Jaime Lannister
The training dummy exploded in a spray of straw and splintered wood as Jaime's sword struck it for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. Sweat ran down his temples despite the cool air, his golden hair plastered to his forehead, his white cloak streaked with dirt and the detritus of his rage. Another strike, then another, each blow landing with enough force to send shockwaves up his arms. The dummy—what remained of it—listed sideways on its post like a drunk stumbling home from a tavern.
Not enough. Never enough.
Jaime stepped back, chest heaving, and surveyed the wreckage. Straw littered the training yard like the guts of some strange beast. Three other dummies stood intact nearby, mocking him with their wholeness. He considered destroying those too, but his arms had begun to tremble with exhaustion, and even his pride had limits.
A day and a half since his father's humiliation in the throne room. A day and a half of that scene playing behind his eyes like a mummer's farce he couldn't stop watching. Tywin Lannister, the man who'd put down the Reynes and Tarbecks with such brutality that singers still made ballads of it, reduced to swallowing insults from a fat, drunk king and a cold dog.
All because of a bastard boy.
Jon Snow. The name circled in Jaime's thoughts like a vulture over carrion. Purple eyes and that face, the boy was handsome that much was obvious, he had heard that the only reason Loras Tyrell was giving him any attention was because of that face. But for Jaime, that was unique for a different reason...he looked like someone else... someone dead.
But that was impossible. Had to be impossible. He was just the bastard boy of Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne. Jaime had seen the boy fight; he was good, very good, and the way he fought, Jaime knew that within a few years, the boy would become a very dangerous man. His moves, he moved like Arthur Dayne, no surprise, his mother was Ashara Dayne...right?
Jaime drove his blade into the ground, leaving it quivering there like a gravestone. His hands were raw inside his gauntlets, blisters forming beneath old calluses. Good. Pain was simple, honest. Better than the twisted satisfaction he'd felt watching the Mountain collapse with Jon Snow's dagger buried in his eye socket.
He was secretly glad. Gods help him, but he was. Ser Gregor Clegane was a beast in human skin, a creature that brought shame to the title Knight with every breath he took. The Mountain had earned that wound a thousand times over, and Jaime's only regret was that he hadn't been the one to deliver it. That some northern bastard had done what Jaime never could—put down the Lannisters' mad dog, if only partially.
His father would never forgive this. Jaime knew Tywin well enough to understand that. The old lion had gambled on Robert siding with House Lannister over House Stark because of how much gold Robert owed House Lannister. Tywin had miscalculated so badly that it was almost funny. Almost. Because anyone with eyes had seen what happened in that melee. The Mountain had carved a path straight to Jon Snow like a man following orders, and when the boy had defended himself—brilliantly, desperately, savagely—he'd done what needed doing.
What did Father expect? That Robert would hand over Ned Stark's son on a platter? That the king would ignore what everyone had witnessed? What he himself had seen?
Foolish. His father had been foolish, and Tywin Lannister was never foolish, which meant...
Jaime reached for the waterskin hanging from a nearby post, uncorked it, and drank deeply. The water was warm, tasting of leather, but it washed the copper taste of exertion from his mouth. As he drank, his thoughts turned—as they always did, as they had for twenty years—to Cersei.
His sister had changed. No, that wasn't quite right. She'd been changing since Winterfell, since that tower, since Jaime had thrown a boy from a window to protect their secret.
They hadn't lain together since. Not once. Three Months now, and every night Jaime felt the absence like a missing limb. At first, he'd told himself it was just her anger, her fear. She'd come around. She always did. They were meant for each other, had been since before they were born, two halves of one perfect whole.
But she hadn't come around. If anything, Cersei had grown more distant, more cold. She barely looked at him anymore, and when she did, she looked at him as if he were a stranger, someone she hardly knew.
The thought that someone else might be in her bed had crossed his mind more than once. He dismissed it each time, crushed it down like an ember that threatened to catch. She loved him. She'd always loved him. They were Lannisters; they were the same person. They were born together. She could never love anyone else.
Could she?
