Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the ASOIAF universe. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of GRRM; I make no claim to ownership.
Edited by: Bub3loka
***
Year 129 After Aegon's Conquest
Jon Snow
The world beneath the waves was the opposite of the bare hills of Dragonstone. The cold embrace of the water was soothing, and the underwater was illuminated by the dancing rays of sunlight sifting through the surface above.
The rocky seabed was dotted by jagged spirals of black volcanic stone, veiled in forests of swaying kelp that fluttered like the green banners of long-forgotten kings. Eels weaved in between, their milky white eyes inspecting him with curiosity, as their mouth filled with needle-like teeth hung open as if poised to take a bite. Strange fish could be seen deeper, their scales silvery and black, and their green eyes glowed like lanterns in the murk below.
Jon glared at the squid-like thing that was lugging Longclaw. It was greyish, with its tentacles growing orange by the tips. As if to mock him, the underwater beast paused, turned around to stare at Jon with a beady yellow eye, and wriggled two of the tentacles his way as if to wave at him before disappearing into a crevice between two jagged rocks covered with seaweed.
Sadly, Jon couldn't follow. It was already too deep, and the need to breathe was growing too much, forcing him to swim up. Above, the waves gently hugged him as Jon greedily gulped for air. The infamously bad weather of the Narrow Sea he had heard so much of from Stannis was nowhere to be seen. It felt as if the inhospitable island of Dragonstone was treating him as a parent would treat their favourite child.
The next few times he dived, Jon brought his harpoon, but the squid was nowhere to be seen, and he couldn't squeeze into the crevice. A part of Jon was relieved just to see Longclaw. Since it was here, he would retrieve it sooner or later. Once he got tired of diving, he swam ashore, picked up the weighted tourney sword and started practising barefoot on the rocky beach while the pleasant, warm wind dried him off. The restlessness of a warrior had returned to Jon on the third day, making him feel naked with just two daggers, and he had gone to Old Hoth to purchase a training sword.
There was something cathartic about practising his forms here with no pressure, and the stances, swings, parries, and thrusts flowed from one to the next with surprising ease. He could close his eyes and imagine a Cold One with his icy blade and crystalline armour was his foe, trying to kill him. It was one of the few foes that could still challenge him. Then, there were King Stannis, Ser Garlan Tyrell, Lord Yohn Royce and many other knights, but Jon's memories of them were murky, distant, and twisted–he had never fought them as much as he had fought the pale shadows.
Jon chuckled in self-depreciation once he grew too tired to swing a blade. Rivulets of sweat were running down his whole body, but he felt strangely light. Who would have thought fighting a shade of a memory would be so fun?
Thankfully, the little peeper had grown bored and left.
Rarely, the lean forms of Vermax, Tyraxes, and Arrax graced the sky above Ashcove, but never Syrax or Caraxes. According to Aethan, the Rogue Prince and his wife preferred to fly on the other side of the Dragonmont, where the fortress was, and towards Driftmark.
Life as a wealthy fisherman was as leisurely as Jon expected. Nettles seemed a bit skittish at first, but she eventually eagerly took to her duties under Aethan's watchful eye, though gardening seemed to be her least favourite. Silver Denys kept visiting occasionally, extolling the virtues of his daughter.
"Why don't you bring her here if she's so great?" Nettles asked once.
"Ah, my little Jeyne dislikes walking," was the abashed answer.
"Well, it shows," Jon murmured, if quietly so nobody heard him. Then, he raised his voice, "What happened to our lauded dragonslayers?"
Silver Denys snorted. "Dead, of course. They went up the Dragonmont to find the Kin Eater's lair, but they never returned. If it was so easy to slay a dragon, we'd have gotten rid of Cannibal and Sheepstealer long ago."
Or Aegon would have never conquered the Seven Kingdoms. A part of Jon wondered what would have happened if he had failed, for the dragonriders had been poorer rulers the more powerful they were–if he had to think of two good rulers in the past century or so of Targaryen rule, his mind would go to Visenya and surprisingly Maegor. Jaehaerys and Alysanne merely reaped the benefits of the many issues their unlamented uncle had already dealt with, such as the Faith Militant and the many rebelling lords.
