Chapter 30: Typical Jon
As the ashes of Tumbleton cooled, and Sunfyre slept off his injuries, the Riverlands burned. No dragon's reign of fire, just the ever reliable pettiness of the Riverlords given excuse once more to escalate into open warfare. The hyper factionism of the capital spread out over a decade across the map painting the Seven Kingdoms in green and black, and no region more checkered than the Riverlands who swore allegiance less by philosophy or politics, and more often than not by picking whatever side would see them across the battlefield against whomever they hated most in the highly anticipated civil war.
While the other Kingdoms stalled in shock at the sack of King's Landing, the Riverlords sworn to Aegon rose up according to prior instruction by the King's own hand to raise the banners and assault those known for loyalty to his sister. With royal permit to unleash their hate, they eagerly obeyed. A perfect microcosm of the chaos played out with the legendary feud of the Brackens and the Blackwoods. The House of Stone Hedge surged across the Red Fork into Blackwood Vale burning fields and razing hamlets and villages. In his rush to engage the invaders, Lord Blackwood sallied out of his keep and quickly died on Lord Bracken's lance, who a sennight later fell to arrows in an ambush.
Not that Jon knew any of that specifically, not even his Prince turned King Consort knew the finer details. The rider of Silverwing remained close in service to Daemon after receiving his promised knighthood, unlike the other squires turned Dragonknights, Tom, Dick, and Harry. Jon hated Tom, Dick, and Harry before they became dragonriders, and hated them even more after, Tom especially, the rider of Vermithor. Jon assumed after mounting his dragon, that his close associating with his former roommate would end, but the nature of their mated pair of dragons meant they were always encountering each other during the moons following the attack on Dragonstone and the great theft of the Cannibal and Grey Ghost.
Tom was everything Jon hated about their father writ small and petty. He boasted loudly of how he used his time flying Vermithor between every hamlet and village on the isle where he had a different girl in each. Tom built up a harem of their half-sisters with the same callousness as that resulted in their own births. No one mattered to Tom more than Tom, and his roster of girls served as fuel for the fires of his massive ego, much in the same way his dragon did. Jon followed the Prince so closely because it was the only place where the arrogant ass knew better than to bray about the size of his mount or mounting another of their half sisters.
It also came with the added benefit of being the only one of the four squires turned Dragonknights allowed access to the planning sessions of the Black council, and the clearest possible picture of the outside world he would soon fight in. He learned in context the meaning of the expression 'dark wings, dark words', for the daily supply of terse raven carried messages rarely brought any glad tidings to those assembled around the painted table.
King's Landing, Tumbleton, Storm's End, and a dozen more lesser defeats now weighed down the morale in the room, the death of Meleys especially, but no one expected more shocking news than the death of one of their most important dragons, and the imprisonment of Princess Rhaenys that sent Lord Corlys Velaryon to his sickbed. It seemed like nothing worse could have happened, but Tom should have known better than to underestimate his father for news arrived this day from Pyke, that island across the whole of Westeros. Four horrible words.
'We burn. Eight dragons.'
The King Consort crumpled the small scroll in his hand and threw it away in a short burst of fury, then announced in a droll tone, "Well that's the Ironborn off the table."
The wisdom of the Black council had the Ironborn listed as fair weather allies for his father. Apparently his father had them on the books as a liability for priority removal. Though not a learned man in warfare, the general inability for the people in this room to predict the movements and actions of his father and the rest of the Greens boded very poorly in his opinion.
As the defeats continued stacking up, Jon felt a great need to inform the council that perhaps the strategy of waiting for the fleet sent out by the alliance of Braavos, Lorath, and Pentos to arrive before landing the Narrow Sea Houses, and more importantly the dragons, had turned sour. He kept his peace, but Daemon made the point anyway.
"We can't remain passive. He's secured his back lines by killing the Ironborn, and Dorne has completely shut down all our attempts to court them." Daemon admitted that last bit with particular disappointment, the one black mark on the Rogue Prince's shockingly successful diplomatic efforts the last five years, "There is nothing stopping him from advancing all his forces to clear us out of the Crownlands and Riverlands. We can't wait any longer. I'll take Caraxes, Vermithor, and Silverwing to Harrenhal. We'll rally our forces and counter any dragons Aegon sends to aid his."