Since the melee ended, Cersei had been furious. Constantly. Her rage filled rooms like smoke, choking everyone near her. Jaime had yet to ask her directly what fueled it, couldn't quite bring himself to face whatever answer she might give. She held no love for the Mountain—Cersei hated Gregor as much as anyone with sense did—so it couldn't be grief over his wound.
So what, then?
"Ser Jaime."
He turned to find Ser Barristan Selmy approaching across the yard, his white cloak somehow still pristine despite a morning spent drilling younger knights. The old man's face was lined as ancient parchment, but his blue eyes remained sharp as the sword at his hip.
"Ser Barristan." Jaime gestured at the destroyed dummy. "Come to critique my form?"
"Your form is adequate." The Lord Commander's tone held the barest hint of disapproval, though whether for the destroyed equipment or Jaime himself, it was hard to say. "I've come to inform you that you're assigned to the queen today."
Jaime smiled a little. "Lovely. I'm sure Her Grace will be thrilled."
"Her Grace's feelings are not our concern." Ser Barristan's gaze was steady, knowing. "We serve, Ser Jaime. That is all."
"Of course." Jaime retrieved his sword from the earth, wiped the blade clean on what remained of the dummy's straw guts. "Tell me, do you ever tire of being so relentlessly noble? Doesn't your face hurt from maintaining that expression?"
Ser Barristan didn't dignify the jape with a response, simply turned and walked away, his back straight as a blade despite his years.
"I'll take that as a no," Jaime called after him.
Alone again, Jaime cleaned his blade properly, checked the edge, sheathed it. His hands moved through the familiar motions while his mind raced ahead to Cersei's chambers, to whatever mood he'd find her in today. Fury, most likely. Fury seemed to be her constant companion lately.
He should change clothes, wash the sweat and straw from his skin. But something told him Cersei wouldn't care about his appearance today, wouldn't notice if he arrived in golden armor or sackcloth.
The walk through the Red Keep's corridors felt longer than usual. Servants scattered from his path like startled birds, eyes averted, whispers following in his wake. The Kingslayer. The man who'd broken his most sacred vow.
Let them whisper. He'd stopped caring what they thought years ago.
Kingslayer
Cersei's chambers occupied one of the keep's finest towers, overlooking the bay. Jaime had memorized every stone of the path there, could have walked it blind. How many times had he made this journey? Hundreds? Thousands? Each time with his heart beating faster, anticipation and need tangled together until he couldn't separate one from the other.
Today, his heart beat faster for different reasons.
He knocked once—a formality, nothing more—and entered without waiting for permission. The heavy oak door swung open to reveal Cersei standing before her mirror, and even from across the room, Jaime could see the fury radiating from her like heat from coals.
"What fresh hell has earned your ire this morning?" He tried to keep his tone light, jesting. "Did a servant fold your smallclothes incorrectly? Perhaps the sun had the audacity to rise at an inappropriate hour?"
Cersei's reflection in the mirror turned to fix him with a glare that could have frozen wildfire. "Get out."
Jaime raised his hands in a gesture of peace, noting absently how his palms still stung from the morning's exertions. "Can't, I'm afraid. Ser Barristan assigned me as your sworn shield for the day. Unless you'd prefer Ser Meryn? I hear he's been in wonderful spirits since a northern bastard humiliated him in front of half the court."
"I said get out." Each word emerged sharp as a dagger.
"And I said I can't." Jaime closed the door behind him, leaned against it. "We're stuck with each other, sweet sister. Might as well make the best of it."
Cersei ignored him, which was somehow worse than her anger. She resumed pacing, her crimson gown swishing with each sharp turn, her golden hair swinging loose down her back. Back and forth, back and forth, like a lioness in a cage too small to contain her rage.
After perhaps a dozen circuits, she stopped abruptly before her vanity and began fixing her hair with sharp, violent movements. Pins jabbed into place with enough force that Jaime winced in sympathy.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" she snarled, not meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I have a meeting with that dried-up old crone from Highgarden and her vapid granddaughter."
"Ah." Jaime straightened slightly. "The Tyrells. Let me guess—they want to marry their rose to our lion cub?"
"Margaery Tyrell." Cersei spat the name like it tasted of poison. "As if Robert would ever break Joffrey's betrothal to the Stark girl. The fat fool would rather go to war than insult his precious Ned."