He shook his head. He had no dog in the coming fights. He had no duties here, and no vows of fealty bound him. While the blood was there, the bonds of kinship were missing; the names of the Houses were the same, but everything else was not.
The rest of the villagers seemed disinterested in his presence here. Perhaps because they were busy toiling, making a living, paying off the backbreaking taxes Rhaenyra had instituted. Those who were young, ambitious, capable, or pretty had made it to the village by the docks on the western side of the island or Driftmark. The knight who had to oversee Ashcove preferred to spend his days in Dragonstone's citadel, vying for favour from the prince and the princess. Only a pair of men-at-arms escorting a steward came around twice a year to collect dues. There were rarely any travellers here, especially near the place he claimed as his own–his home was off the road, with barely a goat path leading to it.
It was perfect.
Nobody would come to bother him. It was peaceful and calm, things Jon never thought he would get to enjoy ever again.
***
Jon woke up to the sound of quarrelling.
"Don't name the goats, girlie," Aethan's gruff voice rumbled through the doors.
"Why not, you old coot? Didn't Jon name the dog Shaggy?"
"Master can do whatever he likes. Besides, unlike the dog, we're going to kill the goats for food eventually. Aren't you gonna cry if you get attached?"
Jon stood up and stretched, carefully working the kinks in his body one by one. The argument in the kitchen made him chuckle with amusement. He had purchased five goats two days prior–cows turned out to be a luxury on Dragonstone. Every three or so families shared a single milk cow, while Silver Denys owned the only breeding bull, and nobody was willing to sell. Chickens and ducks were easier to procure, and he could hear the racket from the coops rising along with the sun.
The dog in question–Shaggy–was a wee little thing that barely reached above his ankle, some mongrel crossed with the local breed of shepherd. But it imprinted on Jon's mind almost instantly, the skinchanging connection forming as soon as he felt its presence.
"Good morning," he greeted as he entered the kitchen where Aethan and Nettles were roasting fish over the fire.
"Morning, Master Jon," the two of them chorused together. Nettles threw him a more complicated look. Perhaps she was mad that he kicked her out of his bed when she tried to sneak in last night. Jon had nothing against whores–or former whores, for that matter–but it didn't mean he would sleep with them. Perhaps he might have been tempted if Nettles wasn't as ugly or foul-mouthed.
In contrast, Aethan just seemed happy not to be alone.
The three of them ate in silence.
Wood was nearly a luxury here, with most of the island bare, and any tall tree had been chopped off for ships long ago.
Cypress, holly, and twisted locust trees could be seen dotting the eastern side of Dragonstone, but they were protected by the Princess of Dragonstone, and any who cut them down would be hanged for poaching. That's right, Rhaenyra didn't cut off fingers but outright hanged folks who dealt with lumber poaching. Of course, the ban only extended to the trunks of the trees, which might be useful in shipbuilding; you could chop off the branches without any punishment. That was the source of firewood on this side of the island, that and the driftwood floating towards the island from Driftmark and Crackclaw Point.
The worst part was that the trees here weren't straight or tall enough to be any good for ships.
Even if they were, what use were ships when the men who were supposed to man them couldn't even eke out a living here? Sailors and mariners were much like men-at-arms and knights; for the presence of each one, it required the taxation of five to ten smallfolk to keep them fed and clothed.
The more Jon learned about Rhaenyra, the less he liked her. The Princess couldn't even run a single island, and she wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Thankfully, winters here weren't too cold, and the coal from Massey's Hook was cheap, with merchant ships visiting daily and eager to trade for the many ores mined on the island's western side. Dragonstone might be barren, but it was not a poor island; otherwise, its residents would have long abandoned the island or perished.
Today, Jon grabbed his fishing rod, strapped the training sword to his belt, and hooked up the bucket's handle with the harpoon.
"Fishing again?" Aethan asked ruefully.