"Eight dragons against three. It is folly, Daemon." Rhaenyra lamented, looking as if the weight of the world crushed down on her, and only the back of her throne kept her up.
"Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and his six oldest children." Daemon shook his head, "Theirs is the folly if they think they can take our three most powerful dragons with that force."
Rhaenyra shot Daemon a look of long suffering, "Seven of those dragons will not leave Dragonsreach, Aegon would never allow his wife and small children to fight, he'd sooner die than let a woman fight his battles. You know this, you know his madness. Why continue denying what I know to be true."
"Eight dragons the message said." Daemon snapped, obviously they'd fought this matter before, "Eight. Sunfyre, Vhagar, Cannibal, and Grey Ghost in the east, and eight is the exact number of dragons we know they have in the west. There are no other dragons."
"Daemon." the Queen admonished, "You deny what you do not want to be true."
"And you assert what you fear to be true." the king consort retorted, "Are we to flee the shadows of an enemy none have laid eye upon? Are specters enough to drive you from the Iron Throne? If you flee, Rhaenyra, then we will never prevail against him. His power only grows, if we do not stop him now, if this war is not fought now, then his strength will grow beyond us for all time."
Jon grit his fist at that. His father sired so many children per year that he created Valyrian enclaves in places like Old Town, Lannisport, and Seaguard, and everywhere in between that he travelled to for business and alliance building, even as far north as Bear Island though those rumors are far less verified. Lord Corlys's informants even discovered that Houses sworn to his father were taking his half sisters as brides. This knowledge greatly angered both the Targaryens and Velaryons for it meant the proliferation of the dragonblood. To his father it meant one more step towards a future that bears his face.
Stopping Aegon meant everything to Jon. To make his father pay for all his sins, and to prevent him from profiting any more from the suffering of others. He felt a thrill when the Queen agreed to mobilize, not straight to Harrenhal like Daemon wanted, but to King's Landing first. Secure the city, rally the defenses of the Crownlands, then onto Harrenhal and the fighting in the Riverlands.
Jon carried the orders from the council to the rest of the Dragonknights, finding his hated rival Tom first. Jon couldn't understand how Tom could smirk at the news, then swagger off calling over his shoulder, "I'll be ready."
It took days for the ships carrying men and supplies to arrive at King's Landing, and Rhaenyra ordered them to fly around the city multiple times to fully establish the return of the Queen. Then they landed at the Dragonpit and awaited the ground report from the Driftmark knights. Ser Vaemond Velaryon arrived at the head of a score of knights. The Harbormaster painted a terrible landscape of the city for them, explaining that he barely managed to quell the food riots that erupted soon after Aegon and his knights left the city by allying his tens of remaining knights and men-at-arms with a group he titled the Gutter Knights, a force created by a hedge knight named Perkin titled 'The Flea' made up of sell swords, street toughs, and criminals which he knighted after an oath to defend justice and stability within the capital.
It sat ill with Jon, that knighthood, half his reward for serving Rhaenyra, was granted to hundreds of men of ill repute, and validated by the Queen who praised them for restoring order in such trying times. She also commended Ser Vaemond for rallying what was left of the Queen's men in the city after her brother's treacherous attack. The Harbormaster was so stiff in his initial bowing to the Queen and in his reception of her kind words that Jon wondered about his possible injuries after so much fighting and unrest. Jon paid no further mind to Ser Perkin, lest his disgust with the man show.
They rode through the capital and Jon lamented never seeing it before his father caused it to suffer such hell. Everyone he saw looked skinny, desperate, and filthy, and everything smelt of smoke and sewage. He imagined their peaceful and prosperous lives before Aegon's endless cruelty reached them.
"I can barely stand the sight of what he's done to them." Jon muttered, but Ser Vaemond heard him and asked for clarification which Jon provided, "The people, they look so destitute and filthy. How could my father do this to them, if he claims he is their king."
Ser Vaemond furrowed his brow and looked at the small folk, then looked back at him, then at them once more.