"Robert would go to war anyway," Jaime pointed out. "He misses it. Misses the glory days when he could solve problems by hitting them with a hammer."
"True enough." Cersei jabbed another pin into her elaborate coiffure. "He certainly can't solve them by ruling. That requires thought, and thinking makes him thirsty, and being thirsty means more wine, and more wine means—" She made a disgusted noise. "Gods, I hate him."
Jaime had heard this litany before, knew its rhythms like he knew the sound of steel on steel. He let her vent, watching her reflection as she catalogued Robert's failures—his drinking, his whoring, his absolute refusal to be the king she'd imagined she was marrying. It was familiar ground, safe ground, and Jaime found himself relaxing slightly.
But then she wound down, her fury spent for the moment, and in the brief silence that followed, Jaime asked the question that had been burning in his mind since the throne room.
"Why are you so angry?"
Cersei's hands stilled on her hair. "What?"
"This rage you're carrying. It's more than usual. What's really bothering you?"
She turned from the mirror to face him directly, and Jaime felt pinned by those green eyes so like his own. "One of our father's most important bannermen was wounded by a filthy bastard. Our father was humiliated in the throne room by that fat pig and his dog. Of course I'm angry."
"I didn't know you held such love for the Mountain." Jaime said with a teasing smile. "Strange, considering you've called him a rabid beast more times than I can count."
"He's a dog," Cersei snapped. "A useful dog. One that House Lannister needs."
"A dog that got cocky and paid the price." Jaime pushed away from the door, moved deeper into the room. "The Mountain went after Jon Snow like he had a personal grudge. Got careless. The boy was simply better."
"Better." Cersei's laugh was bitter. "One would think someone like Gregor Clegane could manage to get the job done."
Get the job done. Not win a melee or defeat an opponent, but get the job done. As if it had been a task, an assignment, an order to be followed.
"What job?" Jaime asked quietly.
Cersei turned from the mirror, confusion flickering across her perfect features. "What?"
"You said 'get the job done.' What job?"
"Jaime." She sighed, the exasperation of a woman dealing with a particularly dim child. "His job. Being the Mountain. Being our father's most fearsome knight. The thing we pay him for—winning." She waved a dismissive hand. "Honestly, you're reading far too much into simple words."
He took another step closer, studying her face. "That's not what you meant."
"Of course it is." Cersei's eyes met his directly, wide and innocent. "What else would I mean? That I secretly commanded Gregor to... what? Murder a fourteen-year-old boy in front of half the realm?" Her laugh was light, musical. "Gods, Jaime, the stress of guarding me must be rotting your wits. Perhaps you should ask Ser Barristan for a few days off."
She turned back to the mirror.
"The stress of the day must be affecting you," she added, her voice softer now, almost concerned. "You've been training yourself to exhaustion. I can see it in your face."
Jaime wanted to press, to demand answers, but he knew his sister well enough to recognize when pushing would only drive her further away. Whatever had truly happened in that melee, whatever role Cersei might have played in the Mountain's focused assault on a fourteen-year-old boy, she wouldn't tell him. Not now, maybe not ever.
He changed tactics. "What do you think Father will do? About the humiliation, I mean."
That got her attention. Cersei's reflection smiled, and it wasn't a pleasant expression. "Father never lets such things go. And Jon Snow is just a bastard, after all."
"A bastard Lord Stark loves." Jaime kept his voice even. "The Hand of the King's son. Father should tread carefully."
"Should he?" The smile widened, showing teeth. "How interesting that you're so concerned for a northern bastard's welfare."
"I'm concerned about starting a war with Ned Stark over wounded pride."
Cersei was quiet for a long moment. She turned from the mirror, and when she looked at him now, there was something unsettling in her gaze, something that made his skin prickle with unease.
He approached slowly, coming up behind her, and placed his hands on her shoulders.
"I've missed you," he said softly, his thumbs beginning to rub small circles. "Gods, Cersei, I've missed you so much."
For a moment, she allowed it. Her head tilted back slightly, her eyes closing, and Jaime felt a surge of hope. This was familiar. This was right. This was how it should be—
"Stop." Her voice was quiet but firm. "Someone might see."