"Aye."
"Be careful, master," the old man urged. "I know you like to fish on the rocky shores, but it's slippery and dangerous there, even if the fish are plentiful. Many men have slipped and broken a limb and later died just for a bucket of fish. It's safer to get a raft and pay the boat due instead-"
"I'm fishing to ease my mind, Aethan," Jon interrupted. "If I catch fish, that's good. If I don't, it matters little."
"Aren't you going to put any garments aside from your trousers?" Nettles groused, but it didn't stop her from eyeing his naked torso. Probably the many battle scars he had earned putting Stannis on the throne and fighting the Others. Or perhaps it was the seven jagged holes around his heart that interested her, the token of his former brothers' betrayal.
"It already feels stuffy with this much," Jon drawled. "You Southrons can't appreciate the warmth."
A ball of fur reaching just above his ankles immediately shot to greet him as he stepped outside, wagging a small tail happily.
"You want to come with me, eh?"
A happy bark confirmed what he already knew. The dog's desire to follow and play was so palpable through the connection Jon could hardly ignore it.
"Come along, then, Shaggy."
And just like that, he had a companion for the day.
The dog spent the next two hours sniffing and exploring every nook and cranny of the rocky beach while cautiously avoiding the beating of the waves as if water would burn him. Today, the sky was sunny, the wind was once again warm, and the sea was calm. His nose twitched as the breeze carried the subtle scent of perfume over.
It felt serene in a way that almost made him melt down. Even his bucket was slowly filling with a surprising amount of fish. Then, Jon felt it with his mind, and then two new presences approached. Flighty and cautious, two pelicans circled above. He remained as still as a statue, and at his sign, even Shaggy settled down on the beach, watching the feathery menaces carefully. Eventually, they cautiously landed on the rocky boulder next to Jon.
Both were as big as a dog but skinny. They looked like paupers with dirty white plumage, with the feathers on their back all a dark shade of grey.
Sighing, he tossed one of the smaller fish he used as bait, and the first one agilely caught it with its oversized yellow beak. The second one squawked in indignation and inched closer. Amused, Jon flicked another one. And just like that, two more connections settled in his mind.
Why was skinchanging so much easier here? He remembered his attempts to woo a raven for over three moons in the Riverlands, but the damned thing took any food given and just flew away. Or perhaps he had an affinity for pelicans that he lacked for ravens and snowshrikes.
"You are… Saltbeak," Jon tapped the male one, who had greyish feathers around his head. "And you shall be named Shelly."
Satisfied with their names, they eagerly squawked for more food, and he ruefully gave them one of his smaller catches, a bream that was half their size, and they eagerly started pecking at the twitching fish.
"Greedy little buggers," he said, shaking his head. Just like that, having taken their fill, the two pelicans flew away towards their nest. But now, he didn't need to crane his neck to see them. Cautiously, he slipped into their mind for a moment, only to find a bird's-eye view of the island.
There wasn't much to observe; the Island of Dragonstone was as dreary from above as it was from below. But the breadth of the view itself was striking. Everyone looked like ants from above. No wonder the skinchangers who flew grew so distant. No wonder the dragonlords thought everyone beneath them. His lips twitched as he saw his uninvited guest yet again.
The tug on his line saw him shake off the sensations and return back to his body to yank away yet another catch and toss it in the bucket.
"Aren't you bored from watching?" Jon asked loudly without turning back. His voice was loud enough to carry over the beating of the waves, he knew. He could see that precocious girl through Shaggy's eyes duck her head behind the reeds on the shore. "You there, behind the reeds. Either fuck off or come over and say your due."
She stiffened further, not daring to make a move. A part of Jon was tempted to tug on the pelicans in his mind and have them come over to oust her as a nuisance. Shaggy would do, but he was still small and cowardly, hiding behind his boots.
Sighing, he stood up from his impromptu seat on the boulder, carefully hopped down onto the stony beach, dropped his fishing rod, and picked up the tourney sword.
