Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of A Hungry Dragon
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Chapter 11 (Purple Eyes and Hidden Blades), Chapter 12 (Little Birds, Little Whispers), Chapter 13 (Empty Graves and Winter Tales), Chapter 14 (The Kingslayer's Honor), Chapter 15 (Whispers in the Water Garden), Chapter 16 (For Elia's Shadow), and Chapter 17 (A Knife in The Dark) are already available for Patrons.
' At the house with the Red House and Lemon Tree outside. In it's garden, two young children played. Jon, with his mop of unruly black hair and purple eyes, darted across the garden path, his small boots kicking up tiny clouds of dust. Not far behind him, Daenerys trailed with a smile on her face, clutching the hem of her flowing gown as she ran.
"Slow down, Jon!" she called out, breathless but giggling. "You'll wake Viserys!"
Jon skidded to a halt, turning to face Daenerys. "Why should I care if Viserys wakes up? You said he is four years older than you, well, I'm not afraid of him!" he huffed, puffing out his chest to seem braver.
Daenerys came to a stop beside him, her laughter dying down as she glanced back toward the house's stone walls, where a high window was visible. She pressed a finger to her lips, eyes wide with excitement. "Shh!" she hissed, her eyes darting back to Jon. "You don't know how scary he can be when he's angry. Like a dragon!"
Jon blinked, furrowing his brow. "A dragon?" he repeated. Dragons have been exciting for almost two centuries. There are no dragons anymore, Dany."
She crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her chin defiantly. "They are too real! My brother said so. And he'll be a dragon if you wake him up."
Jon tilted his head, contemplating her words. "If he's a dragon, does that mean he breathes fire?" He leaned closer, his face inches from Daenerys's, his purple eyes shining mischievously. "Because if he does, maybe we should bring some water."
Daenerys giggled, pushing him away lightly with both hands. "You're silly, Jon Snow! Viserys doesn't actually breathe fire. But he does yell a lot, and his face gets all red, like... like a tomato!"
"A tomato dragon!" Jon exclaimed, doubling over with laughter. He fell onto the grass, clutching his stomach as he laughed. "I think I can handle a tomato dragon. We just need to find a shield... or maybe a big pot to put over his head!"
Daenerys bit her lip, trying to hold back her own laughter. She crouched down beside Jon, tugging on his sleeve. "But we have to be quiet," she whispered urgently. "If you laugh too loudly, he'll hear!"
Jon sat up, putting on a serious face. He pressed his lips together tightly, mimicking a knight preparing for a great challenge. "Fine, I'll be quiet as a shadow," he promised, creeping toward a patch of daisies nearby. "Let's play knights and dragons then, but we can't wake the dragon until we're ready."
She nodded eagerly. "Alright! I'll be the princess, and you'll be the brave knight who has to save me from the dragon." She straightened her back, pretending to hold a royal scepter. "But first, you have to get past the enchanted garden! The flowers are magic, and they'll try to tickle you if you step on them."
Jon squinted at the flowers, pretending to take her words very seriously. "Magic tickling flowers, huh?" He scratched his head, then grinned. "Then I'll need a spell of my own." He grabbed a stick lying on the ground and raised it above his head. "By the power of the tickle-proof knight, I command you, flowers, to let me pass!"
Daenerys covered her mouth to stifle a giggle as Jon tiptoed through the flower patch, making exaggerated, high steps to avoid crushing the blooms. "Careful, they might still get you!" she warned in a hushed voice, her eyes twinkling.
Jon reached the other side, turning to look back at Daenerys triumphantly. "Ha! The tickling flowers didn't stand a chance. Now, Princess, I shall save you!"
She clapped her hands together in delight. "Oh, brave knight, you must now cross the river of snakes!" She pointed to a thin stream of water trickling through the garden, hardly more than a foot across.
"Snakes?" Jon's eyes widened. He looked at the stream, then back at Daenerys. "But what if they bite?"
Daenerys stepped closer, lowering her voice dramatically. "You must hop over the stones very carefully. And if you fall in... the snakes will turn into pudding and trap you forever!"
"Pudding snakes?" Jon asked, wrinkling his nose. "That doesn't sound so bad. I like pudding."
She giggled again, shaking her head. "Not this pudding. It's sticky and icky! Worse than anything you can imagine!"
Jon nodded. "Then I shall cross it carefully," he declared, peering at the stones dotting the stream. He took a deep breath, crouched down, and leaped to the first stone. "One!" he called out, then to the next, "Two!" On the last jump, he landed safely on the other side, throwing his arms up in victory. "Three! The snakes didn't get me!"
Daenerys clapped her hands together. "You did it!" she cheered softly. "Now, you just need to sneak past the sleeping dragon."
Jon froze, his expression growing serious as he crouched down. "Where is the dragon?" he whispered.