Jaime's laugh was low, his hands sliding down from her shoulders, tracing the curves he knew better than his own body. "You didn't say that the other hundred times. You didn't say it in Robert's own bed—"
His hands found her breasts through the silk, cupping their weight, and for one moment, he thought she'd give in, thought they'd finally bridge this awful distance between them. But then Cersei pulled away, standing up so quickly her chair scraped across the stone floor.
"I have a meeting first." She moved across the room, putting furniture between them like barricades. "We'll talk after. About many things."
"Many things?" Jaime tried to keep the hurt from his voice, the desperation. "What things?"
Cersei paused at the door, her hand on the handle. When she looked back at him, her expression was unreadable. "I need you to do something for me."
"Anything." The word came out before he could stop it. "You know I'd do anything for you."
"The bastard humiliated our house." Her voice was silk over steel. "A Lannister always pays their debts."
The words felt like a bucket of cold water over his head. He stared at his sister, at this woman he loved more than life itself, and felt something cold unfurl in his chest. The Mountain's focused assault. Cersei's fury when the boy survived. Get the job done.
"You told him," Jaime said slowly. "You sent the Mountain after Jon Snow."
Cersei's smile was all lions and blood. "I have a meeting, dear brother. We'll talk when I return."
She left, the door closing behind her with a soft click that sounded in the sudden silence like a cell door locking. Jaime stood alone in her chambers, surrounded by her perfume and her secrets, and tried to understand what he'd just learned.
His sister had tried to have a boy killed. Not in the heat of battle, not in self-defense, but deliberately. Had sent their House's most brutal instrument to murder Ned Stark's son in front of thousands.
Why?
The question circled in his mind like a wolf tracking prey. What had Jon Snow done to earn such focused hatred from Cersei? The incident at the Trident, defending his sister? That was weeks ago, and Cersei had faced far worse insults without resorting to assassination.
Unless...
Those purple eyes. That face. The way Cersei had watched the boy at Winterfell.
She knows something. Gods help us, she knows something about that boy.
Jaime crossed to the window, staring out at the city sprawling below. Somewhere in the Tower of the Hand, Jon Snow lay recovering from wounds that should have killed him. Would have killed him, if the boy hadn't been fast enough, skilled enough, desperate enough to drive a dagger through the Mountain's eye.
And Cersei wanted to try again.
A Lannister always pays their debts.
Jaime pressed his forehead against the cool stone, closed his eyes, and tried to remember when loving his sister had become this complicated. When doing anything for her had started to feel less like devotion and more like damnation.
Jaime took a deep breath and went after his sister. He was supposed to defend her after all, and after the day was done, he would watch over Jon Snow.
Jon Snow
The maester's words still echoed in Jon's head like the toll of funeral bells. Weeks in bed. A month at least before you walk properly. Three months for full recovery.
Jon stared at the ceiling of his chamber, counting the stones there for perhaps the hundredth time since waking. Forty-three visible from this angle, plus the partial ones at the edges. He'd counted them so often he could close his eyes and still see their arrangement, mapped onto the inside of his eyelids like constellations.
"You're fortunate to be alive," Lord Stark had said moments ago, standing beside Jon's bed with that expression of mingled relief and worry that had become permanent since the melee. "The maesters say another inch to the left and that blow to your ribs would have punctured your lung. You'd have drowned in your own blood."
"Fortunate," Jon repeated, his voice still rough from disuse. Every word pulled at something in his chest that made him want to cough, but coughing meant agony beyond description, so he kept his speech brief. "Yes, Father. Very fortunate."
The sarcasm must have shown through, because Ned's mouth tightened. "I know you're restless—"
"Restless?" Jon tried to sit up, got perhaps two inches before his body screamed protests that made him collapse back against the pillows. "I was looking forward to the joust. To actually competing in something where people don't try to murder me."
"Jon," Sansa's voice came soft from her chair by the window, where she'd been doing her embroidery while pretending not to listen to every word. "You could have died."
"But I didn't." Jon forced himself to breathe slowly, carefully, through the pain. "I won."
