hurt him,” Jon whispered. A sob rose in his chest, burned in his throat, the thought of it unbearable when it had been his doing, his failure. “Please.”

Crayne rubbed his hand against his neck, where the cut Jon had left was still bleeding, and shook his wrist, flicking the blood into the fire. “Don’t give me reason to.”

The circling of carrion was visible from the road, perhaps a mile away. Jerome knew the location well; it was a camp stop used by many who served at the Bloody Gate and beyond when traveling through the narrow valley, positioned near both stream and wood and flush with wild berries in the summer and early autumn.

“This is where Ser Carlys and his caravan reported spotting the horses,” the dark-haired man beside him said.

The high road was not patrolled as heavily south of the Bloody Gate as it was past the Gates of the Moon, bandits preferring the more heavily trafficked kingsroad and the valley too narrow and the mountains too steep for the hill tribes to gain a foothold. The patrol was considered boring and tedious, a duty often shunted to the more junior guardsmen of the garrison at the Bloody Gate.

Erryl, who had joined seven moons ago at six-and-ten, still had the fire of youth burning hot in his belly, and he’d brought the report back to the Bloody Gate promptly.

“Let’s have a look, then.”

They spotted the camp well before the smell of rotting flesh drifted toward them on the breeze. Saddlebags lay on the ground with signs of having been rummaged through, but were otherwise still bulging with their contents.

Jerome crouched near the first body, the soft tissues of the face already feasted on by carrion, and recognized the sigil of House Royce. A sigh escaped him as he connected that with the shock of grey hair, but he still checked the next body to be sure. Both bore a deep cut to the throat, murdered in their sleep.

A third body was at the treeline. Stabbed in the chest, a clean path to the heart.

Allard Royce’s men had stopped at the Bloody Gate but a week ago, Benton well-known to the garrison there. He’d been escorting Lord Royce’s two young cousins south, Jerome recalled, to foster somewhere in the Reach. There’d been four of them. Benton and Fergus he knew from frequent visits to the Gates of the Moon, and the men themselves passing through the Bloody Gate. The other two had been younger, their faces unfamiliar to him. The boys themselves had been sweet of temper, tired by the late hour of their arrival, but friendly.

Jerome sighed. “Search the wood,” he told Erryl, whose face had gone green as they went from body to body.

They split to cover the small copse, but there was no sign of the fourth Royce retainer, nor the two boys. Jerome walked back over to the camp, frowning. Benton was an experienced guardsman, and four men were more than enough to split a watch. For him to have died in his bed meant no one had raised an alarm, and the absence of a fourth body spun an ugly tale.

He wracked his memory for what else he could remember of the boys. They were of House Redfort, one dark-haired, the other with his hair gathered up under a cap. Blond, he thought, recalling the pale wisps that had escaped around his face. Quiet lads, with a strangely delicate beauty that reminded him of the glimpse he’d had long ago of the late Queen Aemma returning to King’s Landing after a visit to the Eyrie. She had been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

House Redfort was ancient, but not overflowing in wealth. If the missing Royce retainer had murdered his travel companions to kidnap the two boys, he might fetch a better ransom from Lady Royce herself. And yet—

There was a fine shortsword in one of the saddlebags, easily worth fifty gold dragons. The man couldn’t expect more than a hundred dragons apiece for the stolen children—or maybe twice that, if Lady Royce was particularly fond of them—so why leave such a valuable weapon behind?

There must be something more at the heart of this, but he lacked the knowledge to piece it together.

“Load up their belongings,” Jerome ordered. Those he could see returned to Lord Royce, if not his cousins.

Given the location, no more than a day’s ride from the Bloody Gates, the men had likely met their fate five days ago. Any pursuit of the kidnapper would be a week behind by the time Jerome returned to muster a search party.

The best he could do for those two boys now was send a raven forthwith to the Gates of the Moon, and hope Lord Royce was able to negotiate a swift return.

“Ser Jerome,” Erryl said, casting him an uncertain look as he swung himself back onto his saddle. “Should we not see that they are buried?”

“It’ll have to wait, lad.” Jerome cast a weary eye at the sun low in the sky. He was too old for night travel, but there was nothing for it. “Take a drink, then take a piss. We ride through the night.”

Chapter Text

It was a grueling six days’ flight from the southernmost tip of the Stepstones to Runestone, with Daemon pushing Caraxes far beyond what he would ordinarily allow before balking. But his dragon seemed to sense the inferno that burned in his chest, an endless pulsing fury that kept his blood hot through the cold nights, when he spurred them past the comforts of Greenstone and Tarth.

He flew past Dragonstone as well, which was the only time Caraxes rebelled, desiring the tender meat of its sheep bred and kept solely for the Targaryen dragons. Syrax showed her wings as they flew by, confirming that Rhaenyra had marked their passage.

Otherwise, it would have been words about weighing political risks, and considering all options. Stopping to see his treacherous cunt of a wife first instead of going directly to seize his children was rather the height of diplomacy, as far as Daemon was concerned. And allowing her to live one of the greatest acts of restraint the world might ever see.

Only a day’s travel remained when he stopped for the night, taking shelter in one of the many half-crumbled ruins that littered the expanse of Crackclaw Point. After setting off in the morning, the familiar terrain of the Vale took shape below him, the sea giving way to hills then jagged peaks of grey shale where the steep slopes allowed no life to take hold and then gentler ranges blanketed in vast evergreen forests.

The fire in his chest flickered as they drew nearer to Runestone, memories of past visits souring the flight. His very first had come after his grandmother had bade him wed the spinster Lady Royce, and he’d been forced to leave King’s Landing for the dreary damp of Runestone. From the very first week, he had known the marriage to be a disaster and spent his life fleeing it since, ordered back again and again by his grandfather, then by his own brother.

Bed her, produce an heir. Daemon’s lips pulled back in a snarl. As though the woman were even capable. She had treated every attempt as the most unpleasant of duties, eyes cold as her cunt, her stare constant throughout. It was not as though he had not tried in the earliest days, but she had made her contempt of him quite clear.

And then his brother’s cunt of a Hand, whispering in his ear every time Daemon petitioned for an annulment. It was Daemon’s fault, always—he was mocking the sacred vows of marriage, or he merely sought a more advantageous match in an effort to grasp for power, or it was further proof of his volatility, his immaturity. When Daemon knew precisely what the man wanted: to avoid the complication of the king’s brother producing heirs of his own. Even now, after his scheming shrew of a daughter had popped out four more heirs for his brother, and Rhaenyra a trio of her own, Hightower still feared the possibility.

Enough to conspire with the bronze bitch to hide his two sons entirely.

It would have been just after Aemma’s death, when wagging tongues had reported his drunken cavorting about the babe’s death to his brother, and he had been banished to Runestone once more, this time for over a year. Near the end of it, his wife’s half-sister, a decade younger, had come to visit her in Runestone. She must have favored her mother, a touch of pale northern beauty to her that was entirely absent in her sister. Their time together had been a pleasant distraction for him, and a thrilling secret for her, and when he’d left Runestone for Corlys’s offer, he had not thought of her again.

He had, in fact, hardly been to Runestone since. The fighting in the Stepstones had wholly employed his attention, save for a short period in King’s Landing before ugly rumor banished him there once more, briefly, until Corlys’s call for aid in defending the Stepstones had given him cause to leave. He assumed his wife had grown only more wrinkled with time, her womb all the more withered.

This was his best chance for an annulment at last. His brother, for all that he constantly failed them, did love his family. Daemon’s own wife actively conspiring to keep his children from him was an affront to House Targaryen that could not go unanswered—or unpunished.

The stink of rotting fish, whether real or imagined, reached his nostrils as they flew over Gulltown and the fire returned to its full strength. They were close, perhaps three hours away, with the sun nearly set already.

He leaned forward, resting both hands on Caraxes’s slender back, and promised him the fattest, plumpest herd in the surrounding farms of Runestone, receiving an answering rumble of approval.

Soon.

It was the portly, white-haired figure of Maester Forsethe that came to meet him inside the gates to the castle. The mood in the yard was grim, even more so than usual, each of the maester’s footfalls heavy and loud in the quiet as Daemon watched his approach. How like his dear wife to send her maester out ahead instead of meeting him herself.

“We had not thought you would receive the raven in time, my prince,” the maester said, sounding flustered.

The greeting caught him by surprise. “Raven?” Daemon repeated. “In time for what?”

The maester blinked, seeming similarly confused. “You did travel here to see your lady wife, did you not?”

He studied the man very sharply, seeking any hidden meaning to his words, but found none. Had she sent a confession of her own accord? “Forgive me, maester, it was a long journey and the…raven I received lacked for details.”

“Of course, my prince.” The maester’s gaze swept him, taking in the grime and muck of his dayslong travel, itself fresh off the battlefield. “The kitchens can prepare a hot supper while we speak, and I will have your chambers made ready.”

Two servants were beckoned over as soon as they arrived at the entry hall, departing with quickly whispered instructions, and Daemon was led to the east solar, where a fire was set.

“You were saying about my wife?”

“I fear there was an accident during her last hunt, ten—no, eleven days ago. Lady Royce suffered a grievous injury to her head, and while I have done my best to make her comfortable over these past few days, I fear it will not be long before she succumbs.”

Once, Daemon might have shouted for joy at such news. Instead he found himself staring at the man, feeling almost bereft. His rage had sustained him over the past week, at times nearly choking him. He had never considered that there might be no reckoning, no punishment, only—oblivion, her crimes left unanswered for, robbed of the chance to even ask why. What cruelty had motivated her to deny him his own blood, however much she might resent him?

“Has she woken at all?”

“At times, briefly. I have been administering milk of the poppy to dull the pain.”

“I—” He did not often find himself lost for words, but he was now, fists clenching at his sides. “Summon me immediately if she wakes again.”

“If my lord would like to be at her side…?”

The offer was not made in expectation of Daemon agreeing, the maester familiar enough with their estranged relationship, but he found himself considering it—albeit not for the reasons a husband with any affection for his wife ordinarily would.

“Perhaps later,” he said slowly, the rough edges of a plot beginning to form in his mind. The rage had cooled to mere embers. “First, I should like to see your annals for my lady wife’s reign.”

Forsethe blinked owlishly. “Does my prince have a particular period that he is interested in? Lady Royce’s reign spans nearly two decades.”

“The years 107 and 108,” Daemon said.

“As my prince wishes.” Forsethe cast a hesitant look toward the door. “I can bring them to you once you have had a chance to eat and settle in your chambers.”

“I shall settle in my chambers now.” Daemon rose to his feet, urgency rising with it. “Have my meal and the annals brought there. And a bath drawn.”

If he resented being treated as a chamberlain, Forsethe’s expression did not show it. “I shall have it seen to right away.”

Daemon’s nod was distracted as he exited the room and followed the familiar halls to his personal chambers, which were located on the opposite end of the wing that housed his wife’s—an arrangement that had always suited them well enough.

Although the fire had been lit, it had not yet had the time to heat the room, so he settled in the chair by the fireplace, staring into it, wondering if he was being too greedy before deciding that no, his children had suffered for years alone. He would gladly do far worse to secure their future.

It was hours later when Daemon finally put the maester’s accounts down, finding nothing in there to contradict the tale he sought to spin. Next, he summoned the lady’s maid who had served his wife the past ten years.

“How long was she at the summer residence?” he asked, keeping his voice level.

The woman, nearing Rhea’s own age, carried the same disapproval for him. Unlike her mistress, however, she did not have the luxury of showing it except in the pursed corners of her lips. “Some four or five moons, my prince. She returned once winter had begun to ebb and the weather finally improved.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair. “Curious that she sent you from her side, was it not?”

“It’s not my place to question m’lady’s decisions,” the woman said stonily.

“Of course not,” he said, turning his face back to the fire in obvious dismissal.

Eight years was a long time. Long enough for memories to fade, granting a certain fluidity to the past. His wife had busily arranged a match for her sister, likely in the first moon of her pregnancy, and then stayed with her for its final moons, leaving her steward in charge of Runestone during that span. Who was to say she had not been the one with child instead?

Daemon had barely touched her since the early days of their marriage. In the wake of his first banishment, the last thing he had wanted to do was break his cock off in that frigid cunt, and she had not approached him in that time either. They had coupled once, with mutual distaste, at the very end so that he could truthfully tell his brother that he had fulfilled his marital duties as ordered. But the only two people who knew that were himself and his wife, and she was soon to be dead.

There were those who might be skeptical that a woman could go so far as to conceal the existence of her own children to spite their father, but their hatred for one another was well known. And he did not need to convince everyone. In fact, he might only need to convince one person.

After staring into the fire for a few more minutes, Daemon stood and went to the door. “I would see my lady wife,” he said to the guard posted outside.

Maester Forsethe was summoned, very clearly roused from bed and hastily changed out of nightclothes, to accompany him to her bedchamber. It was well lit, fire crackling and candles flickering throughout the room, one of her maids sitting in the corner should she wake and the maester need to be called.

The cloying fragrance of incense covered the miasma of sick that lingered in the air, and Daemon found himself strangely hesitant to approach the bed, but approach he did. His wife’s eyes were closed, half her skull wrapped in cloth, and her skin, ordinarily the same bronze as his moniker for her, was pale and sallow, leeched of color. The smell was the strongest here, a sickly sweetness.

She looked old, eyes sunken and skin puffy from milk of the poppy. He supposed she was, for a woman. She was older than his brother, and five years his elder when they were wed—he seventeen, and she an old maid at twenty-two. She would be almost forty now.

It was harder to maintain his rage at her, in this state. She looked a thing more worthy of pity. She stole your children, he reminded himself. She stole their childhood from them and from you.

“Rhea,” he called, not bothering to couch his voice in softness, but she did not stir. He shot a questioning look at the maester.

“She last woke this morning for a few minutes, but she was in great pain,” Forsethe said. “I administered milk of the poppy, and sleep took her soon after.”

“Did she say anything? Was she coherent?”

“At times. She knows Lord Royce is coming, and she keeps asking after her young nephews.”

Daemon’s head snapped back to the maester. “Her nephews?”

“Yes, her sister’s orphaned boys, Jon and Raymar. They live with Allard Royce.”

The anger was back, and he turned his face aside to hide it, tried to swallow it so that it did not betray him. Jon and Raymar. The most unremarkable of Vale names possible. “Did she spend much time with them?”

“She would visit twice a year, usually when she needed to go to the Eyrie. It was their eighth name day just a few days ago.” The maester smiled sadly down at her. “She wanted to know if they’d received her gift, but she gave it to them herself when she attended Lady Arryn’s hunt three moons ago.”

“What was it?” he asked, voice dead to his ears.

“Hunting knives,” the maester replied. “Very fine work from Wyllam, our smith. She took them hawking while she was there, and was arranging to bring them here for the winter. She has always been most tender toward the boys.”

Daemon turned abruptly, walking on swift feet to the window, where he clutched at the drapes on either side, trying to calm his breathing when all he wanted to do was rip them and their railing from the wall to send it hurling through the glass and into the night.

She knew them. She cared for them. She thought it finally safe to bring them here, certain I would not return.

And she would have been right. No power save a decree from his brother would have forced him back to Runestone, and these days, his brother spent his time and energy trying to entice him back to King’s Landing instead.

This only benefited his plot, but it was a hollow thought. She had known his children these eight years, had celebrated their name days.

“Are you well, my lord?” the maester called out hesitantly. “I understand that in times such as these, previous…disagreements may seem to fade in importance.”

A burble of laughter rose in his chest, and he choked it down. “I will stay the night here, should she wake.”

“Of course.” Forsethe sounded almost moved by the sentiment, and it was all Daemon could do not to snarl at the man. “I will have a cushioned chair brought here so that you may sit more comfortably.”

The maid remained, but Daemon paid her no mind. He paced the room restlessly, the movement welcome after days in the air. Eventually he settled at her desk, where a few letters lay unfurled. The first was from her snake of a nephew, informing her of his plans to send his sons into Hightower’s eager hands, though of course he did not write it as such. No, it was the greatest honor to be fostered with a minor house of Hightower lackeys.

Beside it were two others, and his heart jumped when his eyes scanned the names at the bottom of each. Jon. Raymar. Emotion welled in his chest, hot and cold, light and heavy, as he read Jon’s first. It was furious and derisive, a pure joy to read. His son had seen right through Allard Royce’s scheming, and had made his opinion of it clear as day.

Then he read through Raymar’s, his son’s hurt and pain pouring out of every sentence, and he nearly threw his chair. The bitch had flung them the barest scraps of affection and his children had seized onto them as though starved. She had dangled the hope of a winter with her, and then her nephew had snatched it from them in a fit of jealousy.

Daemon left the room without a word, steps carrying him down the halls and out the grand doors, past startled guards, through the gates of the castle and its miserable town. There was only a sliver of moonlight to guide him, but he did not stop until he was at the enclosure that had been built for Caraxes and then almost never used. Nevertheless, his dragon was there now, a dark silhouette just barely visible against the night.

And then, finally, Daemon screamed, equal parts fury and agony. He screamed and cursed until his throat was raw as Caraxes watched, eyes glowing faintly. And then, leaning into his scaly side, exhausted, the grief followed.

I would have loved you from birth. I would have carved out a home for us, away from her poison. You would have been raised in King’s Landing as the princes you are and it would be a blade through the belly of any who dared call you bastards. You would have had a dragon egg, each of you, and you would have known the sky from Caraxes’s back, from the moment you were capable of toddling.

By the end of it, he felt utterly emptied of emotion, of anything but cold determination. He did not care what he had to do, or who he had to threaten. He would cleanse his sons of any stain of bastardry, he would descend on the Gates of the Moon, and he would bring them home.

Daemon returned to his wife’s bedchamber. He read and reread his sons’ letters, trying to glean anything he could from those few paragraphs. They were articulate and bright, that much was clear. Jon reminded him of his father, fiery and passionate. Raymar seemed the more introspective of the two, more like his uncle Aemon.

They would need proper names, he thought with a frown. He had intended to name his firstborn Aegon, after his thrice-great grandfather, but Viserys had stolen that name for the first of his Hightower spawn. Perhaps Baelon for his father, to carry on his name, assuming his brother did not take offense. Then again, his sons were now old enough to decide themselves. Just one more thing stolen from him.

He did finally doze in one of the chairs, the fatigue of his long journey eventually slowing the spin of his thoughts, waking with the first glow of dawn. The maid had exchanged herself for another at some point, and his wife remained still and unresponsive in her bed.

Breakfast was brought to him, and he found himself ravenous. He did not love sheep half as much as the people of the Vale did, but they cooked it well enough, and the dozen tiny mutton sausages were expertly seasoned in a glaze of sweet onion. He nibbled more slowly at the bread, which was nothing remarkable by the standards of the Red Keep, but heavenly compared to the fare available on the battlefield.

There was an unfinished letter he hadn’t noticed the night before on his wife’s desk, addressed to her nephew Allard, but she had gotten no further than the greeting before halting. Indecision? If his sons’ letters had not moved her to reconsider, then her heart was indeed as cold as her cunt.

The sound of a groan drew his attention away, and his nerves sang with tense energy as he recognized what it meant. “Fetch the maester,” he ordered the maid, racing to her side.

Her eyelids opened slowly, a blankness to her eyes that made his heart fall for a moment, but awareness flickered after a moment. “Daemon,” she said, voice dry and raspy. Her mouth pinched then, whether in displeasure or pain or both, he could not say.

“I want my sons,” he said, not wasting time on pleasantries that neither of them would believe.

She winced, this time he thought in pain, eyes squeezing shut as though the dim light hurt. “Jon. Raymar.”

“You stole them from me,” he hissed, gripping the edge of the bed to occupy his hands.

“I protected them,” she said, and it took every ounce of self control not to throttle her.

“Delivering them into Hightower’s greedy hands is protecting them?” he managed through clenched teeth.

Her eyes opened again, mouth moving into a frown. “Allard.”

Daemon choked down a thousand responses, each more vitriolic than the last. He needed her. In these final hours or days of her life, he needed her.

“You can still protect them,” he said finally.

A haze seemed to pass over his wife, and he shook the bed lightly. A small cry escaped her, but clarity returned to her gaze.

He stared back at her, hating that in this moment, when he should have been able to face her with the full fury she deserved, that he was the supplicant. Always the lesser, in their relationship. An inexperienced boy, a toothless prince, a lord-consort and not a lord. “There is one gift you can yet give them.”

From the look in her eyes as they settled on him, she knew exactly what he meant. “Them? Or you?”

“Whatever hatred you hold for me they are innocent of,” Daemon said, struggling to keep his voice level. “My sons do not deserve the scorn that awaits them in King’s Landing.”

“ Your sons already,” she rasped. “And yours alone. How very like you. Is it those boys that you want, or my seat?”

Daemon’s vision went white from fury. “I would trade this joyless castle for a single day of knowing them.”

Her gaze moved erratically from point to point on his face, reading him as she liked to do. Meting out judgment to find him ever wanting, even now.

“Do you wish for me to beg?” He would do it. He would swallow his pride this one last time, even if it choked him.

“I do not give a fuck about you, Daemon,” she said, voice cold and pitiless. “I care what becomes of them.” Her lips formed a grim smile that was half wince. “I know now that not even you could ruin them.”

He was trembling, he realized. With fury, with desperation, with helplessness. “If you hold any love for them—”

“Them,” she repeated. “Not you.”

But she nodded then with an immediate wince at the motion, and Daemon had to brace himself on the bedpost, weak with a relief that tipped just as quickly back to fury at the arrogance of thinking him capable of only greed where his children were concerned.

“Lady Royce.” Maester Forsethe had arrived, hurrying to the opposite side of the bed. “I have brought more milk of the poppy—”

“No,” she said weakly, even as her jaw tensed in a grimace that seemed to provoke further pain. “Not yet. There is something I must say.”

“My lady wife has confessed something to me,” Daemon said, looking up at the maester, letting the anger bleed into his voice at last. “A vile deed that borders on treason.”

Forsethe looked between him and his wife, uncertainty wrinkling his brow. “My prince, with injuries such as these, the mind can—”

“This she spoke in sound mind,” Daemon said, gaze fixed on her. “Her nephews were born not of her sister’s body, but her own, and spite drove her to hide them from me all these years.”

The maester’s uncertainty turned to disapproval. “My prince, this is unseemly—”

A hand reached out, clasping weakly for the maester’s. “It is truth, Forsethe. Jon and Raymar are my sons.”

“My lady—”

“Paper,” she said, voice rising in pain. “Bring paper.” And when the maester returned at her side, paper and quill in hand, she took a fluttering breath. “Write.”

She spoke haltingly, with some pauses lasting minutes at a time before she seemed to gather the will or wits to continue, but she spoke the lie into truth, eyes on Daemon throughout. The maester appeared more shocked than anything, and Daemon was not sure how much he believed of it, but he faithfully copied her words onto paper, until she had finished at last.

“Give it to me,” she said.

Her hand trembled so hard that her signature was more scribble than anything else, but it had been witnessed by a maester, along with the wide-eyed maid by the door.

“My lady,” the maester said, gaze darting toward Daemon. “If these words are not fully your own—”

“I spoke them,” she said, with the most life she had shown. “Do you call me a liar?”

“Of course not—”

“They are my boys.” Tears gathered in her eyes then. “I love them. I have always loved them. Even when—when I feared to.”

“My lady.” The maester swallowed. “Questions may arise about the succession of your seat—”

Her eyes locked on Daemon. “Allard is my heir, and a man grown. Let the boys go to their father.”

Prove it, her gaze seemed to say, I will give you your children, but you will not have Runestone. Daemon’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. It would be easier to threaten her nephew, should he think to dispute her confession, if he had something to lose. The matter of Runestone and his sons’ inheritance could be dealt with later.

“They look like you,” she said, eyes closing. “I could barely find my blood in them.”

This time, when Maester Forsethe offered her milk of the poppy, his wife accepted it, throat moving weakly to swallow. Daemon remained at her bedside along with Maester Forsethe as she slipped back into unconsciousness. Two hours later, her last breath left her chest.

Not an hour after that, her nephew rode through the gates.

Forsethe was all too eager to welcome Allard Royce as the new Lord of Runestone, even as his lady’s body was still cooling. Her nephew was as he remembered. Older of course, well into his twenties by now, but the same pinched, narrow face and thin lips. A bastard himself, granted legitimacy by his dear brother.

Whatever sadness the man might have felt about his aunt’s passing turned to stiff tension when he marked Daemon’s presence in her chambers, gaze darting to her desk, then back to Daemon, who tilted his head ever so slightly.

Oh, yes. I have read her letters. I know exactly how you intended to rid yourself of my sons.

“Prince Daemon,” Allard said, halting just inside the door, as though fearing to venture further.

“Allard,” he replied, drawing his name out as he rose from his seat. Maester Forsethe hovered uncertainly between them, seeming to sense the coming storm. “Leave us, maester.”

Forsethe looked toward Allard. “My lord—”

Allard took a breath, presumably marshaling whatever passed for courage for him. “It is no concern, Forsethe.” He walked around the departing maester, taking up on the opposite side of the bed.

Daemon raised a brow at him. “Using your dead aunt as a shield?”

His anger was a quiet simmer, not yet come to boil, which was good. There would be time for it after this conversation.

“I came to pay my respects,” Allard said. There seemed to be more he wished to say, a dull resentment in his eyes, but he held his tongue.

“Do you know why I am here?” Daemon asked.

“No.”

Daemon’s hand clenched around the rolled parchment in his hand. Even now, the weasel played at ignorance. He tossed the parchment onto the bed, holding Allard’s gaze as he reached over his aunt’s body to pick it up. Allard seemed relieved to lower his eyes to the page, but the relief lasted perhaps a sentence before the color left his face.

“That cannot be—”

“What?” Daemon asked, voice gone quiet. “What cannot be?”

“She told me—” He scanned the words again, as though they might change upon reread, before lowering the paper with a frown. “This is not her hand.”

Daemon raised one of her limp wrists, then let it fall to the bed. “Did you think her capable of writing by the end? Myself and Maester Forsethe were both present for her confession. Forsethe put her words to paper, and her last act was to sign it.”

Allard looked back down at the parchment with a bewildered shake of his head, but his reaction appeared to be one of shock rather than disbelief. “So that is why she wished to bring them here,” he muttered. “And why she did not respond to my raven. I thought it strange.”

“Strange,” Daemon repeated, his control beginning to waver as anger rose in his chest, burning hotter by the moment. “Strange that someone might desire the company of my children?”

Allard reeled back. “No, that is not—”

“Or perhaps you meant strange that she would go against Otto Hightower’s wishes.” Daemon circled around the bed, contempt rising in him as the man’s eyes darted briefly past him, toward the door. “Tell me, what was the price for my children? An advantageous match for one of yours?” His lips curled into a sneer. “Or did you simply fear them as a rival for your aunt’s seat?”

“They were raised as befitting their highborn status,” Allard said stiffly. “They received the finest education and training—”

“My sons are of House Targaryen!” Daemon roared. “You would name your tutors and armsmasters the equal of those who instruct the king’s own children?”

“I raised them according to my aunt’s wishes. Their mother’s wishes.”

“Do you think that makes you any less a traitor than her?” Daemon plucked the confession from his hand and rolled it back up, holding one end to the underside of his chin, like a knife. “You are very fortunate, nephew. I am willing to let you atone for your crimes against my house without dragging you back to King’s Landing in chains to answer to my brother.”

Allard watched him warily, silent for once.

“So you do know how to shut up.” Daemon patted his cheek. “Your aunt has named you her heir. There are grounds for me to dispute it, both on account of your treason and my sons’ own claim, but I am willing to let you be lord of this rock.”

He might seethe with the injustice of it, but many a young lord died heirless; that possibility remained open.

“In return,” he continued, “You will offer your unwavering support. There are some who do not know the depths of your aunt’s hatred toward me. They may view her confession with skepticism. You will swear to any who may ask, including my brother the king, that she confided the truth to you during her last visit.”

Daemon could see the objection forming in his eyes, but Allard opened his mouth, then shut it very suddenly with a nod. “Very well. For their sake, I will do this.”

Even the agreement was begrudging, and Daemon had to relax his grip on the rolled up parchment, lest he crush it. This was the man who had raised his children. Jealous and power-hungry, willing to banish them to the very ends of the Reach for merely the threat of their aunt preferring them to him.

A dozen questions hovered on his tongue as he stared at Allard. Did he know why his wife had hidden them from him after her sister’s death? When had Otto insinuated himself into the arrangement, and did he know the truth? How had they remained hidden for so long?

“Who did they go to,” he asked finally, “when nightmares woke them in the night?”

Allard blinked, his confused frown answer enough. Daemon turned away then, lest he throttle the man, the rage in his throat a physical ache, half-strangling him.

“I have had my fill of Runestone,” he said, once he had mastered himself. “I leave this afternoon for the Gates of the Moon, and I will bring my sons home.” Allard’s face paled, thin lips growing thinner, and Daemon felt the first stirring of unease. “What?”

“They have departed already for Blackcrown.”

Daemon was not aware of moving, his hands suddenly fisted in the other man’s tunic, raising him an inch off the ground. “When?”

“My lord? Ah—my prince?”

It was not the interruption itself that stopped his march with Allard toward the fireplace, but rather the tremor in Maester Forsethe’s voice. Daemon released him, turning to the maester, who bowed his head before meeting his gaze with a sympathy that turned the fire in his blood to ice. “A raven has arrived from the Gates of the Moon.”

Chapter Text

The day after his failed escape attempt was agony from the very start. Jon woke, his mind still fuzzy from the draught, to stare blankly at the brightening sky. Then he shifted to the side, and white-hot pain knifed through his arm. His involuntary yelp sent an answering jolt through his injured ribs.

“Jon!” Rhaegar was at his bedroll in an instant, hands hovering helplessly over him. Unbound hands. He must have been awake for some time.

“Blanket,” Jon said, and Rhaegar peeled it carefully off him. He gauged the possibility of sitting up unassisted, and paid for his optimism with a fresh jolt of agony that sent him back into the ground.

“Easy, let me.” Rhaegar shifted behind him and grasped each shoulder to raise him into a sitting position. His brother paled as they both caught a good look at his bound arms. “That is—”

“Broken,” Jon said gruffly, not wanting to cause any further worry.

It was not the worst kind of break, where bone pierced skin. Jon had seen that kind of fracture kill an otherwise healthy man, rot taking root deep. His right forearm was a mess of bruising, and the swelling extended far enough down his wrist that his bonds had become painfully tight, but the skin was intact.

“Where else are you hurt?”

“Ribs. Cracked, I think.”

It was not his first time. Jon had cracked several at eleven, when his horse had startled as he was dismounting, and it had been an unpleasant recovery. The thought of riding today, especially at the steady trot Crayne demanded, filled him with dread.

Rhaegar peeled his tunic up, and Jon guessed by his sharp intake of breath that it too was a canvas of bruising. “Jon—”

“What about you?” Crayne’s ugly threat resurfaced in his mind, and Jon twisted to see him, forgetting himself yet again. His shoulders tensed immediately at the answering pain.

“Careful!” Rhaegar knelt in front of him, no visible injuries other than a faint shadow around his throat where Crayne had grabbed him, but he was nearly as pale as his hair, staring back at Jon with clear anguish. “I’m fine.” His hands clenched by his sides. “I am never the one hurt.”

Jon’s shoulders relaxed. “Good.”

“He was going to kill you,” Rhaegar said, looking haunted by the memory.

“He didn’t.” But it had been a close thing, only greed and Rhaegar’s pleading bringing Crayne back from that precipice. “And he won’t, not anymore.” Jon looked down at his bound hands. “Even if I were untied right now, there is nothing we could do.”

And Crayne knew it. He’d left them both unattended at the campsite this morning after Jon had almost killed him in his sleep because it would take a miracle for him to have even a chance at mounting Clover unassisted. It would have been difficult even before, when there hadn’t been a broken arm and fractured ribs to contend with.

“Please.” Rhaegar’s hands, cold and trembling, cupped his cheeks as he leaned their foreheads together. “Do not anger him. He can still hurt you.”

By hurting you. “I won’t.”

“How sweet.” The mockery in Crayne’s voice lacked his usual amusement.

Rhaegar flinched back, and Jon glanced past him at their captor, who had apparently come back from cleaning the blood off his neck and clothing, the angry red cut still very prominent on his jaw. Blood would draw attention on the road, however, in a way that a healing injury would not.

Crayne strode over to them, grasping Jon by the collar to pull him to his feet. “Eat, and then we are off.” The swelling made the knots of his bindings more difficult to unravel, but Crayne made no pretense at gentleness, the rough tugging at the rope borne by Jon in jaw-clenched silence. He was light-headed from pain by the end of it.

“It needs to be splinted,” Rhaegar said, drawing Crayne’s flat stare. “He will not be able to ride like this.”

“I broke his arm, not his hand,” Crayne said with a shrug. “Consider it a learning experience.”

There were no apples this morning, a tightness in their captor’s bearing that spoke of barely leashed anger. Jon wondered if it was the sobering realization of how close he’d come to death, or wounded vanity at the very visible cut. He and Rhaegar ate very little, neither taking their eyes off Crayne.

The process of being hoisted onto the saddle was as excruciating as Jon had feared. He gripped the reins in his right hand as lightly as possible, and even that was unpleasant, but it was his ribs that proved the greater agony on horseback, every stride jarring them.

He swallowed his cries as best he could, but as the hours passed, they finally began to slip past his lips, drawing a flicker of movement up ahead each time as Rhaegar turned to check on him. Jon assumed he worked some magic, or perhaps Crayne had felt the pace begin to slow, because the horse up ahead finally pulled off the road.

Jon stopped behind it, exhausted, so caught up in the pain that he failed to anticipate the hands that gripped him to lower him off Clover and deposit him roughly on the ground. His eyes squeezed shut at the impact, tears gathering as the misery threatened to overwhelm him, every hitch of breath a fresh agony.

“Breathe,” Rhaegar said, immediately at his side. Jon leaned against him, fighting for control. “Slowly. Breathe with me.” He guided Jon’s good hand to his sternum, so that he could feel the rise and fall of it. “That is all you must do.”

Jon tried. He tried to focus on the heat of the midday sun bearing down on his head, and the breeze that stirred from the east, but the relief of being off horseback seemed to have signaled to his body that it was safe to loose the sobs that had built up. Rhaegar began to hum, the vibration traveling through his chest to Jon’s fingertips, and though it broke at times, it gave him something to cling to.

“You said there was something you could give him for the pain,” Rhaegar said after a time, voice angled away from him.

“For the night. He’ll fall off his horse if he drinks it now.”

“Then take him with you. I will ride behind, and you can hold onto him. We are but days from our destination and—” There was a pause before Rhaegar’s voice lowered to barely more than a whisper. “No one is coming.”

Their letter would have reached Dragonstone well over a week ago. Ten days? Someone would have come by now, if it had found the right hands. So either it had and been dismissed as fiction, or it hadn’t, either way—

No one is coming.

A bottle was tilted to his lips, that same sickly-sweet liquid filling his mouth before he brought himself to swallow. He opened his eyes finally, focusing on Rhaegar. Though his expression was calm, his eyes were anything but, roving over Jon anxiously for signs of the pain lessening.

It was like a fog rolling over him. He could feel his mind slowing, the pain present but faded, felt from a great distance. A kiss found his hair, and Rhaegar whispered, “Rest if you can.”

Jon did not know how long the break lasted. Eventually he was hauled up onto Crayne’s horse, and he became aware of the light bounce of movement. The pain labored to reach him through the fog, but the pull was so strong that Jon barely even marked that it was Crayne behind him.

He didn’t remember eating when they stopped for the night. Rhaegar spoke to him, and he answered, but he could not recall anything said. Another mouthful of draught was administered, and he did not even notice that he hadn’t been bound this time.

The next day passed in a haze of discomfort, and when he brought his broken arm up to eye level at one point, wondering why it felt so heavy, he realized that it had been splinted.

It was on the third day of his injuries that both the pain and awareness slowly returned to him. Crayne, apparently running low on his draught, had halved its dose. It took enough of an edge off for the ride to be bearable, but the pain drained him slowly as the day dragged on.

“You are far poorer company than your brother,” Crayne muttered at one point, after yet another pained hiss of breath through his teeth.

Irritation was quicker to rise at his current level of discomfort, overriding his newfound fear of their captor. “As are you.”

“How fortunate that we shall be rid of one another soon.”

The cut he’d left on Crayne’s jaw was larger than he’d thought, now that he had the presence of mind to actually take it in during the light of day. It had scabbed over, already in the process of healing, but it would leave an impressive scar.

“Well worth twenty-five thousand dragons,” Crayne said, catching him studying it. “You did not strike quickly enough.”

A mistake Jon would not repeat, should their paths ever cross again. When they stopped for the night, Crayne withheld the draught, deeming the dwindling supply better reserved for the stints on horseback. It was a chilly night, and Jon was left by the horses while Crayne took Rhaegar to gather wood for a fire.