Daenerys pointed dramatically toward a large bush at the edge of the garden. "He sleeps there, hidden in his lair of thorns," she whispered back. "You must be as quiet as a mouse."
Jon nodded, crawling on his hands and knees across the soft grass. His movements were slow as he approached the "dragon's lair." He looked back at Daenerys, who was holding her breath, her eyes filled with worry.
"Don't wake him, Jon," she mouthed, her finger once again pressing to her lips.
Jon nodded seriously, inching closer. He reached the bush and peered inside cautiously. "I see him," he whispered back to her. "He's got a big, scaly... nose!" He turned back to Daenerys with a grin. "But I'm not afraid."
She bit her lip, watching him with both anticipation and concern. "Careful..." she murmured.
Jon crawled a bit closer and then, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, turned toward Daenerys and roared in his best attempt at a dragon's voice. "RAWR!"
Daenerys squeaked in surprise, covering her mouth as a giggle escaped. "Jon!" she hissed, her eyes darting to the house window. "You'll wake him!"
Jon scrambled back toward her, collapsing into a fit of laughter beside her. "I couldn't help it! I wanted to see if you'd get scared," he chuckled, wiping at his eyes. "You should've seen your face!"
She lightly smacked his arm, though she couldn't keep the smile off her lips. "You're terrible, Jon Snow!" she whispered, giggling despite herself. "But if you really woke him up..."
Jon grinned, sitting up on his knees. "If I really woke him up, I'd fight him!" He puffed out his chest, holding his stick sword high. "I'd slay the tomato dragon and save you, Princess Dany."
Daenerys tilted her head, smiling at his bravery. "You're very brave," she agreed, "but maybe it's better not to fight dragons today." She glanced nervously at the window again. "Especially the ones that yell."
Jon followed her gaze, his grin fading a bit. "Yeah... maybe," he conceded. "But if he comes out, I'll still protect you."
Daenerys reached out, squeezing his hand. "I know you would," she said softly. "You're my brave knight, after all."
Jon squeezed back, a feeling of warmth spreading through his small chest. "And you're my princess," he replied earnestly, giving her a crooked smile. "Even if you have a scary dragon brother."
She laughed, the sound like the chiming of silver bells. "He's not so scary when he's asleep," she said. "But I should go back inside before he wakes up."
Jon nodded, standing up and brushing off his clothes. "Alright, but next time, I want to be the dragon," he declared.
Daenerys giggled, standing up beside him. "Then you must learn to roar even louder!" she teased, pretending to practice a tiny roar of her own. "RAWR!"
Jon laughed. "That was more like a kitten," he joked. "I'll teach you to roar properly next time."
"Deal," she said.
As Daenerys and Jon made their way back to the house, the sky above began to change, turning orange. The sun was descending toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the House with the Red Door. Daenerys paused, turning her head to watch the sky. The colors were beautiful, shifting from gold to pink and purple, but something about it felt... strange.
Jon stopped a few steps ahead, noticing she wasn't following. "Dany?" he called out softly, tilting his head.
She didn't respond immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the sun as it dipped lower. A strange unease filled her chest, like a knot tightening with every passing second. "Jon," she finally whispered, not turning to look at him. "Something's wrong."
Jon walked back to her, looking up at the sky, trying to see what she saw. "It's just the sunset," he said, trying to sound reassuring.
"No," Daenerys said, shaking her head. She raised a small hand, pointing past the garden's edge, toward the distant towers of the city and the houses beyond. "Look."
Jon followed her gaze, squinting. His heart skipped a beat. In the far distance, the towers and rooftops seemed to shimmer, almost like they were blurring. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, but when he looked again, his heart sank. The towers had begun to crumble into dust, as the sun continued to lower, more of the world began to dissolve.
"What's happening?" Daenerys's voice trembled, her eyes wide with panic. She grabbed Jon's arm, gripping tightly. "Why is everything disappearing?"
Jon stared, his mouth opening but no words coming out at first. The fields, the houses, the walls of the castle—everything was turning to dust, starting from the horizon and getting closer. "It's..." he started. "It's like it's... a dream."
Daenerys turned to him, fear and confusion etched on her face. "A dream?" she repeated, her voice rising in pitch. "But it feels real! I can't—"
"It is a dream," Jon interrupted, looking at her calmly. His purple eyes met hers, and he smiled. "You're safe, Dany. This isn't real."
"What do you mean it's not real?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper as the world continued to crumble. The garden around them was next—the bushes, the flowers, everything they had just played with moments before began to turn to dust, carried away by the wind.
"You're fine," he repeated softly. "Just remember that."
Before she could ask more, the sun finally sank below the horizon, and a brilliant flash of green erupted across the sky, so bright it forced Daenerys to shut her eyes. For a split second, she felt weightless, like she was falling through endless darkness. '
Then, she gasped and sat up in bed, her heart racing.