"You survived," Arya corrected from her perch on the chest at the foot of his bed. She'd been there all morning, refusing to leave despite Septa Mordana's attempts to summon her for lessons. "That's not the same as winning."
Jon wanted to argue, but his youngest sister spoke truth. He'd survived the Mountain's assault through luck and desperation, nothing more. And now he was trapped in this bed like a bird with clipped wings, watching through his window as knights prepared for the joust he'd never ride in.
"Speaking of the joust," Sansa said, her needle pausing mid-stitch. A small smile played at her lips, the first genuine expression of pleasure Jon had seen from her in days. "Who would you have crowned? As Queen of Love and Beauty?"
Jon's mind went immediately to Cersei—golden hair and emerald eyes, the weight of her body against his, the taste of her mouth. But that was weeks ago now, before everything had shattered. Before he'd understood what she truly was.
She'd sent the Mountain to kill him. Jon knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Get the job done, she would have told Gregor Clegane. Kill the bastard who defied me. Make it look like an accident.
"Jon?" Arya prompted, leaning forward. "Who would you crown?"
Jon looked at his sisters—Sansa so beautiful and proper in her blue dress, copper hair shining in the morning light. Arya small and wild, her gray eyes bright with interest. Both of them here, safe, because he'd chosen truth over Cersei's lies at the Trident.
"You," he said, meeting Arya's gaze. "I would have crowned you, little sister."
"What?" Arya's face twisted in horror, as if Jon had just suggested she wear a pink dress and learn to curtsy. "Me? Jon, that's—that's horrible! I don't want to be Queen of Love and Beauty! That's for ladies and—and southern nonsense!"
"Exactly why you'd hate it," Jon said, managing a slight smile despite the pain in his ribs. "Which makes it perfect."
"You're cruel," Arya declared, but her eyes were laughing. "I'd never forgive you."
From her window seat, Sansa had gone very quiet. Jon caught the flash of disappointment across her face before she smoothed it away, returning to her embroidery with renewed focus. She'd wanted him to say her name. Of course, she had. Sansa dreamed of tourneys and knights and romance, and being crowned by her brave brother would have fit perfectly into those dreams.
But Jon couldn't give her that comfort. Not when every choice he'd made lately had been wrong, had put them all in danger.
"Will he be punished?" Arya's question cut through the moment like a knife. "The Mountain. Will the king punish him for what he did?"
Lord Stark's expression grew grave. He'd been standing by the door, letting them talk, but now he moved closer to the bed. "No, Arya. He won't."
"But he tried to kill Jon! Everyone saw it!"
"It was a melee." Ned sounded bitter. "Men die in melees. It's understood, accepted. The king can't punish a knight for fighting too hard in a tournament, even if..." He trailed off, but Jon heard the unspoken words. Even if it was attempted murder.
"That's not fair," Arya said fiercely.
"No," Ned agreed quietly. "It's not."
They spoke of other things after that—safer topics, mundane concerns. Sansa mentioned that Lady Margaery Tyrell wanted to meet her, and wasn't she beautiful, and hadn't her dress at last night's feast been magnificent? Arya complained about her dancing lessons with Syrio Forel.
Finally, Ned cleared his throat. "Girls, would you give me a moment alone with your brother?"
Sansa rose immediately, gathering her embroidery. Arya moved more slowly, reluctance in every line of her small body, but she went. The door closed behind them.
Ned pulled Arya's abandoned chair closer to the bed and sat heavily, suddenly looking every one of his years.
"How do you feel?" Ned asked. "Truly?"
"Like I was trampled by a warhorse," Jon admitted. "Then beaten with hammers. Then trampled again for good measure."
A ghost of a smile touched Ned's lips. "The maesters say you'll recover fully. Given time and rest."
"Weeks of lying here doing nothing." Jon couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "Watching the world happen without me."
"Better than the alternative." Ned's smile faded. "Jon, I need you to understand something. You're not in condition to go anywhere right now. But once you're better—once you can travel—we're leaving King's Landing. All of us. We're going home to Winterfell."
The words hit Jon like the Mountain's punch all over again, stealing what little breath he had. "What? But—but Sansa's to marry Joffrey. And Arya's here to learn—"
"Plans change." Ned's tone brooked no argument. "The south isn't safe for any of us. What happened in that melee..." He stopped, collecting himself. "Someone tried to kill you, Jon. Deliberately. And I won't risk it happening again."