"They don't look much different than before the attack. Perhaps a bit skinnier, but not much." Ser Vaemond told him and Jon's head pulled back in confusion.
"Surely the people of the capital did not live like this before the sack, and this gods awful smell? Did Aegon kill all those responsible for hauling away the shite?" Jon complained, cause Vaemond to darkly chuckle.
"You know nothing, Ser Jon Waters." Ser Vaemond shook his head and left Jon to his angry thoughts.
The awe he felt looking at the Red Keep pacified him. The massive castle palace put the shaped blackstone walls and towers of Dragonstone to shame. The ancestral home of the Targaryens brought the human spirit low, but their seat of power elevated it. Red, the color of passion and danger, love and war, a color for the living, not the dead and mourning. Rapidly the Red Keep became a comforting sight to him as the servants brought over from Dragonstone restored the stripped keep, the still sparse furnishing just another grudge Jon added to his list.
The Red Keep brought him comfort, as his forays into the city tapered off quickly. The people of King's Landing looked at him - one of their rescuers, one of the men who stood between them and further predation from his father - with hate in their eyes. It felt like only their barest threads of fear held them back from taking up bricks and shite and flinging it at him. Eventually Jon gave up any idea of helping people in the city, aggrieved by their rejection but understanding that he greatly resembles the man who harmed them so grievously.
Fortunately his stay in the city ended swiftly, and he flew Silverwing in formation with Caraxes and Vermithor around the Crownlands for a moon while King Consort Daemon coordinated the supply of the capital city and the defense of the region with its lords who now expected hostilities with the Reach, the Stormlands, and the Westerlands. The smallfolk of the Crownlands brought in whatever harvest and animals from the fields. At the castles they mass slaughtered herds, smoking and salting meats to build up the larders for the coming sieges.
After a brief return to the city, the trio flew to Harrenhal where their forces in the Riverlands mustered. When that titanic castle came into view, Jon gasped, not for the sight of one of the great man made wonders of the world, but for the sight of five dragons flying towards them from it. Jon's heartbeat filled his ears. None of the dragons were larger than even Caraxes, let alone Silverwing and Vermithor, but five against three, would anyone survive this clash? They flew in V formation and at its head came a dragon larger than the others, golden scaled, pink webbed. Sunfyre. His father's dragon.
Suddenly Jon didn't care if anyone survived the coming fight, only about ensuring that the man riding Sunfyre died. So focused was he that he didn't care that Tom broke their own formation, gaining speed and height on Caraxes. Perhaps if the sun favored the King Consort, Vermithor's shadow would have fallen over him, and he would have received a warning of the river of fire the Bronze Fury unleashed onto the Bloodworm and its rider. Caraxes' wail broke Jon from his narrow mindedness and he witnessed the full horror of the betrayal.
The Bloodwyrm descended rapidly, struggling to keep its wings spread with its shoulders scorched and smoking. The charred saddle mounted just above the beast's narrow shoulders bore blackened rider, cloaked in ash and cinder as smoke trailed off him. Jon felt his dreams collapse with the man who trained and knighted him, the king he followed. He felt the sight of it burn into his mind, never to be forgotten as Silverwing turned violently away from it. The rider felt the panic of the old she-dragon, her full focus on fleeing. He felt it himself now. The anger at the sight of his father completely overridden by the reality of standing against him. The folly, the fantasy, completely shattered in just moments. The wind tore away the tears from his eyes as every lie that made Jon's ego crumbled away. No justice, no hope, no heroes, all of it blackened by the ever expanding shadow of his father's dragon stretching out across all the land.
Silverwing desperately dove as Jon realized that the shadow in his mind actually fell upon him now. Jon held onto his saddle with all the incredible strength of his hands and thighs as Silverwing tried desperately to escape the shadow of Sunfyre. Jon felt the moment coming, the inevitability. He released his death grip on the reigns and made peace with it. Suddenly his hands stopped trembling, his arms stopped shaking, his stomach stopped quaking. He leaned back with his eyes shut and stretched his hands wide, feeling the wind. He let go of his anger and hate, and opened his eyes to see the truth, the glorious golden and pink dragon. His eyes raked over the muscular lines of it, the crowning of its horns, the strength in its wings, and lastly the brilliance of its flames as the true King of Westeros's dragon carried out Jon's death sentence.