Daenerys blinked rapidly, her chest heaving as she looked around. The familiar walls of her room greeted her, draped in shadow and early morning light. Her silver hair clung to her damp forehead, and she wiped at it with shaky hands.
She turned her head toward the window. The sun was rising. Everything was in its place—the towers, the houses beyond, all solid and real. She let out a long breath, her body shivering as the fear slowly ebbed away.
"It was a dream," she whispered to herself, hugging her knees to her chest. It had felt so real, though—the fear, the sight of the world crumbling away. And Jon's words...
She looked out the window again, watching the sun climb higher into the sky. Who was he? she wondered. Dreams were not new to her; she had dreamed of many things—dragons, a woman with silver hair but no face to recognize, and now, this Jon Snow.
Dreaming of dragons made sense. She had dragon blood, after all, and her brother always said they were the last of the dragons. But the faceless woman with the silver hair... Daenerys didn't know who she was, yet she felt like she knew her somehow. This boy, though—Jon Snow—was different.
She had never heard of that name before, so she wondered which House in Westeros was called Snow. There were too many houses in Westeros, and she only knew three of them: House Lannister, House Stark, and House Baratheon. Her brother always made sure to scream their names every time he was angry.
A knock at the door pulled her from her reverie.
"Princess, are you awake?"
She smiled in relief at the sound of his old voice. It wasn't Viserys. "Yes, come in, Ser Darry," she called, her smile brightening the room.
The door creaked open, and Ser Darry stepped inside. The air filled with the scent of flowers as he entered, his eyes warm despite being half-closed with age. He moved carefully, leaning on his cane for support.
"Good morrow, Princess. The day grows brighter with you," the old knight greeted warmly. Ser Willem held the title of a knight—Viserys had told her as much—but Daenerys couldn't recall ever seeing him with a sword in his hand. Even now, he carried nothing but his cane.
"Good morrow, Ser Willem." Daenerys returned his smile, her eyes bright with excitement. "Where is my brother? He promised we would pick flowers today in the garden."
Ser Willem hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands—old and wrinkled, yet to Dany, they felt as soft as worn leather. "Your brother is busy, my princess," he said gently. "But I can help you with the flowers. Perhaps we could make a flower crown for you. How does that sound?"
Daenerys pondered for a moment, tilting her head as she considered his words. She sometimes wondered if he had been a singer in his youth; his voice always had a soothing, melodic quality to it. But then she would remind herself that knights couldn't be singers. That's silly, she thought as her feet swung out of bed and touched the cool floor.
"Lead the way, my good knight," she declared with a grin. "Maybe we can even find a rabbit!"
Ser Willem chuckled as he extended his hand to her. "A rabbit, is it? Then we'd best keep our eyes sharp." Together, they walked out into the corridor.
Later
Dany didn't know how long she had been in the garden, but then she remembered her dream and her new friend, Jon Snow. Suddenly, an idea struck her. She knew what she should do. Ser Darry was from Westeros; surely, he would know which house Jon belonged to and if that house had been loyal to hers during the rebellion many years ago.
"Ser Willem," she called softly. The old man looked up at her. He was sitting on the ground, surrounded by the flowers of their little garden, the lemon tree casting a cool shadow over them. In his lap, she could see what appeared to be a flower crown, though it was only half complete.
"Yes, my princess?" he asked gently, his attention shifting fully to her.
Dany hesitated for a moment, chewing on her lower lip as she considered her words. "Was House Snow loyal to House Targaryen during the Rebellion?" she blurted out. Surely, he would say yes. That would explain Jon, wouldn't it?
But instead of the quick affirmation she expected, Ser Willem's brow furrowed. He looked genuinely puzzled. "House Snow?" he repeated slowly.
"Yes," she insisted, her heart skipping a beat. "House Snow."
He set the half-finished flower crown aside, his fingers pausing mid-motion. "My princess," he began cautiously, "there is no House Snow in Westeros."
Daenerys felt her breath hitch, her mouth falling open. No House Snow? But she was sure she had heard the name in her dream. Did that mean Jon had lied to her?
"Where did you hear that name?" Ser Willem asked, his voice now edged with concern. His gaze sharpened, studying her face closely. Dany's pulse quickened, and she felt a knot of fear tighten in her stomach. If Viserys found out...
"In a book," she stammered, grasping at the first explanation that came to her mind. "I-I read it in a book," she repeated, her voice wavering.
The old knight's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze piercing. Dany held her breath, sure that he could see through her flimsy lie, that he could read her thoughts as if they were written on her face. But then, just as quickly, his expression softened. A gentle smile crept onto his lips.