Jon's mind raced. He thought of the purple-eyed girl who'd visited him in the night, calling him brother. Thought of Ashara Dayne's promise to reveal the truth about his mother.
"I can't leave," he said. "Not yet."
Ned's eyebrows rose. "Can't?"
"I..." Jon struggled for words that wouldn't reveal too much. How could he explain about Cersei, about the nights in Winterfell that now felt like someone else's memories? How could he tell his father that the queen had threatened his daughters, that Jon's choices had put them all in danger? "There are things here. Things I need to—"
"What things?" Ned leaned forward, his gaze searching Jon's face. "What's keeping you in this place?"
Everything. Nothing. Jon's throat tightened with truths he couldn't speak. He'd ruined everything through his own stupidity, his own lust. The chance to learn about his mother, gone. His family in danger because he'd been fool enough to bed a queen and then defy her.
"Nothing," he finally said. "Nothing, Father."
The silence stretched between them. Finally, Ned nodded slowly. "Do you know why the Mountain came after you?"
Jon's heart hammered against his broken ribs. He knew exactly why. Could see Cersei's face as clearly as if she stood before him now, beautiful and terrible, promising destruction if he didn't obey. But how could he tell his father that? How could he admit what he'd done?
"No," Jon whispered. "I don't know."
Ned studied him for a long moment. Then he stood, placed a hand briefly on Jon's shoulder—carefully, mindful of injuries—and moved toward the door.
"Rest," he said. "We'll speak more when you're stronger."
The door closed, and Jon was alone with his thoughts and his guilt. His mind turned traitorously to those first nights with Cersei, her skin warm against his in the darkness of Winterfell, her gasps as he moved inside her. He'd thought it was desire, maybe even something deeper. He'd been so stunningly, catastrophically wrong.
He thought of that night at the Trident, when she'd demanded he lie for her, choose her side against Arya's truth. The moment everything had broken beyond repair.
Never, Jon had thought then. I'll never betray my family for you.
And now his family was paying the price for his defiance.
Jon wanted to ask his father about the girl. The one with purple eyes like his own, who'd called him valonqar—little brother. But how could he? What would he even say? Father, a mysterious woman visited me while I was half-dead with milk of the poppy, claimed to be my older sister, and left me a ring. Do you know anything about that?
His father would tell him nothing. Just as he'd told Jon nothing about his mother for so many years.
Heat.
The sensation came suddenly, unmistakable, like standing too close to a forge. Jon's gaze snapped to the floor beside his bed, where the hearthstone concealed his hidden treasure. The dragon eggs. Gods, he'd almost forgotten them in the chaos of recovery.
Jon tried to sit up, to reach for the loose stone, but his body refused to cooperate. Pain lanced through his ribs with enough force to make his vision swim. He collapsed back against the pillows, gasping, tasting copper.
"Jon?"
The door had opened without him hearing. Arya stood there, a wooden plate balanced in her small hands. Bread and eggs, steam rising from the food in the cool chamber air.
"Are you hungry? I brought breakfast." She crossed to the bed, studying his face with concern. "You look terrible."
"I feel worse," Jon admitted. "Arya, I need you to do something for me."
"Anything." She set the plate on the bedside table. "What?"
Jon gestured weakly toward the floor. "There's a loose stone beside the hearth. Behind it, there's a chest. Can you—can you get it for me?"
Arya's eyes widened with curiosity, but she didn't question. She dropped to her knees, found the stone Jon indicated, and worked it free with fingers small enough to fit in the narrow gap. The chest came out wrapped in wool, and Arya carried it to the bed like it contained the crown jewels.
"What is it?" she asked, starting to unwrap the fabric.
"Dragon eggs," Jon said. "From the crypts at Winterfell that you found."
"I didn't know you had brought them here,"
"Open it."
She did, and the eggs seemed to glow. One black with red veins like blood in stone. One purple with silver highlights that caught the sun. Arya reached for the black one, then gasped and pulled her hand back.
"It's hot!"