Its weight was intimately familiar at this point, so Jon grabbed it by the hilt with a reversed grip where the handle rested between his index and middle finger, twisted his body with a familiar motion, and hurled.
The following yelp was loud and absolutely undignified.
A red-faced girl with short silver hair erupted from the reeds, angrily stabbing a finger towards him. "You! You could have struck me!"
"I could have," Jon agreed amiably. "But I didn't. I don't like being spied on, and this is the second time you've come to watch me now."
"I'm no spy!" she hissed, her face turning an interesting shade of red.
"I don't really care even if you were. As I said. Come say your due, or fuck off."
"You Northmen are supposed to be dutiful and courteous, not crude, brutish louts like you," she muttered.
"Spies are hanged like common brigands in the North," Jon drawled and slowly moved towards her. She froze as she realised the top of her head barely reached his collarbone, and his shoulders were more than twice as wide. Snorting at her fear, he patted her shoulder as he walked past her, yanking the tourney sword out of the dirt. "The world is dangerous for little girls going out alone like you."
"I'm no girl," she protested, her voice a tad deeper now.
Jon snorted, lugging the tourney longsword over his right shoulder, looming over his uninvited guest. "Could've fooled me. You have no apple of the throat like men and boys do. Your shoulders are too thin, and your face is too pretty, without a single blemish. Your fingers are delicate, too soft to belong to a boy. Spill. What do you want with me?"
She finally stopped heaving angrily and blinked at him with the realisation that there were only the two of them here. Her gaze, however, shamelessly continued to inspect him like a piece of meat before she shook her head violently.
"Argh! I am just looking for…" she hesitated for a moment, scratching her neck awkwardly, "something. Yep. I'm looking for something. Also–how did you find out I was watching? I didn't make a single noise; the sound of waves should've covered me, and you were over thirty yards away."
"Lyseni perfume," Jon allowed. "Caught the scent in the wind some time ago. Something no self-respecting boy would use, mind you."
"Are you some sort of dog to smell things from afar?"
Ignoring her snark, Jon merely asked, "So, what is a noble girl like you doing so far away from the keep… unsupervised."
"I didn't sneak out unsupervised!" The loud protest made him sigh. "And I'm I'm not a noble-"
Jon snorted. "Right. I totally believe you because smallfolk can afford silk clothes and Lyseni perfume. Or because they don't always raise their nose arrogantly, walk around fearlessly as if they own the very air we breathe in. Listen, girlie, I've seen enough nobles to know when I see one. I've fought them, I've killed them, and I've led them in battle more times than I could count. You stink of privilege, and I can see you were raised with a silver spoon from a single glance." After all, Jon had been raised with one, too, of sorts, despite the stigma of bastardry.
"My name isn't girlie," she bit back as if she hadn't heard anything else. "I'm…err… Ela."
"Very convincing introduction," Jon chortled. "When you try to lie, you shouldn't be so obvious, like looking down at your feet. Or the twitching of your fingers and the refusal to look in my eyes. If I were to wager a guess, you'd be a steward's daughter or one of the ladies-in-waiting to Princess Rhaenyra. Perhaps even the Rogue Prince's daughter? You should go back to Dragonstone."
With each following word, the girl in question shrunk more and more, and the mention of Daemon made her look slightly guilty. So, it had to be the Rogue Prince's daughter, though she looked quite older than he thought she should be. How troublesome.
Shaking his head, he went around the stunned girl, but just as he was about to climb up his preferred fishing boulder, a cry halted him in his tracks.
"Wait!" she shouted. "Have you seen Grey Ghost?"
"The fish thief is elusive," Jon offered without turning, hopped onto the boulder, sat on his favourite spot and threw his line back into the waves. Sadly, Baela–or, as she preferred, Ela–didn't take the hint and ran over, climbing after him. He didn't even have to feel for her presence when he could hear her huff and puff like an old woman climbing the stairs–a typical Southron noble girl. "You're so noisy you're going to scare away the fishes… Ela."