"Curious, aren't you, Princess?" he said warmly, his tone almost proud. "Never lose that curiosity. It leads to learning, and learning to wisdom. And with wisdom, one can build a better future." His words rang with sincerity, and Daenerys managed a small, relieved smile, though her insides still quivered like leaves in the wind.
She nodded, her shoulders relaxing slightly, but a new question was already forming in her mind. If there was no House Snow, then who was Jon? Ser Willem was kind, and perhaps he held more answers.
"Does the name 'Snow' not exist in Westeros at all?" she asked quietly, rolling the flower's stem between her fingers, the petals brushing against her wrist.
Ser Willem let out a slow sigh. "Snow, Sand, Stone, Storm, Flowers, Rivers, Waters, and Pyke," he listed patiently. "Those are the names given to bastards, my princess."
"A bastard?"
"Yes, a Bastard is someone whose parents are not married. Therefore, they take the last name of the place where they were born, and they are no heir to what their fathers have and will never inherit it unless the father acknowledges the bastard as their child and if all the heirs and the daughters of the father are...not around anymore. Snow is a bastard is from the North. Water is a bastard of Crownlands. Sand is a bastard from Dorne. Pyke is a bastard from the Iron Islands. Flowers is a bastard from the Reach. Rivers is a bastard from Riverlands. Storm is a bastard from Stormlands. Stone is a bastard from the Vale, and Hill is a bastard from Westerlands." The old knight explained, and Daenerys was deep in thought.
So her new friend was someone from the North, and Viserys had told her that the North belonged to House Stark—the same family that rebelled against her family. Her thoughts went to Jon. He didn't seem bad to her. He was kind and loved to play with her. Dany couldn't see him as someone bad. With his purple eyes and dark hair, and smile, Dany couldn't think of him as an enemy despite knowing he was from the North. Viserys had told her the North was one of their many enemies, but Jon wasn't her enemy. He was—her little dream friend.
She whispered the word to herself. "Bastard." The way Ser Willem had said it made it sound...wrong. She turned back to him, watching as his old hands worked on the flower crown.
"Is it bad to be a bastard?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"My Princess, except in Dorne. Bastards are not seen in a good light in the rest of Westeros. They are seen as...someone not to be trusted, as someone who is not loved, someone who was left behind by their parents, someone you should be wary of my Princess...like my...Why the sudden interest in them?" The old knight asked with a furrowed brow.
"I read it in a book, Ser Willem," Daenerys replied quickly, repeating her earlier lie. She watched his face, fearing he would see through her, but instead, he sighed and picked up a bright red flower from the ground.
But her mind was still spinning. 'Bastards are not seen in a good light in the rest of Westeros. They are seen as untrustworthy, as unloved...' The words echoed in her head, making her chest tighten. If Jon was truly alone, then maybe...
She touched the flower crown, her fingers tracing the delicate petals. Maybe she could be his first real friend, she thought, her heart filling with a quiet resolve. She hoped she would dream of him again. If he was alone, then she would not let him be. Bastard or not.
Rhaenys
"Shiera Seastar," Rhaenys repeated doubtfully, her gaze fixed on the woman before her. Up close, Shiera's beauty was even more striking. Her silver dress clung to her perfect form, shimmering like moonlight. Rhaenys had seen many beautiful women in the brothels of Sunspear, and Elia was not without her charms. But Shiera was beyond them all—she seemed almost like an angel or perhaps a goddess.
"How are you here?" Rhaenys demanded, her tone urgent. "And what did you mean when you said Jon is not here? Where is he? I need to speak with him."
The memory of the song lingered in her mind—the song Jon had sung that reminded her so painfully of her father. She needed to hear it again to understand why his voice felt so hauntingly familiar. Why did Jon's voice sound so much like her father's voice?
Shiera's lips curved into a mocking smile. "Oh, now you need to talk to him, Princess?" she purred, her voice like honey with a sharp edge. "How curious. So many nights he sought you out, and yet you avoided him, spurned him. And now you come running." There was mockery in her tone, yet it still sounded melodic, almost angelic.
"That's none of your concern," Rhaenys snapped, her voice hardening into the same command she used on her cousins when they tried her patience. "I need to speak with him, now."
Shiera's smile didn't falter. She remained calm, unshaken by Rhaenys's tone. "I have faced men as large as bulls," she replied coolly. "I have faced shadow babies, faceless assassins, children of the forest, the immortal eaters, and the blessed children. And you think your little threats scare me?" She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You are just a child who fancies herself important."
Rhaenys felt her blood begin to boil, her fists clenching at her sides. She knew she should ignore the taunts, that rising to them would give Shiera power over her. Her uncle had taught her well: Never let them see what makes you angry. But Shiera's words cut deep like daggers.