Once the fire was hot and roaring, Crayne went to his saddlebag and withdrew something long and thin. As he brought it closer, Jon could see that it was a candle of some sort, a full two feet tall, made of what looked almost like red-hued dragonglass, melted and twisted into a spiral, with a golden braided wick emerging from the top.

Crayne planted it on the edge of the fire, several inches deep into the ground, and stepped back.

“What is that?” Rhaegar asked, looking as mystified as Jon.

“I was told it is a signal.”

Crayne regarded it with skepticism until the candle flared to light on its own, causing them all to startle. But rather than the orange glow of fire, its flame burned a white-grey light that seemed to leech all the color around them. Rhaegar shone with every shade of silver, while Crayne’s dark cloak combined with his pale face to leave him a corpse half swathed in shadow, the cut on the underside of his jaw dark like a crack in porcelain. In the distance, the horses knickered with unease.

The longer he gazed into the candle, the more aware Jon was of the prickle on the back of his neck of something watching. He broke off his stare, shifting it to the fire instead, which resembled nothing so much as dancing smoke now with its many shades of grey. That faint pressure remained, however, no matter where he looked.

Magic. And like no magic Jon had ever seen before. Even Crayne looked discomfited by the candle.

“When is it done?” Jon asked, because the dragonglass that made up the stalk of the candle seemed unaffected by the flame.

Crayne’s fingers tapped restlessly against the hilt of his sword; he too had averted his gaze. “How should I know?”

A flicker of motion drew Jon’s gaze again. Rhaegar was walking slowly towards it. “Rhaegar,” Jon said sharply.

“Can you not hear it calling?” Rhaegar asked, sounding almost in a trance.

“No.” Jon sped over to him, catching his shoulder with his good arm. “And if it is, I think it better not to answer.”

Rhaegar started at his touch, spell seemingly broken, and took a step back before forcing himself to turn away. His eyes widened slightly as they locked on Jon. “You’re burning.”

Jon glanced down at himself, but saw nothing. “And you are glowing. It is twisting our perception.”

A relic of R'hllor, perhaps? But even though it had an element of fire to it, there was a disconcerting otherness to it that differed from anything he had seen from Melisandre.

A warlock, then. Daenerys had encountered warlocks in Essos who sought to harness the magic imbued in her and the dragons. There was far more magic in this world, which was nearly as close in time to the last days of Valyria as it was Jon’s own. And perhaps more warlocks? In Jon’s experience, the hunger for power was universal, and if they believed there was power to be gained…

The warlocks in Qarth had intended to trap Daenerys and her dragons for an eternity, so that they could preserve their new source of power. But we do not have any dragons.

Jon turned to Crayne. “The man who offered you the fifty thousand dragons, what did he look like?” Blue-stained lips, blackened fingernails, and skin pale as parchment. That was how Daenerys had described the warlocks of Qarth.

“A man,” Crayne said. “Nothing more.”

The eerie flame of the dragonglass candle went dark as quickly as it had ignited, and color snapped back into the world, the orange-red of the campfire suddenly quite vivid. The sense of distant eyes upon them faded.

Jon did not know the Vale, so he could not say how far they were from the Saltpans, but even with the slower pace over the past three days, they could not be more than a day’s travel. If this was a signal, then what was it for? Why not simply await them at a pre-arranged meeting location in the town?

Crayne distributed food for the night, a more generous portion than usual, though it remained the same unappetizing fare. Jon moved to the side of the campfire opposite from the candle, preferring to be as far from it as possible, and Rhaegar followed.

“You suspect something,” his brother said quietly, turning one of their rock-hard biscuits over and over in his hands before taking a tiny nibble. “Who do you think is waiting for us?”

“Someone with magic at their disposal. A warlock.”

“I have read very little about them.” Rhaegar frowned. “I thought their magic died with the—”

“Dragons?” Jon said wryly. There were at least a dozen adult dragons currently alive in Westeros. “I do not know for certain. But apparently dragons fuel their magic, or perhaps empower it.”

They could have merely kept Daenerys’s dragons, but they had wanted her too. Jon hoped they intended to merely keep him and Rhaegar as prisoners, and nothing more. It would make sense why they wanted both of them—surely more was better, as far as power was concerned—and where the coin had come from. If warlocks were still great in power, coin was likely plentiful.

“You should eat,” Rhaegar said, despite spurning his own advice. His gaze swept Jon, concern overtaking his expression. “How are your injuries?”

“They do not trouble me when I am still,” Jon said, though that was not entirely truthful. After a full day’s ride, both his arm and ribs throbbed, but that was a dull pain. Manageable. Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed, mouth opening to question him further, and Jon added, “I would rather my mind be clear for when we are given to our new captors.”

If their instructions had been that neither of them be harmed, then a later attempt at escape might be met more gently than Crayne had.

“That is fair enough.” Rhaegar sighed, then looked at him with plaintive eyes. “Please eat.”

Jon hadn’t the heart to deny him, so he swallowed bland mouthfuls of biscuit between sips of water and bites of salt beef, staring pointedly back until his brother did the same. It wasn’t the pain that dulled his appetite tonight—it was the nerves.

He could be wrong, Jon knew. Someone else entirely might await them tomorrow. And either way, there was no guarantee they would be kept together once they arrived in Essos. Or the warlocks might find that they were no aid at all without dragons, and find another use for them. Jon had heard gruesome things about ingredients used in spells, back when they had been forced to entertain the possibility of seeking aid from Essos to defeat the Others.

“I do not think I can sleep tonight,” Rhaegar said.

Jon glanced over to the opposite side of the campfire, where the candle remained planted, and felt another stir of foreboding. “Me neither.”

Sleep did fall eventually, his child’s body worn ragged by both the rough day of riding and his injuries. It was not Crayne or the creeping light of dawn that woke him, however, but rather a rhythmic thudding on the edge of slumber that his brain recognized finally as hoofbeats.

Crayne was already rising to his feet when Jon’s eyes shot open. A wild hope filled him briefly: someone had come, the bodies of their slain guardsmen had been found and a raven sent to the Saltpans. But when he cautiously eased himself into a sitting position to the sound of Crayne’s sword being drawn from its sheath, the outline of the rider became more clear: lone and hooded, no weapon visible on him.

The figure tossed a fat purse the size of a pomegranate toward Crayne, and it landed by the fire with the heavy clink of coin. “I was sent to meet you,” he said, with an accent Jon could not place except that it was not of Westeros.

Crayne kept his eyes on the rider as he leaned forward to pick up the purse. There was a pattern or seal on it that Crayne seemed to recognize, and his bearing relaxed. Behind him, Jon could see that Rhaegar had risen as well, and was peering at the rider with an emotion that mirrored his own now: anticipatory dread.

“The rest of my fee?” Crayne asked with one of those empty smiles.

“Waiting in a ship in the harbor. But first…” The rider’s hood turned to Jon, and then Rhaegar. “I must know that you have brought what my patrons seek.”

Crayne’s smile remained fixed in place, but his eyes narrowed. “You can see them, can you not?”

He must have woken to feed fire recently, because its flames still crackled high as he moved Rhaegar closer to it, lifting his braided hair to the light.

“That means nothing,” the hooded figure said.

He dismounted, then reached into his saddlebag, withdrawing two large, rounded shapes that Jon realized with a jolt of shock were dragon eggs. Crayne, who had tensed at the motion, eased his grip on his sword once more as the other man approached with the eggs. A sidelong glance at Rhaegar found him equally awed by the sight.

The man continued past Jon, however, and with two heaves, he cast the eggs into the center of the campfire. “Retrieve them.”

Jon stiffened at the command. How could he know? “Or what?”

“Or your captor may kill you himself for not being worth the price that was promised.”

Jon stared deep into his hood, marking the pale skin. Were his lips faintly blue, or was it simply the dark? There was also a strange shadow along his neck, not cast by his chin—vaguely patterned, like a tattoo.

“This is not what we agreed,” Crayne said, a dark edge to his voice.

“No? Neither was harming them.”

Jon shot Rhaegar an uncertain glance. Daenerys had also been able to withstand naked flame, but she had told him it was not a trait everyone in their family shared. Her brother Viserys had not. But he thought he recognized a similar question in his brother’s eyes. Jon gave him a tiny nod, then approached the fire.

He felt drawn to the darker egg, its scaled surface a black mottled with patches of copper, and so that was the one he reached for, forced to roll it out of the fire with his left hand, lest his splint catch flame. Rhaegar drew up his sleeves and extended both hands to grasp the other, a dark blue that was silvered along the edges of the scales.

The dragon egg was warm as Jon rested his hand on it, and he thought he could feel it almost pulsing, humming with life. There was something about it, something so incredibly familiar that he could not place.

“The door,” Rhaegar whispered.

Of course. Jon stared at the egg. At Summerhall, when he had followed a strange calling to the door that had taken him here. Taken them both here. And yet that detail hardly seemed to matter as he traced a finger along the raised texture of the scales, feeling an unmistakable hum of life within.

“The Dancing Myr,” the hooded man said, voice interrupting his reverie. “That is your ship.”

Crayne’s silence in response was so unlike the man that it drew Jon’s gaze from the dragon egg to find the man staring at them with wide eyes. 

Jon’s gaze shifted to the hooded figure, who was watching them in almost reverent silence. How had the eggs come into the man’s possession? It felt like no coincidence at all that they were the very source of the call that had beckoned them here. He’d assumed that only a god would have had the power to bring them here. Could there still be magic enough in this world for men to be capable of such feats? And if so, what could they possibly need them for?

“Your services are still needed,” the man said, and though his eyes were still on them, the words were directed toward Crayne.

“My services?” Crayne seemed to have mostly recovered from the shock of them reaching into naked flame for the dragon eggs. 

“If you escort us to the harbor, then this is yours.” A dagger appeared in the man’s empty hands in the space of a blink, hilt black as obsidian, the blade a dark grey with the characteristic ripples of Valyrian steel.

Crayne stared at it, then took several quick steps forward to examine the dagger, which the man allowed. There was a tension in his shoulders that Jon thought he recognized: a violent impulse held in check. To Crayne, it must be tempting to kill the man, take the dagger himself, and claim his promised reward at the harbor.

That would leave him with Jon and Rhaegar and now two dragon eggs in hand, an even richer prize to barter away. Any of the Free Cities would give him wealth beyond imagination. A Targaryen bastard alone didn’t hold much inherent value, but two such children with dragon eggs were a temptation that any major power would kill for. After all, before Aegon’s conquest, the number of living dragons on the Targaryen stronghold of Dragonstone had dwindled to just one, Balerion, and now there were over a dozen.

But something held Crayne back. Fear, Jon would guess. He had witnessed several things in the past few hours that defied explanation and did not want to risk his already substantial reward. Crayne flashed a smile. “Consider it done.”

The hooded man had stepped closer to the fire to show the Valyrian steel dagger to Crayne, and his features were visible now, though still shadowed by the hood. His lips were slightly blue-hued, but his eyes normal enough, a dark brown. Sandy blond hair, half shaved, the rest pulled back out of view beneath the hood. The dark patch on his throat that Jon had noticed before was indeed a tattoo of what looked almost like writing or runes that disappeared beneath clothing.

“What do you want?” Jon asked, watching his face carefully.

He returned Jon’s gaze serenely. “To see you delivered safely.”

Jon exchanged a look with Rhaegar. “Delivered to who?”

“Those who will protect and cherish you,” the man replied, equally vague.

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Do these patrons of yours have a name?”

The man gave no reply, seeming content to merely watch them. “Protect and cherish” sounded like pretty words to calm the fears of frightened children.

“The dragon eggs—”

“Are a gift for you.” And despite the interruption, he did not expand any further on that. There had to be more to it. What point was there in gifting dragon eggs to them, when they would never be allowed to ride the dragons once they hatched and grew? There would be no way to prevent them from fleeing otherwise.

Except there is, he realized with a frown. The same way Crayne has done it. You may ride, but your brother stays behind.

Jon moved on. “Where are we going?”

Yet again, there was no answer.

“What is your name?” Rhaegar asked.

At first, Jon thought he would not answer, but the man finally said, “You may call me Jephyro.”

All other questions after that were met with a silence that remained patient, long after Jon would have expected irritation to arise, which it clearly did for Crayne after a few minutes. The hooded man, however, gazed at them with something almost worshipful.

Dawn had begun to creep over the sky, and Crayne seemed eager as he went about breaking camp. As he did so, Jephyro brought out a bounty of tempting treats: tiny honeycakes the size of a man’s palm that smelled fresh enough that the Saltpans could not be far, a satchel of almonds, and dark plums whose skin was tight over the juicy flesh beneath.

It is only food, Jon told himself, overriding his first impulse to reject the very obvious attempt to win them over. He gave Rhaegar a nod and took one of the plums. The sweetness of it was a shock after their bland diet over the past week, and he ate it down to the pit, after which Jephyro offered another. Not wanting to appear too eager, Jon opted for a honeycake instead.

Rhaegar did gladly take a second plum, and then a honeycake. They were both sticky with juice and honey by the end of it, and Jephyro used his waterskin to wet a washcloth to gently wipe them clean. Again, there was a reverence as he did so that made Jon uncomfortable.

He tilted his head at Jon once he had finished. “Your injuries pain you.”

“Only on horseback.” That was not entirely true, but he’d learned by now what motions did and did not aggravate his ribs, and the splint had helped keep his arm immobile, for the most part.

“We will be away soon.” Jon hadn’t noticed the small bottle in his hand, but he recognized the smell as soon as it was uncorked. “Drink.”

Jon suspected this would be their last day on the road. He needed his senses more than he needed to be pain-free, no matter how he dreaded the ride. He pushed the offered draught aside. “I am fine.”

A large hand came down on his shoulder, grip firm. “Drink.”

“No,” Jon said, conscious suddenly of the vast strength difference between them.

“I’ll hold him,” Crayne’s voice said behind him.

Liquid was forced into his mouth, and he was not released until he had swallowed it. The fuzziness came slower, and was muted, more like the half-dose Crayne had been using the previous day. But his body grew heavy, and once he’d been settled onto the saddle—with Jephyro this time, rather than Crayne—he felt his mind start to drift.

The ride was quiet. Jephyro was not the talkative type, and Rhaegar had no more reason to seek favor from Crayne, so he maintained a stubborn silence in the face of Crayne’s attempts at conversation that made Jon smile before his thoughts wandered once more. It was a beautiful day, clear and warm, with large puffy clouds passing lazily overhead. The path since turning off the high road the day before, the red road, was almost as well traveled, a few merchant caravans passing them headed west.

Trees were more plentiful, especially towards the mountains north of them, and the Trident was visible from the road, impossibly wide at the confluence of its three forks as it flowed toward the sea. Jon thought he could hear the rush of water all the way from the road.

There was no midday stop today, their captors seeming intent on reaching their destination by nightfall, and the draught’s effect slowly waned over the course of the afternoon. That left him sharp enough as they crested over the next gentle hill to spot the distant clumping of structures around a modest stone keep, some ten miles distant, and the widening blue of the Bay of Crabs.

The Saltpans.

They had gone no more than half that distance when Jephyro straightened on their horse, pulling it to a sudden halt that jolted his ribs. “We must stop.”

Crayne turned in his saddle as he slowed his own horse, expression impatient. “We are nearly there—”

“We must stop. Now.”

Scowling, Crayne turned his horse back toward them. “On the road?”

Jephyro simply stared at him until finally he dismounted, quickly aiding Rhaegar off the horse, as though fearful that the other man intended to take off with just them and leave him stranded. That did not seem to be Jephyro’s aim, however. He passed Jon to Crayne, who handled him with his typical care—which was to say, none—in depositing him on the ground.

Jephyro dismounted last. “Bring me the candle, quickly.”

Jon shared a mystified look with Rhaegar, who had settled by his side. Though he was not at all eager to reach the Saltpans, he disliked their proximity to the Trident more. A chill gripped him as he recalled his vision of Rhaegar as he lay dying in its waters.

Jon moved between his brother and the distant river and then grabbed for his hand, holding it tightly as they both watched Jephyro plant the candle into the ground and kneel down beside it. The Trident seemed to roar at that moment, drawing his gaze. It roared again, louder somehow, only it wasn’t coming from the south. It was coming from the north.

Rhaegar’s hand spasmed in his, and Jon followed the jerk of his head to the sky, hope lurching to sudden life in his chest with the third roar that emerged from the clouds overhead in a burst of color and motion: a great red dragon, wings spread wide to either side of a long, slender neck, diving straight towards them.

Caraxes.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing?”

Jon could hear the panic in Crayne’s voice, but where it might have filled him with vicious satisfaction at any other time, he barely took notice of it now.

He came for us. Tears gathered in his eyes and he blinked them away, not wanting to miss a single second of the dragon’s approach. He had never seen a dragon fly so fast, with such single-minded fury and purpose.

“Jon.” Rhaegar’s hand tugged at his, and even as captivated as Jon was by the approaching dragon, he picked up on his brother’s sudden apprehension.

Jephyro’s chanting had taken on a fever pitch, hands wrapped around the candle. There was no fear on his face, no despair, but rather a grim determination as the candle flared to light. Instead of the white light before that leeched all color from the world, this burned a yellow-orange so hot that Jon could feel it on his skin more than ten feet away.

Jephyro’s hood had fallen back, and his dark tattoo seemed to glow the same orange as the flame. The sickening sweet scent of burning flesh filled the air, and in that moment, Jephyro’s head jerked skyward with a final wordless shout. Flame erupted from his eyes, melting them within the socket, while the flame itself continued to burn, both sockets filling with a flickering white-orange-red.

Crayne, who had drawn his sword, looked between Jephyro and them, and then the dragon flying straight for them. Jephyro stood and took a step in his direction, the grass beneath his feet scorching instantly, and Crayne’s blade swung toward him. “Stay back!”

“Do you wish to live?” The voice that emerged from Jephyro was not his own. It was deeper, and it echoed with a power that Jon could feel reverberate deep in his own chest.

The smug confidence and slimy charm had abandoned Crayne, leaving him with only wide-eyed terror. “Yes!”

A sizzling sound filled the air and Crayne screamed, drawing his sword arm in close. His sleeve had burned away, the odor of singed flesh rising once more, and Jon could see a pattern scorched into his arm like a brand.

“Flee.” The thing that looked like Jephyro said, a command rather than a threat. “I will have use for you later.”

Crayne half ran, half stumbled to the nearest horse, nearly falling in his attempt to mount, and as soon as his feet were planted in the stirrups, he kicked the horse into a full gallop in the direction of the Saltpans.

Jon gripped Rhaegar’s hand tighter, uncertainty freezing them in place as the form of Jephyro turned toward Caraxes, who was close enough now that the flapping silver-gold hair of his rider was visible. Jon’s breath caught, his hope from before now shifting to fear. He had no idea what this being’s capabilities were, but he had not needed to touch Crayne to burn him.

The flame-eyed man did not speak at all this time; he simply stared at the roaring dragon, unmoving. Seconds passed, long enough for Jon to wonder if perhaps the man was simply waiting for them to land, but then Caraxes let out a strange call, head turning westward, and pulled out of his dive, wings flapping. Jon thought he could hear Daemon screaming at the dragon, but it did not seem to heed him.

The dragon’s distance from them grew. One mile, then another. No, Jon thought numbly. It can’t be.

Once it had flown beyond sight, those flame eyes fixed onto them. “Come. I would look upon you.”

Jon knew that they were now in the presence of one of the men—if a man he truly was—who had offered Crayne the fifty thousand dragons. But he had no idea what he was. A skinchanger of some kind? As he drew closer, Jon could see the thick tracks down either cheek where Jephyro’s eyes had melted. If so, he was like none he had ever seen. A pyromancer? Jon did not know if the fire that moved with him was even a conscious effort.

And though Jon had heard legends of horns that could control dragons, this man had done so in utter silence.

Someone who could cross the world through a candle and burn a man’s soul from his body, set another alight at a distance, and banish a furious dragon and his rider with but a stare—what could he possibly need from them?

“Three heads, has the dragon,” the man intoned, as though in answer, the words enough alike something he had heard Daenerys mutter once that Jon straightened to attention. “Taught to children in the nursery, yet so easily forgotten.”

It was Rhaegar he halted in front of, head tilting to the side. “You heard me through the candle.”

Rhaegar stared back at him. If he felt any fear under his scrutiny, it did not show, his spine straight and shoulders set. “That was not the first time you called to us.”

“No,” the man agreed. His hand smoothed over the crown of Rhaegar’s windswept braid, then caught his chin, turning it from side to side. “Does my touch burn you, little prince?”

“No,” Rhaegar said, voice steady.

As though to test him, the man wrapped his hand around his throat, fully encircling it. He could so easily squeeze, Jon thought, heart galloping in his chest. Or snap it. Instead, flame erupted from his hand and crackled around Rhaegar’s throat, hot enough that Jon could feel its heat on his face. Rhaegar’s expression did not change, eyes faintly narrowed in study.

The flames died down, and a smile found its way onto Jephyro’s ruined face. “At last.” He released Rhaegar’s throat, which was unmarred by the flame. “To find what we have sought for so long...” There was a trembling eagerness to his voice that sent a shiver of unease through Jon. He reached for Rhaegar again, this time almost tenderly. “You shall be our most precious treasure, sweet child.”

Jon felt a whisper of that sensation from the night before, when the candle had been lit, an intrusive pressure that grated against his nerves. He pushed back instinctively, averting his gaze as he had before. The man said something then in High Valyrian that Jon could not understand, caressing Rhaegar’s hair like one might a beloved pet as he continued to croon, while Rhaegar stared at him, seeming mesmerized.

That pressure grew heavier on Jon’s skin, like something was trying to push him out, push him away. Push him away from—

“Get away from him,” Jon snapped.

When Jon grabbed for Rhaegar, those flame eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, he could not move. He was gazing into something very old, something human and not, and it did not like being interrupted. 

But Jon had stared into the eerie blue eyes of the Others and plunged Longclaw into chest after pale chest, until the sound of it, like the fracturing of ice, had become as familiar as the rattling death gurgle of a man. They had come for the world, and he had denied them.

He would do the same and worse to any who came for Rhaegar.

So Jon narrowed his eyes. Leave him. Come and see if I too am what you sought, for I promise that I am not. I shall be everything but.

The pressure eased, and he was able to move again. Jon shook Rhaegar by the shoulder, and his brother blinked slowly, as though waking from a dream. “Jon?” The heavy swell of his pupils had receded, leaving the purple bright and confused. “Where did you go?”

Jon had succeeded in drawing that fiery gaze to him, its malice now shifting to curiosity. “And the other,” he said, fascination seeming to grow. “Such unusual coloring.” He was in front of Jon now, looming over him. “What of you, young prince? Do you burn?”

He extended his hand, wreathed once more in flame, but as it closed around Jon’s neck, he was the one who recoiled, with a shriek that split the air, inhumanly loud. The skin on his palm as he pulled it back was black and cracked, like magma swiftly cooled, and the sudden building pressure of his stare threatened to pin Jon in place once more.

Jon resisted it, returning the stare with a threat of his own. You can be harmed. “I do not, but it would seem that you do.”

“Your blood has been tainted,” the man hissed, flame escaping in spurts, like the pulse of blood in time with a heartbeat, through the burnt cracks of his hand. “You should not be here.”

“Then you should not have brought me here,” Jon said, recognizing the fear beneath the fury.

His flaming eyes began to swell, expanding beyond their sockets, until they were nearly half his face. Roasted skin sloughed off of his cheekbones, the smell of burning hair joining it. “Your flame is still but a flicker,” he said, voice deepening to a rumble that reverberated in the cavity of Jon’s chest. He reached into Jephyro’s cloak to withdraw the Valyrian steel dagger. “And easily snuffed out.”

“No!” Rhaegar caught Jon by the arm, yanking him back to throw himself between them. “Leave him.”

“He is an abomination.” The terrible brightness of his eyes continued to grow both in size and intensity, locked on Jon, the heat of it setting grasses twenty feet distant ablaze. But with Rhaegar in the way, he did not yet move to strike. “What would you offer for his life?”

Rhaegar’s head half turned to Jon, then back to the burning body of Jephyro. When he spoke, it was in High Valyrian, light and fast, and Jon knew exactly what he was doing.

“No,” Jon snarled, wrapping his good arm around Rhaegar’s torso in a hold that was agony on his ribs, which halted his brother’s abortive attempt to struggle. “No bargaining.”

It was clear to Jon now that in his fury and pain, the man wearing Jephyro’s body had lost control over the flame. One more push would be enough. Jon shoved Rhaegar to the ground, then ducked the descending swing of the dagger with reflexes far faster than those of a puppet jerked around by mummer’s strings. His hand shot up, catching the wrist holding the dagger, and the resulting shriek at his touch emerged as fire from Jephyro’s mouth, exploding outward like a gout of dragonflame. The body jerked several times, the odor of burning organ meat overpowering now, before it dropped at last, skin cracking and peeling from the intense heat within.

“Gods,” Rhaegar whispered beside him, sounding sick.

They were still encircled by burning grass, and although the flames wouldn’t kill them, the smoke could. Jon cast an uncertain glance at the dragonglass candle, still embedded in the earth. He wanted nothing more than to leave it there, but it could also hold answers. Hoping he did not find himself regretting it later, Jon walked over to it, gritted his teeth, and pulled it free. His ribs screamed in protest, the pain sharper now that the worst of the danger was behind them.

Rhaegar’s palm came to rest his back, as though to draw the pain from him. “I can carry it if you—”

“No!” Jon said sharply. He did not want the thing anywhere near Rhaegar. He squinted, smoke making his eyes water now, trying to find the best path through the flames, when his eyes fell on the saddlebag Jephyro had pulled the candle from. “The eggs!”

Rhaegar hurried over and pulled the dragon eggs free, taking one under each arm, and together they ran through the spreading ring of fire, until there was enough distance to throw their burning cloaks off and pat the flames out.

Rhaegar looked a mess, and Jon knew he must not seem any better. He had kept his splinted arm beneath the cloak, which had spared it from catching fire, but their cloaks were charred and their hair and skin streaked with soot.

But they were free.

A distant roar sounded to the west, and they turned as one toward the speck of red in the distance growing larger by the second. They were free. Jon leaned into Rhaegar, his next breath a shudder in his chest as emotion overwhelmed him at last. They were safe.

Daemon was coming.

When Daemon caught sight of the fresh smoke in the distance, he felt as though a blade had been driven through his gut, hands suddenly struggling to maintain their grip on the saddle. Every fear bombarded him all at once, the same ones that had haunted every waking moment since taking to the skies in search of his stolen children. They are dead. I am too late. 

But if anything, the sight seemed to spur Caraxes on, his bellow all the more furious now that his will was once again his own. He flew with the same intensity as when he had first locked onto their presence, when they had been a mere dot along the road, and Daemon clung to that as desperately as he did the saddle, wind roaring in his ears.

As they drew closer, more detail emerged. There was a wide column of fire in place of the man who had commanded Caraxes away, its smoke partially obscuring the surrounding area. Some few hundred feet away, he could make out a single horse rather than the two he had seen before.

Where are they? His mind flinched away from the thought of his children burning in the growing blaze. No, they must be near.

Caraxes banked southward, toward the Trident, and that was when Daemon spied two specks amongst the tall grasses below. He did not take his eyes from them, not as Caraxes slowed to land, nor as he freed himself from the saddle to land on unsteady legs.

They were just visible over the grass, nearly swallowed by it: a head of pale hair smudged with soot, and another dark brown, standing nearly cheek to cheek. Alive. Alive.

Strength flooded his limbs, and he ran, heart quickening with each step, and he did not stop until they were within reach to pull into him, one in either arm, small, so small. Jon. Raymar. He whispered their names like a prayer as he kissed one sooty head then the other. My sons.

Daemon did not want to let go, and they made no move to pull away. He could feel one shaking, the other still as a statue, both utterly silent, and he remembered then that they did not even know who he was, and more importantly, he did not know if their captors—for there had been two that he could see—were still afoot.

He pulled back reluctantly. “The men who took you—”

“One burned.” Raymar said. “The other fled.”

Safe then, for now. The other could be dealt with later. Daemon’s gaze roamed greedily over his children, drinking in every detail. Raymar had the light hair of their family, a shade halfway between Daemon’s own silver-gold and his father’s paler color. His eyes were a deep violet, darker than his, and shadowed with a wariness as he studied Daemon back that haunted him. Is it because I am a stranger to you? Or did they hurt you, the monsters who took you?

His other son was hurt. He had been too overcome in the moment to notice the splint that held Jon’s arm immobile, and the tense set of his lips was one of stifled pain.

Caraxes let out a low rumble that matched the rage that swept through him at the sight, and he clenched his teeth against the scream of fury that demanded to be loosed, forcing himself to focus on his son instead. Daemon could not recall the precise shade of Lady Elys’s hair, but it had been dark too, not the dull, muddy brown of her sister’s. His eyes were a striking grey, the same shape as his twin’s. As Daemon’s.

And they did not know him.

“I am Daemon Targaryen,” he said, his name something they would at least recognize. “I am your father.”

They exchanged a wordless glance, and Daemon did not know if the lack of surprise was because they had already been told, or if they had pieced it together themselves. Had their kidnappers known?

“I am Jon,” Jon said. “And he is Raymar. We are—” He hesitated. “Waters, then? Not Redfort, as we were raised.”

“No,” Daemon said, preparing himself to speak his first lie to his children. “Lady Rhea was your mother. She sequestered herself away in the final moons of her pregnancy, and claimed you to be her sister’s to hide you from me. You are Targaryen.”

And if the lords of the Vale should rise up in dispute, he would have his brother make it so.

His words were met this time with a widening of their eyes. Then Raymar’s brow furrowed, an intensity to his gaze as he studied Daemon that was so like Aemon’s it stole his breath. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Daemon said.

“I had wondered,” Raymar said after a moment. “The knives she gifted us, they were for children of House Royce, not Redfort.”

“You are of House Targaryen,” Daemon said sharply, only to regret it as his son went still, gaze dropping. Who was it that taught you to fear a raised voice? That mirthless son of a whore, Allard? He swallowed his anger, then reached to smooth back the hair from his forehead that had tugged loose of his braid, leaning to press a kiss there. “Your mother sought to keep you for herself. Had she not confessed it on her deathbed, I may never have known you.”

It was not the full truth, but they did not need to know that.

Daemon’s attention shifted to Jon, who was pale, presumably from the pain of his arm, and faintly shivering. He did not think he could keep his voice steady if he were to ask what had happened, so he silently kissed his forehead too. There would be time for questions once his children were safe and clean and warm.

He frowned in thought. Taking them by dragonback was out of the question. He could only carry one with him on Caraxes, even if there weren’t Jon’s injury to contend with. They would have to travel by ship or carriage, either of which they should be able to find in the Saltpans.

He squinted through the shifting smoke toward the town in the distance. They were close, perhaps five miles from it, and he could see no other way than on foot. He turned to Jon. “Come, let me carry you.”

His son shook his head, the exhaustion in the gesture clenching at his heart. “My ribs are also injured. It will be better to walk.”

Injured. He means broken. Their captor had forced his son to ride for days on horseback with a broken arm and ribs. Daemon spun around, biting down hard on his lip to strangle the scream trying to burst forth. I will hunt him to the furthest wastes of Essos if need be. And when I am finished with him, the Crabfeeder’s stakes will seem a sweet mercy. He will beg for the release of Caraxes’s fire by the end, and I will not give it.

“Caraxes will guard us from above,” Daemon said, once he had gathered himself. The smoke had shifted in their direction, thick enough that his eyes stung with it. “Come.”

“Wait.” Raymar ducked down in the grass, emerging from it with a dragon egg in either arm.

Daemon could do nothing but stare for a moment, rendered speechless at the sight. That is not possible. Since his incursion into the Dragonpit a few years back, its guard had been doubled. If any dragon eggs had been stolen, surely—

Surely Viserys would have told you? No, perhaps not. But Otto Hightower’s first suggestion would absolutely have been that Daemon be questioned sharply. Once a thief, twice a thief.

He still did not know what this Marten Crayne—or whoever had ordered their kidnapping—had wanted with his children, but the presence of dragon eggs introduced even more questions. No dragon egg had hatched outside the care of their family, and any hatched dragons would be worthless without dragonriders. Someone wants dragons, and they need dragonriders. Young dragonriders. My sons, for instance. 

This was no mere kidnapping for ransom; it was a matter of the Crown now. Viserys would need to be told about the eggs, in addition to the appearance of magic capable of ensorcelling a dragon.

“I will carry them,” Daemon said. They were half again as large as any egg he had seen in the Dragonpit and could not be light.

Raymar looked down at the eggs, then back at him. “You may carry Jon’s.”

A smile found its way to his lips. So, they had already decided whose was whose. Daemon took the black and bronze egg from him. Whatever their source, he would not begrudge his sons the opportunity to hatch a dragon. There were several adults yet riderless, but new hatchlings would be a welcome addition, especially at the pace their family seemed to be growing.

“Oh.” Jon also looked down at the grass, bending over with a wince to retrieve a tall candle of dragonglass. “I took this from the warlock. The one who commanded your dragon.”

Daemon regarded it with narrow-eyed curiosity, casting a brief glance at Caraxes, who did not react to its presence. There were three such candles at Dragonstone and two more at King’s Landing, though none of them were red. All had come with their family from Valyria, but Daemon had not known them to be more than an occasional source of odd light on the rare occasion that their wicks fanned to flame.

It was a cumbersome object for a child to hold for the full five miles. “I will carry that as well.”

“No,” Jon said, mouth dipping into a worried frown. “It had a strange effect on Raymar. I do not know if it will harm you.”

Daemon’s curiosity turned to alarm, hand twitching at his side with the desire to snatch it away. “If it is dangerous—”

“Not to me,” Jon said.

He could already tell that his children were fiercely bright, but they were still only eight years old, with a child’s notion of danger. If he had found a magical relic at their age, he too would have insisted on holding onto it.

“Wait here.” He retrieved his cloak from his saddlebag, extending it toward Jon once he’d returned. “Wrap it in this, and I will carry it.”

His son eyed the cloak skeptically, and Daemon took advantage of the distraction to pluck it from his hand, rolling the cloak around it until it was well-covered. He had felt nothing at the touch, and after a moment, the tension in his son’s eyes eased.

Daemon rested his other hand lightly on Jon’s hair, its dark color dulled by weeks’ worth of dust and grime from the road and sprinkled with ash. “Tell me when you need us to stop.”

But his son did not ask for a single break during the two hour trek to the Saltpans. It was Raymar instead who, every so often, would glance sidelong at his brother and then claim fatigue from carrying his egg to force one.

The temptation to ask about their captivity was nearly overwhelming, but Daemon did not want to stress them further, so fresh from the ordeal. Though they carried themselves bravely, Daemon had seen enough of war to recognize the signs of men hovering at the brink, and they were but children.

So instead, he asked them about their favorite treats, and what they had been learning from their tutors, and how they had spent their eighth name day. He told them about his first flight on Caraxes with his uncle, and bonding with him later. Raymar was curious about dragon eggs, so Daemon recited everything he’d read about the subject, which amounted to very little fact and rampant theorizing. Too much knowledge had been lost in Valyria’s Doom.

Less than two miles out from the city, a pair of knights rode out to greet them. Nothing heralded the arrival of a member of House Targaryen quite like the flight of a dragon overhead, and Caraxes’s distinctive silhouette and coloring meant there was no mistaking which Targaryen.

“My prince,” the lead knight said with a bow from atop his horse. “Lord Cox bids you welcome to the Saltpans, and eagerly extends the hospitality of his keep to you.”

Two knights. Another time, he might have been insulted by what passed for a greeting party, but House Cox was only a knightly house. Two could very well be all they had to offer.

“A traitor to the crown rode in this direction, by name of Marten Crayne,” Daemon said, skipping the pleasantries. “He kidnapped my sons and fled at my approach. If he has entered the town, I would have him arrested.” He looked toward Raymar. “Can you describe the man?”

“Tall,” Raymar said, eyes sweeping over Daemon briefly. “Your height, I would say. Wavy brown hair, shoulder length. Light eyes, a brownish blue. He has a cut, here,” and his son traced a line along his jaw. “It is still healing, but he has let his beard grow in some to disguise it.” He went on to describe his horse, and then— “There was a ship meant to be in the harbor.”

That was the first Daemon had heard of it. “A ship?”

“It held his reward, and a means of flight from Westeros. The Dancing Myr.”

“I want that ship found and detained, along with any aboard,” Daemon ordered, and the trailing knight turned with a nod, spurring his horse into a gallop. And to the other, “I accept your lord’s offer.”

Daemon glanced at Jon, who was still pale from pain and exhaustion. He needed to be seen to by a maester, but he was hesitant to trust one whose skills had been deemed worthy of serving only a minor house. The man should be capable of seeing to his pain at the very least, he decided. “If your lord’s maester has dreamwine or can procure some, my son is in need of it.”

