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The glow of Golden Finger still lingered in Jon's mind, a pale shimmer that seemed almost alive.
[New Trait Acquired: The Unburnt]
He studied the words with quiet astonishment. For the first time, he had plundered a trait instead of merely upgrading one. The Dragon Queen across the Narrow Sea would one day walk through fire, her destiny built upon this very blessing. For her, The Unburnt had been the spark of empire.
Jon could not boast the same freedom. He was still Ned Stark's bastard, and nothing more. To flaunt heat resistance now would invite suspicion, perhaps even doom. If he dared proclaim himself kin to the dragonlords, the Red Witch would not hesitate—her shadowborn assassins would come for his life.
No, he told himself firmly. Better to walk quietly, to hide the fire. A wolf cub, not a dragon.
He filed the thought away. Later, when there was time, he would test the limits of this new gift. For now, there was work to be done.
Two upgrade points still gleamed at the edge of his vision. Jon placed them both into Archery.
At once the world sharpened. The green glow of the skill burned blue, then deepened into a crystal-violet sheen. His hands grew steadier, his heartbeat slowed, and the bowstring called to him as if it were a part of his own body. Every edge, every shadow, every vein on a leaf seemed etched in fine detail. He could see the pores on Sola's skin, the faint mole near her eye.
"Jon…" she whispered, catching him staring. She turned away, cheeks flushed, though he had been studying her like stone, not a girl.
He said nothing. He turned instead to Old York. "Hold the line steady. When I jump, keep your grip."
Sola's slender fingers clenched the rope until her knuckles turned white. "Be careful," she murmured.
Jon only nodded.
Then he ran, boots striking stone. He leapt from the cliffside, body arcing into empty air. For a heartbeat he hung between heaven and earth, the mountain wind whipping his cloak.
Time slowed. The clouds bowed. The peaks themselves seemed to kneel.
Jon spun in mid-air, drew two bows stacked together, and loosed.
The arrow shrieked as it flew.
Crack—
It buried itself deep into the pine tree that clung to the sheer face of Hidden Fire Peak. The wood shuddered, the arrow wedged fast. A rope trailed behind it, taut as iron.
The men below roared in triumph, hauling with all their might as Jon swung back toward the cliff. His boots scraped stone, and with grim strength he climbed up, hand over hand, until he reached the ledge.
From below, Harken—bandaged but awake—watched in awe. Jon's swordplay had already been beyond him; now his archery was something no warrior in the Mountains of the Moon could match. To leap into the abyss and strike true in that instant—it was the act of a demigod, not a boy.
Even Old York stared with round eyes. He had lived long and seen much, but never such skill. More than that, Jon had never once boasted. To hide so much strength in silence—rare indeed.
Among the veterans, there was laughter and muttered wagers of how many cattle's weight of grain such a feat was worth. But Sola had no thought of measures or boasts. In her heart, Jon was simply Jon—and of course he should be this strong.
---
The pine creaked beneath Jon's hand. It was dead, its trunk scarred black by lightning, roots clutching loose soil. Another man's weight might have torn it free entirely. Jon tested it once, twice, then turned back and shouted, "Stay where you are! I'll go on alone."
Reluctant but trusting, the others settled.
Jon ascended into silence. The cliffs gave way to a narrow shelf and, beyond it, the mouth of a cave. Black as pitch, it breathed heat into the mountain air.
Jon lit a torch. Its flame flared strangely bright, as though drawn upward by some unseen draft.
He stepped inside.
There were no bats, no insects, no droppings or filth. The air itself was clean, almost reverent. And then he saw why.
The torchlight fell across black stone—no, not stone. Bone.
A skull, vast and ridged, resting on folded claws. A spine coiled like a serpent. Ribs arched above him like the beams of a great hall. The bones were smooth, polished by time, but they hummed faintly with the memory of fire.
Jon's breath caught in his throat.
"Sheepstealer," he whispered. The Sheep Thief, the wild dragon who had lived a century past, who had borne the bastard Nettles into these mountains.
The skeleton filled the cavern, seventy paces from skull to tail. Yet it looked not slain, but slumbering, head tucked as though dreaming still.
Jon reached out, laying a hand on one rib. It was warm. Smooth as steel, light yet unyielding. Weapons could be forged from such bones, jewelry wrought. Men had traded dragonbone for gold across Essos for generations.
But Jon did not draw his blade. This creature had died of old age, the only dragon known to rest in peace rather than fall to blade or bolt. Its tomb should not be desecrated.
He pressed onward.
On the cave wall, painted in fading pigments, he found murals.
A woman placing a dragon egg in a cradle. A hatchling coiled beside an infant. Strange rites of fire and blood.
Other murals showed two dragons entwined, their long necks curved like lovers. One was lean and red—Caraxes, Blood Wyrm, Daemon Targaryen's mount. The other was dark and wild, Sheepstealer herself.
So it was true. Not rumor, not tavern talk—Daemon and Nettles had joined more than in flesh. Their dragons had mated.
Jon traced the worn lines with his fingers, his mind spinning. If Hughwolf had spoken truth, then Sheepstealer had left behind more than bones.
The torch guttered. Jon moved quickly, deeper into the cavern.
At the back he found a narrow passage, almost hidden. He squeezed through, the walls scraping his shoulders, until he stumbled into a small secret chamber.
The torch flared, casting yellow light across the stone floor.
Jon froze. His eyes widened.
There, laid out in careful rows, were eggs.
Dragon eggs.
Round and heavy, each large enough to cradle in two hands. Their shells shimmered with faint hues—obsidian black, dull crimson, ashen gray. At least twenty of them, glistening in the firelight like jewels of the gods.
Jon's breath came hard. His hand hovered over one, trembling…
But as the torchlight fell closer, he saw it.
The egg beneath his palm was cracked.
Broken.
Advance chapter available on pǎťr̥reon gk31
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