"It's infuriating, isn't it?" Shiera drawled, her voice smooth and mocking. "You had so many chances to speak with him, yet you let them slip away. And now, when you finally need him, he's gone—slipped through your fingers like sand. And deep down, you know it's your fault. Not the first time you've let something precious slip away, is it?"
"Shut up!" Rhaenys snapped, her purple eyes blazing with anger.
Shiera watched her, a glimmer of amusement in her mismatched eyes. She could sense the fury radiating off Rhaenys, feel the darkness coiling within her. There was a rage there that went deeper than mere annoyance, a darkness that almost felt like wading into a pool of shadows.
"Jon Snow is not here, Rhaenys Targaryen," Shiera continued, her voice lilting with an almost musical quality. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait for your answers, little girl."
Rhaenys felt a sudden rush of warmth, her breath quickening. Her cheeks flushed with unexpected heat, and she blinked, momentarily lightheaded. What was that? she wondered, shaking her head to clear it. She forced herself to focus, glaring up at Shiera, this woman who should have died long ago.
"Where is Jon?" she demanded, her voice wavering between anger and something she didn't quite recognize. "Did you do something to him?" She couldn't explain why she felt such concern. Jon was still her enemy. Just because his voice reminded her of her father didn't mean he was a friend. She had no reason to worry for an enemy.
"Why are you asking, little princess?" Shiera replied, ignoring the question. Her words dripped with a subtle amusement that made Rhaenys's skin prickle.
"Just answer me!" Rhaenys growled, her patience fraying. She gripped the handle of her knife, ready to threaten Shiera if necessary. But then Shiera's mismatched eyes locked onto hers—one blue, the other green, gleaming like twin stars. Rhaenys felt her resolve falter as those eyes drew her in, more beautiful and hypnotic than anything she had ever seen.
Suddenly, everything else faded away. The room, the furniture, even the very air around them dissolved into nothingness. All that remained was Shiera's gaze, her full red lips, and her divine beauty. Rhaenys's breath quickened; a strange warmth filled her chest, clouding her mind with confusion. She's a friend, isn't she? A voice whispered in her head. She's safe...
A sharp clatter broke the trance, jerking Rhaenys back to reality. She gasped, looking down to find her knife lying on the floor. How did that happen? she thought in a daze. She never dropped her knife. Slowly, she looked up at Shiera, who watched her with an unreadable expression. The intensity in Shiera's eyes had dulled, no longer holding Rhaenys in their grip.
"What did you do?" Rhaenys demanded, hating how weak her voice sounded.
Shiera smiled, her expression serene. "I didn't do anything," she replied, her voice as warm and angelic as ever.
"LIAR!" Rhaenys's shout echoed through the room, startling even herself. Whoever this woman was, she had done something to her. Rhaenys had seen beautiful women before, but none had ever made her lose herself in their beauty like this.
Shiera giggled, the sound light and carefree, completely unbothered by Rhaenys's outburst. The melodic laugh made Rhaenys's knees weak, but she forced herself to look down at the floor, refusing to meet Shiera's gaze.
"I never lie, Rhaenys," Shiera said, her voice ringing with sincerity. For a moment, Rhaenys felt a flicker of doubt. Could she be telling the truth? But if she claimed she never lied, then surely, she wouldn't mind answering her next question.
"Where is he, then?" Rhaenys demanded.
"Jon is dreaming," Shiera replied smoothly, "meeting someone who is willing to accept his friendship... unlike you." Her tone turned sharp with accusation.
The words stung. Rhaenys felt a pang of guilt at the phrase "unlike you," but she quickly pushed it aside. Jon is my enemy, she repeated in her head. "Who is he meeting?" she asked, not entirely sure why she even cared. She had wanted him gone for so long, so why did it matter now?
Shiera's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Hmm, so you do care about him?" she teased, clearly enjoying this far too much.
Rhaenys growled, glancing at the knife on the floor. If she moved quickly enough, she could grab it and use it to threaten Shiera again. But before she could act, Shiera's mismatched eyes fixed on her once more, dazzling her senses. Whatever this woman was doing to her, Rhaenys had no intention of giving her a reason to do it again.
"How are you alive?" Rhaenys changed the subject, trying to regain control of the conversation. She realized then that Jon wasn't here and that she wouldn't see him tonight.
Maybe next month, she thought, clinging to the hope of meeting him again. She needed to hear him sing, to convince herself that his voice only reminded her of her father's, nothing more. He is an enemy, she reminded herself firmly. Not a friend. Never a friend.
Shiera gave her an alluring smile, and Rhaenys felt her knees weaken once more. She quickly looked away, trying to avoid the pull of Shiera's unnatural beauty.
"I used to bathe in blood," Shiera said casually.
Rhaenys gasped, horror twisting her features as she turned back to face Shiera, her eyes wide with shock and disgust.