Sunfyre's flame burnt so hot Jon felt no pain as he transitioned from life to death.
-Aegon-
Larys, my beloved servant, I owe you the riches of at least one of the cities in Slaver's Bay for such fine service. All of them if our other plots pan out like this. I'll never thank you, that's too far beneath my station, but I'll reward you like few men in the world ever before.
Goreclaw and Pigmauler circled around the wounded Silverwing, herding her to friendly territory as she struggled to retain flight. I don't blame her, Sunfyre's flames reached stone melting heat some time ago. If he didn't hold back the magic in his chest, the beautiful dragon may not survive the brief golden shower of his power.
Caraxes fared worse under Vermithor's attack. Goldtooth and Slickback circled over the site of its barely controlled fall. The beast curled in on itself and trilling cries of agony sounded from its every breath. I noted the location of the crash site and shall soon return with one of my daughters and a barrel of soothing cream for those burns to bind and heal the beast after Silverwing receives the same treatment.
I trust my daughters far more than my sons. The boys are my legacy, but the girls obey without the constant need for my fist to correct them. Helaena did me fine service training so many of my bastard daughters as her handmaidens. Much like in our first marriage, my appreciation of her only grows as we age. That appreciation often makes it difficult for me to go about the labor of breeding every smallfolk woman I see, and no small number of the highborn too, but for the sake of a stronger humanity I soldier on.
I grieve for the boy I just torched. Larys described him as incorruptible, nothing like the traitorous wretch atop Vermithor. He was of the finest of my sons, now dead for that quality. Victory goes to whoever is willing to sacrifice the most to achieve it, so long as he possesses the wisdom not to squander those sacrifices. Be proud Jon Waters, for you achieved your dream. You have made me feel pain. The pain of a proud father outliving his worthy son.
Sunfrye landed near Vermithor, whose rider knelt as I slid from my saddle with leather patent in hand. I kept my gaze above his head, unwilling to look upon the scum that survives while my worthy son burnt. Unwilling to see the joy on his face as I reward him for his treachery. At the very least he is smart enough to not botch my spymaster's efforts.
"Ser Tom Waters, you kneel an anointed knight having kept his oath of obedience to his king. You rise, Prince Traegor Targaryen, Lord of Raventree Hall." I handed the boy his patent of nobility, the document legitimizing him, entitling him, detailing his royal bloodline, and granting him lands far enough away from the Blue Keep and the Red Keep that I won't suffer having him as a neighbor no matter which castle I hold court in.
"Traegor, my King?" the boy questioned, earning him a backhand that sent him to the ground and got his dragon shifting.
"Allowing you to keep an Andal name like Tom in front of the royal Targaryen is an offence on par with questioning me." I informed the shaking boy, "Your role in this war ends once you have secured your holdings, at which point you will dedicate yourself to learning proper comportment for a prince. You shall learn, I shall teach you." I paused for a time, a rhetorical tool only as the boy had no clue what to fill the silence with, "I do not hear your thanks for this lesson."
"Um" he began, already failing this simple social task, "Thank you, my King."
I let out a heavy sigh and dismissed him before the disappointment overwhelmed my already taxed restraint. Perhaps a flight with two of my girls shall settle choleric my humors as I await news from my favorite servant of a Shepard. Oh, dear sister, have you yet realized that the men who handed you the capital are loyal to me? Are you completely unaware of the Clubfoot's plays? All that effort to make yourself worthy, wasted. The Game of Thrones was rigged from the start.
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Merry Christmas. I always love chapters that are full of dramatic irony. Jon was a fun PoV character, providing another delightfully warped angle for the story. That personal grudge mixed with his small town hick mentality allowed for a lot of flavor and tidbits that go right over his head but the audience knows what's up. I especially liked the bit where Vaemond is being super stiff and suspicious talking to Rhae-rhae and Jon's like, man's back must hurt after carrying our team in this zone so hard.
Got two chapters out this month. By the grace of God we may see this story done before my hair turns grey.
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