“I will see to it, my prince.”

The knight had matched pace with them. Daemon briefly considered calling Caraxes down to him so that he could take Jon while entrusting Raymar to the knight, but doubt crept in. You do not know who can be trusted. If their kidnappers had been taking them to the Saltpans, then they may have allies there.

Daemon did not think himself capable of relaxing his guard until they were within the Red Keep itself, and even then, not fully. The dangers there were of a different nature, however, and unlikely to present a physical threat to his sons.

There seemed little point in keeping the knight with them, with Caraxes circling overhead to intercept any enemy who dared approach, but he could at least take instruction—and serve as a shield, should any strike from afar.

“Our room will require a large hearth…”

Daemon had no patience for ceremony upon their arrival, especially after learning that the Dancing Myr had raised anchor and fled not half an hour before word had reached the harbor to detain them. At Daemon’s command, ravens were sent to all the port towns along the Bay of Crabs, but there were unlikely to be any warships any earlier in its trek than Gulltown, which was easily avoided.

So Daemon sent another raven, this time to Rhaenys, who ruled in Corlys’s stead back at the Driftmark. The harbormaster had been able to provide a description of the vessel, which he conveyed, along with a request to send any available warships with haste to the Bay of Crabs in search of the Dancing Myr.

You could go in search of it. Caraxes can easily overtake any ship. The rage boiling in his veins of vengeance denied all but demanded it. But the castle’s maester had confided that they’d received no ravens for the past week, with several found shot dead, which explained why they had received no word from the Gates of the Moon about the kidnapping.

They have been in the Saltpans for some time, whoever they are. And I cannot be sure that it is safe now.

That more than anything was what drove him to write one final letter, to his brother. In his haste, he had not sent any from Runestone, so this one had a great deal to cover, from his newfound fatherhood to his sons’ kidnapping and the concerning details of those responsible. He kept it as succinct as he could while still conveying the severity of the danger.

Finally, Daemon requested four men be posted outside their bedchamber, a large room that, based on its decor, likely had served as Lady Cox’s bedchamber until its sudden repurposing for their arrival. Even if one proved a traitor, there would be three others watching.

Appropriately-sized clothing from when Lord Cox’s now-grown sons had been children was brought out of storage for Jon and Raymar, and a large tub lugged by two servants into their room, then filled to near steaming under Daemon’s supervision. Once he judged it comfortably hot, he dismissed the servant who had stayed behind.

Jon was the filthier, but a bath would not be comfortable with his injuries, so Daemon let Raymar tend to himself in the bath while he carefully wiped soot and grime from Jon with a damp washcloth. There was a moment after Daemon had helped him free of his shirt that he could not entirely strangle his growl at the tapestry of bruising along his back.

“I have had worse,” Jon said, voice sleepy from the dreamwine he had taken after supper.

Daemon’s vision went white for a moment. “You have what?” His hands twisted around the washcloth in lieu of a throat, wringing the liquid from it. “When?”

“He fell,” Raymar said, arms frozen mid-scrub before resuming. “When we were younger.”

Jon gave a solemn nod. “From a horse. But that wasn’t the worst—”

“The worst was that Crayne would have killed him,” Raymar said tightly.

“I tried to kill him first,” Jon said before Daemon could demand details. His son looked down at his splinted arm. “I wasn’t fast enough. And that wasn’t as bad as what he said he would—”

“Jon.” As chatty as he had become with the dreamwine, Jon’s mouth closed into a sudden, intent frown at the quiver in Raymar’s voice, gaze locking onto him. “Can it wait for tomorrow? I hope to dream of something else tonight.”

“I am sorry,” Jon said, looking stricken. He went to the edge of the tub, his finger tapping the leather bracelet around Raymar’s wrist that he had refused to take off. “I promised. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Raymar stared at his brother, pulling his wrist back with something like frustration. “That is not what you promised. And that is not what I dream about.”

Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion, and Daemon gently led him back to the wash basin. His son glanced up at him with surprise as he took another swipe with the cloth, as though he’d forgotten he was present. “Do you sing?”

Daemon wondered just how much milk of the poppy had been mixed into the dreamwine. Or how much wine, for that matter. “Some.”

Jon frowned. “You must try. Someone needs to sing to Rhaegar. He cannot sing himself to sleep.”

“Rhaegar?” he repeated.

“We had learned that you were our father,” Raymar said, gaze dropping to the surface of the bath water. “And I thought that if I were to have a Targaryen name, that would be my choice.”

Rhaegar. It would share its root with many strong women of their family, past and present. His cousin, his niece, his great-aunt. And of course Rhaenys, sister-wife to Aegon himself. “Rhaegar,” he repeated, sounding it out. “It is a good name.” Close enough to his son’s given name that it should be an easy transition.

“You approve?”

“You are old enough to name yourself,” Daemon said, doing his best to keep the bitterness from his voice. That fault rested with the bronze bitch herself.

A tension he had not even noticed seemed to leave his son, who gave him a faint smile. “Thank you. Then that is my choice.”

“And you,” Daemon said to Jon, who was mostly clean by now other than his hair. “What name would you like?”

His son gave him a look. “I am Jon.”

“That is what your mother named you, yes, but you will need a proper name.”

“Jon is a proper name,” his son said stubbornly. “If Princess Rhaenyra’s son can be called Joffrey, then I can be called Jon.”

Daemon dropped the subject, resolving to try again when his son’s wits were no longer affected by the dreamwine. “Let me see to your hair.”

The water in both the wash basin and tub was a brackish grey by the time his sons were finally clean and dressed in their new clothing. Extra chairs had been brought to the room, and Daemon moved them to the fireplace, helping Jon into one. Rhaegar removed the cushion from his chair to sit closer to the fire, beside his dragon egg, while he brushed his hair out.

By the time Daemon had started to pull the third chair over, Jon’s eyes had drifted shut, only to open as Daemon passed by. “Sing,” he commanded.

Daemon halted, finding himself at a loss. It was something he would have done for them as infants, had he been given the chance, but his mind was blank as he wracked it for any lullabies he could recall. Aemma had sung to Rhaenyra, but the songs themselves escaped him. He had been three when his own mother died, and she had not been one for singing regardless.

It took Daemon a minute to recall something that wasn’t a bawdy drinking song: a quiet hymn that he had heard a maester in the Stepstones sing to men who lay dying. He did not know the words, but the melody had carved itself into his memory, and he did his best to hum it.

Jon peeked open a single, disapproving eye when he had finished. “I could not feel anything.”

That was the difference between an infant and a boy of eight, Daemon mused. A babe would listen without judging.

Rhaegar looked up from his dragon egg. “Jon,” he said, with a hint of reproach.

“I can feel what you mean for me to feel.” Jon’s gaze shifted back to Daemon. “If he is our father, why can I feel nothing? I should be able to feel it.”

It is only the dreamwine, Daemon reminded himself, the accusation in his son’s eyes too like what he had imagined during his frantic search, when he had begun to fear the worst.

Rhaegar glanced at him, then Jon, then he moved from his place by the fire to Jon’s chair, where he leaned down to kiss his brother’s cheek. “Why do you fight the dreamwine?”

Jon blinked once, then more rapidly, until his face crumpled, looking so small that Daemon’s heart ached. “Because I do not want to wake up. I do not want you to be gone.”

Rhaegar took his hand, lacing his brother’s fingers through his. “You will wake here with us in the morning, I promise.”

“He wanted to take you from me.”

“Who?” Daemon asked, ignoring the impatient shushing gesture from Rhaegar.

“The usurper.” Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion. “No. The man on fire.”

Most definitely the dreamwine. His son’s voice was slurring now, the combination of food, bath, and warmth, along with the small dose of milk of the poppy, too powerful for even the most stubborn effort to remain awake.

“You mustn’t go to the river,” Jon mumbled. “And don’t touch the candle, he’ll take you from me.”

Rhaegar was humming now, the same tune that Daemon had tried to produce before, with an accuracy that should have been eerie but instead conjured a memory of the faces of the men who lay dying, released from their torment by the last touch of gentleness they would know. At the time, he had felt discomfort, as though he had witnessed something he should not have. But here, the tune carried a sense of release. Lay down your burden and rest.

“He is so very stubborn,” Rhaegar whispered, slowly disentangling his fingers from Jon’s now-limp hand. “And he does not value himself as he should.”

Daemon gazed at his sons, heart clenching once more. They were too wise and too weary for their short years. Without the love of a parent, they had grown to depend on only themselves and each other. He was, in this moment, an outsider. An intruder.

They will learn to be boys once more. The only cares they shall have will be what games to play, which weapons to learn, where they wish to ride. If Otto Hightower so much as breathes in their direction, I will gut him.

Daemon waited another minute, then very carefully picked Jon up, mindful of jarring his ribs too badly, and carried him to the bed, where he tucked him beneath the blanket. It had been a day of many firsts. The first he had gazed upon his children. Their first bath. Their first meal. The fury that had raged in his blood not seconds before was extinguished as he smoothed his son’s hair from where it had fallen into his face. He felt shorn of his defenses, like anyone could walk up to him and plunge a hand into his chest to find his beating heart.

My heart is here. He looked from Jon, face finally peaceful and free of pain in sleep, to Rhaegar, watching them both, purple eyes dark and fretful. And it is there. They can be so easily ripped from me. It was terrifying. He had loved them instantly, without thought.

Daemon returned to Rhaegar, who was still standing beside Jon’s empty chair, and smoothed his hands over his hair, long and soft and free of the soot and grit of the road. The dark smudges on his throat that he had thought to be soot remained, the shape of the bruises suggestive of a hand. Crayne. Daemon pressed a kiss to his son’s hair, inhaling the pleasant scent of the soap from his bath to cleanse himself of ugly thoughts of murder.

“You were very brave, you and your brother.”

“I did not feel brave,” Rhaegar said into his chest, voice unsteady. Daemon pulled back to see a faint sheen of tears. “Every day I feared he might kill Jon. Every night he told me—” Rhaegar shook his head, lips compressing into a thin, trembling line, seemingly unable to continue.

Daemon stroked his hair, swallowing the questions he burned to ask. Jon had mentioned that he’d tried to kill Crayne and failed, but surely one small child should prove no danger to a man who had killed three guardsmen to kidnap them.

After a few minutes of tightly controlled breathing, Rhaegar regained his composure. Neither of his sons had given in to their tears in his presence. Were you punished, you and your brother, when you dared cry? He had intended to let Allard live and serve as additional validation of his sons’ legitimate birth, but it was a stance he was rapidly reconsidering.

“You should rest,” Daemon said, noting the dark circles under his eyes. “There is more dreamwine, if you have need of it.”

Rhaegar shook his head. “I would prefer my thoughts clear.”

The servants had carried in extra beds, so that each of them could have their own, but Rhaegar hesitated beside Jon’s bed once he’d dressed for sleep.

“You may share with your brother if you like,” Daemon said, in case he feared giving offense or asking permission. “The other bed is yours only if you want it.”

The flash of relief on his son’s face told him he’d guessed correctly. “Crayne did not allow us to sleep together. He kept me with him to dissuade Jon.”

A possibility he had not known to consider froze his breath. “Crayne did not—harm you, did he?”

“No.” His son sounded more weary than anything else, and Daemon resumed breathing. So Crayne had been merely cruel, not depraved. He did not know what he would have done otherwise.

Daemon smoothed the blanket over him. “Your brother was adamant that I sing to you.”

“That is not necessary.” His son looked up at him. “We had given up hope that you would come.”

Even with them safe abed now, the thought was haunting. How many days had his children watched the skies, believing that their father would fly to their rescue? Had Crayne told them right away? Had he taunted them, secure in the knowledge that Daemon would never learn?

He still did not know who had sent the raven to Rhaenyra.

A dozen excuses hovered on his tongue. I did not know. I came as soon as I could. But they did not matter. Like those hopeless days for his sons, that was in the past. Instead, he knelt to kiss his son’s forehead once more. “I will always come for you. Should anyone dare take you from me again, I will not rest until you are safe and our enemies dead.”

Rhaegar said nothing. He simply studied Daemon as though seeking something. He did not know if his son found it, his face far less open than his brother’s, but his eyes eventually drifted shut. They are mine, Daemon thought with a stab of regret, but I am not theirs. Not yet.

Once the steady rise and fall of his son’s chest had slowed with sleep, Daemon stood, half expecting to hear his entire body creak as he did so. He had slept no more than an hour or two over his ceaseless search these past two days, and he felt it in a way he wouldn’t have ten years ago.

He took up by the window, looking out into the bustling harbor town, busy well into the night. It was too dark to hunt from the sky, even as every fiber of his being hungered for it. Marten Crayne had been only a name when he set out from Runestone, but hearing of his cruelty, seeing it in the wounded body language of his children, had ignited a fury that only blood could quench.

And yet—

He is but a pawn.

There were hundreds of Marten Craynes scattered across the realm. Men who would commit any atrocity for the amount of coin he had been promised. Fifty thousand dragons, Jon had said at supper. Only the warlock had died—yet another pawn, according to his sons. Whoever wanted his children was still out there.

Daemon took one of the chairs by the fireplace and dragged it to the door, then sat, Dark Sister resting on his lap.

Chapter Text

The screech of distant seagulls roused Jon from his drugged slumber. It was dark outside, no light filtering through the window, but the room was still dimly lit by a pair of hooded oil lanterns on either end, so Jon stared fuzzily at the ceiling for a time, content. The bed was soft and comfortable and beside him was the warm lump he knew to be his brother.

Eventually Jon turned his head to watch Rhaegar sleep, hair loose and partly trapped beneath Jon’s shoulder. He still did not know how his brother found that at all comfortable. Jon could not stand when his own hair grew any longer than his shoulders.

He grabbed a strand of silver-blond hair to see how many times he could twine it around his finger. Well over twenty. Rhaegar slept on, oblivious, as he released the lock of hair.

He is still here, Jon thought with relief before frowning in confusion. Of course he was here. They were safe in the keep of Lord Cox, with their father, who was—

Jon hoisted himself up with his good arm and scanned the room. The other two beds were empty, but slumped over by the door, head hanging limp to one side against the back of his chair, long silver-gold hair half covering his face, was Daemon Targaryen. Their father. And sprawled across his lap, poking from beneath the two armrests, the hilt and scabbard of Dark Sister.

In all the shock and confusion and pain yesterday, Jon had not had the chance to grasp that the man who had swept them into a tight embrace before even speaking a word, who had then spoken nonstop to distract Jon from the pain of his injuries during the long walk to town, who had moved through the Saltpans like a storm, scattering people in his wake to enforce his will, who had rushed them to a quiet room when things had started to become overwhelming—was Daemon Targaryen. Wielder of Dark Sister. The Rogue Prince. Queen Rhaenyra’s consort and Protector of the Realm.

Our father. It had been one thing to know it back at the Gates of the Moon. It was something entirely different to actually meet him. Jon stared at him, losing track of time entirely before eventually deciding that he looked cold. 

He swung his feet around the side of the bed, and that was when he learned that the hair he’d been lying on was in fact a clever means of alerting his brother to any movement. A hand flailed sleepily for his wrist, and Rhaegar squinted at him.

“Jon,” he said, sounding utterly pathetic. “We have a bed. Can we not sleep?”

“In a moment,” Jon whispered, pulling his wrist free.

He crept quietly over to one of the unoccupied beds and tried to pull the blanket free, but it was a struggle with one arm. He heard a quiet exhale from their bed, then Rhaegar appeared at his side to help gather it up. Jon halted a few paces from their father to study him.

“He looks like us,” he said in a hushed voice, disturbed somehow by the thought.

Rhaegar shrugged. “He is our father.”

“But—” You’re my father. And yet we look as much like him as do each other. “Do you look different?”

“I do not know. I suppose I must.”

“Does he look like your father?” And because that was confusing, he added, “Your other father?”

Rhaegar nodded after a moment, looking vaguely discomfited. “A little.”

Or did Aerys look like Daemon? Thinking about it too hard made his head hurt so Jon gave up. He looked down at the blanket, remembering he had taken it for some reason. Oh.

“Help me,” Jon whispered, taking one end of the blanket and stepping sideways until it was pulled taut between them. Then he walked forward, Rhaegar mimicking him with a confused expression on the other side, until the blanket enveloped Daemon completely.

There came a startled shout then, and the long blade of Dark Sister thrust through the blanket before sweeping in a wild arc, coming to a halt mere inches from Rhaegar, who had already lunged to the side. The blanket fell to the ground, almost completely bisected, to reveal Daemon Targaryen in full battle stance, a wild look in his eyes.

Then his gaze dropped from eye-height, to the frozen form of Rhaegar, and Dark Sister clattered to the ground. “What—” His face was ashen as he kicked the blanket out of the way, hands catching Rhaegar by either shoulder. “What in the seven hells were you thinking? I could have killed you!”

“I—” Jon felt his voice shake, because if Rhaegar hadn’t moved— “I thought you were cold.” Daemon’s gaze snapped to him, and Jon burst into tears. It had felt safe here, and now it didn’t, and his head was fuzzy. “Don’t hurt him,” he choked between sobs, because that’s what would happen if he made trouble. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“Jon.” Rhaegar was at his side once more, voice calm and soothing, and Jon clutched at his wrist. “You should be sleeping.”

“I’m sorry,” he wept, because he’d done it without telling Rhaegar, or asking him, and Crayne was going to hurt him. “I shouldn’t have used the knife.”

“Jon.” Rhaegar sounded like he was being choked, but he wasn’t, he was right in front of him and he looked so sad that Jon couldn’t bear it. “Please go to bed. We are not in camp.” He tilted Jon’s chin toward the tall figure of— “This is our father.”

Their father. Pale hair, pale face, wide purple eyes, lighter than Rhaegar’s. “You were cold,” Jon said, the memory coming back to him.

Rhaegar led him by the elbow to an unmade bed. Their bed. Jon obediently sat, then eased himself onto his back. It didn’t hurt. That was strange. Neither did crying, though he wasn’t sure now why he had been, but it felt nice when Rhaegar leaned down to kiss his cheek. They were…safe?

Then Rhaegar started to move away, and Jon’s chest tightened in panic. “No!”

“I will be right back.”

Under his anxious gaze, Rhaegar went over to their father, who had not moved. “You cannot protect us if you are exhausted.” And he marched him over to one of the other beds.

“Rhaegar…” Daemon’s voice was so rough and hoarse it pained Jon to hear it.

It was their father’s turn for a peck on the cheek. “If you must make an apology, you may do so in the form of sleep.”

Jon did not relax until Rhaegar had slipped back under the blankets beside him, and then he waited, but no song came, though his brother’s fingers did card gently through his hair.

“Rhaegar,” he whispered.

“I can’t,” his brother said, voice still tight, like he was choking. “I am sorry.”

But just the feel of his brother beside him eventually calmed his unsteady heart. If Rhaegar was here, then it meant they were safe, because Crayne would never have allowed it. His eyes closed, a weird pull like the ocean tide dragging his thoughts away, until it was only blackness.

Daemon had not expected to fall asleep again, not after nearly killing one of his own children the very day he’d found them, but the exhaustion accumulated over the past week, combined with the comfort of a real bed, managed to somehow silence the scream that strangled him where he lay.

It was well into morning when he finally stirred, to the smell of warm bread and sweet cakes. He propped himself up on one arm, disoriented, before the sight of his children peering up at him from where they were perched by the hearth woke him fully.

Dark Sister was still on the floor where he had dropped her, though the blanket he’d sliced almost clean through had been folded and set on one of the beds. Daemon stood, muscles still sore and aching from the long, hard flights of the past week, and stared at Rhaegar.

I’ve been at war too long. His sleeping mind had read the blanket enveloping him as he slept on the chair last night as a threat, an ambush, and he had struck instinctively. Those instincts had kept him alive in the Stepstones, but in a small room, with inquisitive, tender-hearted children, they had nearly led to the unthinkable.

Rhaegar returned his stare calmly, but the shadow of fatigue around his eyes remained. And I deprive my own children of the sleep they so dearly need.

“Good morning,” Jon said. His eyes were sharp and focused this morning, not at all like the hazy panic in the aftermath of Daemon’s strike. He had been right to fear the maester’s incompetence after all. Dreamwine should not have affected his son for so long or so deeply, although—

It had given him a small taste of the terror Crayne had instilled in his sons. Jon’s heartbroken sobs would haunt his dreams for nights to come.

Daemon approached the hearth slowly, half certain that his own children would flinch away from him, but Jon looked more curious than anything and Rhaegar merely watched him with tired eyes. Given how strong the dreamwine had been, it would surprise Daemon if Jon remembered anything at all after supper.

“How do you feel?” he asked Jon, after kissing the top of his head. His lips twisted then in a grimace as he pondered whether the maester was at least capable of revising his errors. “Do you require more dreamwine?”

Jon shook his head. “No. It does not pain me to stand or walk.”

That still left many other motions, of course, but his son’s face lacked the tension it had carried yesterday of pain held barely in check. Travel by ship or carriage should be much kinder to his ribs than on horse or dragonback.

He has my mother’s face, Daemon realized abruptly. Long and oval. His own nose, he mused, tracing it with the tip of his finger. The grey of his eyes was the puzzle. Lady Elys’s had been blue, but he had never met her mother and he had long since forgotten Yorbert Royce’s. Perhaps that was the trace of Royce his wife had claimed she could not see.

They are the better for it. Other than Jon’s dark hair and eyes, his children were unmistakably Targaryen, and far comelier than his brother’s Hightower brats. Rhaegar almost looked more like Aemon than either of Rhaenys’s children. How did Allard keep them hidden for so long?

“You have not eaten,” Daemon said. The tray of sweets and grains was impeccably arranged, elaborate pastries and cakes with tempting glazes and spun sugar untouched. He would not have thought it possible for any child to resist. Unless they were not allowed such things.

One year, Daemon decided. He would allow Allard to live for one year, long enough for his death to raise no suspicion.

“We wanted to wait for you,” Jon said with a shrug.

Daemon approached Rhaegar more hesitantly, and although his younger son did not tense at the touch of his lips to the top of his hair, he did not lean into the embrace either. He merely stood, as though it was something to be endured. It had been the same yesterday; Jon melting into every hug, Rhaegar stiff and distant.

Not every child was alike, he reminded himself. And yet—he had seen Rhaegar’s easy affection for his brother, and his tenderness in the face of near-death last night. No, someone had wounded his child, and he would see it mended, and if it had been Allard fucking Royce then he was going to end that miserable line entirely.

After a few moments, Rhaegar pulled back. “The servants said they would prepare the bath after, if you would like.”

He must truly have been exhausted not to have heard either the food brought in or entire conversations between Cox’s servants and his sons. A bath did sound pleasant, especially since it would be their last opportunity for some time, if they were able to depart today.

“I shall take my turn then,” Daemon said before nodding at the breakfast tray. “Come, let’s eat.”

Their first breakfast together. They had many firsts ahead of them, and though his heart still raged at the lost years, there was a simple joy in this, in noticing that Jon immediately reached for the fruit, seeming to savor the grapes and peaches, though he shunned the plums. Rhaegar took a braided, honey-glazed pastry topped with finely chopped almonds, which he ate delicately enough to wholly avoid getting himself sticky from the honey.

It was a very sweet offering, Daemon mused as he looked over the options, which was not his first preference. He opted for a slice of a dark, close-grained bread with raisins sprinkled throughout, supplementing it with the fruit that his sons seemed less interested in.

They were leaner than he would like, likely from the two weeks on the road, most of it in captivity. He was relieved to see them with a healthy appetite now. At supper last night, neither had eaten much.

“Will we go by land or sea?” Jon asked between messy bites of peach.

Daemon had been debating that very question himself last night. By sea, it would take more than two weeks to reach King’s Landing, since they would have to trace the entirety of Crackclaw Point. And given that the kidnappers had planned much of their journey via sea, it was possible that more coin had been spent on sellswords or sellsails to guard the way.

Via carriage, the journey would also be at least a fortnight. Bandits were the greater threat on the kingsroad, but it was a threat easily neutralized by, say, a dragon escorting the caravan overhead. And Lord Cox had been falling over himself to win Daemon’s favor, so it should prove a simple matter to secure a handful of men-at-arms as escort.

“By land, most likely.” Daemon noted the flicker of apprehension on Jon’s face. “It would be by carriage, and Caraxes will guard our path.” 

“Will we get to meet Caraxes?” Rhaegar asked, the same curiosity shining in his eyes as when he had asked Daemon about dragon eggs.

Daemon winced at the reminder that in that haze of euphoric relief yesterday upon finding his children safe, he had neglected to introduce them to his dragon, who had been the one to locate them. “Of course. And I shall take each of you riding with me once we have arrived at Kings Landing.”

Rhaegar’s smile was the brightest he’d seen from him. “I would like that.”

So he had one tool at his disposal, at least, in winning over his more reserved son. Jon’s expression was more of mild interest, which made Daemon wonder if he was made uneasy by dragons. To hear his father tell it, Aemon had been the same way until meeting Caraxes. He had always wondered about Viserys, too, who had bonded with Balerion for the final, feeble years of the dragon’s life and never taken another. It had never made sense to Daemon. To be Targaryen was to be a dragonrider, and he hoped more than anything that time might prove his brother’s sons unworthy in that regard.

Their appetites were sated long before an appreciable dent had been made in the tray of food, and Daemon summoned a servant to bring fresh water for the bath before speaking with one of the knights at the door for any updates on the hunt for Crayne.

“There has been no word on any sightings, my prince.” Ser Kelwyn was a man in his waning years of knighthood, age carving sharp angles into an already angular face, but he held himself with assurance. “I was told that the two horses described were located and brought back to the town, along with the contents of their saddlebags. And a Valyrian steel dagger was found near a corpse in the blackened grasses that you spoke of.”

Valyrian steel? Clearly no expense had been spared for those seeking to kidnap his sons. “I shall need to see all that you have recovered. What other news?”

“The harbormaster has been summoned by Lord Cox and awaits you at your leisure. He can speak of what is known about the Dancing Myr and its stay here.”

That was one conversation Daemon hoped would bear fruit. “Inform Lord Cox that I shall meet with him and the harbormaster shortly.” His lips thinned then with displeasure. “And tell your maester that his dreamwine was far too strong. If I had wanted my son rendered insensate, I would have asked for milk of the poppy directly. He is to make another batch at half strength.”

The bath had been cleaned of its grime from yesterday, and boiling water mixed into cool until lightly steaming. Daemon was pleased to find the temperature quite hot; most lords playing host failed to properly account for the warmer blood of his family.

He ordinarily enjoyed a good soak, but there was much to do if they hoped to be away before the day’s end. Enough so that it might delay them until tomorrow. Daemon found himself caught between the desire to learn all that he could about the men who had plotted to kidnap his sons, and the need to see them safe.

The soap he had been given was the same used by Rhaegar last night, the scent of it pleasant and soothing as he washed his hair, fingers combing through the snags and snarls with well-practiced efficiency while his sons took up their post once more by their dragon eggs.

Daemon had just dunked his head beneath the surface to rinse the soap from it when a crack like thunder, muffled by the water, shook both him and the tub itself. He snapped his head above the surface, sending water spraying from his dripping hair just in time for another sharp crack, like the shattering of stone against stone, to pierce his ears.

It had come from the hearth where—

Where both Jon and Rhaegar sat, dragon eggs in hand. The thick shell of the eggs had split beneath their fingertips, jagged seams opening, then widening, warmth escaping through the cracks as faint steam. Daemon grasped for the edge of the tub, nearly vaulting out of it to draw a towel quickly around himself.

Daemon had never seen a hatching, let alone two at once. He stared, as captivated as his children, as the crack widened, others spreading outward, until the top of Jon’s shell burst outward and a small snout poked out. The head emerged next, and the rest of the shell broke off to reveal two slightly damp wings that took to flapping at the first rush of air, as though by instinct.

No more than seconds behind it, Rhaegar’s hatchling poked its head from its shell, letting out a high-pitched screech as it too fluttered its wings. Jon’s mimicked the noise as though in answer and heaved itself free of the shell over the next few seconds to rest, seemingly exhausted from the effort. His son extended his curled hand to it, and the dragon crawled up onto it, razor-sharp claws latching on to peer at him with curious bronze eyes.

“Hello,” Jon whispered in accented High Valyrian. “I am Jon.”

Daemon was dimly aware of a pounding at the door but he was too transfixed to pay it mind.

Jon’s hatchling was long of body and tail, colors mirroring those of its shell: tiny black scales, each impossibly delicate, no more than the size of a child’s fingernail, edged in a copper that was also present on the inside of its wings, and along its throat. His son traced that line of the copper on its throat with his thumb, and the hatchling made a rumbling noise almost like a purr. Its horns extended quite far, curving upward at the end, while its wide face was framed by tiny pointed nubs that would become wicked spikes someday.

Beside his brother, Rhaegar was holding an entire one-sided conversation in flawless High Valyrian with his hatchling, who was a deep, striking blue that was itself nearly black, its accenting silver less pronounced than Jon’s bronze, only frosting the spines of the wings and the very tips of its scales, but its eyes were themselves a luminous quicksilver. Its face was also wide, though it could be that it was a feature of freshly hatched dragons, and its horns flared outward before angling back inward. Judging by its unfurled wings, which it flexed proudly in response to Rhaegar’s breathless praise, it would have an impressive wingspan when grown.

Twin hatchlings, for his twin sons. Pride swelled in his chest. While my brother’s sons have the pick of any dragon in the Dragonpit and have failed to yet bond to any.

The door burst open, the younger knight whose name Daemon had not learned coming to a staggering halt, hand on his hilt. “My prince, we heard—” He took in Daemon’s state of undress and moved as though to duck his head to allow him modesty, only to then catch sight of the tiny dragons on his sons’ laps. The knight stared, open-mouthed, looking uncertain if he should bow or kneel or flee the room.

“Fetch meat,” Daemon said, dropping his towel to begin dressing, uncaring of the man’s squeak of surprise. Knights of the Riverlands could be dreadfully prude. “Freshly butchered.”

“Right away, my prince,” the man stammered, gaze fixed desperately at chest height before he ducked in a hasty bow and fled.

Daemon stopped short of donning his armor, which would take several minutes, and joined his sons by the fire, resting a hand on either head. The young dragons were large for being freshly hatched. He had seen Jacaerys’s young hatchling a few moons after its hatching, and even then it had been perhaps half the size of these.

The eggs had been very large, and he still had no notion of where they could be from. If there was indeed someone out there who had intended to start a dragonpit of his own, with his sons the first of his dragonriders, disaster had been narrowly avoided—assuming these were the only dragon eggs.

“ You speak very well, ” Daemon said to Rhaegar, who looked half-faint with joy as he stroked the spiny head of his hatchling.

His son glanced up from his dragon with a flicker of surprise that told Daemon he had forgotten about him entirely in the excitement. “Thank you, I—” He hesitated. “There were many books at the Gates of the Moon written in High Valyrian. From the winters that Queen Aemma spent there as a girl, I think.”

There must have been someone fluent in it at the castle to have instilled such a fine grasp of its pronunciation. The maester, Daemon assumed. “And your brother?”

“I have been teaching him, but he gets restless.”

Jon glanced up from his dragon, eyes narrowing slightly. “I know you’re talking about me.”

Daemon did not have long to puzzle over why his son should have to teach his brother rather than the maester, as Lord Cox himself arrived at the door, plate of raw, bloody meat in hand.

“My prince!” he exclaimed, bowing so low that some of the blood from the plate dripped to the floor. “When I heard that—” He had caught sight of the hatchlings, momentarily struck dumb. “Then it is true. That our castle should have the honor to see the birth of not one but two dragons…”

The scent of the blood had stirred the dragon’s hunger, their nostrils flaring as they climbed onto his sons’ shoulders, seeking its source.

Daemon took the plate from Lord Cox, who had fallen to staring once more. “Summon your harbormaster, we can speak here while the hatchlings are fed.”

It was perhaps a mistake to hold the meeting with the distraction of tiny dragons enjoying their first meal, but neither had Daemon wanted to leave his sons alone, even with guards still posted at the door. The harbormaster remained reasonably focused in his report, gaze only straying to the hearth when the hatchlings’ shrieks became particularly loud.

According to the Dancing Myr’s manifest, she was a merchant vessel from Volantis, her sole cargo listed as silks. She had a crew of twelve, all Volantenes, and carried three passengers, and had been docked for more than a moon, purportedly awaiting a shipment of silver from Castamere for her return voyage. The warlock who had controlled his dragon, Jephyro, appeared on its manifest.

“The crew and remaining passengers, did they leave with the ship?” Daemon asked, because that left fourteen names and fourteen men who could yet be loose in the town.

“We cannot be sure. I have spread their names throughout the town, and my guardsmen are on alert to question any Volantenes they encounter.”

A flicker of movement caught Daemon’s eye, and he glanced back over to his sons. Rhaegar had begun tossing cubes of meat just out of immediate reach of his dragon, who lunged with a predator’s instincts to snag them as his son spoke gentle encouragement in High Valyrian. Jon, meanwhile, was already trying to persuade his to produce flame using one of the first words of Valyrian all Targaryen children learned.

They will be nothing but trouble, Daemon thought with a smile. That more than anything makes them mine.

“My prince?”

Daemon turned back to Lord Cox. “If any remained behind, I want them found, especially the ship’s owner. I shall handsomely reward any information that might lead me to whoever intended to kidnap my sons.” Inspiration struck, all the more enticing for the revenge it offered. “My nephew, Allard, is in line to succeed my wife as Lord of Runestone. Should your efforts bear fruit, I offer a match between your son’s firstborn son and my nephew’s first daughter.”

It was a match no knightly house would dare dream of, to see an heir betrothed to a daughter of one of the Vale’s great houses. And it would deliver a great blow to House Royce’s prestige. Should he live long enough, let Allard Royce know the misery of his child’s fate being beyond his control. And he will agree. I shall make the consequences of defying me in this quite plain.

“My prince,” Lord Cox said faintly, sounding utterly overcome. “My house shall work tirelessly to root out these traitors.”

They had to be of the realm to be traitors, but Daemon charitably overlooked the mistake. “Ser Kelwyn said that you also recovered the effects of the kidnappers?”

“Yes, my prince. I shall have them brought here directly.”

The saddlebags were hauled up to the room, as well as the recovered Valyrian steel dagger. The dagger’s sheath had burned in the blaze, and an ill-fitting one placed atop the blade, which was curved—not a common shape for Valyrian weapons of Westerosi make, which lent further proof to those behind the kidnapping being of Essos.

“That is what Jephyro offered Crayne in return for escorting us to the harbor,” Jon said, noticing him studying the dagger. His hatchling, sated from its first meal, had curled into a ball on his lap to sleep.

Rhaegar’s dragon had also fallen asleep, and his sons relocated to the desk, where Daemon was emptying the saddlebags. In their haste, his sons’ captors seemed to have left everything. There were provisions for the road, including more delicate fare in the form of cake and fruit. Apples and plums, both fruits that his sons had spurned at breakfast today.

“Jephyro brought those,” Jon confirmed, mouth tightening. “He hoped to ply us with sweets.”

And his sons, far too sharp for such ploys, had not relaxed their guard. There was a near-empty bottle that Daemon sniffed. Alcoholic, with an overly sweet scent, not unlike the dreamwine the maester had prepared.

“Crayne kept that in his saddlebags. He gave it to me after he broke my arm.”

Daemon quickly set the bottle down, lest he crush it in his hand. “Broke your arm how?”

Jon glanced down at his arm, which had been re-splinted by the maester with something better than a crooked branch. “Smashed it with the hilt of a dagger.”

“And your ribs?”

“I am not sure,” Jon said, which was somehow worse. “Either when he struck them with his elbow, or when he thrust me into a tree.”

“He was going to kill you.” Rhaegar’s voice was small and tight, like it had been the night before.

Daemon’s hand moved of its own accord, grabbing the bottle and flinging it at the door to shatter. Rhaegar tensed at the sound, but neither child stirred otherwise. His breath hissed out between his teeth as he thought once more about taking to the skies with Caraxes to hunt the ship himself.

“This is mine.” Jon reached for a knife that was on the table, drawing him out of his dark thoughts. “Crayne took it after I tried to kill him in his sleep.”

Perhaps it should be disturbing to hear a child of eight speak of calmly planned murder, but Daemon felt nothing but vicious satisfaction and something like pride. “There is no shame in attacking a man who held you captive.”

“I failed,” Jon said, frowning as he set the knife back down. “There is shame in that.”

“You lived. He will not.” He finally noticed the bronze metal of the knife, and its telltale black-bronze hilt and snatched it up, inspecting it closer. “She gave this to you.” Her family words on the blade, the colors of her sigil in the hilt. It had not been enough to steal them from him, she had wanted to keep them for herself. For her house. “That conniving bitch.”

Rhaegar’s dragon stirred from sleep to hiss quietly at Daemon. “That is our lady mother you speak of,” his son said flatly.