"The rumors were true?!" Rhaenys exclaimed, eyes wide with shock. Shiera merely shrugged, a casual smile playing on her lips, as if she had nothing to be ashamed of.
"Yes," Shiera replied without a hint of hesitation.
Rhaenys was beginning to think that Shiera truly did not lie. "How did you do it? I doubt you killed anyone important. So, you killed commoners?"
"I never forced any of them, Princess," Shiera explained, her mismatched eyes glinting in the dim light. "They gave their souls willingly, without me even asking. They were happy to serve me, I can assure you." Her alluring smile sent a shiver down Rhaenys's spine, yet Rhaenys found herself smiling back, despite the horror of what she was hearing.
"How are you still alive?" Rhaenys pressed, her voice trembling slightly.
"Blood is power, Rhaenys. There is magic in blood and sacrifice. Old Valyria understood that better than anyone, and the Blessed Children helped me." Shiera's tone was calm, almost matter-of-fact.
"Blessed Children?" Rhaenys echoed, frowning. "What are they?" She had never heard of such a term before, but it sounded as though they had something to do with Shiera's unnaturally prolonged life and beauty.
"That's not important, Princess," Shiera dismissed with a wave of her hand. "I came here to talk to you about your doubts."
"I don't have doubts!" Rhaenys shot back, her glare as fierce as she could manage. She had no reason for doubts. Why would she? Her family had always been sincere with her. They were her family, and they loved her.
"We all have doubts, little princess," Shiera said smoothly, her voice dripping like honey. Rhaenys felt an inexplicable urge to hear more, to soak in the sweetness of that voice.
"You doubt yourself," Shiera continued, her tone soft yet piercing. Rhaenys scoffed, though it came out weaker than she intended.
"I have no reason to doubt myself. I'm stronger and faster than my cousins. I'm smarter than them, and Uncle Oberyn always says I'll surpass him in a few years. I have no reason to doubt myself. I am—"
"Perfect," Shiera finished for her, the word sounding both mocking and alluring. Rhaenys blinked, expecting to feel anger rise up within her. But the anger... wasn't there.
It was as if Shiera's presence had drained it away.
"If you don't question things, if you never doubt yourself, then you're doomed, little princess," Shiera warned, her voice calm but unyielding. "With the mindset you have now, you'll die before you can avenge anything. No doubts, no questioning... You think you're being faithful to your family by blindly trusting them, but that's not faith. That's blind faith. You're so blind, you won't even see the knife behind your back."
Rhaenys wanted to feel anger, to lash out at her, but Shiera's words struck a chord. Uncle Oberyn had always told her to doubt, to question everything. If something seemed too sweet to be true, it probably was.
"Why should I question my family?" Rhaenys retorted, her voice fierce. "They raised me, taught me everything I know. They feed me, they love me. Faith comes from proof, and my family has proven their loyalty and love more times than I can count."
"That doesn't stop them from hiding things from you," Shiera replied smoothly.
"Why would they hide anything from me?" Rhaenys demanded.
"Because they control your life, Rhaenys," Shiera said, her tone almost pitying. "Despite your claims of independence, you see and hear only what they want you to. They've painted a picture for you, and you've never thought to look away. They believe they know better than you, and maybe they do, but that belief allows them to decide what's 'best' for you. To hide things that might make you question that carefully crafted picture."
Rhaenys shook her head, disbelief tightening her throat. "You're mad," she spat. "I have no reason to listen to you." Her voice rose, filled with anger as she jabbed a finger at Shiera. "I will not let you get in my head!"
As if on cue, the dark room began to brighten, bathed in the light of the rising sun. Rhaenys felt a rush of relief; the dream was coming to an end. She didn't have to listen to this woman's lies any longer.
"Ashara Dayne," Shiera murmured, her voice like a whisper of the wind.
Rhaenys furrowed her brow. "What about her?"
"She didn't jump from that tower, Rhaenys Targaryen," Shiera said, her eyes piercing. "She was pushed. You call me mad, but if you uncover the truth about Ashara, you'll learn what really happened during Robert's Rebellion—what truly happened between your father and Lyanna Stark."
The chamber was suddenly flooded with golden light as the sun fully breached the horizon. Rhaenys instinctively raised an arm to shield her eyes, squeezing them shut against the brightness.
Rhaenys blinked awake, her heart pounding. She was back in her bed, Arianne's face nestled against her shoulder, sleeping peacefully.
She stared up at the ceiling, Shiera's words echoing in her mind. Who pushed Ashara Dayne? And why?
Jon Snow
Winterfell's courtyard was a whirlwind of noise. Horses snorted and stamped their hooves. Men and boys scurried back and forth, clad in cloaks of thick fur, carrying crates of supplies, barrels of grain, and racks of swords that glinted dully. Lords had come from all over the North, summoned by Lord Eddard Stark to prepare for war. The Greyjoy Rebellion had begun, and Winterfell was at the heart of the North's response.