"I know." Jon held out his hand. "Give it to me."
Arya lifted the egg with both hands, wincing at the heat, and placed it carefully in Jon's palm. The warmth spread through his fingers, up his arm, settling into his chest like something alive. It didn't hurt.
A drop of blood welled up where his palm had split—the wound from his fight with the Mountain, not fully healed. It fell onto the egg's surface, sizzling slightly, soaking into the scaled stone like water into dry earth.
Jon's breath caught. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw something move inside the egg. A shadow, a shape, something that shouldn't exist but did.
"Try talking to it," Arya said suddenly, leaning forward.
Jon tore his gaze from the egg to look at her. "What?"
"Talk to it. Tell it to wake up. Maybe it needs to hear a voice." She paused, thinking. "Or—or maybe you should breathe on it? Fire needs breath, doesn't it? And dragons are fire made flesh, Old Nan always said."
"Arya, I don't think—"
"Wait!" She snapped her fingers. "Blood. You already bled on it, but maybe it needs more? Like a sacrifice. Old Nan said the Valyrians used blood magic for everything."
"I'm not cutting myself open to feed an egg," Jon said flatly.
"We can always sacrifice, Joffrey," Arya muttered under her breath, earning a look from Jon.
Arya's face scrunched in concentration, then suddenly brightened. "Your voice! When you sing, it's..." She fumbled for words. "It's magic. Like Old Nan's stories. Like when you sang to baby Bran and he stopped crying, remember? Even Mother said it was unnatural how you could do that. Sing to it."
"Arya, that's foolish—"
"Please?" She leaned closer, her face alight with that fierce certainty that meant she'd already decided this was important. "What harm could it do? You've already bled on it, and it's warm as a kettle. Maybe it just needs one more thing. Maybe it needs to hear its... its father's voice?"
Jon thought that was foolish. He wasn't this creature's father. He was just a bastard who'd found some eggs in a crypt, nothing more.
But the egg was warm in his hands, and his blood had soaked into its surface, and deep in his bones, Jon felt something stirring.
Jon wanted to argue. This was madness, singing to a stone egg as if it could hatch after centuries of death. But Arya was looking at him with those Stark gray eyes so full of hope, and the egg pulsed with heat against his palm.
He drew a careful breath, minding his broken ribs, and began to sing as softly and as quietly as he could.
"Hen ñuhon glaeson māzigon" (From my blood you shall come)
"Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor" (A dragon is not a slave)
"Yn ñuhon perzys se glaeson" (But from my fire and blood)
"Māzigon, riña, māzigon" (Come forth, child, come forth)
The song poured from him, filling the chamber with sound. Jon's vision blurred at the edges, the world narrowing to just the egg in his hands and the melody in his throat.
Arya made a small, surprised noise.
The egg was moving.
Not much—just a slight tremor at first, like the beating of a too-fast heart. Then more, a definite shake that made Jon nearly drop it. Cracks appeared in the surface, hairline fractures that spread like lightning across a summer sky.
"Jon," Arya whispered. "Jon, it's—"
The egg split.
A piece of shell fell away, revealing a scaled snout the size of Jon's thumb. Then more shell cracked, falling in fragments to the bedding, and a head emerged—impossibly small, impossibly perfect. Black scales with red highlights, like the egg it had come from. Two amber eyes blinked at Jon, vertical pupils focusing on his face.
The dragon opened its mouth and made a sound—not quite a roar, more like a kitten's mew crossed with the hiss of steam from a kettle. Then it looked at Jon and smiled. Or at least, its mouth curved in a way that looked remarkably like happiness.
"Seven hells," Arya breathed. "Jon. Jon. You hatched a dragon."
Jon couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only stare at the creature in his hands—this impossible thing, this legend made flesh, this creature that shouldn't exist but did. The dragon's head tilted, regarding him with those amber eyes, and Jon felt something click into place in his chest. It felt like meeting with Ghost for the first time all over again.
Mine, something whispered in his mind. Not his voice, not quite. Mine, and I am yours.
The dragon's tongue flicked out to taste the air. Then it curled up in Jon's palm, scales warm against his skin, and closed its eyes with complete trust.
He had a dragon now.