“You would defend her?” If Rhaegar were any more still, he would be a statue. “She hid you from me for eight years, and for what? To visit twice a year?” Daemon laughed, sharp and short. “Only a royal decree from my brother could force me to Runestone. She could have kept you there after her sister died and shown you the love of a parent, but she did not care enough to do even that. You were a secret to be loved in the dark, cherished more for the pain she knew it would bring me than as the sons you could have been to either of us.”

When Rhaegar stood, it was with stone-faced calm, only the chittering of his dragon betraying his upset. “If she is so loathsome, then what are we to you? Half of our blood is hers.”

But it wasn’t. And thankfully, whatever Royce there was, he could hardly find it in either of his sons, which was all the better. “You are my blood. The blood of the dragon.”

Daemon could not fathom what lies, what poison she had filled his sons with for Rhaegar to look upon him now with such distrust. He regretted now that she had died in peace, rather than screaming. Daemon circled around the desk and took his son gently by the chin, tilting it up. “I am your father. That is all that matters.”

“And she is dead. Just as you’ve always wanted.”

Daemon’s hand tensed, and he had to force himself to soften his grip. “Is that what she told you? That I am but a villain?” An old hurt rose in him, one he battled to keep down. “You cannot trust your brother, Viserys. He desires only power.” “Then why did you look to the sky and hope for my coming? I cannot be both monster and savior.”

Rhaegar did not blink. “We cannot be your sons without being hers.”

You are not hers. You were never hers. And yet—she had been theirs. She had been all they’d known, and the injustice of it clenched through every muscle of his jaw. He would not be content until the Vale was nothing more than a faded memory for his sons, his former wife seen for the coward she had been. They need only meet Rhaenyra to see what a true mother is. A mother with fire in her blood, not stone.

Someone rapped sharply at the door. “My prince?”

Daemon drew back, releasing his son. “What is it?”

The door opened to the scrape of glass on stone, and Ser Kelwyn glanced briefly downward at the shattered remnants of the bottle. “The man responsible for shooting down incoming ravens has been caught. He is awaiting judgment from Lord Cox, under guard.”

Finally, something he could direct his fury at. “Take me to him.” He glanced back at his children, still loath to let them out of his sight. “My sons will join us.”

They will learn that I can be a monster when someone threatens those I love.

Chapter Text

“Rhaegar,” Jon whispered.

Here at the back of the great hall, which was more hall than great, he could still see evidence of his brother’s agitation in his too-straight spine, and the way his hatchling roamed restlessly from shoulder to shoulder.

“What?” his brother whispered back curtly.

Privacy had been in short supply since leaving the Gates of the Moon. Here, it was the spectacle of Prince Daemon’s sons-from-nowhere, with their newly hatched dragons, that drew the gaze of the keep’s denizens, the small gathering in the back of the great hall of guardsmen, servants, supplicants, and Lord Cox’s kin. Even in their temporary bedchamber, Daemon’s presence stifled any open conversation between them.

Jon thought he knew what was bothering Rhaegar, but it was a subject rife enough with emotion that he did not know how best to navigate it. “He is not—” Aerys, he had almost said, but that would only have thrown the conversation in a complicated direction. “He is not the same as your father.”

That much had been clear to Jon from the start, from the very first desperate embrace. Daemon was someone who loved fiercely, and even though he had not met them before, there had been nothing but a father’s joy and relief in holding them in his arms. Ned Stark had loved his children very much, Jon knew, and he had loved Jon too. But his love for Jon had been guarded, shown in small gestures: a clasp of the shoulder, a word of quiet encouragement.

There was nothing subtle about Daemon Targaryen, in love or hate. Being the subject of his love was like standing in the heart of an inferno, bright and all-consuming. Every kiss and embrace was an open declaration of love, wholly unlike the furtive glances of his uncle, who had seemed almost frightened to show it for Jon—which was an odd thing to think of Ned Stark, who many had thought brave to a fault. And he had been, to hide Jon away from Robert Baratheon’s bloodlust, but that was a different kind of bravery.

But when Daemon had swept them into his arms, Jon had instantly known that he was safe. The pain of his arm and ribs, crushed as they had been, had barely penetrated the sheer relief of it. Perhaps eventually Jon might find it suffocating, but in that moment, he had needed it badly.

Their father’s hatred was no less passionate, however, and Jon knew that was the source of Rhaegar’s discomfort. He was the one who had felt their aunt’s—mother’s—silence most keenly after their letters had gone unanswered, who had felt sorrow at her death, where Jon had felt only regret. Who had lived with a father who had beaten and despised his mother.

Jon did not like the hatred, but he could understand it. He’d had no reason to love Robert Baratheon, but he had felt nothing toward the man for a very long time. Even after learning his parentage, and realizing that he had been the one to take glee in the murders of his young half-brother and sister, his anger and disgust had been muted. After all, the man had been dead nearly four years.

But when he had met Rhaegar, and finally understood who he was, and what Robert Baratheon had taken from him, a hatred had ignited that still burned in his heart. Jon did not know if he could meet any Baratheon and remain clear-headed, much less allow one within the same room as Rhaegar.

That kind of hatred could only be born of a very deep hurt, of being denied something that you loved above all else. Robert Baratheon. Walder Frey.

Daemon Targaryen had found that he had sons, and then learned that he had lost eight years of their lives. With a pain that fresh, the accompanying fury must be all the greater.

“She was our mother, Jon,” Rhaegar said quietly.

Jon shook his head. “We knew her for all of three days? Perhaps four?”

The look he received in response was one of almost confusion. “We knew her our whole lives, even if we were not here for it. Can you not feel it?”

“No.” Rhaegar had also been more affected by the prospect of leaving Lady Lynda, which had seemed odd to Jon at the time. Was there something wrong with him? Did some remnant of the children they had been live on in Rhaegar that had died in Jon? I have already killed one boy, Jon thought with a faint regret. What is one more?

They both turned at the sound of the heavy doors at the entrance to the hall opening. The man who was accused of shooting down ravens shuffled into the hall, legs bound in iron chains, men-at-arms flanking him on either side as they approached Lord Cox and their father, who stood at the dais at the end of the hall. Daemon’s anger seemed leashed for now, his expression calm and his eyes cold.

A young serving woman with honey-blond hair pinned up in braids halted beside Jon and Rhaegar with an attentive bow, a cup in either hand. “My princes, I’ve sweet cider from the kitchens, if you have any thirst. Or I can fetch water if that is more to your liking.”

Jon was not particularly thirsty, but he wasn’t sure how to tell if his hatchling was, after its meal. “Water for me, thank you.”

Rhaegar took the offered cider, seemingly as curious as Jon as he held it up to his hatchling’s snout for a sniff. Its nose touched the surface of the slightly bubbling cider before recoiling in surprise, silver eyes narrowing as it hissed, as though at an enemy. Jon and Rhaegar both stifled a giggle of delight, heavy thoughts lifted for a moment. His brother took an experimental sip of the cider and then blinked. “Oh, it’s very sweet. You were wise to choose the water.”

He sipped at it with something more like duty than enjoyment, and they turned their attention back to the prisoner’s slow march. He was clearly reluctant to face questioning, steps slowing the closer they got, at times forcing his escort to drag him forward, but they finally reached their destination, some ten feet shy of the dais, where Cox’s steward approached with a thin roll of paper which he unraveled.

“The prisoner is Hunfrey, son of Dorrik,” he read. “Fisherman by trade. He stands accused of killing ravens bearing messages to the Saltpans and Castle Cox, witnessed in the act this morning by Arnsby, sailor on the fishing vessel Seagrass.”

The prisoner, whose sun-weathered skin was nearly as ruddy as his hair, dropped to his knees. “M’lords, I swear, I didn’t!” His head jerked between Lord Cox and Daemon, as though uncertain who make his entreaty to. “I’m an honest fisherman, I would never—”

“His bow,” interrupted one of the men-at-arms, presenting it to Daemon, who turned it over in his hands before giving it back. “And the message borne by the raven he was witnessed killing.”

A rolled up scroll was handed to him next, which Daemon read through quickly before passing it on to Lord Cox, eyes narrowing in study at the prisoner.

“Approach,” Daemon commanded, and the men-at-arms forced him to his feet, then roughly dragged him closer. Daemon grabbed the man’s bound hands, examining them, then frowned. “Is this Arnsby present?”

“Here, m’lord,” said a voice at the back of the room, closer to them, its source a dark-bearded man with short-cropped hair. At Daemon’s nod, he stepped forward, only to halt midway to the dais as Daemon said something sharply in Valyrian.

They tensed as one, Arnsby and their father, and just as Daemon lurched forward, the other man reached into the pouch at his side, hurling a sphere of milky glass toward the brazier closest to Daemon. The orb exploded in a blinding flash of white that turned to green flame as whatever liquid had been inside scattered across the floor of the dais and nearby wooden beam, narrowingly avoiding Daemon.

Men-at-arms were already swarming the man, who had drawn another, larger orb to cast at another brazier. The fire from the first was already spreading rapidly up the beam, toward the ceiling, and shouts for water rose in the back of the room, servants and guardsmen alike rushing to duty.

The men trying to close on the sailor had to chase him to the other beam that had been set alight, but the man did not halt at its edge, instead hurling himself into the flame. A succession of loud cracks drowned out his screams as more wildfire—which Jon had recognized at last—that must have been hidden throughout his person ignited and burst.

One of the men-at-arms who had drawn too close rolled to the ground, his screams outlasting those of the attacker, whose death came quick in the heart of the green flame. Smoke rapidly filled the hall, and Jon tried to catch sight of Daemon through it. Men-at-arms had hurried to his side and were leading him away from the growing flames, but Jon thought he saw his head turn back toward them.

Someone jostled Jon, the small crowd in the back falling now to panic. When he glanced aside at Rhaegar, his brother was nowhere to be seen, nor his dragon. As he looked around wildly, his gaze fell on the cup of cider on the ground, its remaining contents spilled.

Jon’s stomach lurched. “Rhaegar!” he shouted, but it was lost in the chaos, the room already engulfed by barked orders and screams of men who had not evaded the wildfire in time. “Rhaegar!”

Someone grabbed at him from behind, a hand covering his mouth to muffle it as he was pulled backward. Jon bit down hard and twisted, uncaring of the pain it caused his ribs, ducking out of the arms that had grappled him. His hatchling fluttered above him, its own cries loud and confused, and Jon darted through a gap in the throng of people. “Follow!” he commanded, as loudly as he could, hoping that it would understand and obey.

He bumped into something hard—armor, and squinting through the smoke, he caught sight of a surcoat with the sigil of House Cox. “My brother!” Jon exclaimed, latching onto the man’s arm. “Someone has taken my brother!”

The first of the buckets of water had made their way into the hall and Jon wanted to scream at them that it was useless, that they needed to find Rhaegar, but no one was listening. The knight crouched down, and Jon recognized the face of one of the guards outside their bedchamber, the one who had first seen the hatchlings. There was a similar recognition in the man’s eyes.

“Seven hells.” The knight picked him up, and Jon grabbed for his hatchling, who was having difficulty navigating the smoke.

Then he was being carried out of the grand hall. “No!” Jon flailed in his grasp, the pain in his ribs dwarfed by the seizing of his heart. “Rhaegar! We must find Rhaegar!”

The doors to the entry hall had been propped open, bright daylight streaming through the smoke as a beacon of safety. Jon continued to turn and twist in the knight’s hold, looking desperately for any sign of his brother. They emerged into the open air of the keep’s yard, and Jon’s heart leapt as his gaze fell at last on a glint of silver-gold, but it was Daemon, who had already spotted him and was sprinting over.

“Jon,” he said, sounding breathless with relief as he took him from the knight.

“Rhaegar!” Jon said, the word half a sob as he struggled to be set down. “Someone tried to grab me, and they’ve taken him!”

Daemon’s face paled, arms tightening around him as he spun to face the knight. “Send word to the harbor. Lock it down. No ship is to leave until my son is found.” Then they were running toward Ser Kelwyn, who was at Lord Cox’s side. “My son,” Daemon said, voice strangled. “Someone has taken Rhaegar. Every knight and guardsman must be dispatched to search at once.”

“My prince,” Lord Cox said, pale with shock. “We must douse the flames before the keep—”

“Hells take your fucking keep!” Daemon screamed, with a fury so raw it did not sound human. “If my son is not found, I shall make a second Harrenhal of it!”

The threat seemed to draw Lord Cox from his daze. “Of course,” he said weakly. “Ser Kelwyn…”

“I will see it done.”

The knight began rallying the scattered men-at-arms to him, barking orders, while Jon could only watch, dizzy and sick with fear. I should have let them take me. I would be with him now, and he would not be alone.

For all the terror and misery of their captivity under Crayne, they had been together.

Daemon was still holding him, his breathing harsh and ragged. Above them, Caraxes roared, and his arms again flexed around Jon.

“Take me with you,” Jon said, guessing at the source of his paralysis. To find Rhaegar on Caraxes, he would have to leave Jon in the chaos that had already claimed one son. “I do not care if it hurts.”

A kiss found his temple. “Thank you,” Daemon whispered into his hair.

They raced outside the keep’s walls, where Caraxes landed with a ground-quaking thud. Jon tucked his hatchling into his shirt until only its head poked out the top.

“Tell me what happened,” Daemon said as he worked to secure them both in the saddle.

“We were in the back, watching,” Jon said, stroking the tiny, soft spikes along his hatchling’s cheek as he fought to regain his calm. “When the man threw the wildfire and it began to spread, everyone started moving. I don’t—” He had been so absorbed in the spectacle of the wildfire that he hadn’t even checked on his brother. “I don’t know when Rhaegar was taken. I looked, and I could not find him. I saw his cider cup spilled on the ground, but he was gone.”

“And someone tried to take you as well?” Daemon had finished securing the last of the straps. He laid a hand on one of Caraxes’s great red scales and they both lurched as the dragon’s powerful legs pushed off the ground, the air displaced by his broad wings kicking up dirt and dust around them.

“After I called for him. Someone grabbed me, and tried to drag me off, but I broke free and ran.”

Why hadn’t Rhaegar? Jon had spent three moons teaching him how to fight against such grips, and he had not been hampered by a broken arm or ribs. By the end of Jon’s lessons, Rhaegar had proved himself more than capable of fighting back.

“You did well,” Daemon said, hand squeezing his good shoulder. “Where did you learn about wildfire?”

That he could not answer truthfully. “Rhaegar likes to—likes to read,” Jon said, vision blurring as the excuse caught in his throat.

Whenever his brother read anything interesting, he would immediately pause to tell Jon about it, half his joy in sharing the knowledge. And his eyes would brighten further when Jon found himself fascinated enough to discuss whatever tidbit he had shared. Jon’s next breath strained to make it through his tightening throat. Please, he pleaded to whatever gods might be listening. Old, new, R'hllor, he did not care. You took him from me once. Please do not take him from me again.

The keep shrunk as they rose, and at a shouted call, Caraxes turned toward the opening of the Trident into the bay, where the harbor was. A sweep of it from above revealed no recent departures. The nearest eastbound vessel was perhaps four miles out.

Where would they be taking him? They must have known that the harbor would be locked down immediately, unless they had not counted that Jon would raise the alarm so quickly. But they were the first thing their father had looked for. A chill ran down his spine. Had they intended to catch Daemon in the wildfire blaze?

With the harbor clear for now, Daemon guided Caraxes in a loop of the town, which itself was not walled. The only road out was to the north, a dirt path that led to the red road, which crept along the base of the mountains to the north, leading eventually to Redfort. That was the road Crayne had taken them on to reach the Saltpans.

A horse was trotting north toward the red road, Caraxes the first to spy it. It took mere seconds for the dragon to overtake it, then dive ahead to land hard enough to rattle both Jon’s teeth and ribs.

The horse, spooked out of its mind, was fighting its rider, who appeared similarly terrified. A quick glance up close was enough for Jon to tell that this was not the kidnapper they sought. The rider was by himself, with nowhere that Rhaegar could be hidden.

Ultimately, not a single word was exchanged, just a hissed curse under Daemon’s breath as they returned to the sky, Jon’s heart sinking deeper into his chest, even as it pounded all the harder. Already he could see a man on horseback heading in their direction to take up guard of the northern trail. The paths leading the north of the town would be even more heavily guarded as the men under Cox moved into position.

With ships being stopped at the harbor from continuing into the bay, and the road north watched that only left—

The river upstream. Every inch of Jon’s skin crawled at the thought of Rhaegar being so near to it.

There were many boats to the west of the Saltpans, some offering passage from one side of the river to the other. If the kidnappers could make it to the southern banks of the Trident, the search area might become too vast to cover. They had been fortunate that Crayne had stuck to known roads, oblivious to the possibility of their father searching for them on dragonback.

Jon did not think those behind this plot would be so ignorant.

Daemon appeared to have reached a similar conclusion. They flew east and west along the Trident, a sweeping patrol, but encountered no horse or travelers on foot heading away from the Saltpans. They circled the surrounds of the Saltpans for an hour, only to find nothing.

Lord Cox’s men-at-arms had moved into position by then, forming a ring around the town that would allow no one to leave without being spotted by at least two sentries. Daemon directed Caraxes back in the direction of the keep then, which was still sending up smoke from the fire, and they landed outside its wall.

“How are your ribs?” Daemon asked once they’d dismounted, voice hoarse even though they had fallen to silence for the last hour on Caraxes’s back.

“Fine,” Jon said dully.

The fires had been put out, sand hauled in from the shores of the bay to quench the wildfire’s fury. The damage had been mostly confined to the great hall, as well as the room above the two beams that had been consumed by the fire, which had left the ceiling there partially collapsed. Lord Cox awaited them in the keep’s yard, stiff with clear anxiety.

“My prince,” he said, his bow nearly bending him in half. “No ship has left the harbor, and my men patrol the perimeter of the town. I have more men who are going from door to door in search of your son.”

“They cannot have left the town,” Daemon said, almost to himself, hand catching in the tangles of his silver-gold hair and clenching into a fist that he lowered with a shuddering exhale.

Jon’s dragon, which had been quietly tucked into his shirt for the flight, poked its head out with a hungry shriek. It had been only a few hours since their breakfast together, and Jon wouldn’t have had an appetite regardless, but the hatchling was newborn, with an equivalent hunger.

“I will go with you,” Jon said to Daemon. He had said nothing about joining the search, but he did not need to. “I can feed my dragon as we walk.”

A servant was called over to fetch more cubes of meat, and a pouch was brought, which Jon was able to secure at his belt to feed his hatchling with his good hand. At Lord Cox’s insistence, Ser Kelwyn was sent with them. Daemon’s token resistance told him that he worried about Jon’s safety as well.

The town was large: some two hundred buildings, a full quarter of them shops. And House Cox was only a minor house, with no more than two-dozen guardsmen and two knights to keep the peace.

With over half the guardsman watching the perimeter of the town, and still more guarding the harbor, that left only a handful to aid the men searching the town. Ser Kelwyn, who had organized the search, led them toward the south-east sector, which held more of the upscale shops and dwellings.

They drew whispers and stares as they passed through the streets, the sight of a Targaryen prince and a tiny hatchling not one many of the smallfolk would see in their lifetime. Jon kept trying to feed the cubes of meat to his dragon, only for it to stubbornly turn its snout aside, struggling within his shirt. Apparently it was raw meat or nothing.

“I cannot carry you,” Jon whispered tiredly to the tiny hatchling, who kept trying to wriggle out of his shirt.

The tiny shrieks were something he tuned his hearing to, however. Jon doubted his brother’s hatchling would be silent if Rhaegar were in distress.

They’ll wait for cover of night. It was the smart thing to do. Easier to slip past a guard and evade a patrolling dragon overhead. He had to believe, same as Daemon, that Rhaegar was still within the town, not gone. Like Sansa. Like Arya. Like—

No. Not Robb. The flame-eyed man had reacted to Rhaegar like he was the rarest of jewels. He was alive.

Jon thought back to the candle, and how Rhaegar had been drawn to it. Could it be used in some way to find him? Jephyro had used it to find their camp, but that had likely been the warlock locating the candle, not them. Jon was no warlock, and Rhaegar did not have the candle.

Door after door was opened, intimidated inhabitants questioned by an increasingly wild-eyed Daemon, and then searched. Jon kept waiting for a cry to go up from one of the other pairs sweeping the town that they’d found him, but the streets remained eerily quiet, all business closed down, all denizens who ventured out directed back to their homes.

Noon became mid-afternoon, each hour longer than the last, buildings and faces blurring together while his stomach twisted into increasingly tight knots. Jon’s hatchling continued to agitate, to the point where Daemon offered to carry it for a time, but it fussed even more then, so Jon took the hatchling back, wishing any of the things he’d learned from raising Ghost as a pup applied to a dragon.

Jon whispered constantly to the hatchling, sometimes in broken Valyrian, other times in Common, trying everything in his power to soothe it. Another door closed shut behind them, its outside marked by Ser Kelwyn to indicate that it had been searched, and the tiny black dragon finally began to quiet as they moved onto the next. Jon, who had been hovering on the edge of tears for the past several hours, felt a dull relief at the silence.

Of course, that left his thoughts free to imagine the worst, until he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the despair away. If we find him, I will never let him near the Trident again. It is cursed.

The next building was a baker’s shop, windows dark even as sunset approached. No one answered Ser Kelwyn’s pounding at the door, so he battered it in after a minute, as they’d done at other dwellings where there had been no response. The shop’s wares were half sold, and although its owner was nowhere in sight, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Daemon and Jon searched the ground level, while Ser Kelwyn checked the residence above, appearing downstairs with a shake of his head.

It was becoming a familiar routine, though Daemon’s squeeze on his shoulder grew tighter, more desperate, each time their search ended in failure. Ser Kelwyn marked the door, and Jon glanced down the street. Only six more buildings left.

His hatchling stirred once more as they moved to the next dwelling, letting out a high-pitched keen as it fought Jon’s stilling grip. “Steady,” Jon said, as though to a horse, because he did not know the Valyrian equivalent, but with every step it struggled harder, like it wanted to—

Like it wanted to go back. Jon’s heart skipped a beat, hope fluttering in his chest, and he raised his arm aloft, encouraging his dragon to take flight. It made a beeline back to the baker’s shop.

“Stop!” Jon said, catching Daemon’s wrist.

They are twins, our dragons. Hatched together. Ghost and his siblings had often seemed to know how to find one another. Perhaps it was the same with dragons.

Daemon’s gaze followed the flight of his hatchling, eyes widening, and they ran as one back to the shop, Ser Kelwyn close behind. His hatchling was peering into the crack left by the partially closed door in its shattered door frame, and Daemon smashed his shoulder into it, sending it flying inward.

As Jon followed Daemon in, he could hear Kelwyn let out a sharp whistle behind him to call for aid from one of the nearby search parties. His hatchling circled the room once, then landed on a stool that had been placed atop a circular rug, only to flutter back into the air with a startled cry as Daemon knocked the stool aside to jerk the rug out of the way, revealing the obvious outline of a trapdoor.

A cellar. Jon could not believe they had missed it. Though there was an oven on the ground level of the shop, it did not have near enough sugar and flour on its few shelves to produce the quantity of goods on display.

“Stay here,” Daemon ordered.

A fresh fear jolted through him. “They must have heard us come back. They will be waiting.” And the very first wildfire pot back at the great hall had been thrown directly toward Daemon.

Either Daemon had not heard him, or he simply did not care. He threw back the hatch of the trapdoor revealing a dimly-lit room below, and slid down in two quick movements to land heavily on his feet. Jon’s hand clenched helplessly at his side. He had not thought to grab his knife from their bedchamber, and Daemon was not wearing armor.

You’ll lose them both, an ugly voice whispered. Like your uncle. Like Robb.

Jon reached for the ladder, about to follow after him one-handed, but a flash of movement drew his gaze back up. His hatchling was on the move again, toward the back wall, which it regarded with confusion, wings flapping as it went from one side of the wall to the other.

“There is a passageway,” Daemon said, voice growing more distant. 

“Wait!” Jon called out, but there was no response. Biting back a curse, he called out to his hatchling. “Come.”

After emitting a frustrated shriek of its own, it moved to follow him out of the open door frame, where another man-at-arms had taken up guard. Jon ducked past him, around the side of the bakery, and his dragon took off down the sloping alleyway between the buildings that led to the pier.

As he ran after it, Ser Kelwyn’s voice rang out somewhere ahead of him. “Halt!”

The metallic shlink of a sword being drawn spurred him into a full sprint, ribs throbbing with each footfall, until Jon had cleared the building to see the knight close with two men in dark garb, both wielding shortswords. His dragon flew past the melee, to a small boat roped to the long stretch of pier along the shoreline.

A third man emerged through a door at pier-level that Jon realized must connect with the cellar of the bakery. A sword hung from his side as well, but he ran past the fighting, toward the boat, where he immediately started fumbling with the rope that tied the boat to the pier.

Rhaegar. Jon did not even stop to think, he chased after the man, ignoring Ser Kelwyn’s cry to stay back. The third man, whose hair and face were both shaved smooth, turned in surprise as Jon hopped onto the boat, hand going to his sword before relaxing, thin mouth pulling into a grin.

“You deliver yourself,” he said in accented Common. “How generous.”

The rope fell loose, and the man thrust a foot out to kick off from the pier, sending the small rowboat drifting into the bay’s weak current. Jon, whose plan had not extended beyond getting to Rhaegar, glanced around the boat for anything to use as a weapon, but there were only the boat’s two oars and a large sack of what outwardly appeared to be grain that Jon’s hatchling had swarmed to.

A blur of motion on the pier caught Jon’s eye, black and red and silver, and he grabbed for an oar, as though in self defense, taking a step backward, toward the stern of the boat, to draw the kidnapper’s gaze from the shoreline. The distraction lasted just long enough for Daemon to vault across the widening gap between boat and pier, Dark Sister extended outward like the tip of a vengeful spear to thrust clean through the kidnapper’s chest.

The sudden impact tilted the rowboat violently to its bow, sending Jon tumbling forward, and Daemon caught him with one arm as the other ripped violently sideways, Dark Sister tearing herself free of the man’s chest through his ribcage. With a cry of primal fury, Daemon kicked the kidnapper’s falling body, sending it toppling into the water.

That left the two of them, both breathing heavily, Jon’s ribs aching fiercely—which didn’t stop him from wriggling out of Daemon’s grasp to hurry to the large sack that had been tucked in the middle of the boat. Daemon knelt beside him, carefully cutting the twine that held the sack closed then drawing it open to reveal Rhaegar, buried up to his waist in grain.

His eyes were closed, his dragon limp against his side, and Jon grasped for his hand in a panic, not relaxing until he felt the light thrum of his pulse.

“Rhaegar,” Jon said, shaking him, but he did not stir.

Daemon delicately lifted an eyelid open, then let it fall shut, resting a hand on his cheek. “Milk of the poppy. His dragon as well, I assume.”

Jon blinked in sudden realization. The cider. They had both laughed as Rhaegar’s hatchling stuck its snout in. Jon threaded his fingers through Rhaegar’s, squeezing as he looked up at Daemon. “Will he be all right?”

Daemon, who had finished freeing Rhaegar from the sack, moved his hand to his chest and waited for several very long seconds before the tension left his shoulders. “His breathing is normal. If it were too large a dose, it would be slower.”

“My prince?” Ser Kelwyn was at the pier, longsword bright with blood as he sheathed it and two bodies behind him. “If you extend an oar, I can pull you in.”

The knight helped Jon onto the pier first, grip as gentle as he could manage, then offered a steadying arm as Daemon carried Rhaegar ashore. Jon had his brother’s hatchling nestled in the crook of his splinted arm, his own dragon quiet and content on his other arm.

Daemon adjusted his grip on Rhaegar so that his head rested on his shoulder. His gaze flicked down at the slain kidnappers, then locked onto Ser Kelwyn’s. “You will serve House Targaryen.”

The knight’s brow lifted with surprise. “My prince.” He hesitated. “You do me honor, but—”

“You would prefer to remain here, in the Saltpans?” Daemon asked, an edge to his voice that told Jon he was not often denied.

“No, but I am not a young man.”

Daemon’s mouth twisted. “The isles of the Stepstones are littered with the young and dead. I have come to value experience.”

The knight dipped into a bow. “Then my sword and oath are yours, when you are ready to receive them.”

Daemon inclined his head at the knight, the lines of tension around his mouth easing, only to draw into a frown as he whirled to face Jon. “You will not do that again.”

Jon returned his stare, unblinking. “Do what?”

“I told you to remain at the bakery. Instead, you ran directly into danger, into the very arms of the men who sought to take you!” Though his voice had started level, it had risen to a near shout by the end.

“I will always go after Rhaegar,” Jon said, because it was better that their father learn that early than late.

“I am your father,” Daemon said with a tightness that told Jon his control was hanging by a thread. “You will do as I say, and if I tell you to remain behind—”

“I will always go after Rhaegar,” Jon repeated stubbornly. His hand went to his weaponless belt and he shrugged. “But next time I’ll bring my knife.”

For a moment, Daemon looked like he might scream, but Ser Kelwyn stepped forward then with an offer to take Rhaegar’s dragon from Jon, who hesitated before deciding that Rhaegar would probably prefer that to him straining his broken arm, and handed the hatchling off.

Daemon seemed to have used that brief exchange to gather himself, but he shot Jon a look as though to tell him that the discussion was not finished. More men-at-arms had swarmed into the area, and once Ser Kelwyn had arranged for the bakery to be placed under watch so that it could be more thoroughly investigated later, they began the trek back to the keep.

As Rhaegar bobbed limply in Daemon’s arms, Jon’s gaze fixed on the bracelet around his wrist before turning west, toward the Trident’s wide outlet.

Not today, he told it grimly. Not ever.

Chapter Text

It was well past nightfall once his sons were back in their room, which had avoided the damage wrought to the upper levels of the keep by the fire in the great hall. Though Daemon longed to carry out the investigation himself, what little sense of safety the keep had offered was gone. Whoever wanted his sons wanted them badly, and Daemon did not fool himself that the Saltpans were safe now that the men at the bakery had been slain.

The four men had all been Volantenes, presumably left behind when the Dancing Myr had set sail. Intentionally so, Daemon would guess, given the cache of wildfire they’d had at their disposal. The spectacle at the great hall had been a clever trap: kill him and take his sons in the chaos. Cox would have been too bent on protecting his precious keep to note their disappearance until far too late.

A clever trap, but thrown together in haste. A fisherman made for a poor scapegoat; he’d lacked the calluses of a bowman, which had alerted Daemon to the deception and likely saved his life. The servant woman, who he had found slain in the bakery cellar along with her husband, the baker, must have been their original plan. Had Daemon left his sons unattended at any time before then, no doubt she would have served them drugged cider and slipped away with them unnoticed.

Instead, they had been forced to draw him out. Daemon glowered at the wall. He should have kept his sons with him on the dais, rather than let his guard down in the presence of what had seemed at the time a safe number of knights and men-at-arms.

I cannot let them out of my sight. Daemon stroked his fingers through Rhaegar’s silver-blond hair, still sick with relief at having found him safe. His gaze shifted to Jon, who had finally dozed off beside his brother from exhaustion and pain, thinking of the harrowing moment he had realized that his other son had flung himself directly into harm’s way after his brother. Not even when they are with me.

He had experienced more terror in the past three days than in the entirety of the yearslong war for the Stepstones.

Was it Volantis, then, acting on a desire for dragons and dragonriders? In Daemon’s experience, sellswords did not shy away from risk, but neither did they willingly immolate themselves, no matter how good the pay. A corpse could not collect their coin. The men who had been sent had believed in their mission, or at the very least been willing to die for it.

A demanding shriek from Rhaegar’s hatchling, who had woken not long after returning to the keep, interrupted his thoughts. Daemon drew a strip of raw meat from the table beside the bed, dangling it away from the blankets to avoid mess. It glanced at Daemon after swallowing its meal, as though seeking praise, but he merely raised a brow and fed it another.

“You shall have to do more than simply eat to be worthy of my praise,” he informed the hatchling.

Once it had settled back at Rhaegar’s side, his thoughts returned to the growing headache in the east.

Was it not enough that they already had Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh to contend with in the Stepstones? Had Volantis seen the effectiveness of their dragons against the Triarchy and been spurred to act, after losing ground over the past few decades to the three allied cities? Volantis did, after all, boast perhaps the greatest wealth of all the Free Cities, rivaled only by Braavos. Fifty-thousand dragons would be a pittance to pay.

We shall have words, my brother and I, about curtailing these eastern ambitions.

This plot in the Saltpans had been in motion for some time, but it had largely depended on his sons remaining unknown to him. Volantis and its agents would have a much more difficult time should they hope to continue their efforts in King’s Landing. Between the heavy guard at the Red Keep and the many gold cloaks who remained loyal to him throughout the city, no matter who his brother had installed as Lord Commander since, opportunities would be scarce.

And they shall have to go through me.

Supper came and went, Jon waking long enough to eat a few bites and fret over his still-sleeping brother before succumbing to exhaustion once more, face wan with pain from repeatedly jarring his injuries throughout their search. Daemon kept a quiet watch over both his children, unwilling to take any rest himself until Rhaegar woke and he could confirm that his child was unharmed.

Rhaegar finally stirred near midnight, eyelashes fluttering. Daemon placed a gentle hand on his arm, and his eyes opened at the contact to fix on him with a hazy awareness not unlike his brother’s the night before.

“Rhaegar,” he said, easing him into a sitting position. “How do you feel?”

Recognition flickered on his face. “Father,” he said, but it was a frightened whisper.

It was the first time either of his sons had called him that, but the fear in Rhaegar’s eyes robbed the moment of its sweetness. Daemon stroked his cheek gently, wondering at its source. His recent captivity, or further proof of Allard Royce’s cruelty?

“You are safe.” He kept his voice low and soft, but his son was almost rigid with tension. “We are back in the keep.”

Rhaegar stared back at him with a flutter of confusion that settled into blank non-expression. “What do you require of me?”

Allard. Daemon had thought himself emptied of rage after the very long day, but it surged in his blood with the unquenchable heat of wildfire. Rhaegar tensed, as though he could feel it, and Daemon turned his head aside, calming himself for his son’s sake.

“I would know how you feel,” he said once he was ready to face his son again.

“I—” Rhaegar’s confusion had an edge of anxiety to it, gaze locked desperately on Daemon, as though seeking the answer from him. “I am well.”

Daemon fought to keep the frown from his face. “The truth, Rhaegar.”

“I do not understand,” his son said in a small voice, appearing to brace himself for—for what? If that whoreson struck my children while they were in his care, I shall feed his entire family to Caraxes.

“The maester believes you were given milk of the poppy, but I must know if you feel any ill effects.” His instinct was to reach for his son, to comfort him, but although he did not flinch away from Daemon, he seemed to almost stop breathing when he drew near. Since his son still seemed to be looking to him for cues, Daemon added, “Does anything hurt? Are you dizzy?”

“I am not hurt,” Rhaegar said haltingly.

“Do you know where you are?” Daemon asked, switching to High Valyrian, in the same low, gentle tones his son had taken with his hatchling earlier, and the effect was immediate. The tension drained away, taking that blank mask with it, leaving a raw vulnerability in his eyes that Daemon longed to soothe away.

“We are—in the holdfast?” Rhaegar replied, tone faintly questioning.

“Yes,” he said, and his son relaxed further. Daemon picked up his sleeping hatchling, and Rhaegar’s eyes widened in recognition as he set it on his lap. “You will need to choose a name.”

His son glanced to his side, gaze landing on Jon, who remained fast asleep. “Jon,” he said, and there was a furrow of concentration as he looked back at Daemon. “You are our father.”

Daemon smoothed his son’s hair from his face, relieved that the light touch was not met with the fear from before. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I was with Jon.” Rhaegar frowned. “And then I felt heavy.”

“You were taken,” Daemon said, feeling an echo of that sick lurch when he had been escorted out of the back of the hall, unable to spy his children through the wall of smoke and eerie green fire that split the room. Of finding one son, but not the other, in the courtyard and suddenly grasping the full shape of the plot.

“I do not remember,” Rhaegar said, frown deepening.

That suited Daemon just fine. His son had already suffered through one terrifying week of captivity. “You will not remember this either,” he said, because that had been the case with Jon. “But know that you are safe.” He leaned forward, chancing a kiss to the forehead, and then eased his son back under the covers. “Rest.”

His son gazed up at him for a moment longer. “You look like him.”

“Who?” Daemon asked, curiosity roused.

“My father.”

Daemon smiled ruefully. He should know by now not to seek sense with his son thus addled by milk of the poppy. “I am your father.” And then, swallowing his resentment, however much it burned, “I am sorry about your mother.”

“I miss her,” Rhaegar said, the heartbreak in his voice stirring an ugly jealousy in Daemon.

Her love was nothing, a candle by which you could warm yourself twice a year. My love for you will be everburning, hotter than dragonflame, and you shall not want for anything. 