Jon Snow stood to the side of it all, his back pressed against the cold stone wall of the keep as he watched the scene unfold before him. His purple eyes scanned the faces of the men moving about the courtyard—grim, serious faces. It was strange, Jon thought, how quickly everything had changed since Balon Greyjoy declared himself King of the Iron Islands.
He glanced across the courtyard, hoping to catch a glimpse of Robb among the throng of people, but he knew it was a futile effort. Ever since the news of the rebellion had reached Winterfell, Robb had been occupied with their father.
"Balon Greyjoy is an idiot," Jon muttered to himself, his small fists clenched at his sides. How could that ironborn fool believe he stood a chance against the combined strength of at least six Kingdoms? Jon shook his head, irritation simmering within him. The Iron Islands were small and isolated. Even he, at just nine years old, could see the hopelessness of Greyjoy's rebellion. Why couldn't Greyjoy see it himself?
A gruff voice startled Jon from his thoughts. "Out of the way, boy!" A man carrying a heavy bundle of arrows nearly knocked him aside, and Jon stepped quickly to the side, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Everyone was so busy, so focused on the upcoming war that they didn't even notice him.
He sighed, stuffing his hands into his cloak pockets and walking further along the courtyard's edge. The ground was muddy and packed down from the constant trampling of feet and hooves, and the air was thick with the smells of sweat, smoke, and the ever-present scent of pine from the surrounding forests. As he walked, Jon cast another look around for Robb. His brother had been just as restless as Jon was when they first heard about the rebellion, but now, with the lords filling Winterfell, Robb was always being called to sit in on meetings with their father or practice swordplay with the older boys.
Jon scowled at the thought. It wasn't fair. Robb was only a few months older than he was, but now it was like everyone suddenly saw Robb as a young lord and Jon as... well, just Jon. Jon Snow, the one who wasn't really a Stark, who wasn't really needed when important things were happening. He kicked at a loose stone on the ground, sending it skidding into the mud with a satisfying splat.
"Careful, lad," came a calm, deep voice from nearby. Jon looked up to see Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, watching him with an amused expression. "You might kick up more trouble than you intend."
"Sorry, Ser Rodrik," Jon mumbled, his gaze dropping to the ground. Rodrik was always kind to him, but Jon didn't feel like talking. Not when the whole courtyard was buzzing with preparations he wasn't a part of.
Rodrik chuckled, his grizzled beard twitching. "No harm done, boy. Just keep your wits about you." He glanced around at the chaos in the courtyard, his eyes sharp. "Busy times, these. But that's how war is."
Jon nodded, though he wasn't sure what else to say. War. It was a word that sounded both frightening and exciting, something from the stories Old Nan told, but it was different now that it was real and close. "Do you think we'll win?" he asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could think to hold them back.
Rodrik looked down at Jon, his expression growing thoughtful. "Westeros is strong," he replied after a moment. "And your father, Lord Stark, is a wise man. He'll lead our men well. But war is never easy, and it's never certain."
Jon bit his lip, mulling over Rodrik's words. He glanced across the courtyard again, his eyes catching sight of a group of young squires bustling about, preparing gear for their lords. Among them was Robb, standing beside their father and listening intently as their father spoke to one of the visiting lords. Jon felt a pang of envy and longing. Robb was in the middle of it all, learning to be a lord, while Jon stood on the edges, watching.
His grandmother was busy with the Household, preparing everything for the upcoming lords. She was too busy to spend time with Jon. But he had heard from his grandmother that the King had ordered Lord Stark to bring the Grejoy they had imprisoned alive to him so they could use him to make the war easier.
"What is going through your little head?"
"I just wish..." Jon started, then stopped himself, not sure how to express the tangled mess of feelings inside him.
Rodrik's gaze softened. "Aye, I know," he said quietly, laying a hand on Jon's shoulder. "You wish to be a part of it, to help, to be needed."
Jon looked up at the old knight, surprised by how easily Rodrik had read his thoughts. He nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat. "It's just that... Robb doesn't have time to play anymore," he admitted, his voice small. "He's always with Father or the lords. He's... busy."
Rodrik smiled faintly, giving Jon's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Your brother has responsibilities now, true. And he must learn the ways of the North's leadership. But that doesn't mean he's forgotten you, lad." He glanced over to where Robb stood, now deep in conversation with their father. "He's just... finding his place in all this, same as you will."
Jon nodded, though he didn't feel entirely comforted. The courtyard around him felt even busier, the sounds of preparations for war swirling in his ears. He didn't want to be on the outside, looking in. He wanted to do something, to be as important as Robb was. But how could he, when he was just Jon Snow? His great-grandfather always told him that just standing in one place and doing nothing was not something he should allow himself to do.
