"What caused the Rebellion," Jon said, "Is that the Targaryens forgot they no longer had dragons." He glanced at the maester for approval, took a deep breath. "Aegon the Conqueror and his sister wives united the Kingdoms by having the one weapon no one could counteract. Dragons were why Torrhen Stark bent the knee, it was why everyone did. The dragons died off, and while several of the Targaryen kings were good and just, plenty of them did not have the foresight to realise that the strongest foundation of their throne had gone. They reigned absolute, even though they were no longer as strong as they had been. And when both the Mad King and Prince Rhaegar acted as though they could do whatever they wanted with no consequences, the Lords Paramount realised that the Targaryen power was an illusion at that point. If Aerys and Rhaegar had been aware of their own limitations, they might have acted more prudently, and the Rebellion would never have happened." And Jon's aunt, uncle and grandfather, along with thousands of other good men, might still be alive.
Maester Cressen nodded approvingly. "Very well, Lord Stark." He glanced to Jon's side. "And what might the Targeryens have done differently, Lord Loras?"
Loras scrunched up his nose and twirled his quill between his fingers. His foot was bobbing, as though he found sitting still to be the hardest task of the day. Jon knew he did. As interesting as their lessons sometimes were, Jon would much rather be in the training yard, and he knew Loras agreed. "Well," Loras said at long last. "Maybe if they did not marry their own sisters all the time."
Maester Cressen nodded. "Valuing marriage alliances above blood purity might have earned them more allies," he agreed. "And studies from the Citadel do show that madness is likelier to happen when no new blood is brought into a family line for too long. The Targaryens did have more than their fair share of madness."
Loras nodded his agreement, foot still bobbing. As much as Loras loathed their lessons and despised the little old maester, Jon was glad to have him there. It had been more than a year since Lady Olenna left Dragonstone and left Loras behind to squire for Jon's Uncle Arthur, but Jon could still remember the time before, the almost crippling loneliness, the long nights he spent crying for how much he missed Robb and Arya.
He had spent what little free time he had had roaming the catacombs beneath Dragonstone and riding along the rocky shores, constantly turning his head with some observation or other to speak to his brother. And while Loras was not Robb, would never be Robb, Jon was grateful to have him.
Even if much of Loras' free time was spent polishing Uncle Arthur's armour and doing whatever it was Southron squires did, Jon had less and less free time of his own as well. Uncle Benjen took him to hear petitions, and went over the books with him. Aunt Dacey would take him to inspect the ships, talk to the crews and learn the ways of the seas. Uncle Arthur never let him slack on his training either, not that Jon wanted him to.
Even if Jon did not see the point in tourneys and had no intention of ever fighting in one, he wanted to be as good as he could be for if he ever got in a situation where it mattered. His vassal lords kept coming to call as well, and for whatever reason, they actually seemed to like him now. It made things easier, so Jon did not question it too much, but he found it difficult to like them back given the corner they had backed him into the first time he met Velaryon.
All of that was not to say that Jon did not go to the catacombs anymore. He did not know if he could have kept away if he had wanted to. As much as the crypts of Winterfell had always seemed to repel him, the catacombs of Dragonstone called to him, told him homehomehome, and it was difficult to go more than a few days without going down there. He would like to say that by now he knew them like the back of his hand, but that would be a lie. Every time he thought he did, he found some new tunnel, some new nook or cranny to draw him in.
The call was especially strong that day, leaving him distracted enough in the yard that Loras beat him more often than not, enough that he accidentally cut himself during dinner and had to ask to be excused before he went out of his skin with it. He veered off from the path that would take him back to his chambers at the last moment and took a torch down the winding stairs to the cellars. From there, he moved on to the dungeons and then through a small door in the corner that was half rotted through.
Another few flights of roughly hewn stone steps, and he could breathe more easily. The smell of salt and brimstone wrapped around him like a blanket. The heat rose around him, bringing a sheen of sweat to his skin, and Jon felt as though he was breathing freely for the first time all day. Some days this was as deep as he needed to go to find relief, but tonight it was not so. Something kept tugging at him, making him short of breath again within a few short moments, making his throat tighten and his chest hurt. The barely crusted cut on his hand throbbed.
He went deeper, let the strange tugging sensation guide him. Deeper and deeper he went. His footsteps echoed around him. The tunnels he walked through became gradually more irregular, more roughly hewn. Unmined dragonglass glinted in the walls.
Most of it was black as jet, but every few steps some would be different, red or blue or yellow, all the colours of the rainbow. The sight was soothing, made him feel sheltered in some strange way he could not even begin to understand.
He was not sure how long he had walked when the walls of the tunnel he was in began to smooth out, marking the ancient passage of molten rock, from one of the Dragonmont's ancient eruptions. The dragonglass deposits only seemed to grow richer and more colourful the deeper he went, and he felt gradually more at peace, though the tugging deep in the pit of his belly was still there.
The sound of his own footsteps echoed around him, and the torch in his hand spluttered from the gases in the air. It occurred to him, as if from far away, that he should not be able to breathe so easily down here. But he was, so there was no use questioning it.
He took a turn and stared down the tunnel before him. This was one of the ones he had never been down before, he was near certain of that. And it was where the tug in his stomach was guiding him. He sucked in a deep breath that tasted far too much like rotten eggs, and followed the wordless call.
The tunnel was wider than he would have expected, given how deep he figured he had to have gone. His torch sputtered again. It kept blazing, but more dimly than before. Vaguely, he was aware that perhaps he should be concerned with his own ability to find his way back to the surface. He was not, though. Could not be. No matter the winding twists and turns of the catacombs and molten tunnels, Jon had somehow always been able to find his way back up, with nary a misstep. He had no reason to think tonight would be any different.
He reached out his hand, let the palm of it trail along the smooth surface of the tunnel walls. The fire of his torch reflected in a stray stub of obsidian, reflecting all around him only to be cast back in a prism of colours. It was beautiful down here, in a way he did not know how to explain, did not know if anyone would ever understand. His clothes clung to his body with sweat and the brimstone was heavy in his nose, even if it did not affect him much. It was hot as sin, and an otherworldly kind of gorgeous, and this, down here, more than even the keep above could ever hope to be, was the heart of the island.