"You're too smart to be a fisherman from the North," Ela tutted as she plopped right next to him with surprising bravado. It was more foolishness than bravery, Jon decided. "I heard you're a bastard, and only nobles carry the name Snow. Perhaps born from the Manderlys of White Harbour?"
"So, you asked around about me, heh." He turned to face her, leaning in so their eyes were level. She stared at him without blinking. "Just a Snow of the North. And the North is full of snow."
"Perhaps in winter."
"It snows in the summer in the North."
"No way!"
"Yes, way." As amusing as it was to bicker with what looked to be a fourteen-year-old, he was growing tired of it. "I could be someone who's paid by Aegon, you know."
"My brother's too young, and his allowance-" she sealed her mouth shut, covering it with her hands while her face turned mortified.
"The other Aegon, Ela–or perhaps I should call you Baela," he said darkly, showing her a toothy smile. "Or perhaps I'm here under the employ of Otto Hightower. Perhaps I'm here to spirit you away and bring you before the Hand of the King as leverage over your father–maybe even marry you off to one of his grandchildren, of course, after convincing your king."
She jerked away, a cry on her throat. But then, she swallowed her indignation and cautiously approached again. "You're lying!" she loudly proclaimed with far more certainty than she felt. "You're just trying to shoo me away, which would make you a poor kidnapper."
"Drats, you found me," he said wryly.
"I'm not going away." Baela once again sat beside him. "Besides, if you kidnapped me, my royal uncle Viserys would find and behead you!"
"Viserys, hmm." Jon chuckled, but the picture was so hilarious his chuckle erupted into full-blown laughter.
"What are you laughing about? Are you mocking the king? I can just tell my father, and he'll come and take your tongue for the insolence!"
"You'll have far greater troubles than a mouthy fisherman soon enough." Jon idly looked at the cloudless sky. "Besides, I have no fear of Viserys. He'll close his eyes. Just like he closed his eyes when his daughter wedded your father, just like he closed his eyes over the divide in the royal court. He'll close his ears to things he doesn't want to hear and ignore them, hoping they will disappear."
"He wouldn't," Baela stubbornly replied. "You're making things up! You know nothing!"
'You know nothing, Jon Snow!' The familiar words echoed in his mind. Ygritte's face had long slipped from his memory, but he still remembered her toothy grin.
"Perhaps I don't," Jon acknowledged, shaking his head to banish the earlier image. "What does a Northern bastard know, indeed? Perhaps the court isn't divided because Viserys Targaryen refuses to name a son as his heir despite having three? Or have my wits gone scrambled to think Rhaenyra married her royal uncle?"
"So what if they did? The king's word is absolute!"
"Oh, you sweet summer child, it is, but only for so long as he still lives and all men die." Jon sighed. "Daemon Targaryen was the very same man who made Rhaenyra crown princess, was he not? Everyone wanted to keep him as far away from the Iron Throne as possible so there would be no repeat of Maegor, even if it meant a Queen would rule. And then Rhaenyra went and wedded him anyway. Has the Crown Princess not been exiled to Dragonstone since? Unwelcomed in court for nine years!"
"How do you know this?" Baela demanded, face pale. "This can't be true!"
"Everyone who cares to know knows, for it has never been a secret," he said, shrugging. "So, Baela. The king's word is law; that much is true. But what happens when his words contradict? He didn't want to put Daemon on the throne, but it looks like he will sit on it with Rhaenyra regardless. What happens when his edicts go against the laws of the Seven Kingdoms?"
"I… don't know? Tell me!"
Precocious little thing. Baela almost reminded him of Arya. Perhaps that's why he was still suffering her presence.
"Everyone chooses to interpret the words and laws the way it benefits them the most," he offered. "For instance, this is not Dorne. Sons come before daughters, and Viserys Targaryen has three sons. When Aegon Targaryen was born, most Lords in the realm thought he was the new Crown Prince because this is not Dorne and the king never reaffirmed Rhaenyra as heir in the same official ceremony used to pass over the Rogue Prince. Viserys Targaryen is a blind fool, and the moment he dies, the realm will weep in blood and burn in dragonfire for it."