Jon's mind went to...Lady Bella. He felt his eyes burning, his heart almost bursting out of his chest. He could almost see her right now, her face floating before him. A Smile on her face.
She did always love to smile at everyone, Jon thought, wondering what Derek was doing right now. Did he miss Lady Bella as much as Jon did?
I should not have shown Mercy...Never, Jon thought with growing rage, but he reminded himself to calm down for now. The Greyjoy had gotten what they deserved. The prisoner would rot in the Seven Hells.
Despite the soldiers and lords ignoring him, word had spread around about what he had done. Jon could feel the eyes of soldiers on him, but they were no longer looks of anger and disgust but looks of respect and caution.
After all, everyone in Winterfell knew he made the plan to ambush the little group that had come to kidnap Sansa. The soldiers respected him now, and Jon liked that feeling, but it wasn't enough, and Jon knew he needed to grow stronger, he wanted more people to respect, he wanted more of that feeling. He will 'NEVER' allow himself to be just the Bastard of Winterfell. Despite lacking a trueborn name, he had proved to his great-grandfather that he was worthy of the name Flint, and soon, he would prove to his father that he was worthy of the name Stark. And Soon he would prove he was worthy of Winterf...Jon's eyes widened and his breath hitched in his throat.
Jon escaped his thoughts when Ser Rodrik gave him a final pat on the back. "Come now, why not help the stable boys? They'll need all the hands they can get to ready the horses."
Jon nodded again, trying to get rid of such thoughts from his head and grateful for something to occupy his mind. "Alright, I'll do that." As he started to walk toward the stables, he glanced back at Robb one last time. His brother was laughing now at something a Lord had said.
With a small sigh, Jon was about to continue on his road when he heard a familiar voice...
"Well, well, never thought I'd see a squirrel in Winterfell."
Jon's eyes snapped in the direction of the voice, and Derek stood there with a wide smile. "It's good to see you, little Jon."
Jon glanced at Derek, a grin slowly creeping across his face. "Well, I guess it takes a squirrel to recognize one, doesn't it?" he shot back. "Glad you finally climbed down from your tree, Derek."
He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. "Now tell me, did you fall or were you just tired of looking down at everyone?" he asked, slowly walking up to him.
Derek let out a laugh, shaking his head at Jon's words. "Ah, sharp as ever, Jon. But you know, I'd rather be a squirrel than have to look up at that all day, I mean, did you still remember Lord Flint. I wonder how's the weather up there for him? Must be a whole different season!"
Jon broke into a wide grin and dashed forward, throwing his arms around Derek's waist in a tight hug. "You're impossible!" Jon laughed, his voice muffled against Derek's thick coat.
Derek laughed heartily, ruffling Jon's hair. "And you're still small enough to tackle, Little Jon," he teased, wrapping one arm around the boy and playfully lifting him off the ground. "When did you get so strong? Must be all that squirrel climbing you've been doing!"
Jon giggled, his feet kicking in the air as Derek held him aloft. "Put me down!" he protested, though he was grinning ear to ear. Derek obliged, setting him back on the snowy ground.
"Good to see you again, Derek," Jon said, his eyes gleaming with joy. "I have missed you."
"Aye, me too. Especially this little squirrel running around causing trouble," Derek replied warmly.
"Where is Lord Anden?" Jon asked, his eyes scanning the courtyard. He knew his great-grandfather was coming, but the castle of House Flint was the third furthest from Winterfell. It would take time for him to arrive. But if Derek was here, then maybe...
"You mean you haven't noticed the giant man right behind you?" Derek teased.
Jon whirled around, his heart skipping a beat. Just a few paces away stood Lord Anden Flint, towering three meters tall and as broad as a bear. An axe was strapped across his back. The other lords and squires looked up at him with a mix of fear and awe; even Robb appeared stunned by the sheer size of the man.
"Hello, Jon," Anden said warmly, his serious expression softening.
A wide smile broke across Jon's face, and he sprinted forward, wrapping his arms around Anden's thick leg, his head barely reaching the man's knee. "I've missed you, Great-Grandfather," he said, his voice catching slightly, almost on the verge of tears.
Lord Flint knelt down, still towering over Jon, and placed a large hand on the boy's shoulder. "I've missed you too, boy," he replied, a rare smile creasing his weathered face. "And I've brought you a gift."
"A gift?" Jon's eyes lit up with surprise.
"Yes," Anden reaffirmed, reaching into his coat and pulling out a scroll. He handed it to Jon, who stared at it for a moment before looking up, confusion crossing his face.
"That scroll came from the King two weeks ago," Lord Flint explained. "You are no longer a bastard, Jon. From now on, you are Jon Flint, the Heir of Breakstone Hill."
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