Daemon kissed his brow again. “Rest.”

The caravan was prepared in great haste, Lord Cox perhaps sensing that Daemon’s patience was waning, and its carriage furnished as lavishly as the lord could muster in the time he had. When Daemon demanded a dozen men-at-arms for escort in addition to Ser Kelwyn, Lord Cox looked like he might object at last, but it only took a mention of Allard Royce’s yet-to-be-born daughter to override his reservations.

It did mean that additional provisions would need to be added, so Daemon returned to their bedchamber, which he had left under Ser Kelwyn’s guard, to check on his sons.

“He’s still sleeping,” Jon reported the instant he stepped through the door, his worry plain. By the looks of the empty plate at the table, where blood had pooled in the center, his son had been diligently feeding both hatchlings.

Daemon bent to press a kiss to Jon’s hair. “As I said, I spoke with him last night. And you told me that he is not an early riser.”

“It is noon,” Jon said flatly. “Even Rhaegar does not sleep until noon.”

Daemon did check briefly on his other son, touching the back of his hand to his forehead. Warm, not hot. He brushed his cheek then, soft and round with youth, regretting those stolen years once more. “We shall be off in a few hours. Come, I will help you bathe.”

“I had not thought I would meet someone more fond of baths than Rhaegar.”

Daemon smiled, amused. “Spend a few years at war, and you too may find a new appreciation for regular bathing.”

An odd look crossed his son’s face. “Perhaps.”

His son’s reluctance proved to have a very different source than an aversion to bathing. As Daemon helped him out of his clothes, teeth clenching yet again at the sight of the colorful bruising all along his back and torso, he also found Jon’s bronze hunting knife, sheathed in some leather contraption beneath his pants.

“Jon,” he said, reaching for the knife, only for his son to snatch it away. He held his hand out. “I will not take your mother’s gift from you, but you may only carry it with permission.”

And certainly not tucked beneath his clothing like some kind of assassin.

Jon’s grip tightened on the knife. “I needed it yesterday on the boat.”

“You should not have been on the boat,” Daemon said sharply.

“I distracted the kidnapper,” Jon said, eyes narrowing.

Distracted—Daemon exhaled, breath hissing out between his teeth. Yes, he could see how having one’s quarry deliver itself might have proved distracting to the Volantene. “I was already in pursuit. Had he any sense, your brother’s kidnapper would have turned his sword on you and used the threat to force me back so that he could steal you both away.”

“Not if I’d had my knife,” Jon said, with the unwavering confidence of an eight-year-old.

Which would prove the greater headache, he wondered. The son who did not trust him, or the son who thought himself a knight grown?

“Jon,” he repeated, moving his hand closer. “The knife.”

“No.”

“No?” Daemon found himself at an unexpected impasse. His son had an open blade and was refusing to surrender it, and grabbing for it risked cutting him. “You would disobey your father?”

“I have not had a father for a very long time,” Jon said.

“Jon?”

His son’s dark head snapped toward the bed, where Rhaegar was maneuvering himself into a sitting position, and Daemon used the momentary diversion to take the knife from him, earning a glare. Meanwhile, Rhaegar took in the sight of his naked brother and knife-wielding father in front of the bath with only a faint wrinkle of his brow.

“How do you feel?” Jon asked.

“Like I swallowed a mouthful of dust,” Rhaegar said after giving it some thought.

Daemon set the knife on a high shelf by the window, well out of reach, and poured a cup of water that his son took with a delayed nod of gratitude. He guided him to the table, where the platter from breakfast still held most of its selection. “Eat. It will help.”

Rhaegar reached for a roll, taking a distracted bite as he called his hatchling over. “Her name is Qelebrys.”

She of the starry night sky.

“An apt name,” Daemon said. His son’s relaxed demeanor as he brushed his hand over his hair told him that he was still partly affected by the milk of the poppy. He kissed the crown of his head, not abashed to take advantage of it.

Then he helped Jon into the tub, keeping his splinted forearm aloft, letting him handle all but his hair, which took some assistance. Rhaegar accepted his help after, though he managed the bathing itself on his own. Jon recounted the events of yesterday, to his brother’s wide-eyed astonishment. As Daemon had expected, his son remembered nothing of their conversation last night.

He allowed them one last look through the recovered saddlebags, but they claimed nothing else from amongst its contents.

“Our things were left behind at the camp where he killed the others,” Jon said.

“You shall both have new wardrobes made in King’s Landing,” Daemon said. The clothing of the Vale was rugged at best, its styles plain and practical, even amongst the nobility. Perhaps it had satisfied his late wife to see them denied the finery they were entitled to as princes, but their blood shone through even in the humble attire they had been forced to borrow from House Cox. “And any toy or trinket you should desire.”

Their eighth name day had just passed, according to Maester Forsethe, Daemon recalled. Eight gifts from him they had never received, an insult that must be remedied as soon as possible.

“Will we be staying there?” Rhaegar asked. “In the Red Keep?”

“For a time,” Daemon said, because he had not thought that far ahead.

He had gone from the middle of a war that had been home for the past few years straight to Runestone. Corlys would not be pleased, he knew, as he had been the only dragonrider the king was willing to spare—or the king’s council, at least. Viserys had written to him nearly every moon, urging him home.

Home. Home had become a pit of vipers since their grandfather’s death, every house in the realm grasping for power and influence, and instead of holding to the bonds of family that had kept House Targaryen strong during their grandfather’s reign, Viserys had been all too willing to embrace their poison. Daemon, who should have been his strongest ally, had been stripped of power, reduced to a childless soldier fighting an unending war that the crown refused to properly fund.

What fame had come from the crown he had presented his brother six years ago had been fleeting. In King’s Landing, among the courtiers and nobles, six years was a lifetime. It was well past time they were reminded who he was, and why Otto Hightower so feared him.

“For quite some time,” Daemon amended.

Maegor’s Holdfast held royal apartments aplenty, from when his grandmother had dreamed of dozens of grandchildren from her many children. From all those children, however, had been born only four grandchildren. And with Aemma’s death, only three remained: Rhaenys, Viserys, and himself. “But I shall take you to see our family’s seat of Dragonstone, and anywhere else you should like to go.”

Which served as a prompt for Jon to inform a devastated Rhaegar that the consequence for being kidnapped had been missing out on a ride on Caraxes. His son omitted that there had been no joy in that ride, only a steadily growing dread as the search proved fruitless.

His very first order of business in King’s Landing after speaking to his brother, Daemon decided, would be commissioning a new saddle for Caraxes. He needed to be able to take both his children with him until their hatchlings grew to riding size.

“My prince?” It was Ser Kelwyn’s voice, just outside the door. “The last of the supplies have been loaded. The caravan is ready to leave at your convenience.”

There were still enough hours of daylight left to make progress, and Daemon itched to be free of the shadows within the Saltpans that stalked his sons.

Jon and Rhaegar gathered their hatchlings. Daemon returned to the shelf where he had placed his son’s knife out of his reach, only to find it missing. A sharp glance at his eldest garnered a challenging stare in response, and Daemon fought back a frown. The importance of obeying one’s father was a lesson that could wait for King’s Landing.

He glanced around the room one last time, but he had everything that mattered within arm’s reach: his children, their hatchlings, and Dark Sister. He herded his sons in front of him, where he could keep an eye on them. “Let us go home.”

It had been many years since Daemon last traveled in a caravan, one of the many privileges of being a dragonrider. He’d forgotten just how large and unwieldy a host they could be, especially with as many men to guard as he’d requested. The carriage and wagon would slow them, as would setting and breaking camp. The journey would be closer to three weeks than two, he suspected.

He finally introduced Rhaegar to Caraxes, smiling in amusement as his son looked from his hatchling to the dragon in clear wonder that such a tiny thing could someday grow to that size. Perhaps even larger, Daemon thought to himself, given their appetite. Caraxes for his part gazed upon both of his sons with contentment as they introduced themselves to him in High Valyrian, as though pleased to see Daemon’s family grow, his neck craning to watch them as they stroked the large scales of his side, then the spikes of his face.

The hatchlings themselves he seemed to regard more with irritation as they flew curiously around his horns, then chased each other around his long neck, before being called back. They were yet too young to follow in the sky, their bursts of flight usually lasting no more than a few minutes at a time. They would also join the cramped carriage, except for supervised excursions.

“Be wary,” Daemon told Caraxes, and his dragon’s eyes narrowed to slits. “We may yet encounter enemies on the road.”

He did not bother telling his dragon to take what he wished of livestock along the way. It was a tax all farmers in the realm paid, though their lords were meant to repay the losses from a stipend reserved by the crown for such expenses.

Caraxes’s great wings began to shift, powerful thrusts that stirred the dirt around them, and Daemon watched longingly as he took to the sky. Once the caravan was more settled and he had a better sense of the men under his command, he might be able to take turns with each of his sons on his dragon to relieve the tedium of the road.

The tiny hatchlings, who had risen in the air in Caraxes’s wake, seemed emboldened by both the display and the open space. They took turns at a game of chase, Qelebrys the faster, but Jon’s hatchling the nimbler, while his sons looked on in delight.

“My prince?” Daemon reluctantly shifted his gaze from his children to the anxious maester who had crept to his side, the remaining glass bottle recovered from the saddlebags of his sons’ kidnappers filled once more with what Daemon could only hope was sufficiently diluted dreamwine. “Brewed to your exact specification. If you find that it is still too strong—”

“Then I shall see you stripped of your chain once I reach King’s Landing,” Daemon said, fixing him with a cold stare. Bad enough that the man had failed to properly dose the dreamwine before, but he had also allowed the bulk of his brewed stores to be stolen away by the conspirators to drug the cider that had been offered to his children.

The man bowed, all but fleeing the moment Daemon turned his gaze back to his sons. They stood shoulder to shoulder, dark and fair, the worries and cares of the past few days seemingly forgotten as they shouted encouragement at their dragons.

This is how it should have been.

Eight years ago, he would have held them in each arm and wondered what color their eyes would be. Seven, and he would have already guided them to their first steps, heard them speak their first words. Six—Daemon broke off that line of thought, recognizing it for the self-torture it was. There was nothing but joy in his sons in this moment, and he would kill any who sought to take it from them.

“Shall we be off, my prince?”

Ser Kelwyn had returned from the front of the caravan, having finished instructing the men in the rotation of their duties. Already, they had taken up their positions on horse and wagon. All that waited was for Daemon and the twins to climb into the carriage.

Jon’s laughter rang out as Caraxes feigned a dive and the startled hatchlings abandoned their chase, fleeing back to his sons. Qelebrys, who had latched onto Rhaegar’s arm, was then treated to a stirring speech in High Valyrian about courage in the face of danger, and after a few moments, she returned to the sky, Jon’s hatchling following her soon after. 

“Not yet,” Daemon said, wondering if he would ever tire of watching his children. Strange how their joy so easily became his. “Let them play for a time.”

The red road was not without its bumps, their first day of travel proving the carriage’s limitations. Daemon second-guessed his decision to go by land rather than sea each time its wheels found a dip in the path, rattling the carriage, but only the very worst of the jolts provoked a wince from Jon.

Eventually, he brought forth the bottle of dreamwine, but Jon stared at it like Daemon had offered him poison. “I do not want it.”

Though he did look slightly tempted when Rhaegar decided that the free time at their disposal was best served with Valyrian lessons. Daemon took pity on him after an hour, calling for a stop to feed and exercise the hatchlings, which also served as an opportunity for them to stretch their cramped legs.

The Valyrian lessons continued after, but Rhaegar, sensitive to Jon’s struggle to concentrate through his discomfort, switched to vocabulary that would be of use in dragonriding, with better results.

“You still need to name your dragon,” Rhaegar said, after deeming the lesson done for the day.

Jon studied the hatchling on his lap, who he’d taken to bouncing from knee to knee, much to its continued bafflement. “It is hard to decide. I think I must know him better first.”

Prompted by the topic, Daemon glanced at his elder son. “What of your own name?”

Jon’s look was puzzled. “What of it?”

“Your brother already chose a Targaryen name. It would be best to decide what yours shall be before you are presented to your uncle the king.”

His son frowned. “Is there something wrong with Jon?”

It is a Vale name. A name she gave you. “There are many names that you could choose. Baelon, after your grandfather. Or Jaehaerys, after mine.” Jon’s brow wrinkled at the latter and Daemon added, “If that is too long, there is Aerys instead.”

Rhaegar’s hatchling emitted a sudden rasping cough, as though trying to produce flame, and his younger son soothed her with a calming murmur. Jon watched them, a strange expression on his face, and then scooted closer to his brother.

“What do you think, Rhaegar?” Jon asked.

Rhaegar looked up from his dragon, the same tension in his bearing as Daemon had seen the night before. He flattened his hands on his legs, then seemed to catch himself doing so, folding them on his lap instead. “Whatever name you choose, I shall gladly learn it. You favor Aerys?”

Jon shook his head quickly. “No, I meant—what do you think?”

Rhaegar went quiet, though the tension subsided, studying his brother with an intensity that would never stop reminding Daemon of his uncle. “You wish to know yourself better first. Like your hatchling.”

Jon’s shoulders sagged with something like relief, as though his brother had voiced something he could not. “It is difficult. I do not—I do not want to stop being Jon.”

“You will always be Jon to me,” Rhaegar assured him, leaning their shoulders together. “And whoever else you choose to be.”

Jon turned his gaze to Daemon. “Must I decide now?”

Daemon, who had been resolute mere moments before, found himself caving instantly under his son’s quiet plea. Much had changed for them very quickly; it was not so surprising that at least one of his sons would want to cling to some semblance of familiarity.

“No,” he said, though he could only imagine the reaction from Rhaenyra and Laenor after the grief he had given them over Joffrey’s name. “Take what time you need.”

After they made camp for the night, Daemon found himself staring upward at the stars long after his sons had fallen asleep, side by side. Even with Caraxes’s large form forming a protective half-circle around his and the twins’ bedrolls, the persistence of Volantis and its agents loomed in his thoughts. The fact that they had tried with the full knowledge that Daemon was now aware of his children meant they did not fear the Crown’s response.

Ser Kelwyn was one knight he could trust, but he alone could not guard his children at all times. Nor did Daemon have his brother’s unlimited resources. A decade spent at war did not lend itself to building a fortune—quite the opposite, in Corlys’s case. Like every member of the royal family, Daemon was provided for with an income directly from the Crown, but he could not build a Kingsguard of his own—to say nothing of how it would be perceived.

And he feared that his children could very well need one. Which meant he would need to plead his case to his brother, and hope that he viewed the danger to be equally grave. He crafted argument after argument in his head, until midway through the night, Rhaegar rose from his bedroll to kneel beside Daemon’s.

“You and Jon are so very alike,” his son said solemnly, putting a forestalling hand on Daemon’s chest when he moved to sit up.

He began to sing then, a lullaby that danced at the edges of Daemon’s memory, hovering just beyond reach or recall. It slipped further and further away as he listened, the melody quiet and sweet. That is a talent he did not inherit from me, Daemon thought sleepily, his own singing no more than adequate. His great-aunt Rhaena, perhaps, who was said to have also had an exquisite voice. When she was not threatening her enemies with a trip down her dragon’s gullet.

“Very alike,” he thought he heard before sleep finally found him.

Even with every man who had skill with a spear or bow out in force hunting at every opportunity, it was difficult to keep up with the appetites of his sons’ hatchlings, who Daemon could swear were already noticeably larger after only two days.

And he was not the only one. “How long until they are of riding size?” Rhaegar asked, as the men set to breaking down the morning camp.

The hatchlings were chasing one another again, their flight more confident than the wobbly flaps of their first two days in the world. It might not be long before they could be taught to hunt for their own meals. From the books Daemon had read on the subject, overreliance on hand feeding could lead to lazy or even stunted drakes. They were warriors in their own right, not pets to be pampered.

“It will be some years,” Daemon said, to his son’s visible dismay. “It differs between dragons. Some are slower to grow than others.” Qelebrys dove for the scrap of meat that Rhaegar had tossed some twenty feet from her, closing the distance rapidly to catch it in her jaws before it hit the ground. “But I do not think you and your brother shall have very long to wait for yours.”

Where had those dragon eggs come from? It was but one of many questions that plagued him, both because it defined the nature of the danger facing his sons and House Targaryen, but also because an untapped source of dragon eggs would be a threat to their house’s power—or a boon if they could secure it. Particularly given the size of the ones that had hatched for his sons. Could they possibly see another Balerion or, gods be good, two?

Or perhaps it is for the better that they are for my sons alone. After all, Viserys’s sons had yet to bond with any dragons, nor had any eggs hatched for them. Let them scrounge from whatever the Dragonpit had at hand.

Daemon did take to Caraxes for a scout at the road ahead, his dragon easily covering the distance of a day’s travel and back in under an hour. He had spotted nothing that would cause trouble for a complement of twelve guardsmen: primarily lone travelers on horse or merchant wagons with small escorts.

He was greeted excitedly by the hatchlings as Caraxes landed near the camp. They had taken off ahead of his sons, who caught up more slowly to watch him dismount, both looking faintly envious.

Daemon pulled each of them into his side, mindful of Jon’s injuries, and kissed either on the temple, as though he had not done so two hours before, upon them waking. He had an eight year debt of affection to be paid, after all, and a time would come all too soon that they would bristle at being treated as boys.

I do not want them to grow. The mere thought of it filled him with a pre-emptive regret. He had only just found them; it seemed cruel that the march of time itself would eventually distance them. Eight years from now, he would be arranging matches for them, assuming his brother allowed it. In truth, it had nothing to do with Viserys and everything to do with Otto Hightower’s influence, which made dealing with the man all the more vital.

“I have not forgotten that you are still owed a ride on Caraxes,” he told Rhaegar. “Would you like to join my scouting flight tomorrow morning?”

His son’s head turned, gaze snapping to him. The guardedness that never seemed to leave his son was nowhere to be found in his widened eyes, purple bright with joy. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Daemon said, lifting him into a one-armed hug to find Jon watching them both with a smile. “You and your brother may take turns each morning, if he feels up to it.”

“It is only the landings that cause discomfort,” Jon said.

The hatchlings returned from their curious study of Caraxes, who had tolerated it through narrowed eyes, to circle around them, and Daemon released his sons reluctantly to let them collect their wayward dragons. “Then it is settled.”

The plentiful exercise after their meal had served to settle the hatchlings as they bundled into the carriage for the fresh day of travel. They were two days yet from reaching the kingsroad and its crossing of the Trident at Harroway’s Town, after which Daemon hoped the quality of the road would improve, for Jon’s sake. It was not that old, after all—his grandfather had overseen its construction during his reign.

“How fare your ribs?” Daemon asked as the carriage took off at last.

Jon gave a stoic shrug. “Well enough. I do not need the dreamwine.”

Daemon watched his face for the first few rough patches of road, but he did not betray any great discomfort, and Daemon eventually relaxed. Rather than letting the day begin with a Valyrian lesson, he instead asked after their lessons with the maester at the Gates of the Moon. Their manners and comportment were more than acceptable from what he had seen, but that did not cover all that highborn boys of their age should know.

“He has not taught us for some time,” Jon said, to a warning glance from his brother.

“He has not taught you?” Daemon repeated, wondering what fresh insult by Allard Royce to his sons he was about to hear. “Whyever not?”

Jon shrugged. “We had already mastered what he thought we should know.”

As little as possible, no doubt, that you might never rise above whatever lowly station they intended for you. Rhaegar was watching him once more with that damnable wariness, and Daemon found that he had grasped the hilt of Dark Sister without realizing. He crossed his arms instead to occupy them, trying to relax his expression so that his sons did not think him angry with them.

“You shall find yourselves properly challenged by your tutors at the Red Keep.” His sons would not be outshined by his nephews, even if there were gaps in their knowledge. They were startlingly intelligent, and Rhaegar’s High Valyrian was beyond reproach. Nor did they lack for bravery; to a fault, in Jon’s case. “And what of your arms training?”

“Jon is the best I have seen,” Rhaegar declared with a look at his brother that was pure adoration.

“Not presently,” Jon said sourly, looking down at his splinted arm. He cast a glance at Rhaegar. “And you are better than any man that I’ve—” He hesitated, gaze flicking to Daemon briefly before returning to his brother. “You are the best swordsman I have trained with.” 

At least Allard Royce had not neglected that aspect of their upbringing. Most highborn boys began their arms training in earnest as they neared their seventh or eighth name day. “What weapons have you trained in?”

Jon listed them off promptly. “Sword, lance, bow, and knife.”

More than Daemon would have thought for boys their age. “I look forward to seeing what you have learned.” There might even be opportunities on the kingsroad to test Rhaegar’s skill; Jon’s would have to wait until his injured arm was healed.

It occurred to him then that Criston Cole would likely be instructing them. His brother had already insisted that Rhaenyra’s boys be trained with their uncles once they were old enough. Doubtless he would demand the same of Daemon’s.

If he dares offer them insult or harm, I shall have his head. What was one more banishment, after all? It still beggared belief that his brother had allowed the knight to remain within the Red Keep after all he had done, while it was Daemon who was always sent away. The Greens and their poison, which my brother gladly drinks.

Jon was frowning at his splinted arm, worry plain. “It will heal,” Daemon said. He had seen his son’s forearm when the maester had resplinted it, and although the bruising had been horrific, the break itself was not. He had seen men with worse return to fighting shape in under three moons, and according to the maester, children healed from such things more quickly.

Rhaegar shifted the conversation to their eventual arrival in King’s Landing, asking about Daemon’s boyhood there. Both showed interest in the topic, so he regaled them with stories of adventures with his father and uncle, the mischiefs he and Viserys had gotten up to as boys, and lazy summers at Dragonstone in the company of their cousin Rhaenys.

The hours passed quickly, his sons demanding that he continue every time they returned to the carriage from their various stops throughout the day. They had been pleasant days, and he felt lighter somehow in the telling of it.

His throat was rough by the time they stopped for the night, but he found his reward in Jon’s laughter and the feel of Rhaegar relaxing into his hug after supper. The roads had been quiet, and Ser Kelwyn’s watch rotations run with military precision. Two days out now from the Saltpans, the kingsroad within reach tomorrow, Daemon’s nerves had finally begun to settle.

Then Caraxes stirred, head rising as his long neck turned skyward. Daemon, who had been watching his sons try to teach their dragons to return on command, reached for his sword, exchanging a wordless glance with Ser Kelwyn.

Caraxes let out a loud bellow, spooking the horses badly enough that they nearly trampled the man-at-arms who had been tending to them. It was not a cry of warning, Daemon realized, but a cry of greeting. He relaxed his grip on Dark Sister, and an answering bellow rang out from above.

Daemon squinted, only the last few traces of lighter sky remaining near the horizon, the quarter moon providing just enough illumination to spy the shape of a dragon bearing down upon them, glinting silver where the moonlight fell upon it, instantly recognizable: Seasmoke.

Chapter Text

Seasmoke landed gracefully beside the camp—on the opposite side from Caraxes, who tended to make the younger dragon nervous—and his rider dismounted, equally graceful. Daemon impatiently waved off the questioning looks from his men-at-arms as his cousin approached.

“Daemon!” Laenor said, voice bright with cheer as he presented him with a rolled up slip of parchment. “Our king bade that his message be brought on the swiftest wings—and that I offer them in service.” He glanced over at Daemon’s sons, who had risen from the campfire to watch, and he beamed. “He is eager to meet his new nephews.”

Daemon,

I share your joy in your newfound fatherhood, as well as your anger at the treachery that kept you from your sons for too long. The existence of a plot to steal them away to distant shores fills me with great concern, as does the existence of dragon eggs unaccounted for, and this disturbing magic you encountered on Caraxes.

Though it gladdens me that your boys are unharmed and now within your care, I would see you all safe in King’s Landing sooner than later. We have much to discuss.

I have missed you, brother.

Daemon exhaled, the tension of the past few days seeming to escape with his breath. He had not known what his brother’s response would be, though he had guessed it would be one of welcome. Sending Laenor directly rather than a complement of knights to meet them on the road, however, signaled that he viewed the threat to be a grave one.

“What did my brother tell you?” he asked.

Since Daemon had not moved to do so, Laenor took it upon himself to greet him, clasping him by the arms to kiss either cheek before drawing back. “Almost nothing,” he admitted, looking somewhat put out by that. “I was given two cradles for dragon eggs, but I take it they are no longer necessary?”

Both Qelebrys and Jon’s hatchling had dashed over to investigate the new arrival, intrigued by the smaller adult dragon, who tolerated their curious prodding with more patience than Caraxes had.

“No,” Daemon said.

Qelebrys flew over to them, circling as though to show off before Jon’s hatchling dove in pursuit, starting an impromptu game of chase.

Laenor stared after them, brow furrowing. “When did they hatch?”

“Three days ago.”

“By the gods,” Laenor said faintly. “They will be monstrous. I do not think Tyraxes is yet that size, and he hatched well over eight moons ago. Where did you find those eggs?” 

Daemon’s smile was grim. “I didn’t.”

Laenor looked away from the racing hatchlings, back at him. He seemed to master his astonishment, lips pulling into a wry smile. “Twin sons from nowhere, and twin dragons from nowhere. You must be congratulated—I have not seen a family grow so quickly at once.” He hesitated. “I also offer my condolences, or congratulations if you like, on your release from the bonds of marriage.”

“The only sorrow I feel is that the bronze—” Daemon’s gaze flicked briefly to Rhaegar. He was beyond earshot, but better to make a habit of restraint where the boys’ mother was concerned. “That their mother did not face the king’s justice for her crime.”

“She truly must have hated you,” Laenor said with a shake of his head. “When the king told me, I could scarcely believe it.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow. “That someone could hate me?”

“That anyone would dare deny you your children.” Laenor patted his shoulder. “I would never discount your talent for acquiring enemies the way others do friends.”

“Any who seek to threaten my sons or my house are my enemy.” Blood relations included, should his young nephews grow to serve the ambitions of House Hightower.

Laenor’s own brow rose. “That is a great many enemies.”

All the greater for the fact that his brother held so many of them to his bosom. “Then I shall have much to occupy myself with in King’s Landing once my sons are settled.”

“So you are staying?” From Laenor’s relaxed demeanor, Daemon did not think his brother had even told him of the kidnapping. “I wondered if you would return to the Stepstones. Without your dragon—”

“I have two sons whose childhood was stolen from both them and me,” Daemon snarled. “Do you think I would abandon them as their mother did?”

Laenor held his hands up in a placating gesture, looking taken aback at his response. “Not at all! It is simply—the war seemed important to you.”

Daemon swallowed a bitter laugh. The war was all that I had . The only thing within his control that hadn’t been stripped from him, like every council seat he had ever occupied. And even then, even with Corlys nearly funding the entire endeavor himself, the small council had tightened its purse every year, withdrawing as much support as they could get away with.

“It is important to the realm.” It could very well have been what had drawn the eyes of Volantis on his own children. “But I am not the only dragonrider.”

Laenor’s assumption was likely shared by others. There would be those who expected him to return to the battlefield, even though the realm had five dragonriders now. A decade ago, at the start of the war, Daemon had been all that the realm had, with Rhaenys occupied with her duties and his niece and cousins mere children.

And yet with them now grown, nothing has changed. Viserys cannot risk Rhaenyra, and Corlys would rather risk my life than those of his wife and children.

Two weeks ago, that would not have mattered to him. Daemon had spent so long in the Stepstones, in constant stress and struggle, that his world had shrunk to that alone. A man had tried to kill him, and Daemon had dared him to succeed. It was a voice that he had heard all his life, one that found him at the edge of every precipice and whispered jump.

Every time his enemies had destroyed him, it was because he had let them.

I have many enemies, yet none greater than myself.

“Daemon?”

He shook off his reverie. Laenor had been speaking, but he’d heard none of it. “Come, meet my sons.”

They were still at the campfire, having perhaps sensed that Daemon desired privacy for the conversation. Their dragons had rejoined them, tired out from their frenetic racing, to curl up side-by-side on the ground. The twins rose to their feet as they neared, their earlier fatigue replaced by an open curiosity that matched Laenor’s.

“These are my sons. Jon,” Daemon said, gesturing, “and Rhaegar.” To his children, he added, “This is your cousin Laenor, prince-consort of Princess Rhaenyra.”

The very narrow look he’d received from Laenor upon announcing Jon’s name disappeared as they approached in greeting. Laenor abandoned any pretense at formality to hug both of his sons before stepping back to study them.

“They look like you,” he said, with a wistful note in his voice that he covered it with a smile. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, cousins. I hope that you and my sons will become fast friends.”

Laenor drew them into conversation with enviable ease, his experience with fatherhood plain. Before long, the boys were jabbering with Laenor about his sons, and their older hatchlings’ progress, while Daemon tried to bury his growing jealousy. His sons were happy.

They were also sleepy, which didn’t stop their twin frowns of protest when he ordered them to bed, forcing himself to remain stern in the face of their open pleading. They would need the sleep. Their journey to King’s Landing would no longer be a three-week slog. Instead, it would be a day and a half riding on dragonback, a fact that had sent Rhaegar over the moon.

Which meant Daemon had a caravan to disband. He tucked his sons into their bedrolls, kneeling to smooth their hair back to kiss one forehead and the other, then rose to find a bemused-looking Laenor watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“I did not think—” Laenor broke off with a shrug. “You look well.”

I do not feel well, Daemon almost said, but that was not quite true. Since finding his children, he had discovered the duality of fatherhood. Their joy was his, but so was their sorrow. The smallest hurt was a knife in his own chest. The thought of anything happening to them turned his blood cold.

Many enemies awaited him at the Red Keep. That had not changed. But for the first time since he had still been his brother’s heir, Daemon would return to the viper’s nest of King’s Landing with something to lose.

And his enemies would know it.

For once, Jon had not been offered dreamwine before a leg of the journey. Climbing onto a dragon with one’s wits addled, even as a passenger, was a recipe for disaster.

The only danger to navigate presently was their father’s casual inquiry about which dragon each of them would prefer to ride to start the day. Jon glanced silently at Rhaegar, who had yet to ride any, allowing him first choice.

“I have not been on Caraxes,” Rhaegar said, and though Jon was watching him carefully for the tension he sometimes bore Daemon, it seemed no match for his brother’s excitement.

Judging by Daemon’s pleased smile, he had noted the same. Jon wished selfishly that he could be along for Rhaegar’s first ride, and Daemon seemed to mistake his expression for jealousy, which also seemed to please him. He dearly craves our love.

Daemon kissed his hair. “We shall break in a few hours, and the two of you can switch.”

“We are to be partners then,” Laenor said to Jon, flashing him a grin, his bright mood infectious. “You’ll find no faster mount than Seasmoke. Were your ribs not injured, I promise we would fly circles around your father and brother.”

Despite the boast, their cousin—second cousin, Jon supposed—seemed quite fond of their father, a man who, in the histories Jon had known, had replaced him as Rhaenyra’s husband and consort. Jon did not know how Laenor died, but it felt almost eerie to speak with him.

Will he die? Jon wondered suddenly. Prince Daemon hadn’t had twin sons, he’d had twin daughters with Laena Velaryon, a woman he had yet to marry. Might not marry now.

Jon forced his thoughts back to the present, where Laenor seemed to be waiting for a response. “I would like to try, once I am better.” Then, to make conversation as he was hooked into the saddle, “Which do your sons prefer? Seasmoke or Syrax?”

“Oh, Syrax, all of them,” Laenor said with a laugh. “They are their mother’s boys.” He then seemed to realize how that might sound. “That is—she is the more adventurous rider.”

“I look forward to meeting them,” Jon said, taking pity on him. If this was how Laenor spoke at court, he could see why the rumors persisted.

Jon’s dragon gave him a betrayed look as he was loaded into the crudely fashioned cage Lord Cox’s men-at-arms had built on Daemon’s orders before heading back to the Saltpans, leaving Ser Kelwyn to continue his own journey to King’s Landing on horse.

“You are too young to be out flying on your own for so long,” Jon told him, unmoved. He had cut his teeth on resisting Ghost’s pleading eyes as a pup, and no dragon could match those. “And you have already grown too large to fit in my shirt.”

The wailing shriek as his hatchling was lowered into one of Seasmoke’s saddlebags did stir Jon to pity, but not for long as Caraxes took wing ahead of them, sending Rhaegar’s braid flapping where he sat behind Daemon. His brother turned once, glancing behind at Jon to raise an arm in farewell, then the two of them were off.

“It is not a race,” Laenor said modestly, “but if it were—”

“Caraxes would eat Seasmoke,” Jon said.

Laenor blinked, then burst out laughing. “You are very much your father’s son.”

They stopped around mid-afternoon near a herd of sheep, where Rhaegar got to follow his first flight with his first experience of watching a grown dragon eat. Though his eyes widened slightly at the ferocity, he did not seem dismayed by it, instead turning to his now-freed hatchling to explain to her that she would need to work her way up to full-sized mutton.

Daemon came to check on Jon, who waved off his concern with a tired half-shrug. The first hour of flight, the sheer enjoyment of being back in the air had been distraction enough from the discomfort, but it had grown over the hours. It was bearable, just unpleasant.

Jon wandered over to Rhaegar, who spun to face him with more energy than he had ever seen in him. “Jon!” His brother caught him by the good arm, looking as though he wanted to bounce, but stopping himself just in time. “You did not tell me it would be so—” He shook his head, words seeming to fail him. “It is beautiful below, you can see everything! And the wind, it feels—”

“Alive,” Jon said, smiling slightly. There was something slightly different about Rhaegar that took him a moment to pinpoint. “You changed your braid.”

“Daemon showed me,” Rhaegar said, running a hand over the top of it, and indeed, Jon realized, it matched their father’s now. “My hair kept pulling loose from the other.”

Jon nodded sympathetically. He’d quickly learned from riding Rhaegal that you could have long hair or short, but nothing between if you hoped to see anything. He counted himself fortunate that his hair hadn’t been trimmed in the four moons they’d been here. It had been just long enough for him to tie back, the short tail currently drawing intense interest from his hatchling, who was curled across both shoulders.

Rhaegar glanced up at the clouds above. “I want to fly everywhere. We could go anywhere. Oh!” His gaze returned to Jon. “We could go to Winterfell.”

“Why should you wish to go to Winterfell?” Laenor asked, nose wrinkling with distaste. “The North is cold and empty.”

His hatchling halted his inspection of Jon’s new hairstyle to flap his wings at their cousin, forcing Jon to give him a small stroke between his horns to settle him. Rhaegar stole a glance at them, then said, “A merchant passing through the Gates of the Moon told us about the hot springs there.”

Part of Jon was curious to see what Winterfell looked like, some two hundred years before he’d known it, but he suspected it would be a melancholy visit. The people who had made it home were no longer there. Or not yet there. And like Daemon’s twin daughters, perhaps never would be.

“Where do you want to go?” Jon asked, hoping to turn the conversation away from its sudden gloom.

Rhaegar, who had barely stood still since landing, froze at the question. Not in distress, Jon could tell; his brother was purely overwhelmed by the possibilities. “There are so many places.” Something almost like panic flickered in his eyes. “How could I ever choose?”

Jon choked back a laugh, ruffling the top of his braid with his hand. “You pick a direction and go.”

Rhaegar’s face fell then. “But not until we are older. Our dragons, I mean.”

“Have you tired of Caraxes already?” Daemon, who had returned from refilling their waterskins at the nearby stream, sounded amused.

Both hatchlings perked up at mention of the dragon, heads turning in unison to the distant sight of Caraxes finishing his meal, before flitting away to observe him from a safe distance. Jon rubbed his shoulder ruefully—hatchling claws were sharp—and accepted his waterskin from Daemon, taking a long, thirsty pull of it. He always craved water after a ride, even though he was not the one exerting himself.

“No,” Rhaegar said. “I thought that you might be busy, once we are in King’s Landing.”

“I have no duties to speak of in King’s Landing,” Daemon said with an edge of resentment, “save those my brother chooses to dangle before me this time.” He seemed to shake himself then, voice gentling as he kissed the top of Rhaegar’s braid. “I know that I am yet a stranger to you and your brother. We shall have time aplenty to remedy that—and to take the two of you on any rides you should like.”

Jon did not think it difficult to tell that the path to Rhaegar’s heart was through dragons, and clearly their father had realized as much.

“And if I should like to visit Runestone?” Rhaegar asked softly, because of course his brother was no fool either.

“I would not deny you the opportunity to pay respects to your mother,” Daemon said, outwardly calm but for the hand tightening on his own waterskin as though around a neck.

“Thank you,” Rhaegar said, sweet as honey, and he hugged their father, whose hand loosened in surprise as he returned the embrace.

And Rhaegar knew the path to Daemon’s. Jon did not even need to think about who would win that battle.