"This can't be true!" Baela puffed her cheeks. "You're pulling my leg."
"Guilty as charged! It's just the ramblings of a lackwit who has lost his mind fishing," Jon agreed, closing his eyes to enjoy the warm breeze. "Don't take it too seriously, Baela. Perhaps I'm wrong, and nothing happens. Perhaps the eternal summer shall come, and the land shall never see winter again. I dreamt of it once–it was one of my fondest dreams."
Jon continued fishing in silence, and the minutes dragged on under the sound of the waves battering at the rocky shore. The thoughtful Ela soon grew restless and left him to his endeavour. He shook his head; winter was coming, and with it war, and neither war nor winter were pretty or bloodless, as Baela Targaryen would soon find for herself.
But this was as dangerous as it was annoying. Hopefully, Daemon's daughter would not bother him again. If she did, Jon decided that he wouldn't entertain her.
The hours trickled by, and the fishing bucket slowly filled up. Jon left the napping Shaggy to guard it, slipped out of his boots, grabbed his harpoon, took a deep breath, and dove into the water. The water underneath was surprisingly clear, perhaps because the sea was calm. He swam deeper and deeper away from the shore, resurfacing to get a good breather before diving deep again and again. He focused on his surroundings, even as he ignored a tingling in his mind–Shaggy probably missing his presence. He was unsure if some of those spiky, bright crimson and pink fish were safe to come close to. He recalled Howland Reed telling him that when it came to reptiles, the more colourful they were, the more venomous. Jon did not wish to test if that nugget of wisdom also included fish.
Eventually, he saw the squid floating around that very same crevice as before, once again hugging Longclaw's hilt as if it were a lover, the creature careful enough not to cut itself on the dark, rippled blade.
Before the slippery beast could turn around and escape, Jon lunged, impaling it with the harpoon before cursing as the thing released a cloud of black ink.
Ten minutes later, he swam ashore, half covered in sticky black ink that he looked like a Summer Islander, Longclaw in one hand and the squid-thing in the other, only to pause as Shaggy had retreated all the way down to the base of the boulder, barking up a storm at a greyish silhouette eagerly pillaging his bucket of fish. The silhouette in question was slender, if five times larger than a warhorse, his scales grey as the morning mist, with his crest, horns, and spikes as white as weirwood bark.
The dragon paused as if he could feel Jon's gaze on him, ejected his greedy snout out of the bucket and cocked his scaly head as grey eyes met silvery-blue. Jon could feel his mind, then, but the moment he tried to reach out, the drake cowardly squawked and flew away.
It was even more troublesome than Jon expected, for the fish thief had left nothing for him. Was he going to have to go hungry? Or perhaps try and eat squid instead? Jon lifted the large squid that irksomely reminded him of other, more human, squids and decided that, yes, eating his enemy sounded right.
At least when he brandished Longclaw, the familiar ripples of dark steel greeted him; the Valyrian Steel shrugged off the stinky ink as if it were water, and Jon smiled. He didn't intend to use the sword at all, and it would soon return to its scabbard, for killing men was a warrior's due, not a fisherman's duty. Still, its presence alone brought him a sense of comfort. Everything finally felt right, even if the world was all wrong.
***
Baela
Her feet started to hurt from all that walking. It was a lot of walking, and even riding on her filly, Grasschaser, took a while.
The guards at the gate stiffened when they saw her. But they didn't dare let her wait and allowed her in with a bow. As she had figured, her absence had not gone unnoticed.
"Lady Baela, your father will see you in his audience chamber by the Stone Drum," Ser Robert Quince said after greeting her warmly. The knight was old and fat but very friendly and always smiling–one of Baela's favourite knights in Dragonstone.
Grasschaser was handed to the stableboy, and one of the stewards led her up the Drum Tower, where Daemon Targaryen waited in his private audience chamber. He was much like a sword, just like the Northman earlier–lean, muscled, and tall. Her father's face was always clean-shaven, the long silver locks tied behind his hair, but they looked duller every time she saw him. His eyes, however, were as sharp as ever, but wrinkles had begun to appear around them and under his chin.