Their last night before the end of their journey to King’s Landing felt bittersweet. Jon had not thought he would miss the Gates of the Moon, but as powerless as they had been, the smallness of their world had insulated them for a time. He had missed Rhaegar since they’d left it, even though they had never truly separated, because they could no longer be themselves. With Crayne, they had been the dutiful captives, careful with their words. With Daemon, they were his eight-year-old sons in need of love and protection.

Rhaegar had been right. Allard’s lack of interest had granted them a freedom they were unlikely to find at the Red Keep. The only time they would have to speak freely would be at night, in their bedchamber—or years from now, when they could take their dragons riding.

In the terrifying aftermath of their captivity, Daemon’s presence had been a comfort, his desperate affection a balm. But he did not yet feel real, not in the way Rhaegar had almost immediately. The first day Jon had woken with his new brother beside him, something had felt right. 

Because you know what it is to have a brother. A father is another matter entirely.

With Daemon, Jon felt at times precisely his age, with the yearning for unconditional love that came from being a bastard, for whom love had all too many conditions. And other times, he felt like he was staring at a stranger who expected things of him he could never give.

I killed that boy, Jon thought with another wrench of guilt as he stared up at the stars. The one who Rhaegar can still feel, who loved Rhea Royce and Lady Lynda. That is who Daemon loves.

Jon tensed at the sound of approaching footsteps, relaxing only when he saw Rhaegar’s braid swing to dangle above him where he lay.

“You’ve been quiet,” Rhaegar said, joining him then on the grass.

Jon leaned his head against his brother’s shoulder, glad that they were allowed even this short distance from the camp. Hands stroked through his hair, catching on windblown snarls that Rhaegar patiently teased out.

“He does not love me,” Jon said eventually, throat tight. A child’s whimper and a child’s hurt.

Rhaegar’s fingers paused, then resumed. “Why do you say that?”

“He loves an idea. A child who needs his love and will return that love a thousandfold. And I am not—” His throat closed up. “I am not what he seeks.”

“Why not?” Rhaegar asked softly. “You are his blood, and you are a child. And you have always longed for a father.”

“I am not a child. How can I be?” I have killed and been killed. I have lived long enough to know sorrow and regret. I have drunk the bitter cup of duty down to its dregs.

Rhaegar’s hand found his cheek, tilting it to face him, the light of the distant campfire flickering along the outline of his hair to turn it golden. “I am a child, how can you not be? We are twins.”

Twinned purpose, twinned destiny. Twin spirits, ripped away and flung together and forged anew.

“You never cry.” He had not meant to say that, nor for it to sound like an accusation. Jon was the one who cried and raged and sulked. 

Rhaegar’s head turned skyward, breaking their gaze. “I do not want to.”

He could hear the tightness in his brother’s voice, like the words were choking him. Want, not need.

He caught Rhaegar’s hand, small and cold, and laced their fingers together. “Children cry.”

His brother’s hand jerked, as though to pull away, but Jon held fast. Rhaegar said nothing for a long time, then, “He would talk to me, every night.”

Jon did not need to ask who. Neither of them had spoken to each other about their captivity since it had ended. Daemon had always been in the way, an obstacle to navigate with every word, his rage tinder in want of a spark.

For Jon, it had been lonely and miserable, but he had not been the one forced to spend every hour, waking and sleeping, with Crayne.

“He would tell me about all the people he’s killed. How he killed them, how long it took them to die. He preferred quick, but he could make it slow. If we tried to escape, or he thought the pace too slow, he told me how he would—” Rhaegar’s voice broke, and his hand spasmed in Jon’s, then tightened. “He said he’d make me watch. And I—”

His brother’s breath hitched, becoming shuddering gasps that Jon could hear him trying to choke back down. He squeezed his hand once more, then freed it to wrap his arm around Rhaegar’s shoulder, pulling his brother into his side. He was shaking like he might come apart.

“Rhaegar,” Jon whispered, his own heart hurting to see him in such pain.

That was enough to unleash the flood, but even then, his sobs were quiet, each whimper half-strangled at the back of his throat. Jon squeezed, ignoring his ribs’ protest, holding him as tight as he could, kissing his cheek, his temple, murmuring, “We are safe, he cannot find us here.”

At one point, as he held his brother, Jon heard light footsteps approach. He glanced over to find Daemon hovering near the camp, fists clenched at his sides as he stared at them. Jon shook his head, and their father lingered a moment longer, then returned to his seat by the fire with the sleeping hatchlings.

The shaking subsided slowly, until there was only the occasional tremor of a sob. Jon smoothed his hand over the top of his brother’s hair, over and over, until the last of the tears had gone.

“Jon?” Rhaegar managed eventually, utterly hoarse, unfolding from the ball he’d curled into against Jon to look at him.

“Yes?”

“Promise me,” he said, clasping Jon’s arm in a tight grip. “Promise you’ll guard your life as you do mine.”

“I do,” Jon protested.

But Rhaegar shook his head, throat bobbing around a thick swallow. “Would you still have attacked Crayne that night had I been the one he’d threatened to kill?”

Jon did not refute him. There was no point, when Rhaegar would spot the lie immediately.

“I will be more careful,” Jon said instead, meaning it. There would have been other opportunities for escape later, with Jephyro, that didn’t carry the penalty of death. The mistake hadn’t been to try, it had been in weighing the risks.

“Promise,” Rhaegar repeated.

“I promise,” Jon said softly, and his brother released his arm at last. Jon brushed away the lingering streaks of tears on his face, then frowned. “Do not pretend you have not tried the same.”

Rhaegar’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“With Crayne, with that—thing.” You would give yourself away, piece by piece, for me. Jon picked up his wrist, the one that wore the bracelet he’d gifted him, and gave it a light shake. “We face our battles together. That is our promise.”

They both fell silent then, shoulder to shoulder, letting the sounds of the night creep over them: the quiet buzz of insects, the rustle of the dried grasses in the wind, the crackle of the distant campfire. The slow, rumbling sound that Jon eventually recognized was Caraxes’s breathing, a strangely lulling noise.

And eventually, the crunch of grass beneath boots. A pair of arms carefully scooped him up, carrying him to the double bedroll that had been set out by the fire. Moments later, a sleeping Rhaegar was deposited beside him, and a blanket pulled over them both.

Jon cracked his eyes open to find Daemon, who had knelt to draw the blanket over them and not yet risen, staring down at them, looking almost lost, his face both strange and familiar. His hand went to Jon’s brow when he finally noticed his gaze.

“You are safe, Jon.”

Jon thought about that blur of silver and black at the pier, of wrath incarnate, and he believed him.

At Rhaegar’s insistence, they swapped dragons for the second and final day of travel on dragonback. The hatchlings were no less thrilled this time about being caged again, even after having tired themselves out chasing one another around a very patient Seasmoke who Jon would guess was experienced by now with young hatchlings, given that Princess Rhaenyra’s sons had one apiece.

They washed off briefly in the stream beforehand, but Daemon had already assured them that they would have a chance to properly bathe and dress once they arrived, before they were presented to the king. Jon had been in the presence of more kings and queens than most—Robert Baratheon, Stannis and Selyse, Mance Rayder, and of course Daenerys—but this felt different. Viserys was a Targaryen king of old, grandson of perhaps the greatest of their house to rule, in an era where Targaryen power was absolute.

He was envious of Rhaegar’s calm as their camp was packed back up into the large saddlebags strapped to each dragon. Neither of them had spoken about last night, there had been only a quiet exchange of glances upon waking, before their hatchlings had swarmed them.

“It should be no more than six hours,” Daemon said, studying Jon once more for pain. 

That would come later, with the ride. “I am fine.”

“You are worried,” Daemon said, and Jon wondered, with a flash of irritation, whether his emotions were plain to every Targaryen.

“I have never met a king,” he said, which was true enough of Jon Redfort. Or Targaryen now, he supposed.

“He is also your uncle,” Daemon said, hoisting him onto the saddle. “And you are a prince.”

Daenerys had styled him a prince and named him her heir. He and Rhaegar had been the same in that regard, he mused, first in the line of succession. And yet—even though they were so much further now from the Iron Throne, far unlikelier than Aegon the Unlikely, the title felt weightier.

“Will our dragons be allowed with us?” Jon didn’t know why that was the question that suddenly seemed the most pressing, but it did.

“Not within the Great Hall.” Daemon looked up from cinching the final strap of the safety tether to Jon, his smile sharp. “But we will still give them something to gawk about.”

“Of that there is no doubt!” Laenor called from atop Seasmoke. “Like your father, I expect the two of you will make for quite the spectacle.”

Daemon climbed up onto the saddle, in front of Jon, securing himself with practiced ease. “Some spectacle is sorely needed. My brother’s halls are awash in green these days.”

Jon shrugged behind him. “Winter is coming.”

Laenor stared at them a moment, then his laughter, loud and delighted, rang out across the meadow. “Two Daemons at once! I pity the fools.”

Once in the air, they did not stop. On the contrary, Caraxes almost seemed to pick up speed as the hours passed, as though eager to reach their destination. Jon wondered if the sheep at the Dragonpit were particularly tender, or if it simply felt like home to the dragon. Daemon had mentioned that his visits to King’s Landing had been rare, that he’d spent the vast majority of his and Rhaegar’s lives in the Stepstones, locked in that endless struggle.

The sight of King’s Landing on the horizon was spectacular, the Red Keep the first to rise into view, looming above the rest of the city, while the waters of Blackwater Bay glittered beyond it. Already they were closer than Jon had ever dared fly on his own.

Rather than immediately land, Caraxes and Daemon seemed of a mind to take a turn around the city, with Daemon shouting out familiar sights and locations. The Dragonpit, the Sept, the tourney grounds by the King’s Gate. There was an unguarded joy in his voice, even flying past the slums, of a man long away from home returning once more.

“It stinks,” Jon said when they finally landed outside the Dragonpit. The smell of raw sewage had grown all the stronger on their descent. It was thankfully lighter at the Dragonpit, but still detectable.

Daemon’s grin was the first Jon had seen from him as he lowered him from Caraxes. “A perfume as rotten as her heart, our city.”

Rhaegar was staring at the impossibly large gates of gleaming bronze at the main entrance of the Dragonpit, and Jon soon joined him. How do they open them? He’s seen impressive feats of construction, the Wall itself and its clever winch-drawn cages among them, but he could see no obvious mechanism. It must take a dozen men at least.

Two guards approached. Jon thought them knights at first, but neither bore any surcoat and their armor was a polished black, helms crested by what appeared to be dragon scales.

“Dragonkeepers,” Daemon murmured behind them. “They guard the dragons of the Dragonpit and its cache of eggs at all times.”

He called something to them in High Valyrian, and they both bowed, one answering in kind. The other shouted back toward the gate. A grinding sound rang out and the door began to slowly swing open. Laenor joined them, cage in either hand of cranky hatchlings, and both Jon and Rhaegar hurriedly set to freeing them.

The Dragonkeepers stirred with a sudden interest, and something else was called back toward the still-opening gate. The pair approached, bowing once more, extending their hands as though for the hatchlings as one spoke in Valyrian to Daemon.

It was Rhaegar who replied, holding Qelebrys protectively, and at a gesture from Daemon, the Dragonkeepers withdrew a step. They studied the hatchlings at a distance instead, conversing with Daemon and Rhaegar while Jon, for the first time, truly regretted his lack of fluency in High Valyrian. The words went too quickly, the few he did recognize nearly swallowed up by the next, or altered in some way by their damnable position in the sentence.

He settled for watching their faces instead, shadowed by their ornate helmets. With every question, they seemed to grow more puzzled, until the distraction arrived of a third bearing a shallow silver bowl filled to its brim with raw meat fresh from the slaughter, still steaming faintly in the cool air.

Jon’s hatchling immediately took notice, nostrils flaring as it let out an excited shriek that was almost a chirrup. Qelebrys made a noise as if in answer, wings fluttering once, though she remained on Rhaegar’s shoulder.

Daemon took the bowl, extending it to both of them so that they could draw pieces of warm meat from it, many with flesh still attached. Jon called the few commands he had been teaching his, and he seemed extra attentive to them this time, as though aware that he had an audience.

The Dragonkeepers waited until they had finished, then drew close once more to examine the hatchlings, speaking aloud as they inspected scale, horn, torso, limb, and wing. Jon took up beside Rhaegar, who translated for him.

“They are taking measurement,” his brother whispered. “They did not believe at first that they are but five days old.” He paused, listening. “Their scales are well-developed for their age, but they are an unusual shape, as are their faces. And their wings are already strong. They are curious to know what color their flame shall be.”

The three Dragonkeepers seemed locked in a debate now, arguing with one another while Daemon’s eyebrows climbed.

Rhaegar continued to translate, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he listened. “One of them thinks they must be of Balerion’s line, but the others say he only thinks so because of their size, and males do not lay clutches regardless. They do not know how large they will be and are sending one now to fetch the records of hatchling growth to consult with their charts.”

Daemon shook his head then, casting a glance back their way, and said something to the remaining two Dragonkeepers.

“Daemon says they can resume their study tomorrow, we must still present ourselves to the king.”

A fine carriage of polished wood stained black with deep red curtains had wheeled up the ramp to the entrance of the Dragonpit, drawn by two horses. Behind it rode a pair of knights in white cloaks, who inclined their heads from atop their horses.

Kingsguard, Jon realized with a jolt.

“Prince Daemon,” said the elder of the two, a man with a bald head whose beard and whiskers had gone grey. “The king would have us see you and the young princes safely to the Red Keep.”

Daemon, who had been waiting with an odd tension, suddenly relaxed. “My brother’s care is much appreciated, Ser Harrold.” Daemon glanced at the other. “You I am not familiar with, Ser?”

“Rickard Thorne, my prince,” the white cloak said.

Daemon gave a short nod. “We shall be bringing hatchlings.” He shot the carriage a look. It would be somewhat cramped with Laenor joining them, Jon thought, but they did manage to arrange themselves comfortably. It helped that he and Rhaegar were small.

The curtains were drawn on the carriage once they entered, leaving the interior dim but for the light entering from the window at the very front. After two days on dragonback, able to see the world for miles around, it felt almost claustrophobic, but Laenor gamely served to distract them while their father fell quiet in apparent thought. 

It was a lengthy journey to the Red Keep. The smell was the worst early on, improving as they continued, and especially once they began ascending in height. That, or Jon had gotten used to it by then.

The Red Keep managed to impress and disappoint simultaneously through their tiny window. It was smaller than Winterfell, Jon was startled to find. But then, the vast majority of the city lay beyond its red stone walls. Within, however, it housed many more majestic buildings than would be found in Winterfell. He caught glimpses of trees and greenery, the square keep that he discerned from Rhaegar’s stories was Maegor’s Holdfast, and many towers jutted up within, though he was unsure which was the Tower of the Hand.

“You will have many chances to see the keep in all its glory,” Laenor assured them. “The view from the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast is one to behold.”

“Do you keep apartments there?” Rhaegar asked Daemon.

“More that they are kept for me,” Daemon said drolly. “I have been away from the city for many years now, but our family is not yet so large that mine would have been reclaimed.” He shot Laenor a glance. “Or so I hope.”

“The king told me when I left that your apartments were being made ready, with additional chambers nearby for the twins.”

The carriage drew to a halt, murmured orders issued outside, and they exited to the sight of a long drawbridge over a dried moat, the tall, square walls of the holdfast, made of the same pale red stone as the rest of the keep, extending high across the bridge.

“I shall resume my post,” Ser Rickard said, dismounting from his horse to take up at their side of the bridge.

Ser Harrold had also dismounted, and it was he who escorted them across. It was not until they were on the bridge that Jon could see that the moat below was lined with iron spikes, the rust on some of them taking on the gleam of blood in the afternoon shadows.

He glanced at Rhaegar, to see if he had noticed the same, but his brother’s gaze was straight ahead. Of course, he thought, feeling stupid. Rhaegar, who had spent his lonely childhood exploring every inch of the keep and its inner holdfast, would have seen all of this before.

“You shall have to show me your dragon mosaic,” he whispered. “So long as you don’t make us count the tiles.”

“We may yet have to,” Rhaegar whispered back.

He appeared to be entirely in earnest. “Why?”

“Because some of them are also made of red dragonglass.”

Oh. With so many new sights and people around over the past few days, Jon had almost entirely forgotten about the man of flames and the strange candle they still carried with them. Careless of him, when a mere four days ago, the men who had come with Jephyro from Volantis had tried to kidnap them.

King’s Landing was no small harbor town, however, and the Red Keep no tiny knight’s hold. It was a whole other matter to attempt a kidnapping of a prince at the heart of the realm. And yet—

If that man, whatever he was, had been responsible for bringing them here, or tied to it in some way, then Jon did not think he would give up so easily.

Three heads, has the dragon.

What did it mean? It was their family’s very crest, something Daenerys had muttered to herself once. Jon had thought that she perhaps hoped to find riders for her three dragons. Aegon and his sisters had ridden as three in conquest of Westeros. He wondered if Daemon might know more; they had told him very little about the man of flame. 

Jon’s hatchling crested through the air above them, drawing his gaze to the guards posted along the walls of the holdfast. If he knew one thing about watchers on walls, it was that they gossiped as much as any roomful of maesters. Any who didn’t know about their arrival, or their dragons, would know within the hour.

The eyes of courtiers followed them through the halls, murmurs rippling behind them as though they were the tip of a wake. Over and over, their father’s name was whispered—sometimes in shock, other times in glee.

They arrived at last outside an extravagantly carved wooden door with an archway atop it of dragons locked in battle at the center, their tails curving to the outside. Daemon’s hand paused briefly before he pushed the door open, then looked back at them.

“We are home.”

Chapter Text

The throng of people gathered in the Great Hall grew denser by the hour, far beyond its usual size for just another day of the king holding court. Some hundred strong at first, then doubled, then doubled once more. And amongst the colorful sea of whispering courtiers and nobility, only a few pockets of green.

Word had spread like wildfire: Daemon Targaryen has returned. And the Red Keep hungered always for spectacle. 

They would eat well with Daemon in residence, Otto Hightower thought, irritation locked tight behind a mask of calm.

Such a mess.

Years of careful work and planning in the Vale gone up in flames, with Otto none the wiser about where the spark had come from. For all he knew, it had been Rhea Royce herself, in her fury over her nephew arranging the foster agreement. Otto had burned her letter, along with all recent correspondence with Allard Royce, three days before, when Viserys had sent Laenor Velaryon and his dragon from King’s Landing, bearing an unknown message with great haste.

That alone would not have been cause for concern in ordinary circumstances. A raven was faster than a dragon, but a dragon would be stopped by nothing and no one. It would not have been the first time a message was delivered thus.

No, it was the confluence of events that came before it that had spurred Otto to action. Word arriving from the Gates of the Moon that his spy, Marten Crayne, had inexplicably murdered his fellow guardsmen and absconded with Allard’s young cousins. Reports of Daemon Targaryen arriving in Runestone, and then the raven from the maid there that was under his employ: Rhea Royce has signed a dying confession that she is the mother of Daemon Targeryan’s twin sons .

It had been clear then that, however he had learned of it—perhaps from Rhea Royce herself—Daemon now knew about his sons. Otto had been forced to send ravens to Darry, recalling his men, and then the agonizing wait had begun. How much did Daemon truly know? Or at least have proof of?

The days had passed slowly, but no knock had come at his apartments, no Kingsguard had moved to flank him at the small council meetings. Orders had been quietly issued to make ready Daemon’s apartments, but no arrest had followed.

He has nothing. There was no crime in Allard Royce arranging to foster the cousins under his care, and so long as the man kept quiet—and he would, lest he implicate himself—then nothing untoward on Otto’s part had occurred at all. Even the gifts he had arranged to be sent had been expressly commissioned in Lord Bulwer’s name.

No, if Daemon Targaryen were in possession of anything damning, his very first act would have been to disclose it to Viserys, who would have subsequently sought Otto out to demand an explanation.

Let him suspect. Let him spit wild accusations and prove himself the same fractious rabble rouser he has always been.

As to the matter of the boys’ birth status, Otto did not know what to believe. Rhea Royce had loathed her husband, but clearly held affection for the boys. It could have been a final act of kindness to spare them the taint of bastardry—an extreme one, given that it was tantamount to admitting to treason—but for all his furious digging in the days since, he had found nothing of use in dispute of it.

Lady Royce had disappeared for five moons, leaving her steward in charge of Runestone, to stay with her sister in a small summer residence kept by House Royce near the base of the western mountain range. At the end of it, Corwin and Elys Redfort had announced the birth of twins.

And two years later, she, her husband, and the maester who had overseen the birth had all perished in the Spring Fever that swept the Vale.

I can cast doubt, but I cannot outright refute it. Nor would Viserys listen to reason if there were evidence.

Ultimately, it did not matter. Trueborn or bastard, Daemon Targaryen’s sons were so far down the line of succession that it did not matter, at least where inheritance was concerned. Better that they be trueborn, even, that Daemon might once again have the distraction of a legacy to obtain for his children.

But they had so very nearly been useful. Ten years from now, with a wife beyond childbearing years and no children of his own, living sons could have proved valuable as hostages against Daemon in the inevitable struggle for the throne. Perhaps they could have even bolstered the ranks of dragonriders in support of his grandson—ranks that currently numbered zero.

Five dragonriders to none. That was where they stood, should Viserys die this very day, gods forbid.

I do not care if they must live in that stinking pit for the next year. It is unacceptable that none of my grandsons have a dragon to their name.

Rhaenyra’s damned bastards had one apiece, and though they were yet small, they would grow.

Movement flickered in the back, a ripple of heads turning that moved as a wave through the Great Hall, until it had reached the front. The crowd fell to silence, and Otto turned at the faint motion out of the corner of his eye—Viserys, straightening on his throne, an eager gleam in his eye.

The herald’s voice rang out in the sudden quiet. “Prince Daemon of House Targaryen and his twin sons, Prince Jon and Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen.”

Otto felt his brow rise. He had not expected that Daemon would choose to keep the Vale names for either of his sons; curious that he had changed only one. Even Rhaegar was an odd choice. It was not a name he recognized from his study of the Targaryen line, at least for male ancestors. Who was it intended to curry favor with? Viserys, for its connection to Rhaenyra? Or Lady Rhaenys?

He turned his attention back to the hall as Daemon stepped forward, shadowed by the two boys. He had chosen not to wear his armor, which was another surprise. Otto had assumed he would try to laud his military efforts in the Stepstones, but then, there had been very little in the way of triumph these past few years.

He had gone as black as possible instead, which perhaps Otto should have anticipated. His tunic, long and dramatic, had leather patterned like scales along the arms and silhouette, with an even darker velvet that started wide at the shoulders and tapered down, fastened by silver clasps in the shape of twin dragon heads. His Valyrian steel blade was sheathed at his side, its presence an affront to his king that Viserys did not seem to heed, his smile already widening at their approach.

Where time had not been kind to Viserys, the opposite was true of his younger brother, who looked a man well in his prime, handsome and all too aware of the fact. It would not shock Otto to learn that the man counted every breathless sigh as he passed through the crowd.

Otto studied the boys next. One dark and one fair, as had been reported to him. Jon was the dark-haired, he recalled, while Raymar—or Rhaegar now—bore the family’s silver-blond hair. They had also been dressed in long dark tunics, a match to one another, each embroidered in deep red across the chest with the three-headed dragon of the house crest.

There was a stiltedness to the elder, Jon, that spoke of discomfort, though he did not falter through his approach. His arm was braced in some kind of splint, Otto realized. So it had not been a gentle captivity. What had Crayne been thinking, he burned to know.

Meanwhile his brother, Rhaegar, moved through the room as though he had been born to it, kneeling in a single graceful motion, his long silver-blond hair falling loose down his back, save for a braid that ran down its center.

Uncommonly comely boys, the both of them, and Otto felt a fresh stir of irritation. Even in this, Daemon had chosen to be selfish. Daughters would have made a far more useful contribution to the family. Viserys would have been more than eager to wed one to his sons, and once bedded and with child, it would not have mattered who her father was. A mother’s loyalty was to her children.

“Your Grace,” Daemon murmured, the very image in that moment of humility as he too bowed. “May I present to you my sons, Prince Jon and Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen.”

Viserys sprang to his feet with more vigor than he’d shown in moons. “Daemon,” he said warmly, abandoning the dais to meet them at its base, past his attentive Kingsguard. “Rise and let me welcome my brother and my nephews.”

As soon as Daemon rose, the king pulled him into a tight embrace, murmuring something to him beyond hearing before stepping back to study his nephews.

“Our dragons-head tunics,” he said with a delighted laugh. “Wherever did you find those? I’d thought them lost.”

Daemon smiled. “They were locked up in a chest, along with some of our father’s other things.”

Viserys stopped before the dark-haired boy first, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “You must have your father’s stubbornness, to have convinced him to call you Jon.”

“I am still deciding,” the boy said gravely.

“I see.” Viserys smiled and bent to kiss the boy’s forehead. “Whatever you decide, you are most welcome in my court.”

Rhaegar was next, and something like sadness flickered across Viserys’s face as he gazed upon him. “Forgive me, child. I stole your name for my own son.” Otto frowned, unsure what he meant, though by the answering look on Daemon’s face, he understood perfectly. Viserys then gave him a kiss on the forehead as well. “Rhaegar is a beautiful name, as lovely as my dear Rhaenyra’s.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Rhaegar said, his serious expression giving way to a small smile. “I hope to meet her and our other cousins soon.”

“You must dine with us tonight,” Viserys declared, turning to Daemon then. “I cannot bear the thought of my nephews and my children being strangers a moment longer than necessary.”

Daemon’s gaze slanted sideways, finding Otto’s, before returning to his brother. “It would be our honor to join you.”

Not “your family,” of course. 

Otto did not know if the timing had been intentional, but Daemon proved to be the last petitioner of the day. He and the king continued to converse as the court was dismissed, all eyes on the brothers at the dais while the courtiers filed out, hushed whispers being exchanged—and more than a few curious glances sent Otto’s way.

The king’s brother has returned, bearing two sons, and the king’s favor is with them. That would be on all their wagging tongues tonight, spreading throughout the keep and the city. The rookeries would be swarmed no doubt, gossip carried on raven wings to the furthest reaches of the realm.

Otto might be safe from accusations of treason, though he would not relax his guard for some time, but every day that Daemon Targaryen remained in King’s Landing to spread his influence, both amongst the court and the king, was a day they could ill afford. They needed to be rid of him, and quickly.

As for the boys—

Otto continued to watch them. Despite some continued discomfort, Jon was polite and composed whenever the king’s attention turned to him, and with one solemn reply made Viserys laugh aloud in delight. The younger, Rhaegar, he could tell would also be a contender for the king’s affection, Viserys seeming to hang on nearly every utterance. Indeed, Viserys appeared to delight more in these nephews he hardly knew than his own children.

Must I steal Allard Royce’s maester for my own children? Otto thought to himself, disgruntled. The children had grown up in a castle that was hardly more than a glorified garrison save for in winter. What possible opportunities could they have had to practice their courtly manners, that they should appear so poised now?

“Otto!” Viserys had finally noticed his presence. “Come and greet my nephews.”

Otto forced a smile on his face and approached, exchanging a tense, single-word greeting with Daemon, whose eyes burned with impotent fury that turned his smile genuine. He knows, but has no proof. All the better.  

“Jon, Rhaegar, this is Otto Hightower. He is the father of my dear queen, Alicent, and is my loyal Hand.”

“My lord,” Jon said curtly. There was a glittering fire in his grey eyes that matched his father’s, the incline of his head more that of a duelist greeting an opponent. 

He is his father’s son. That much was instantly clear. Although the boy made more of an effort to hide his dislike than his father, it was plainly writ across his face. It made the physical resemblance between the two all the more obvious, despite the stark difference in coloring. Quite shocking, really, how little Royce there appeared in either of them.

“Well met, Lord Hand,” Rhaegar said, studying Otto back with a quiet measure in his purple eyes that prickled at his memory before he placed it: Aemon Targaryen, Jaehaerys’s slain heir—though Aemon’s eyes had been much lighter.

If he shared the same hostility as his brother or father, he hid it well. “Welcome to King’s Landing, young princes,” Otto said. He bowed his head, gaze moving between them quickly. “My condolences, for the loss of your lady mother.”

The probing statement revealed a great deal. Daemon’s eyes flashed, hands clenching at his side while Rhaegar’s gaze flicked to him, then away, only the tiniest downturn at the corner of his mouth betraying his grief. Jon’s stare did not leave Otto, his frown tight with disapproval, as though he knew precisely what he had intended.

“Thank you for your kind words, my lord,” Rhaegar said, when no one else moved to speak. Daemon’s hand came down on his shoulder, protective, while the boy held still beneath it.

Interesting. Any wedge between the boys and their father was worth exploiting; Otto doubted either knew the depth of their father’s spite toward their mother. And the circumstances of her death had been unusual, to say the least; Lady Royce had been renowned for her skill at both hunting and riding.

“You arrived on dragonback?” Otto asked, changing the conversation.

This time it was Viserys who seemed to tense, and Otto stifled a frown. The king was hiding something; he had not divulged the contents of the letter he had received from his brother, nor had he consulted Otto in crafting his response, nor the urgency of sending Laenor.

“Dragons are the birthright of our house,” Daemon said, voice dripping with contempt. The subtle emphasis he placed on birthright was clearly intended as a reminder that his grandchildren had yet to claim any. “How else should we travel?”

Viserys, not ignorant of their animosity, seemed to decide it was time to intervene. “You shall have to bring your boys to the Dragonpit,” he said to his brother. “I am most curious to see which of the adults or drakes might take to them!”

“We already have hatchlings.” It was Jon who spoke this time.

Viserys’s glance at Daemon was very sharp, and they seemed to exchange a wordless message. The king’s face, which had drawn into something troubled, relaxed after a moment, though his smile was slightly forced.

“Then you must bring them with you to supper,” Viserys said. “I am sure my children will be most excited to see them.” 

It should not surprise him that Daemon had somehow managed to already secure dragons for his sons, not more than a week after finding them. Better a hatchling than an adult, Otto consoled himself. Like the hatchlings that Rhaenyra’s bastards had bonded to, it would be at least a decade before they posed any threat.

Viserys turned to Otto. “You will join us, will you not?” he asked, the invitation curdling his brother’s smile.

Otto nodded, his own smile serene. “I look forward to it, Your Grace.”

Had Otto not urged him otherwise, the king would have invited half the court to supper. He was able to talk Viserys down from extending an invitation to Laenor and Rhaenyra’s bastards. Had Rhaenyra been present in King’s Landing, he doubted that would have worked, but her absence afforded him the chance to have his grandsons be the first of their cousins Daemon’s twins would meet.

After all, there was nothing yet that tied the boys to Rhaenyra and her ilk, save their father’s own hatred of Otto and his family, and that did not seem to have poisoned them yet. The fostering opportunity at Blackcrown may have been lost, but forging a direct bond between his grandsons and their new cousins could have a similar effect. Particularly if he could remove Daemon from the picture entirely. Or if, more likely, Daemon found a way to remove himself yet again.

“You must be on your best behavior,” he said sternly, as Aegon and Aemond were dressed and combed. “Your cousins are not like Rhaenyra’s sons. They have the proper manner and breeding of princes like yourselves.”

“Why have we not met them before?” Aemond asked with a frown.

“Their parents were bitter enemies,” Otto said, which was truth. “And their mother chose to hide them from their father, which was a treasonous act.” And then, not trusting the discretion of children, “Which is a matter you will not discuss with them. Their mother recently passed, and they are yet in mourning.”

Aegon slapped at the hand of the servant combing his hair as she hit a snag. “What if they are loud and annoying, like Jace?”

“They are not like your nephews,” Otto repeated. “You will be good friends.”

“That is what our father said about Jace and Luke,” Aegon said with a dismissive shrug.

Otto counted silently, resisting the urge to cuff him. “It is in the nature of your nephews to be uncouth. That will not be true of Jon and Rhaegar.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed. “Jon is not even a Targaryen name.”

Gods preserve him that he should find himself forced to hope that sons of Daemon Targaryen would prove more amiable than his own grandsons. “His lady mother was of the Vale and named him thus.”

“But—”

“Enough,” Otto said sharply. “You shall have many opportunities to know your cousins better. You will share both lessons and arms training with them.”

That had been simple enough to persuade Viserys to arrange, even if Daemon pushed back against it later. He would need to make sure Alicent had words with Ser Criston about using discretion in his handling of Daemon’s sons. The knight, though loyal, had the subtlety of a brick.

He locked eyes with his daughter, who had been silent during the exchange, only the purse of her lips betraying her discomfort, and nodded toward the door to the side chamber, leaving the boys to their grooming.

“You cannot mean to foster friendship between my sons and Daemon’s,” she said once the door was shut. “He loathes our family.”

“Daemon’s sons have dragons,” Otto said, irritation rising once more. “Until your own children see fit to claim their own, I am forced to seek what few options I have to strengthen their position.”

Alicent fiddled with the lacing of her dress sleeves. “You cannot think he will allow it.”

“Can he deny his brother the king? To interfere would be an insult to Viserys as well.”

She shook her head. “Consider who their father is—a cruel, hateful hedonist who indulges in every perversion and consorts with whores.”

“I have met your new nephews, and they appear to be of good character.” He put his hands on his daughter’s arms, stilling that incessant fidgeting. “Remember, they were not raised by the man, but in the Vale, by their mother’s family. They have been in his care for mere days; his poison has not yet taken root. They are two boys still grieving the loss of their mother.” 

Her gaze dropped, shoulders dropping with it. “Rhaenyra was a girl grieving her mother once.”

“As were you,” Otto said, hands squeezing her arms lightly. “Your noble character blossomed in the wake of that loss, while hers rotted. With your compassion, perhaps these young boys can avoid a similar fate.”

“And they have dragons,” she repeated, with a cynicism that had not been present in her five years ago.

“There is no reason we cannot be both kind and practical,” he admonished.

She looked back at the door, where the faint sounds of children arguing filtered through, and sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

Otto ate without thinking, unable to recall later what had even been served. The entirety of his attention was reserved for the room’s occupants, too many to watch all at once—starting with the hatchlings that belonged to Jon and Rhaegar.

The Dragonkeeper who reported to him had a great deal to say about the young hatchlings. They had been born five days before, and yet were nearly half the size of a one-year-old dragon. Since they did not have the measurements of the hatchlings on the day they were grown, they could not yet predict the trajectory of their growth, but already the Dragonkeepers whispered that the Dragonpit might see the likes of Balerion once more.

Such would be his luck, that he would have to face the possibility of two monstrous dragons for Rhaenyra and her supporters. “How long until they are capable of riding?” he had demanded.

“Four or five years,” had been his answer, the matter apparently one of great debate within the Dragonpit. The source of the hatchlings was also a mystery, one that Otto suspected was at the heart of Viserys’s secrecy. No dragon eggs had been taken from the hatchery, not since Daemon’s theft years before. The current speculation amongst the Dragonkeepers was that it was from an old clutch laid in Dragonstone, perhaps the very one that had yielded Vhagar and Meraxes.

Daemon had spent time enough at Dragonstone during his childish occupation of it to have perhaps uncovered eggs left behind. What Otto burned to know was whether more eggs from the same clutch existed—and whether Daemon kept them in secret, to deny Otto’s grandsons the same opportunity.

It was the hatchlings that his grandsons met first, Daemon and his children having beaten them to the dining hall to visit beforehand with the king. They zipped past the door, one a flash of black and copper, the other a deep blue with silver accents along the tips of its scales. Helaena had clapped her hands together, eyes going wide with delight, and immediately given chase.

The boys had restrained such impulses, instead staring longingly after both hatchlings before going to greet their cousins, who rose from the chairs beside the fire, where they had been sitting with their father and uncle.

His grandsons looked shocked to meet a Targaryen child with silver hair who wasn’t their sibling, which said more about the prevalence of bastardry within the halls of the Red Keep than anything else. There was time for little more than stilted introductions and greetings, Daemon’s through clenched jaw, before the food was brought out.

Otto had been seated with the buffer of his daughter between himself and Daemon, who was seated beside his brother rather than his own wife or Hand. The boys sat in a line across from them: Jon at the king’s other side, then Aegon, Rhaegar, and Aemond. Helaena sat to Otto’s right, his quiet little shadow.

The hatchlings, thankfully, had settled beside the hearth after devouring their own bloody mess of a meal beforehand.

Otto kept his focus on the children for the first part of the meal, distantly aware of Daemon attempting to ignite his flesh with merely a gaze whenever his conversation with Viserys lapsed. Aegon and Aemond conducted themselves adequately enough. Aegon and Jon were holding a conversation about horses that turned into Aegon bragging about the many mounts he had to choose from in the royal stables in a transparent attempt to impress his cousin. Jon seemed content to let Aegon do most of the talking, only lightly steering the conversation when his grandson became truly insufferable.