"Baela, I told you not to sneak away from your minder," her father grunted out, seemingly annoyed. But he always seemed annoyed after returning from the Chamber of the Painted Table with Aunt Rhaenyra.
"Sorry, won't happen again." Her father sighed at her flippant reply from where he stood by the window. She continued cautiously, "Kepa, what will happen if Uncle Viserys dies?"
"Rhaenyra will become queen, of course." The answer was given without any hesitation, and Baela let out a sigh of relief. The mysterious Northman had been pulling her leg all along, trying to sound mysterious and knowledgeable! "And what brought this on, young lady?"
Daemon Targaryen paused, crossing his arms as he scrutinised her.
"Nothing. Just had a thought," she offered abashedly. An annoyed part of her wanted to tell everything to her father, but it sounded very petty to tattle on some lazy fisherman bastard. Next time, she would let that man have a piece of her mind!
"Don't think I've forgotten you've snuck out, Baela," her father said, his voice growing stern. "You said it would not happen again the last time you sneaked out and the five times before that. You should have at least taken Moondancer with you."
"But you told me she's not grown enough for me to fly just yet!"
"Soon, very soon." Daemon ruffled her short hair. "I've already prepared a proper saddle for your fifteenth name day. You're almost a woman grown!"
"But that's half a moon away!" she whined childishly, earning herself another tousle on her hair. A few heartbeats later, when she thought her father had already forgotten about her sneaking out, she asked another cautious question. "Father, does Uncle Viserys close his eyes to the matters of the realm?"
"When it suits him." Her father's lips curled with disdain, and his face was unreadable. "It's Hightower to blame; he whispers poison in his ears, giving me and your grandfather Corlys much grief over the years. But these are not matters you should concern yourself overmuch with."
"Perhaps find a sworn sword if you're so concerned for me, father?" Baela prodded, smiling sweetly. "Old Pate is, well, too old to be my minder. He grows breathless by going down the stairs, let alone accompanying me anywhere!"
Her father's face darkened at the mention of a sworn sword. For some reason, it always did when anyone mentioned it.
"Absolutely not. Sworn swords cannot be trusted around pretty young maidens."
"Don't knights give vows?"
"Their vows are worth shit." Daemon scoffed before coughing, and Baela nearly snickered. It was rare for her father to curse in front of his children, but she sometimes heard him while training in the yard. "You're grounded for tonight, Baela. Go now, run along back to your room."
That she did, feeling even more confused, not too bothered about any punishment–her father never had the heart to punish her, no matter how sharp his words were. Baela could usually tell when someone was jesting or lying, but that man–how did they call him in the village? Jon Snow was like an unreadable block of ice. Even when he laughed, his eyes remained cold, distant, and cautious, even if his words were soft and careless like the sea breeze, as if the Dragonmont could erupt and he would not even blink.
Was he speaking true, or was he just making things up?
Argh, did Snow have to go around half-naked all the time? It didn't help that his face was handsome despite the scars–or maybe even because of them. It made it hard for her to think too badly of him. Those impossibly silky dark locks looked so soft it made her feel a tinge of envy, especially considering how troublesome dealing with long hair was.
This wasn't the first time she had seen a naked man. She had seen Jace, Joff, and Luce bathing a few times before, but their bodies were thin, smaller than a man, untouched by scars. Baela shook her head quickly, trying to banish the image that was seared into her eyes earlier. Damned show-off.
She finally crossed the gallery leading to the Sea Dragon Tower, where everyone's chambers were, including hers.
Baela didn't want to grow up, not really. A woman would see her wed to Jace, which didn't sound bad necessarily, but she had no desire to be Queen and deal with all the boring, tittering ladies in court. It all sounded incredibly troublesome–almost as troublesome as embroidery. Where her sister loved embroidery, Baela felt bored to tears instead–even her fingers hated it, and her stitches always came out crooked!