Aemond and Rhaegar were in discussion about swords, both having started to train in the weapon over the past year. Rhaegar launched into a history of various Valyrian steel blades throughout the kingdoms, both known and lost, with Aemond eagerly asking after the ones that had been lost. He was a gifted young storyteller, Otto was forced to admit, finding himself absorbed in the tale of Dragonfang, lost by House Vance in the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye.

He briefly turned his attention to the conversation between Viserys and Daemon, but they were merely reminiscing about their childhood visits to Dragonstone, while Alicent occasionally made a polite interjection that both seemed to mostly ignore. Perhaps he should count himself fortunate Daemon had been born male, he thought sourly, given how effortlessly he seemed to charm his brother when he wasn’t infuriating him.

Dessert was a colorful arrangement of sticky, palm-sized berry tarts topped with dollops of cold cream. Viserys’s gaze went to his nephews, eyes alight with anticipation, and Otto gathered from the enthusiasm that he had personally requested the treat.

Aegon grabbed three from the platter, ignoring Otto’s disapproving stare, and immediately made a mess of himself while Jon slowly savored his beside him, though he could not wholly escape the sticky berry residue. Rhaegar made his disappear without a trace between snatches of story, Aemond barely touching his own as he listened.

The dark blue hatchling woke near the end of supper, drifting over to the table. Rhaegar smiled and spoke something to her in what Otto assumed to be High Valyrian, which once again drew Viserys’s attention. The king said something to his nephew in the same tongue, leading to a minutes-long conversation that ended with Viserys clapping a hand to his brother’s shoulder.

“I must steal your sons’ High Valyrian tutor for my own. He speaks better than you.”

Daemon made a face. “Spend enough time fighting Triarchy pirates with their bastardized Valyrian and you too shall find your accent suffering.”

“Do you intend to return to the Stepstones, my prince?” Otto asked, a question that caused both his sons’ heads to turn quickly to their father with matching concern. “I imagine the effort is suffering all the more, now that Corlys has lost his only dragon.”

“The matter of the Stepstones is one I must discuss with my brother,” Daemon said, which seemed to only heighten his sons’ tension. He leveled an unfriendly stare at Otto. “I am surprised to hear you ask after the war. I understand it is one of little concern to the small council at present.”

“No more talk of matters of the realm at the table,” Viserys said, fixing both of them with an admonishing look. “I have more than my fill of it during the day without it interfering with time I crave to spend with my family instead.”

With supper itself completed, the boys went off to a corner of the room, where the hatchlings were passed around as Rhaegar continued his stories. Helaena drifted over to join them, and Otto turned his focus to it as wine was poured for the adults.

It was fiction this time, the story of a Targaryen called Aemon the Dragonknight who served as the loyal Kingsguard for his brother, the cruel Aegon. Aemon was apparently in love with their sister Naerys, who had been forced to marry her brother the king instead. Aegon seemed less than pleased about sharing a name with the villain of the tale, in contrast to Aemond’s delight at the hero’s name, but all three of his grandchildren were captivated by the tale of Aemon’s heroic adventures across the realm, battling for his sister’s honor and protecting his brother from Dornish assassins.

Jon at one point had taken up beside Helaena and whispered a question to her, after which he began braiding her hair, slowly with the use of only one hand, until it matched Rhaegar’s. It had been, in all, a successful dinner, Otto decided. He’d observed none of the immediate irritation that had developed between his grandsons and Rhaenyra’s bastards; rather, his grandchildren seemed to enjoy the company of their cousins.

The twins themselves were more difficult to read, but Jon’s smile toward Helaena was soft and kind, while Rhaegar continually incorporated suggestions from both Aegon and Aemond into his story, utterly unruffled by their demands. King Aegon was no longer cruel, and he in fact joined Aemon the Dragonknight on his adventures, along with Queen Naerys. And where there had been no dragons, now each rode one: Ebonwing, Dewdrop, and Bloodrage.

Viserys’s obvious favor toward them, while irksome, ultimately did not matter. In fact, it could only work in their benefit, should something unfortunate befall Daemon, planned or otherwise. Otto did not doubt the king would insist on raising them himself alongside his children.

Girls would have been easier, but boys formed all manner of bonds. Otto merely needed to ensure Daemon’s children formed the correct ones.

Chapter Text

The long day was not yet over, a fact that Daemon regretted as the headache that had begun with supper became a full throb by its end. He made a concerted effort to relax his jaw, the likely source of it, a task made both easier and more difficult as he rested a hand on either son’s head.

Easier because they had conducted themselves exceptionally, both in the Great Hall when presented to Viserys and at supper, in tolerating their cousins’ ill manners. He had heard more than a few whispers throughout the halls, praising his sons’ composure and bearing.

More difficult because Otto had not taken his eyes off them once, and Daemon did not need to be privy to the muck of that man’s mind to guess at its contents. He still sought a use for them, even after his fostering plans had been thwarted. Does he think that either of my sons would find the company of his insufferable grandsons anything more than a duty to be endured?

The arrangements had already been made, over Daemon’s objections, for them to share tutors with the brats. And his sons would have to suffer through Cole’s arms training, though Daemon had made it clear to his brother that should the man offer them any insult, he would take his payment in blood.

“I am sorry,” he said, after Jon had stifled a second yawn with a wince of pain. They had woken early in the morning, ridden for six hours straight, then been scrubbed and tidied for their presentation at court, followed by the very lengthy supper. “But it is important that the king knows the details of your kidnapping.”

And that Daemon secure protection for his sons, even nestled within the apparent safety of Maegor’s Holdfast.

His brother was waiting in his chambers for them, a plate of treats out on the small dining table beside the window. His prized obsession, his sprawling model of Old Valyria, dominated the space. Rhaegar gasped at his side, halting at the sight of it, but Daemon was beginning to learn his son’s quirks. This was not the closed-off stillness he displayed at times, but rather the quiver of excitement held barely in check.

“Come in!” Viserys called, rising to greet them. He too looked tired—and old, in a way that troubled Daemon—but when he noticed Rhaegar’s stare, his face broke into a smile that melted a few years away. “Go on, you may look as much as you like.”

He met Daemon at the door with another hug, as though the two from earlier had not been enough, and then spoke quietly to the fretful Kingsguard outside the door, who marched several paces further down the hall to grant privacy.

Rhaegar was circling the model in furious study, so absorbed in it that Daemon had to call him twice before he seemed to hear. He schooled his expression quickly, assuming an attentive calm, and joined them by the fire with a murmured apology. His son exhibited none of that occasional tension when Viserys gave him a fond kiss on the temple, and Daemon stifled a frown.

Jon had already sunk into one of the chairs, looking so tired and drawn from pain that Daemon wanted to swoop him up and let him lie on the bed, but his son shook his dark head at him.

“I shall have the Grand Maester attend to him tomorrow,” Viserys said, noting their silent exchange.

“He does not seem to have attended so well to you,” Daemon remarked.

Viserys’s shrug was stiff. “My problems are quite different than those of a child.” His gaze swept over the boys, lips moving into an apologetic smile that was half wince. “I am sorry to keep you so late after all that you have endured, but the circumstances of your kidnapping were quite unusual. If there is a greater threat to our family or the realm, I must know of it.”

The boys shared a glance, then took turns recounting their kidnapping, beginning with Crayne’s murder of their escort, and even though Daemon had heard most of it before, his anger burned anew when Jon repeated the man’s threats.

His brother seemed in disbelief when they named the amount of coin Crayne had been promised, though Daemon had noted it in his letter. “And you are certain that is the number he said?”

“He mentioned it more than once,” Rhaegar said quietly. “He said that if one of us proved too much trouble, he would be content with twenty-five thousand.”

Like his children were mere piles of gold coin.

I will burn him. Viserys touched his arm, as though to calm him, and Daemon bit back a snarl. Try listening to your children recount how their captor terrified them into submission and see how calm you remain.

Jon spoke of them being separated both day and night, Rhaegar kept at Crayne’s side, both of them bound at night. With a concerned glance at his brother, Jon finally revealed the details of his attempt at freeing them, by using the knife he had hidden away to cut his bonds, then sneak up on their captor as he slept.

“I hesitated too long,” Jon said, voice flattening as he stared into the fire. “There was a noise, and he woke.” His left shoulder lifted in a shrug. “That was when he cracked my ribs, I think, though he also rammed me into a tree.”

“He was going to kill Jon,” Rhaegar said, his own stare fixed on his hands, folded tightly in his lap. “Just as he threatened he would.”

“Rhaegar convinced him not to,” Jon said, glancing up from the fire to look at his brother. “And he told me he’d—hurt Rhaegar if I did anything else. Then he broke my arm.”

Daemon’s breath hissed through his teeth, hot with the choking rage that had not left him since finding his sons and seeing how they had been hurt. Hearing Jon’s helpless sobs under the influence of the dreamwine, and later Rhaegar’s near-silent weeping from afar at camp as his brother held him.

I will break every bone in his body, then have him dragged by horse across the rocky shores of the Grey Gallows, and once the crabs have had their fill, then I will burn him.

“He must be hunted,” Daemon gritted out, forcing himself to relax his white-knuckled grip on Dark Sister. His brother’s Kingsguard had been trying to separate him from her all day, but he refused to leave his sons unprotected, even within the Red Keep.

“I intend to offer a substantial reward for his capture,” Viserys said grimly. “The Crown will not allow the kidnapping of a royal child to go unpunished.”

Jon did not remember much of the days he had been given Crayne’s concoction, so Rhaegar took over. Little had happened over that span, according to his son, other than finally convincing their captor that Jon’s arm must be splinted—a revelation that had Daemon once more in agony as he fought the impulse to pace the room in search of something to destroy.

“On the last night, he brought out the dragonglass candle,” Rhaegar said.

They had gone back to Daemon’s apartments after supper to fetch it, and to deposit the sleeping hatchlings. The candle was still wrapped in Daemon’s travel cloak, a bundle he had set down on the table.

“He set it by the fire,” Rhaegar continued. “Far enough that it should not have caught light, and yet it did. Only it did not cast light, it—” He frowned in thought. “It seemed to enhance both light and shadow, while draining all color.”

“It felt like something was watching us,” Jon said, gaze shifting to the carefully wrapped candle on the table.

Viserys turned a questioning gaze to Daemon. “Show it to me.”

Jon tensed as he fetched it, then slowly unraveled the cloth to bare the twisted, red-hued length of dragonglass. Daemon could see the skepticism in his brother’s face, as it was one he shared. He did not think his children were lying, but they had been held captive for over a week, subjected to constant terror and stress. Imagination could run wild in such circumstances, especially with the dread of their upcoming arrival at the Saltpans.

“It looks like the dragonglass candles brought from Valyria,” Viserys mused, taking it from Daemon to inspect it. “There is one in the Grand Maester’s library. They would light sometimes, when we were children.”

He and Viserys had been intrigued by both that candle and the other one in the holdfast, which had served as decoration in their grandfather’s solar, daring one another to touch it on the occasions where they would sneak in. Twice it had sparked to life during their games, for just a handful of seconds, before going dormant once more.

Viserys looked for a suitably large container to hold it upright, eventually settling for a flagon of water that he set near the fire for better study. The dragonglass itself seemed to dance and flicker like flame as the light and shadows cast by the fire caught within its grooves.

Jon stared at it, narrow-eyed. “The warlock, Jephyro, found us in the night some hours later. He is the one who brought the dragon eggs.”

Viserys, who had slumped with his own fatigue, straightened then. “The eggs, yes. Tell me everything.”

“He said they were a gift from those who would—” Jon’s lips twisted in distaste. “‘Protect and cherish’ us.”

Daemon caught his brother’s eyes, his alarm matching Daemon’s own when he had first heard of it and drawn the obvious conclusion. Someone desired dragons, and had gone to great lengths in an attempt to secure them.

“They were very large,” Daemon added. “Far greater in size than any I have seen in the hatchery. Black and copper one, dark blue the other.” It did not require explaining which had become whose dragon. The colors of a dragon egg were often mirrored in the resulting hatchling.

“Did he name who he was bringing you to, or where?”

Jon shook his head. “We asked, but he would only give us his own.”

“He was Volantene,” Rhaegar said then. “Jephyro. I have heard the accent before, at—” His gaze flicked over to Jon, then at the fire. “At home. Many traders pass through the Gates of the Moon, and I would practice my Valyrian.”

“As were the men who sought to take my sons at Lord Cox’s keep,” Daemon growled.

Viserys’s brow furrowed, and he realized then that since it had happened after his letter, his brother would not have heard of it yet. He gave a quick recounting of the wildfire attack, Rhaegar’s disappearance, and the frantic search that had led them finally to the pier. “All four of the men involved were Volantene sailors who had come to the Saltpans aboard the Dancing Myr.”

“This is—” Words seem to fail his brother, whose gaze at the fire had turned dark. “Troubling. How is it that someone else came to know of your sons before you did?”

“These Volantene traders you spoke with,” Daemon said, turning to Rhaegar, “they had a good look at you?”

His son looked uncomfortable. “Perhaps.”

“And when did they pass through?”

“I do not remember,” Rhaegar said, stiffening as Daemon’s hand came down on his shoulder. “It was some years before, when we were little.”

You are still little. Daemon withdrew his hand, silencing the sigh that tried to escape him. “Thank you, Rhaegar.” And yet another example of Allard’s carelessness with his children. He scowled, glancing at Viserys. “Someone spied them and brought word back to Volantis, where this scheme was no doubt hatched and planned at length. Perhaps they already had dragon eggs, or perhaps they went in search of them after.”

“Those are no ordinary hatchlings,” Viserys said. He looked past Daemon, over to his model. “The dragonlords of Valyria spent centuries bringing Essos to heel. There must be clutches scattered throughout. Could a dragon egg remain viable for so long outside a cradle or hatchery without turning to stone?”

None of the books Daemon had scoured during his time at Dragonstone years before had offered an opinion on the matter. “That is a question for the Dragonkeepers.”

“The eggs are concerning enough,” Viserys said, hand tapping absently on the top of his cane, “but you said the warlock was also able to control Caraxes?”

“We were nearly upon him, and then Caraxes turned westward.” He had been close enough to spy his children, heads upturned toward him, only to be wrenched away from them, his screams ignored by his dragon. Daemon reached reflexively for Rhaegar’s shoulder once more. “He would not listen to my commands. It was as though he was compelled to go west.”

Viserys nodded gravely, but without understanding. Daemon’s jaw clenched. His brother had ridden Balerion once; he knew nothing of the bond between dragonrider and dragon. Where Daemon had been able to feel the echo of his furious determination in Caraxes throughout their search, there had been nothing during those long minutes of shouting and pleading—as though their bond had been severed.

“What did you see?” Viserys asked his sons. “What did the warlock do?”

Jon and Rhaegar shared an uneasy look, until Jon finally spoke. “He stopped the horses when he spotted Caraxes and took the candle out. He started chanting, and it lit once more.” Jon met Daemon’s gaze, a furrow of determination on his brow that willed him to understand. “At the end of it, he was taken by a strange fire. His eyes burned away, leaving only flame behind, and the ground itself burned around him. When he spoke, he did not sound like Jephyro.”

Viserys smiled gently at Jon, his expression one of doubt, and Daemon could not blame him. It sounded like something out of a child’s imagination. “What did he say?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed then. “He wanted to know if we burn.”

Rhaegar cast him an unreadable look that widened into surprise as Jon sprang to his feet, grabbing his brother by the hand to lead him to the fire, stride quick with purpose. Before either of them could react, Jon thrust their clasped hands into the flame.

“Jon!”

Daemon lunged for them immediately, heart leaping into his throat as he wrapped an arm around each and yanked them back from the fireplace. He grabbed for their hands, afraid to see the damage, only to find them utterly without a mark. His grip slackened in shock, then he crouched for a better look, turning their hands from side to side, certain that his eyes were deceiving him.

“We do not burn,” Jon said, but he was speaking to Viserys, not Daemon.

Viserys was staring, jaw agape. “What—” He shook himself after a moment, casting Daemon a very sharp glance, as though he were somehow responsible. “Did the warlock do something to you?”

“No,” Jon said patiently. “We have never burned.”

The light in the room flickered then as the dragonglass candle flared to life, just as the others had when he and Viserys were boys. The color faded from Daemon’s vision, the shadows deepening while light grew painfully bright. Viserys’s face and hair shone a bleached white, his sunken eyes nearly swallowed by darkness.

His children were bright glows beside the fire, Jon moving protectively between Rhaegar and the candle. Sound seemed amplified, the rustle of the rug beneath Jon’s boots loud in his ears, but in other ways muted. He could no longer hear the crackle of the fireplace, though it still danced, white and grey.

His gaze turned to the candle as his spine tingled with a sense of danger, of being watched, and he narrowed his eyes. Yes, he understood Jon perfectly now.

“Where are we?” Rhaegar asked, voice sounding far away.

“Rhaegar!” Jon hissed, tugging at his brother’s sleeve as he tried to step around Daemon.

Rhaegar halted with a look of confusion. “Jon?”

“Stay there.” Jon turned to Daemon. “Hold him.”

And as Daemon moved, startled, to obey, Jon grabbed the cloak that had wrapped the candle before, drawing it over the candle one-handed. The light seemed to pass through the cloak, however, and the fabric caught fire where it touched the fabric.

“Fuck,” Jon said, the profanity coming from his eight-year-old son almost enough of a shock for Daemon to lose his grip on Rhaegar.

Jon threw the cloak aside and gripped the candle, pulling it out of the flagon to spin it upside down, sticking it wick-first into the water, extinguishing its light.

The room warmed instantly, the disconcerting sharpness of light and dark softening to color once more. Rhaegar looked around the room with a startled expression.

Jon hurried back to his side. “Rhaegar?”

His younger son frowned. “I was somewhere else. Somewhere strange.”

Viserys seemed to have come back to his senses, and was now looking at Daemon’s sons with something between astonishment and concern. “This other warlock, what happened to him?”

“He burned,” Jon said, attention still on Rhaegar. “Or rather, Jephyro burned and there was nothing left.”

“I…see,” Viserys said weakly. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging near the bottom. “Thank you, Jon. And Rhaegar. You were very brave, the both of you. I think—” He met Daemon’s gaze. “I think you should see the boys off to bed while I ensure that the candle is put away somewhere safe.”

Return after, his eyes said. We must speak.

Daemon nodded, stopping to check on Rhaegar, whose eyes were alert, if distracted, as they met his. He kissed the top of his head, and when that met no tension, drew him into a tight embrace, wishing Jon’s ribs would allow him to do the same with his other son. He settled for a kiss to the brow.

“I shall have Ser Harrold see to their safety,” Viserys said, and the rush of relief left him almost dizzy.

“Thank you,” he said, then gently nudged his sons forward. “To bed with you.”

When he returned to his brother’s bedchamber at last, Daemon felt hollowed out from the day’s swings—from the high of returning to the city and presenting his children to his brother, their legitimacy unquestioned, to the fury of being forced to endure Otto Hightower’s sly remarks and greedy gaze upon his children, and finally everything that had transpired in his brother’s chamber.

Daemon stared at the fire in the hearth, fingers twitching at his side with the memory of Jon plunging his and his brother’s hands into the flames, to emerge unharmed. How is that possible?

The candle was gone, thankfully. He did not feel prepared to face its mystery again tonight.

“I had it put in a storeroom within the sept, for now,” Viserys said, as though reading his thoughts. He had a cup in hand, a flagon of what Daemon assumed was wine on the table now in place of the untouched sweets from before.

There was another cup beside the flagon, and Daemon measured himself a generous pour before knocking half of it back in a single gulp. The flagon of wine alone was likely worth the entirety of the watered-down ale that made it to the Stepstones, and he tasted none of it.

“Is this why you look so old?” he asked, refilling his cup to the brim before settling down at the table.

“Drinking?” Viserys replied, sitting at the chair around the corner, before sourly adding, “I know what you meant.”

“I feel like I’ve aged ten years,” Daemon said, staring into the dark red of the wine.

“You do not look it,” his brother assured him, reaching out with a hand to cup his cheek for a moment before letting it drop, fond in the way he often was after a few drinks. Daemon assumed he had started early. “I have missed you.”

Daemon shifted his gaze away, fingers tightening around his wine. “You are the one who keeps sending me from your side. I am banished, I am not. One loses track, after a time.”

“You are the one who insists on provoking me.”

His mouth set in a bitter line. “Not every provocation need end in banishment, and yet that is the sword you choose to wield.” 

Viserys’s sigh held an edge of frustration. “You make it so difficult for others to love you. And somehow impossible to stop.”

“I see.” Daemon lifted his wine in a salute. “You banish me because you love me.”

“I did not mean for you to be away for so long. I invited you to return years ago.”

His brother had the gall to sound wounded, and Daemon debated inwardly whether it was treasonous to throw wine at a king. It probably depended on whether Otto Hightower said it was.

“Yes, you can banish and unbanish at a whim, as you’ve shown time and again. Just as you can give and take council positions. I serve at your whim, and I am family at your whim.”

It means nothing to you, to banish me. You are afforded your beloved peace and quiet, comfortable in your keep, your life unchanged. While I scatter about on the wind without hearth or home, without duty or purpose. A toy to put down when angered, and pick up when missed.

And I must never be anything but a toy. The very moment I show a glimmer of ambition of my own, even to protect my own kin, I am greedy and ungrateful. I may build nothing for myself with my own hands.

If not for a happy accident, I would yet be without children of my own, my future belonging to you and you alone. Your heir until you found better. Your brother when you need one and forgotten when you don’t. 

“Daemon,” Viserys said, sounding weary to the bone.

He dipped a half-bow in his seat. “My apologies, Your Grace, for adding to the heavy burden you so enjoy carrying alone. Your other burdens, I hear, Otto Hightower is all too eager to take up for you.”

“By the gods, must all conversations turn to Otto?” Viserys gulped at his wine, then set it down heavily. “One would think him my wife, rather than his daughter.”

Daemon’s lips twisted into a scornful smile. “Is being your Hand not the same thing?”

“You will have a place here, Daemon. I will find one for you.”

Daemon turned his face aside, fixing his gaze on the window, the hot rush of anger in his chest tangled with sour disappointment. “All those ravens you sent, urging me home, and I am still an afterthought.”

“I did not know if you would come, or when.” A gloved hand found his on the table. “If I had commanded you instead, would you have come?”

“Yes.” An offer expressed only a desire: I would like you here. A command would have said I need you here.

“And yet, had I done so, you would have resented me for it before long.” His brother gave a sharp laugh. “You are impossible to please.”

“Then why did you ask me to return?”

Viserys sighed again, hand closing on his wrist to tug him to his feet, then releasing it to pull him into yet another hug. But where the earlier three had been a greeting, thrice repeated, this one held fast, until Daemon was forced to return it and feel the lightness in his brother’s bones. He thought of Rhea, sallow and puffy in her deathbed. He thought of his father, who had not lived past three-and-forty. And his uncle, who had been two years older than Daemon.

He was a father now, with a father’s cares, and yet it was a child’s fear that gripped him. You must not die.

“You have only just returned home,” Viserys said finally, pulling back. “Can we save the quarreling for tomorrow at least?”

They had more important matters to discuss anyway, Daemon thought with a grimace. “We shall need more wine,” he said, extending his cup to his brother, who poured generously from the carafe, near-emptying it.

He waited for Daemon to take another long sip, then said, “I consulted with some of my books on Old Valyria.”

The table that hosted Viserys’s clay monstrosity was often piled high with the books his brother pored through for the references he painstakingly used to recreate the dead city.

“And you found that your magister’s tower is in the wrong spot?” he said flippantly.

“The dragonglass candles were oft used by Valyria’s sorcerers to see over long distances, to other candles.”

We were being watched. “Valyria is gone, and its sorcerers along with it,” Daemon pointed out.

“But some of its candles remain, including the ones our family brought to Westeros.” Viserys tapped his cup on the table, then took a drink. “It would seem that at least one warlock has rediscovered their purpose.”

Daemon thought about the dragonglass candles lighting at seeming random in their childhood and frowned. “Then either our warlock is quite old, or he has been taught by someone else.”

“Do you think what your children recalled is—” Viserys hesitated. “Accurate?”

“My sons apparently cannot be burned,” Daemon said, then gulped down another mouthful of wine, feeling out of his depth as a father for the first time. “I would trust their authority on the matter of others burning or not.”

Viserys’s head turned to the fire, and they both fell silent for a time, watching the flicker of the flames. “It is a thing unheard of. And I do not know that I would trust the matter even to Grand Maester Mellos for counsel.”

Daemon was unsure if he was referring to his sons’ resistance to fire, or the warlock being able to work through another from afar. Perhaps both.

“What of our response?” Daemon asked.

Viserys glanced at him. “Our response?”

“Clearly this warlock is allied with Volantis, or aided by them. The Free Cities see our house growing, and our dragons with it. You cannot think they won’t try again—either to seize my own children, or even yours, or Rhaenyra’s.”

“We do not know for certain it is Volantis,” Viserys said, and Daemon resisted the urge to shake him. “They did not even try to conceal their origin.”

“Or they spied an opportunity with my children concealed from me and were arrogant enough to assume they would go unchallenged.”

“What would you have me do, Daemon?” Viserys asked with a frustration that matched his. “If you were my Hand, what course would you be urging? War with Volantis, thousands of miles beyond the Narrow Sea?”

Thousands of miles can be crossed by a dragon easily enough, and we have five. We have the strength to teach Volantis that the consequence of grasping for our children is fire and blood.

His heart hungered for it, but Daemon knew it was not the answer his brother sought. And even he had to admit that it was one matter to fly across friendly lands and sea, but another to venture into hostile territory where the enemy had unknown powers against their dragons.

To say nothing of the fact that the other Free Cities could view it as an attempt by their dynasty to take up the expansionist ambitions of their Valyrian forebears. It would be a rather stupid way to go about it, attacking one of the most distant Free Cities, but what was currently a Triarchy could rapidly grow beyond three.

“The Stepstones,” Daemon said at last, with great reluctance. “We must shore up our position there and drive the Triarchy from the isles once and for all.”

Viserys looked skeptical. “We have spent nearly ten years fighting over that wasteland of rock.”

“Ten years without the Crown’s willing support, and with a single dragon.”

Viserys very wisely did not point out that Daemon had withdrawn their only dragon in the conflict, because he might have throttled him otherwise. Under no circumstances would he have abandoned his children to whatever Hightower had plotted.

“I will not send my heir into that bloodbath,” Viserys said.

“Send her husband. Send Rhaenys and Laena. Vhagar alone is a terror.”

Viserys grimaced. “That will certainly earn us back into Corlys Velaryon’s graces, sending his entire family to war.”

“Send swords and coin and builders as well. With our position shored up, dragons can deal with the rest. Then we shall control a stronghold that is much closer to Volantis.”

“And what of you?” Viserys asked softly. “Are you so eager to return, and leave your children behind?”

“Of course not.” Daemon swirled the wine in his cup. “The day I learned of my sons, I nearly fell to an archer’s arrow.” His brother did not need to know that he had almost dared death to take him.

“Gods be good!” Viserys gripped his arm. “You expect me to let you go back there after telling me that?”

“It is who we are,” Daemon said, even though he knew his brother wouldn’t understand. “Our grandfather knew that, as did our uncle and father. We hold the power of dragons, and all the dangers that come with it.”

That was the sword that cut Viserys. That the very family he loved was also his greatest weapon, and so he feared to use it.

“I would see your boys grow up with their father, rather than raised on his memories.” Viserys pushed his wine away, cup still half full, and gazed at Daemon. “He reminds me so much of Aemon, your Rhaegar.”

“I know.” Certain expressions on his face were like gazing into the past.

“Jon, now. It is already plain that when he decides that he is right, he will drag others kicking and screaming to the truth. I cannot decide if he is more our father or you.”

“Our father, let us hope.” Daemon let himself slump in his chair, the wine serving to heighten the draw of sleep. “I am still learning who they are. And I am yet a stranger to them.”

“I am sorry,” Viserys said with what seemed genuine regret. “When you kept asking for an annulment—I had not thought your wife’s hatred of you so great as to enact treason.”

“Even as she confessed, she refused them their birthright,” Daemon said, casting a sideways glance at his brother, wondering if he might be an ally in securing the seat for Jon. “She insisted on giving Runestone to her vile nephew.”

“That is…regrettable,” Viserys said, his careful look at Daemon suggesting he understood what he was asking for. “Though the lords of the Vale will not take kindly to the Crown interfering, unless there is proof that her nephew was also complicit in her treason.”

“You have seen my sons,” Daemon said, the flush of anger combining with the warmth of the alcohol until it was almost unbearable. “Who did he think he was caring for at the Gates of the Moon?”

“He seems to have done right by their education, at the very least—”

Daemon shot to his feet. “Anything my sons have accomplished was in spite of his efforts. They—” He gritted his teeth, trying to calm his rage. They do not cry in my presence. They dare not indulge in even the simple pleasures of treats unless prompted.

“Peace, brother,” Viserys said, rising more slowly to match him. “A grave wrong was done, I did not mean to suggest otherwise. I shall address the matter with my small council.” He clasped his cheek once more. “I am glad to have you here.”

And how long shall that last this time? Daemon shook off that bitter thought, closing his eyes, suddenly desperately tired. “If you should send me away again—”

“I will not, Daemon. I could not deprive myself of my nephews, for one.” His hand brushed over Daemon’s hair, the ghost of a ruffle from their childhood, when Daemon had toddled after his older brother. “Go, take your own rest. I shall have one of my Kingsguard escort you back.”

Chapter Text

Although Jon was weary to the bone, sleep would not come. Separate bedchambers had been prepared for them near Daemon’s apartments, spacious and plush, and their father had quickly ushered them to bed after they’d left the king’s chamber. They would meet their new tutors tomorrow, he’d told them, and begin their arms training with their cousins.

There had been a strain to his expression, though Jon wasn’t sure if that was due to his distaste for their cousins or a reaction to everything that had transpired in the king’s chamber, culminating with Jon sticking their hands in the fire to prove a point.

The dragonglass candle lighting once more had chased away any hope of sleep, Jon’s every hackle still raised at that oppressive sense of unfriendly eyes upon them. Nor had there been a chance to ask Rhaegar what he had seen.

I should have left it with Jephyro’s body, Jon fretted. And let the warlock turn his gaze on wagons and horses passing by on the red road instead.

Lord Cox’s men would just have collected it and brought it back anyway, he supposed.

It needs to be sealed away. Or cast into the sea. Maybe he could convince Daemon to take it with them on Caraxes, and they could fling it into Blackwater Bay.

Jon closed his eyes, feeling dwarfed by the bed. Their bed at the Gates of the Moon had been just the right size for two children to share. This one was extravagant, its feather mattress far more comfortable, the blankets impossibly soft and warm, and it could easily host triplets, let alone twins. Yet it didn’t matter.

Someone could come in the night, and I wouldn’t even know he’s gone. Jon’s eyes shot open at the thought, and he stared at the ceiling. It was a silly fear, he knew. The white-cloaked Kingsguard who had escorted them from the Dragonpit, Ser Harrold, had posted a knight outside both their doors. They were nestled deep within the most guarded holdfast in the Seven Kingdoms, itself at the center of the most guarded keep in the Seven Kingdoms.

We are perfectly safe, Jon told himself, but his gaze traveled to the wardrobe, which held his hunting knife and sheath. Then there was the small bottle of dreamwine that had been left on the table beside the window, silently beckoning, that he steadfastly ignored. He wanted his mind sharp tomorrow.

For now, it wandered. Speaking to the king about Jephyro had gone better and worse than he’d hoped. He still wasn’t sure if their uncle wholly believed them, but Jon’s bold move with the fire had convinced him of something.

It had been a shock, in some ways, to meet the king. The warmth of his welcome had been genuine, his affection for his brother and his family plain. But he looked stretched and worn, like he was decades older than Daemon rather than, Jon assumed, a few years. If that was what the crown did to a person, then Jon considered himself well rid of his position as heir.

He shifted onto his good side, aching with fatigue. He wasn’t certain if hours had passed or only minutes. He thought about their cousins. Aegon had the same self-centered arrogance he remembered from Prince Joffrey’s visit to Winterfell, though it remained to be seen if he shared Joffrey’s cruelty. Whoever had spoiled him had done the prince no favors.

Aemond he hadn’t spoken to very much. The younger boy—their age, Jon realized with a wince—had hung onto every one of Rhaegar’s words. They had all been enthralled, in fact, with Rhaegar’s stories of Aemon the Dragonknight. Helaena had been a delight, slightly shy but curious about everything, and in love with both of their dragons. She had informed him that should he desire to use the name Dewdrop for his yet-unnamed hatchling, he would have her blessing.

They had all been a much-needed reminder of how children their age actually behaved. If they were to spend more time in the company of their cousins, they would have to relearn certain things. Or simply learn them, in Rhaegar’s case, and Jon smiled at the thought before the smile turned fretful once more.

The dreamwine taunted him, its allure growing as minutes slipped by. Jon tried humming one of Rhaegar’s lullabies, but he hadn’t the voice or the memory for it. He had found himself halfway to sleep when the sound of the door creaking jolted him to wakefulness, hand grasping for the table by the bed and catching the bottle of dreamwine, which toppled over, rather than anything useful, like a weapon.

“I did not mean to wake you.”

It was Daemon’s voice, soft and lightly slurred. Jon relaxed, squinting into the dark of the room to make out his shape as he approached the side of the bed.

“I was awake,” Jon said, before admitting, “I could not sleep.”

Daemon disappeared briefly, then returned with an oil lamp, which he used to light the candle beside Jon’s bed, dragging a chair to sit beside it. He stared at Jon, silent, and from the lingering trace of wine on his breath, Jon assumed he had been drinking beforehand.

“I checked on your brother.” Daemon’s face fell slightly. “He did not stir.”

Rhaegar was a heavy sleeper, so that could just mean he hadn’t woken. But Jon would guess it more likely that he had chosen to feign sleep—a suspicion Daemon seemed to share. Daemon picked up the bottle of dreamwine, taking note of its volume, and set it back upright. Then he reached to brush Jon’s hair from his forehead.

“Did your cousin—” Daemon halted, eyes dark like Rhaegar’s could sometimes be. “Did your cousin hurt you and your brother?”

Jon returned his gaze, uncomprehending, then realized he meant Allard. “No. He mostly ignored us.”

His father’s expression shifted, relief yielding to sorrow. “Not only a thief, an ungrateful one.” His fingers combed through Jon’s hair, the motion slow and soothing. “You may come to me if you are frightened, or hurt, or cannot sleep.”

The gentle offer pierced straight through Jon’s composure. All the fear and worry churning in him bubbled up through that small crack, pressing into his throat and stinging at his eyes. “I want to go home.”

He did not know where home was, he only knew where it wasn’t, and this large, empty bedchamber was strange and cold. Home meant safety and warmth, things he had known briefly in the Vale. The illusion of peace.

Daemon looked as though he’d been stabbed. “We can still visit the Vale,” he said, voice strained.

“No,” Jon said, rubbing at his eyes, which felt hot and achy. “It’s gone now.”

A soft sigh escaped Daemon, carrying more of the scent of wine. He kissed Jon’s brow. “I will make you a new one.”

Jon closed his eyes and the fingers continued to stroke through his hair, large and strong. He has a warrior’s hands, he thought, oddly comforted by it. The candlelight that danced across his eyelids darkened, the distinctive smell of smoke from a snuffed candle wafting over him.

A low hum filled the room, then became a quiet song. High Valyrian, like most of Rhaegar’s, but one he hadn’t heard before. His father’s voice was deep, at times hesitant—not beautiful in the way that Rhaegar’s singing was, but pleasant. Where Rhaegar’s lullabies seemed to reach into his very core and warm it from within, this danced lightly across the surface of his thoughts, a fluttering comfort.

His breathing slowed, the tightness in his chest loosening, and Jon fell into an exhausted sleep at last.

The morning was an overwhelming flurry of activity. They bathed quickly after rising, finishing just in time for the parade of tailors and cobblers who arrived at Daemon’s apartments, where they were measured, their father rattling off colors and materials he wanted incorporated into their new wardrobe. Rhaegar had found a book somewhere, somehow, and read throughout with the patience of someone accustomed to such ordeals, while Jon suffered in silence.

The Grand Maester himself, Mellos, arrived to look at Jon’s injuries. He was an old man, with heavy jowls on a thin face and the top of his head fully bald. He seemed pleasant, though Daemon regarded him with narrow-eyed skepticism. Jon’s arm was poked and prodded at, twisted and turned as the maester asked him which motions brought pain.

Finally, his arm was resplinted a final time, this one sturdier than the previous attempts. “He should wear it for one moon,” Mellos announced. “At which time I shall take another look, but I expect it will be well on its way to healing by then.”

Jon sagged with relief at the news. The damage would already be done, all his hard work building up his arm and grip strength lost, but that could be regained.

“The ribs are merely cracked,” the maester continued. “They should heal in a matter of weeks, so long as he does not strain himself.”

“He will not,” Daemon said, meeting Jon’s eyes with a stare that demanded compliance.

Jon returned it levelly, taking a bite of porridge, which was topped with sliced peach and tasted more like dessert than breakfast. “I will still go to arms training,” he said.

“You will observe arms training.”

Jon shrugged in response. He had never had reason to train with his left hand, and there was no better time than the present.

“Where are the hatchlings?” Rhaegar asked, providing a timely distraction. Jon shot him a grateful look.

“They are being tended to in an enclosure near the gardens. My grandfather and grandmother kept their dragons here at the Red Keep rather than the Dragonpit, and there is more than enough room for two young hatchlings.”

From Rhaegar’s slow nod, Jon guessed he’d figured out the location. “Thank you. We may see them whenever we like?”

“Of course.” Daemon sought out each of them for a kiss on the cheek. “I have matters to attend to this morning, then I shall be in the king’s company until your lessons are finished. We’ll dine with Laenor and your other cousins tonight.”

Jon shared a look with Rhaegar. They had yet to meet Princess Rhaenyra’s sons—or the crown princess herself. She was at Dragonstone, Laenor had told him, which meant they had her to thank for passing their message along to their father. Her sons were younger, Jon knew. The eldest, Jace, was only five.

“You will do well,” Daemon said, misinterpreting the exchange as apprehension about their lessons.

Jon thought ahead to the afternoon arms training, a sorely needed outlet, even if it did get him into trouble later. “We shall do our best.”

It was their father who escorted them to the library where they would take their lessons, though he did not enter with them. He lingered in the doorframe a moment, watching them, before turning to leave. Aegon and Aemond had arrived before, and the boys greeted them with excitement.

It was Jon’s first exposure to lessons deemed necessary for royal children, the subjects taught by a dizzying rotation of maesters. The first was a lecture on etiquette and courtly protocol that would have had Sansa starry-eyed, followed by history, then matters of law, and finally more sums.

Jon’s interest ebbed and waned on the power of the maester lecturing them, some more engaging than others. The maester who taught law was robust for a man with a maester’s chain, hair dark and frame sturdy, and he treated his lessons as more than just a lecture, taking turns asking them their thoughts on judgments passed during Jaehaerys’s reign and inviting their own decisions they might have made in his place. He was by far Jon’s favorite.

He and Rhaegar had been given no special treatment as far as catching up to their cousins, but neither of them particularly needed it. Some of the etiquette was new to Jon, and even Rhaegar, as well the laws that had changed over the two centuries between, but Rhaegar had already claimed a new dusty tome on the laws codified during Jaehaerys’s long reign. Jon gave it two nights before he had it mastered.

Aegon whispered nonstop, both during the lessons and especially between them. He was curious about the Vale, and how he and Rhaegar had come to get their hatchlings. They had been instructed to lie about the hatchlings, and Jon gladly let Rhaegar handle it.

“Our father brought dragon eggs from Dragonstone, and they hatched shortly before we left for King’s Landing,” his brother informed them, without batting an eye. “Have you been to Dragonstone before?”

“No,” Aegon said with a frown. “That is Rhaenyra’s seat. She and her sons go there sometimes.”

“I would like to go sometime,” Rhaegar said. “The castle is said to be covered in glyphs and sorcery from Old Valyria, and wild dragons roam there.”

“It would be like one of Aemon the Dragonknight’s adventures,” Aemond said, face lighting at the prospect.

“Oh!” Aegon jumped to his feet. “I know what we can do. Follow me.” At Jon and Rhaegar’s uncertain look, he impatiently added, “Maester Savern is the last tutor of the day, and we have two hours before we must go to the yard.”

A Kingsguard followed them at a respectable pace as they left the holdfast. Their destination ended up being the garden Daemon had spoken of before, which was large and lush, lined with stone pathways and bushes that cordoned off the various areas within: expansive patches of flowers in the reds and golds of autumn, fountains with stone benches. There was a massive oak tree at its very center, its leaves a fiery orange, and Jon had caught a glimpse of a nearby godswood.

“We shall play Dragonknight,” Aegon said, stopping beside one of the fountains. “I am Aegon, the Explorer King.”

“And I am Aemon!” Aemond said quickly.

Aegon gave Rhaegar a considering look. “You will be Queen Naerys.”

Rhaegar looked amused. “Should we not find your sister? I am sure she would be delighted to play Naerys.”

“You are much prettier,” Aegon said dismissively. “And your hair is the longest.”

It was not a kind thing to say about his sister, but Rhaegar acquiesced with a patient sigh, and Jon stifled a laugh at his expression. “Who am I?”

Aegon seemed stumped for a moment. “You are—a Dornish assassin, sent to capture me.”

Rhaegar’s gaze flicked between him and Aegon, and he said, “Jon is a Dornish knight who was sent to capture you, but Aemon’s deeds of bravery inspired him to pledge his service, and now Dorne hunts us in vengeance.”

Both their cousins seemed to like that idea. They had stopped at Summerhall for refuge, Rhaegar suggested, which the boys decided was a special summer palace built by Aegon for Naerys to hold court with her ladies. It was under attack, and it fell to them to protect the ladies of the court.

Sticks became swords, which slashed through the air at imaginary enemies. Imaginary dragons were summoned, the ones their cousins had decided on last night: Ebonwing, Dewdrop, and Bloodrage. Rhaegar spun the adventure like a living story, calling out incoming attackers, identifying their enemy as the evil Dornish Lord Wyl, who had brought an army of giant vipers with him.

The dragons set fire to the vipers, but the evil Lord Wyl had captured Naerys. Their Kingsguard, Ser Erryk, was recruited briefly for the role of Lord Wyl, and Aegon, Aemond, and Jon all struck at him with sticks until the Kingsguard gravely admitted defeat and revealed the captive Naerys, who had been bound to a tree with his remaining vipers.

True love’s kiss freed Rhaegar from the vipers, a peck to the cheek from Aegon—after a short argument between the brothers of who actually was Naerys’s true love—and Summerhall was safe once more. Just in time, their amused Kingsguard informed them, for their afternoon arms training.

Rhaegar was still smiling as they walked back, he and Jon side-by-side, several paces behind their cousins, and it made Jon smile in turn.

“You had fun,” he said, a statement rather than a question.

Rhaegar nodded, face bright like it had been last night, during his storytelling. “I made up so many stories when I was a child. I would tell them to whatever Kingsguard was watching me, and they were always kind about it, but it is different when you share it with others.”

Playing pretend was such a staple of growing up. It saddened Jon to think of Rhaegar talking to air rather than other children, and he pulled him into a one-armed hug. “You are very good at it. They loved every minute.”

“We shall have to find Helaena next time to play as Naerys, so that someone else can be in peril for once.” Though his tone was light, his mood seemed to dim. “And it was still their first thought to make you their enemy.”

For his dark hair, Jon assumed. It was sobering to realize that the poison of the Greens had found its way into children so young, that they saw a relative with dark hair and the most natural thing was to position him as an enemy, rather than family.

Their path to the training yard took them past the dragon enclosure just beyond the gardens, and Rhaegar’s feet slowed. “We shall stop and visit our dragons,” he said to Ser Erryk, a statement of fact rather than a request, as though the knight was his to command, and Jon wondered if he even realized it.

Rhaegar did not wait for acknowledgement, he started toward the enclosure, steps light and eager. Jon followed just behind, and their cousins joined them. Both hatchlings had already risen to greet them, soaring high and then diving down to land dramatically in front of them.

“Are you a dragon or a peacock?” Jon asked his, amused.

Rhaegar was already speaking to Qelebrys, studying her wings as the Dragonkeepers had. Jon could make out a few words of quiet praise before his brother found the bloody plate of meat that must have been put out for them recently, as it was only half-eaten.

They all took turns throwing scraps of raw meat to challenge the hatchlings, who seemed to delight in the game, even racing one another for each scrap, to the shouted cheers of all.

“This is what the keepers should be doing,” Rhaegar said, once the plate was empty. “How are they to develop their flight and instincts if their meal is placed before them in a dish?”

Ser Erryk, gently trying to usher the group along, was bade to wait by Rhaegar, who found one of the servants who tended to the enclosure. They had a quiet conversation, his brother so tiny and so serious in his expression as he spoke to the man that Jon had to stifle a smile.

“What did you say to him?” Jon whispered as they resumed the journey to the yard.

“I offered him additional duties with the hatchlings, with the according salary for it.”

Jon blinked. “Can you do that?”

“Do you think our father will refuse to honor it?” Rhaegar glanced back toward the enclosure. “I only asked that he feed them as we did. The rest we shall handle ourselves, when our duties for the day are complete.”

“You do realize that you cannot make them grow faster through sheer determination?” Jon teased.

“I know.”

There was a strain to his brother’s expression that told him he was troubled by something. “What is it?”

“I never dreamed that I might have a dragon, and they are so young. I do not know what we should be doing.” He frowned. “I am worried that I will do something wrong.”

“We can ask to speak with the Dragonkeepers. They will know.”

“Will they?” The doubt in Rhaegar’s voice surprised him. “They were founded by King Jaehaerys to guard the Dragonpit. They have no more knowledge of how dragons were raised in Old Valyria than you or me.”

“Caraxes was raised in the Dragonpit, was he not? And he is a fierce mount.”

“That is true,” Rhaegar admitted. “Perhaps we can ask Daemon.”

The training yard at the Red Keep was extensive and well-equipped, shared both by knights and Kingsguard as well as princelings receiving their weapons instruction. Their training area was attached to, but not part of, the greater yard, where a few knights and squires were currently sharpening their own skills.

There was another Kingsguard waiting for them in the yard, a man with dark hair and eyes who watched their approach with a stony expression. Ser Criston Cole, Jon presumed. The man who would one day be known as the Kingmaker for crowning Aegon. Daemon had spoken his name at breakfast through clenched teeth, his distaste for the man plain, and he would assume the feeling was mutual.

The white cloak who had accompanied them, Ser Erryk, took his leave with a kind farewell, informing them that he would return at the end of their training.

“Welcome, young princes,” Ser Criston said, his bearing stiff. “Jon, Rhaegar, I was told that you received some training in arms in the Vale.”

“We have,” Jon said, wondering if the man’s dislike of Daemon extended to them. “We were trained by Ser Perkins at the Gates of the Moon in the sword and bow, and some lance.”

The knight’s nod was dismissive. “Before we begin, I will need to assess your training. Your cousins have had two full years of instruction, and I do not intend for their own progress to suffer.”

Jon had learned very little from Ser Perkins that he had not already known, but he still felt insulted on behalf of the man. He had, at the very least, recognized their skills quickly and skipped unneeded fundamentals in favor of live drills, and run those quite effectively.

“Ser Perkins was an able instructor,” Jon said, meeting his gaze.

Ser Criston frowned, an expression that seemed to come naturally to the man. “You will be observing today, Jon, due to your injuries.”

Jon could feel the sudden intensity of Rhaegar’s eyes on him, as though his brother knew precisely what he was about to do. “The Grand Maester said I may engage in drills,” he lied. “So long as there is no contact with my ribs.”

“Do you fight with your left hand?” Ser Criston asked.

“Yes,” Jon said, which was not necessarily untrue. He was right-handed, but if need be, he imagined he could put his left to use.

“Very well,” the knight said. “Ready yourselves and we will begin.”

They followed Aegon and Aemond to the shared armory, where there was an entire wall of practice armor and weapons, roughly sized for children, with adjustable straps to tighten and adjust fit.

“Jon,” Rhaegar hissed as soon as they were out of Ser Criston’s earshot. “What are you doing?”

“He insulted Ser Perkins,” Jon whispered, struggling with the padded armor. At Rhaegar’s unimpressed stare, he added, “Indirectly.”

“He does not need to see both of us perform to have his misgivings corrected.”

Well, I don’t like him. It was a childish thing to say. Perhaps even a childish thing to feel, but the immediate assumption that their instruction had been inferior, that a knight of the Vale was any less than one of the Crownlands, had rankled Jon more than he would’ve expected.

I am not even from the Vale. But also, confusingly, he was.

“You are able to fight with your left hand?” Rhaegar asked, assisting him with his armor now that he had finished with his own.

Jon left the armor’s straps as loose as he dared around his midsection. “I do not see why not.”

Rhaegar’s narrow look of disapproval eased after a moment, and he shook his head ruefully. “Well, if anyone were to master the basics in an afternoon, it would be you.”

Jon selected one of the small wooden swords with his left hand and gave it a flourish. “We shall see.”

When they returned to the yard, Ser Criston inspected each of them with an eye for detail that bordered on the petty, adjusting the straps of their armor so minutely as to make no real difference.

With Rhaegar, he could find nothing to fix, so instead his dark eyes swept over him, foot to crown, landing on his braid. “You may find that long hair proves an impediment, even tied back. Those who wish to master the arms of a knight must set aside petty vanities.”

Jon’s brow rose. Right beside his brother stood Aemond, whose own long hair—perhaps a foot shorter—was worn entirely loose. Even Jon had secured his back in a short tail, as he had while a passenger on Caraxes and Seasmoke.

Rhaegar returned the man’s stare with his own, calm and measuring. “I shall give your words due consideration should it become a problem, Ser Criston.”

The knight stepped back with another frown, as though he had expected Rhaegar to take a knife to his hair right then. “You will be paired with Aemond, and Jon with Aegon. Since I have trained your cousins personally, that will give me the best measure of your skill.”

Aemond and Rhaegar were selected to go first, and Jon stepped well out of the way, Aegon joining him after a moment.

“My brother is quite good,” the prince confided to Jon. “He started his training the same year I did, when I was seven and he six. I think he would live in the yard if he were allowed.” His eyes darted about furtively, then he leaned in close to whisper, “He told me that he hoped that our father would grant him Dark Sister once your father was past his fighting years.”

“Our father has many fighting years ahead of him still,” Jon said, trying to keep the sharpness from his voice.

Aegon rolled his eyes. “I know that. And besides, it will probably go to you or Rhaegar now.”

“I do not want it,” Jon said tightly. Not because he did not dream of holding another Valyrian steel sword; his hands longed for the security of it even now. But because of what it would mean.

“I am with you,” Aegon said, misunderstanding him. “I am happy to let Aemond be the knight. I would much rather have the time to do as I please.”

But Ser Criston signaled the start of the bout then, and they both quieted. As they did so, Jon noticed that the various knights and men-at-arms in the broader yard had turned their attention to the royal spectacle about to take place. Even those who still maintained the illusion of drilling did so with an eye toward the practice square.

Aemond and Rhaegar made for a poor match-up. Aemond was fire and aggression, signaling his lunges and swings in the way that an inexperienced fighter—which a child of nearly eight certainly was—would. Rhaegar, who Jon had met with a similar aggression during their bouts, as that had been where he’d noticed him struggle the most, blocked and parried Aemond with ease before striking with his own quick efficiency, fluid and graceful.

With each bout that was called in Rhaegar’s favor, Ser Criston’s face grew stonier, and as Aemond’s frustration grew, his form suffered with it, his swings becoming wild and off-balance. Each bout was over more quickly than the last, until Ser Criston finally called an end to it.

Aemond flung his practice sword as far as he could throw it, face red with upset. Rhaegar watched him with something like guilt, and Jon wondered if he’d meant to be gentler in his victories. He did not think it would have made a difference. Ten bouts lost, while your opponent showed no sign of exertion, was humiliating whether it came gently or not.

Ser Criston went to Aemond first, carrying his discarded sword back to him and laying a hand on his back as he spoke to him in low, soothing tones. The prince returned to Rhaegar after a moment and haltingly congratulated him on his victory before moving to the opposite side of the square from Jon and Aegon, alone.

Now Ser Criston was interested in their Vale training, demanding to know when they had begun their instruction and how rigorous a schedule it had been. His skepticism had shifted from the talents of Ser Perkins to their honesty about how long they had been training, but there was no answer that could possibly satisfy him.

The knight seemed reluctant to call up Jon and Aegon next, and Jon could tell by the twisting of his expression that the man was trying to convince himself that Jon would not put up nearly the same fight with his injuries. Aegon, who was watching him with apprehension as they moved into position, did not seem so convinced.

Meanwhile, their audience had not dispersed with the end of the match. If anything, it had grown, with a few speculative eyes now on Jon, noting his injured arm.

“Two stags on the new prince,” someone murmured within the crowd. “I do not think his twin would have needed the use of both hands either.”

Jon took a few cautious swings of his practice sword before the bout. None seemed to bother his ribs too badly, though the motion did feel strange, almost like trying to write with the opposite hand. The instinct was there, but reversed, his balance shifted to the wrong side.

He glanced around for Rhaegar, who had apparently joined Aemond in his brooding spot and was now conversing quietly with him, though his brother’s attention returned to the square as Ser Criston called for the match to begin, a furrow of worry finding its way onto his brow.

“Begin,” Ser Criston said, taking in their audience with clear disapproval.

Aegon approached Jon much more carefully than his brother had, taking a tentative swing of his sword that Jon did not bother parrying, instead taking a half step to the side.

“With purpose, Aegon!” Ser Criston called.

Aegon’s lips thinned in irritation, but his next strike had more force behind it. His eyes were easy to follow, however, and Jon once more stepped out of the way, causing the boy to stumble forward, off balance, nearly tripping to the ground.

Jon’s sword moved on instinct, its wooden edge halting an inch from the prince’s neck. The match was called in his favor and they reset. The next two matches were similar, and Jon felt a kindred guilt to Rhaegar’s earlier. The bouts felt even worse than his first few weeks at Castle Black, where he had used the training afforded by his birth against young men who had never held a sword in their lives. None of them had been children, at least.

For the next couple of matches, Jon spared Aegon the misery of his constant movement and instead met his strikes with his own training blade. It was not unlike his and Rhaegar’s very first days of training together, when their bodies and instincts were all wrong, and they’d drilled at half speed. Aegon’s moves were all fairly easily anticipated, so he was able to focus on parrying. Each quiver of impact felt much stronger against his left arm, moreso than it would have for his right, the muscles unused to absorbing so much of the blow.

Jon found himself so focused on observing the differences in using his non-dominant hand that it took him a minute to realize the current match had been one of defense alone, which might give the appearance of him taunting Aegon with his ineffectiveness.

The remaining matches he ended quickly, allowing Aegon a few moves before bringing his training blade to head or heart. His cousin wiped sweat-drenched hair from his face as they exchanged a bow of heads, then loudly called for water. Jon set his blade down, scanning his body for aches and pains, but other than a few twinges from his ribs when he had parried, he felt fine.

“Ser Criston had best hope the king does not seek his replacement in the Vale,” Jon heard a nearby knight say with apparent amusement.

“Or that he can find an excuse to avoid tilting with either of Daemon Targaryen’s sons once they’re of an age to enter into tourneys.”

“Enough,” Ser Criston called out, this time to their watchers from the yard. “The princes are here to train, not to be gawked at for your amusement.”

Coin exchanged hands, to laughter and groans, as the knights and men-at-arms returned to their own training. Once the attention had faded to just the occasional sideways glance, Ser Criston began his instruction, a review of guard stances that involved assuming the appropriate stance and holding it while he studied them for fault.

He was an exacting teacher, gruff with praise except for Aemond, who seemed in dire need of it after his disastrous matches against Rhaegar, though his brother had apparently mended any hurt that might have otherwise risen between them. Jon and Rhaegar he quickly moved on from, practically ignoring them in favor of their cousins, who needed the assistance.

Too impatient, Jon decided after observing him for the afternoon. Ser Criston expected his corrections to be applied immediately, but that was not a reasonable expectation of even a skilled fighter. It led to endless frustration on Aegon’s part, as Ser Criston repeated corrections again and again, with thinly-veiled disapproval. Eventually, the boy gave up, making only a token adjustment before settling back into a bored ready stance.

“I do not understand why I have to learn this,” Aegon muttered to Jon, not seeming to begrudge him his victories earlier. “Aemond is the one who wants to be a knight.”

“You enjoyed fighting when we played Dragonknight,” Jon said.

“Pretend fighting is fun. This is not.”

Ser Criston finally dismissed them from their training, and they converged on the armory to remove their padded armor. Although Jon had not been badly taxed, his clothing was still damp with sweat beneath it from the constant movement.

“We should go back to the gardens and play,” Aegon said, letting his padded armor drop to the ground rather than putting it back on the wall. “It’s still light for another few hours.”

“We must return to holdfast,” Rhaegar said apologetically. “We are supping with your sister’s family later and will need to make ourselves presentable.”

Aemond made a face. “Why should you bother? They won’t care, her sons do not have the same breeding as we do.”

We. So they counted Rhaegar and Jon as acceptable, despite the odd circumstances around their hidden birth. “What do you mean?” Jon asked, curious if they would speak any of their beliefs plainly.

“You will know when you see them,” Aemond assured him. “Poor manners, common features. Their hair—” He hesitated then, gaze flicking up to Jon’s dark locks. “Their hair is unlike either of their parents’.”

It was a more graceful save than most children their age would have managed.

“I shall be glad to meet them,” Rhaegar said as he took his braid down. “We were raised alone, without family, for many years.”

Aegon scowled. “Then you should sup with us. We are your true cousins. You do not need them.”

Jon shared a look with Rhaegar. He had not expected jealousy already. “We shall have lessons together every day, and we will surely sup with you again. Perhaps Dae—our father will invite you to our table.”

“And we can play other games tomorrow, if you have tired of Dragonknight,” Rhaegar said, studying Aemond intently.

But Aemond’s eyes narrowed in determination. “No. I shall train even harder, so that I may be worthy of the title.” He looked between the two of them. “You said that you trained together outside of drills in the Vale.”

“Jon insisted on it,” Rhaegar said, casting him an amused smile. “We shared a bedchamber there, so we would practice in the morning before lessons and in the evening before sleep.”

Aemond’s gaze at his own brother was practically withering. “Aegon would never do that.”

“Ugh, why would I?” Aegon kicked at his discarded armor as though to illustrate the point. “I’d rather sleep.”

“Jon apparently does not need sleep,” Rhaegar said, wrinkling his nose at him. Jon ruffled his hair in response.

Ser Erryk was waiting for them when they left the armory, as promised, and Rhaegar convinced him once again to stop by the dragon enclosure on their way back to the holdfast. Both Aemond and Aegon looked slightly glum as their hatchlings greeted them.

They kept the play session short, aware of the dwindling time before supper, and as they turned to leave, Rhaegar shot their cousins a sideways glance. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

The remainder of their walk passed in quiet, save for the farewells once they reached the holdfast and their cousins split off for their apartments. Rather than follow the king’s sons, as Jon had expected, Ser Erryk remained with them instead for the walk to Daemon’s apartments.

“We know the way back,” Jon said, framing it as an offer. He wanted some time alone to speak with Rhaegar—something they had not been granted since arriving in King’s Landing.

Ser Erryk inclined his head politely. “You are in my charge for the day, my princes.”

Jon held back a sigh. Daemon’s doing, no doubt, and he did not expect their father to budge on the matter. Not for a few weeks, at least. He hoped.

The Kingsguard smiled at them then. “Though from what I’ve heard, perhaps you should be guarding me.”

Rhaegar’s eyes widened in alarm, and Jon bit the inside of his cheek when he figured out why, torn between amusement and regret. If tales of their bouts in the yard had already made it through the Kingsguard, it was only a matter of time before it reached Daemon’s ears.

And Jon somehow doubted he would accept “I was defending Ser Perkins’s honor” as an excuse.

Chapter Text

After spending nearly a decade in the Stepstones, where the days passed with mind-numbing slowness broken up by the occasional bout of violence, the pace of life back in King’s Landing was a sharp correction in the opposite direction. Suddenly, there were not enough hours in the day. Daemon had only run perhaps half of the errands he had hoped to before it came time to join his brother and the small council to discuss the Stepstones.

All eyes fell upon Daemon as he entered the room, though the lack of surprise indicated that his brother had informed them beforehand he would be attending. He took Corlys’s seat, knowing the man would not begrudge him it, given his intentions, and scanned the faces on either side of the table. Most were familiar, though Lord Strong had been replaced by Otto Hightower as Hand. The Master of Whisperers was new to him: Lord Reyne of the Westerlands, whose constantly darting eyes rendered an otherwise pleasant face almost rabbit-like.

Brief introductions were made before the council session began in earnest, the calculating stares directed at Daemon shifting nearly in unison to his brother as he announced his intention for renewed support of the war effort in the Stepstones. The announcement seemed to catch all of his councilors off guard, but none more so than Otto Hightower, whose eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion at Daemon.

“May I ask what brought about this change of heart, Your Grace?” the man asked, leaning forward with practiced concern. “I understand that Lord Corlys’s plight is now much more dire with Prince Daemon’s abrupt departure, but we have been draining our coffers for years over this conflict, with very little to show for it.”

“Draining your coffers?” Daemon leaned forward in a mimicry of Otto Hightower’s posture. “That is an odd way of referring to Driftmark’s reserves of coin.” Hightower’s mouth opened, and Daemon gave the table a slap before he could interrupt. “I am curious what miracles the council expected from a war effort sustained by a single holding against the combined might of the Triarchy and Dorne.”

Lord Beesbury looked slightly offended. “This council has provided ample coin for the hiring of sellswords.”

“Sellswords and moldy bread. Those are the resources from the Crown with which this war has been waged. Tell me, Lord Beesbury, if Dorne attacked into the Reach tomorrow, would you be content to defend the realm with such?”

Hightower’s brow rose. “Come now, Prince Daemon. You cannot truly equate a defensive war with the Stepstones conflict, a war that I must remind my fellow lords both you and Lord Corlys eagerly sought.” 

“I see,” Daemon said, relaxing back into his chair with a slouch he knew the man would find infuriating. “So if raiders from Dorne were to cross into the Reach and Stormlands, I suppose we would meet them the same as you advocate for pirates plundering our shipping lanes. With flowers and ransom.”

“Is my prince advocating that we invade Dorne in response?” Hightower shook his head in seeming disbelief, turning to Viserys. “Your Grace, I fear your brother’s desire for glory clouds his sensibilities.”

Viserys leveled a stare at Daemon, one that even after all these years he recognized immediately as kindly stop engaging with Otto Hightower, as though Daemon were the one being difficult rather than his brother’s sanctimonious cunt of a Hand.

“An alliance between the Triarchy and Dorne is an escalation in the Stepstones conflict, Otto,” Viserys said. “One we have not met in kind.” His brother’s frown told Daemon his thoughts had turned back to the attempted kidnapping. “I will not have the Free Cities believing they can act with impunity against us. Our half-hearted measures have emboldened them.”

“What does Your Grace suggest, then? More coin?”

“Swords,” Daemon said, answering for his brother. “Rather than sellswords, whose appetite for coin far surpasses their effectiveness in the field. And the construction of a stronghold at Bloodstone to house a garrison from which defense can be mustered.”

“I see,” Hightower said, his expression turning smug. “You wish to carve out a new seat, as spoils of war. Lorded over by you, Prince Daemon?”

“That can be determined at the resolution of the war,” Viserys said, this time fixing his Hand with a quelling look. “This is not a course of action I consider idly, my lords. My brother’s sons and their hatchlings were the target of a plot by one of the Free Cities, a plot that saw agents of Volantis sail into the Saltpans and attempt to seize them.”

Shock and concern rippled across the faces of the small council at the revelation. Hightower, who Daemon had been watching carefully, betrayed only surprise in response. Perhaps it had been too much to hope that the scheming cunt had been involved. 

“That is deeply worrying, Your Grace.” Hightower stole a glance at Ser Harrold. “I assume that is why the young princes are now under such diligent guard? Is another attempt expected?”

Daemon bit back a snarl. Doubtless the snake slavered over that possibility.

“With their safety in Ser Harrold’s charge, they would be fools to try, but I will not take that risk. To that end, I intend to offer fifty thousand dragons for the capture or head of Marten Crayne, a guardsman of the Vale who oversaw the kidnapping of my nephews. Such a plot targeting my house, or our dragons, cannot be met with anything less than the Crown’s swift, decisive punishment.”

Fifty thousand dragons. Daemon had not expected his brother to be so poetic in matching the traitor’s promised reward. And although glances were exchanged through the table, no objections were raised at the enormous sum. Fools some of them may be, but even they recognized the danger of dragons falling into unfriendly hands.

“I shall see that word of the bounty spreads throughout the Free Cities,” Lord Reyne said. “And expand what ears we have, from Braavos to Volantis.”

“And what of here?” Daemon demanded, irritation rising. “The men who tried to take my sons had been anchored in the Saltpans for over a moon, yet not a whisper reached your ears, Master of Whisperers.”

Lord Reyne straightened in his chair. “Now that the danger is known to us, I can take steps within our own shores.”

Daemon raised his cup to the man. “I shall sleep well, Lord Reyne, knowing that you are here to protect my sons from dangers known to us.”

“See that you do, Lord Reyne,” his brother said, with one more warning glance at Daemon. “And on the topic of my nephews, there is the matter of Runestone to discuss.”

Otto Hightower cleared his throat, face carefully blank. “I am unsure what there is to discuss, Your Grace. Allard Royce was named heir to Runestone by the late Lady Royce.”

“Lady Royce was only herself given the seat because Allard Royce was a bastard born.” Lord Wylde, who had been silent for the session, seemed to have been stirred to interest at last. “He was legitimized by Your Grace later, of course, but are we to set a precedent that bastards, even legitimized, should be favored over trueborn sons? It was Lady Royce’s right to choose him for heir when her sons were yet unknown to the realm, but by the very laws enacted by King Jaehaerys during his reign, a lord’s sons and grandsons have first right to inheritance over a nephew.”

Beesbury nodded in a rare moment of agreement with Wylde, who Daemon recalled him despising. “The woman was herself guilty of treason against the Crown.”

Lord Wylde inclined his head. “Well said, Lord Beesbury. We must also not set a precedent that a woman may hide her sons, much less royal sons, from their father for any purpose, but especially not in service of denying them their inheritance.”

“The Vale has a long tradition of choosing heirs from among a lord’s extended family, Your Grace,” Hightower said, and Daemon swallowed a bark of laughter. He was truly scraping, if that was his argument. “To deny them that right will invite resentment.”

“My grandfather’s laws cannot be applied to the favor of one kingdom but not the other,” Viserys said with a frown.

“I agree, Your Grace, but it is a complicated issue. Prince Jon is yet young, so we need not act with haste.” Hightower pursed his lips in thought. “Perhaps we might discuss the matter with Lady Arryn. If she and the Crown are united in this front, the lords of the Vale cannot feel slighted.”

Wylde let out a laugh, sharp with contempt. “Lady Arryn was a close ally of the late Lady Royce. The lords of the Vale should be begging to restore the honor of the Vale, lest it be sullied twice by another woman seeking to undermine the sacred contract of marriage.”

Viserys frowned. “Let us not call into question Lady Arryn’s honor before she has the chance to demonstrate it.”

“Did Your Grace have an intended emissary?” Hightower asked. “Prince Daemon, perhaps?”

I have been here no more than a day and already he seeks to be rid of me. “Is it not a matter better suited for the king’s Hand?” Daemon countered.

Hightower rarely smiled, but he did so now, as though Daemon had played right into his hands. “If my prince insists.”

Viserys gave a nod. “That seems a prudent course to me.”

Hightower seemed to be waiting for Daemon to throw a tantrum, but he found his mind changing on an hourly basis, as far as the matter of Jon inheriting Runestone. He was in no hurry to return to it, and although Jon would not be expected to rule in any capacity until his majority, he would need to be present in Runestone for at least a few moons each year to learn his responsibilities. The Vale had already taken eight years of his sons’ lives from him. He found himself resenting that it might take even more.

Yet it was his son’s birthright, with Rhea’s confession accepted as fact. Daemon himself had nothing to give either son; as much as it stung, could he truly deny Jon the power and security that would come with the seat of Runestone?

To his relief, the discussion shifted then to logistics for the Stepstones campaign. Daemon had spent some time early in the morning working out the swords needed, both to fight off the Triarchy’s pirates and to protect the construction of a stronghold, as well as what building materials would need to be brought over to the isles. Their supply stores had been dwindling dangerously low even before Daemon’s departure, so he had erred on the side of overly generous in his request there.

Some of the demands were met with grumbling, particularly the quantity of wood requested, but the small council eventually worked out where the bulk of the requested swords and ships would come from, as well as the materials and supplies. After the session for the day had been called to a close, Viserys bade him remain behind.

“You did well,” his brother said once the others had filed out, with something like surprise.

He seemed to think it was a compliment that he had been expecting Daemon to fail. “You believed me incapable of overseeing a war? What is it you think I’ve been doing these past ten years?” The burden of stretching their dwindling supplies had fallen on both him and Corlys, as well as the broader strategy.

“That is not what I meant.” Viserys rose to his feet, the flicker of irritation on his face becoming a rueful smile. “I forget sometimes how alike you and Rhaenyra can be. You are ever suspicious of praise.”

Because you so often give it before taking something else away. “What did you mean, then?”

“You showed great restraint, save perhaps for sparing Lord Reyne’s feelings.”

Daemon scoffed. “The man has one job. He should be relieved that only his feelings needed sparing.”

“And on the matter of Runestone.”

Daemon’s answer was a shrug. Hightower could not easily sabotage the effort without Lady Arryn’s aid, and Rhaenyra’s influence should win out there. If he somehow delayed the transfer by a few years, Hightower would unwittingly be doing him a rare favor.

“Rhaenyra is Princess of Dragonstone,” Viserys said, after watching him a moment. “And she spends perhaps a moon or two in residence there each year. Should Runestone pass to Jon, no one would expect him to spend time in earnest there until he is older.”

Daemon turned toward the window, disconcerted at having been so easily read. “I know. It is only—” I have had one week with them, and I do not want to surrender any of their time to anyone. To say nothing of the burdens both of his sons seemed to carry. I want them to be children. I want them to run through these halls without care or responsibility.

“I am sorry, Daemon.” A hand came down on his shoulder and squeezed. “I would give you those years back if I could. It was a monstrous thing that was done to you and them.”

Even the six hours since he had seen them off to their lessons felt too long to be without their company. “I shall have to leave them,” he said, throat tightening with his hands by his side. “When it comes time to loose the might of our dragons.”

“A phase of your war plan I notice you did not mention at the small council meeting.”

I do not trust them. I do not trust anyone, save our own family. “Dragons are the province of House Targaryen. They do not need to know.”

“Then I shall leave it in your hands to arrange. I will see to your boys’ safety myself when you are away.”

Daemon imagined telling them that once more they would be abandoned, left to the company of strangers far from the home they knew. They would take the news bravely. Rhaegar would give a solemn nod, his worst expectations met. Jon would smile and promise to look after his brother.

A wave of heat passed through him, leaving him almost dizzy, and he grasped the edge of the table for balance. His breaths came quick and shallow through lungs that suddenly felt as though the weight of the sea was pressing on them.

“Daemon?”

He closed a shaking hand on one of the wine cups, struggling to master the swell of emotion that threatened to overtake him, grief upon fury upon despair, until it was too much. His hand tightened around the cup and with a scream he hurled it at the window, shattering the glass.

Daemon heard the shifting of armored boots as he stared through the broken pane, and his brother’s voice muffled as though through a closed door. He could only concentrate on breathing.

After a time, an arm wrapped around his shoulder. “You are allowed to grieve something you have not lost.”

Daemon swallowed, taking his gaze from the window, and the room came back into sharp focus. “What is it that you have grieved thus, brother?”

Viserys gave a quiet sigh, the answer plain.

“You sent me there.” Daemon welcomed the resentment that roiled in him then. It was easier. “I wondered, some days, whether you would mourn me.”

He did not have to explain what he meant. The arm on his shoulder tightened. “Of course I would.”

Daemon’s laugh was short and sharp in his throat. “Your love for me is never greater than when I am gone.”

“I do not cease loving you when I am angry with you, Daemon. It is because I love you that you are able to infuriate me so.” As the silence dragged out, Viserys’s arm pulled him into a half hug before releasing him. “They will love you, your sons. They will bring you joy and comfort and if there is any justice to be had, many grey hairs.”

Daemon studied Viserys’s own hair, shot through with white. “Jealousy does not suit you, brother.”

“Vengeance shall,” he said with a smile. “You and the boys must sup with us again. I will even promise Otto’s absence, if you must be enticed.”

Daemon thought for a time, long enough for his brother’s face to fall slightly. “I will sup with you and Otto, and be the very image of diplomacy, if you promise me something in return.”

“Anything,” Viserys said, before recalling who he was speaking to and amending, “within reason.”

“Ride with me and Caraxes.”

Of all that he could have requested, that did not seem to have entered his brother’s mind. He stared at Daemon, clearly thrown. “It has been decades, Daemon, and I am not a young man—”

“You are an old man?” Daemon challenged. “At the ripe age of nine-and-thirty?”

Viserys shook his head. “Mellos will raise objections.”

“Others take Mellos and his leeches. You are a dragonlord, mount or no.” Daemon held his gaze, refusing to release it. “Will you ride with us?”