"Sneaked outside again?" Jace's amused voice interrupted her musings. "I thought you managed to get a gift for your sister already?"
Her betrothed was a bit taller than her, with a wispy moustache and a peachy fuzz of a beard that made him look more funny than manly. He was still strapping compared to other boys his age, but he seemed quite ordinary with his chestnut hair and dark brown eyes.
"I did, but that hardly counts. We all have dragons," she offered. "All but Rhaena and Viserys. I tried to find Grey Ghost for them."
"Grey Ghost is just a legend–something the smallfolk made up to keep themselves entertained. Don't fret too much about Rhaena and Aegon, for their eggs will surely hatch soon," her betrothed offered with a smile. "There's no rush, Baela."
But they hadn't hatched for so long; why would they do so now? But Baela didn't say this; they had argued about this matter before.
"Vermithor and Silverwing rejected them, though. Father says they would have eaten Rhae if Caraxes wasn't there."
"These dragons have gone half-feral, and your sister is too much of a scaredy-cat to claim the Bronze Fury."
"Easy for you to say when you have a dragon of your own," Baela murmured unhappily. "'It's not a horse to be broken and tamed', Father always said, 'but a connection to be nurtured'. The dragon claims the rider as much as the rider claims the dragon."
"Exactly, and they tried to mount Vermithor like a horse, not make a connection or let him choose," Jace said with a scoff. "I've studied the ways of the dragonkeepers–dragons are proud and cunning creatures, and if they smell even a little weakness from a man they have yet to bond-"
"Yeah, yeah, spare me the lecture," Baela said with a huff. "Why aren't you training in the yard like Joff and Luce?"
"I was just going that way after High Valyrian lessons with Mother, actually," Jace said. "See you at dinner, Baela."
With a jaunty wave, he left her there. Then, she moved onto the glass window facing the training yard and spied on her cousins, laughing and swinging swords at the dummies and one another. It wasn't long before Jace joined his brothers, clad in a stuffy padded jacket, and they continued with even greater fervour than before. The more fun they had, the worse she felt.
A few minutes later, she knocked on her sister's door, only to find Rhae toiling over a black and crimson shawl, slowly needling the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen into it. Her perfect lady-like sister turned at her entrance and, without even speaking, quirked her lips in amusement at her face.
"It's not fair!" Baela exploded–Rhaena just knew her too well. Sitting steadily, all prim and proper, with her long silky hair styled into a single thick braid that dwarfed Baela's short one, clean and unruffled gown, demure smile and kind eyes–she was the perfect lady. The perfect queen, even though Jacaerys was betrothed to Baela, and Rhae would be the Lady of Driftmark at most.
"Good afternoon to you too, Baela," her sister said with a chuckle. "What is not fair this time?"
"I want to train with a sword, too!" she declared. "I can probably beat Joff!"
"He's younger and smaller than you," Rhaena reminded. "And you know–Princess Rhaenyra forbids us from learning any weapons because it's not lady-like, and fighting is a man's due, not something a future queen and lady of the realm ought to do. And father always listens to her. Nobody inside the castle will dare defy her orders, either."
Just as Baela was about to lament how unfair the world was, she stopped. If nobody inside the castle could teach her, perhaps someone outside the castle might. That man… looked pretty decent with a sword, didn't he? He also wasn't stupid; he had guessed her identity quite quickly, yet neither cared nor feared the House of the Dragon–he had to be very brave.
Baela felt giddy all of a sudden. She would definitely find a dragon for her sister and learn how to wield a sword. And she would absolutely threaten to tattle on that stubborn Northman if he refused. It was all going to work out!
"Baela, you're up to something again," her sister said with a tired sigh. "Don't deny it–it's written all over your face."
"Just thinking, Rhae. Don't be such a spoilsport. You should have some fun outside, too, sometimes."
"I do," Rhae countered mirthfully. "The garden is quite magnificent, and the flowers are as fresh as they are pretty. You should come with me sometimes."
"Boooring!"