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One week.
It had been seven days since the stone egg cracked open, and Jon Snow had come to a singular, terrifying conclusion: hiding a dragon in the Tower of the Hand was significantly harder than fighting the Mountain.
The Mountain, at least, had the courtesy to stand still before he tried to kill you. RedHeart was a creature of perpetual motion, insatiable hunger, and a complete lack of respect for the concept of stealth.
Jon lay propped up against his pillows, a book on the history of Valyria resting forgotten on his lap. His ribs still ached with a dull, throbbing rhythm every time he breathed too deeply, and his shoulder felt stiff as a rusted hinge, but the physical pain was becoming a secondary concern to the mental exhaustion of being a secret dragon-keeper.
"Ghost, leave her be," Jon whispered harshly.
Across the room, the massive white direwolf was lying near the hearth, his red eyes narrowed in a look of long-suffering resignation. Attached to the very tip of his white, bushy tail was a small black shape.
RedHeart had discovered that the wolf's tail was the most fascinating thing in the Seven Kingdoms. She was currently engaged in a fierce battle with the white fur, growling with a sound like a tiny saw cutting through wood, tugging backward with all her might.
Ghost didn't growl. He didn't snap. He simply lifted his head, looked at Jon with an expression that clearly said, 'I am a wolf of the North, a ghost of the forest, and I am being humiliated by a lizard,' and then let his head thud back onto his paws with a heavy sigh.
"She's teething," Arya whispered from the window seat, where she was keeping watch on the courtyard below. She found the entire dynamic hilarious.
"She's a menace," Jon corrected. "RedHeart! Dohaerās!"
He wasn't sure if that was the right command, or if it even applied to 'stop eating the direwolf,' but the High Valyrian word for 'serve' was one of the few he knew.
The dragon ignored him completely. She gave one final, triumphant tug on Ghost's tail, received no reaction, and decided the game was boring. With a chirp, she released the wolf, scrambled over his flank—Ghost didn't even flinch—and bounded toward the bed.
She moved with a deceptive speed, a scuttling run that utilized her wings for balance. She reached the bedpost, dug her needle-sharp claws into the wood (leaving deep scratches that Jon would have to explain later), and hauled herself up onto the mattress.
"She's getting bigger," Arya noted, hopping down from the window and coming to the bedside. "I swear she's grown an inch since yesterday."
"Don't say that," Jon groaned. "If she gets any bigger, we won't be able to hide her in the chest when the servants come to change the chamber pot."
RedHeart chirped at the sound of Jon's voice and crawled up his legs. She navigated the treacherous terrain of the blankets until she reached Jon's chest. She sniffed at his bandages, sneezed—a tiny puff of grey smoke escaping her nostrils—and then curled up directly on top of Jon's bare skin, right above his heart.
"Jon, watch out!" Arya hissed, reaching out but stopping short of touching the dragon. "She's hot!"
"I know," Jon said, closing his eyes.
"No, I mean really hot," Arya insisted. "Look at the blanket!"
Jon looked down. Where RedHeart's tail dragged across the wool blanket, the fabric was darkening, singeing slightly at the edges. The heat radiating from her small body was intense, like a stone pulled directly from a fire.
"Jon, move her!" Arya whispered frantically. "She'll burn you!"
Jon looked at the dragon, then at his own chest. He could feel the heat, yes. It was heavy and dry, like standing too close to a forge. But it didn't hurt.
In fact, it felt... wonderful.
The ache in his broken ribs, the stiffness in his shoulder, the constant, low-level chill of the stone tower—it all melted away beneath the dragon's touch. Where the heat should have blistered his skin, it instead felt like a soothing balm, sinking deep into his marrow.
"I'm fine," Jon said, stroking a finger down the ridge of RedHeart's spine. The dragon purred, the sound vibrating through Jon's chest cavity.
"You're crazy," Arya whispered, eyes wide. "She's smoking! Your skin should be peeling off."
Jon looked at his skin beneath the black scales. It was unblemished. Not even red.
"Fire cannot kill a dragon," Jon murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He froze, realizing what he had said.
Arya looked at him sharply. "You're not a dragon, Jon. You're a wolf."
"I know," Jon said quickly. "I just meant... I don't burn. Remember? In the kitchens at Winterfell? I grabbed that hot skillet that Hodor dropped. Cook thought I'd lost my hand, but I didn't even have a mark."
Arya frowned, thinking back. "I remember. Sansa fainted."
"Exactly," Jon said. He looked down at RedHeart, who had fallen asleep, her heat soaking into him. "I think... I think the heat is good for me. I feel stronger when she's close."
"Well, don't get too comfortable," Arya said, reaching into the pouch at her belt. "It's feeding time. And if we don't feed her, she might go back to Ghost's tail."
At the word 'feed,' RedHeart's eyes snapped open. The vertical pupils dilated. She let out a demanding hiss and scrambled off Jon's chest, leaving a patch of sweat on his skin but no burns.
Arya pulled out a handkerchief soaked in blood. Inside were chunks of raw beef she had pilfered from the kitchens, claiming they were for Ghost.
"Here," Arya whispered, tossing a piece of meat into the air.
RedHeart leaped. She was a black blur, snatching the meat out of the air with a snap of her jaws that echoed in the quiet room. She landed on the floor, swallowed the meat whole, and immediately looked back at Arya for more.
"She eats like Robert," Arya observed, tossing another piece.
"Don't let the King hear you say that," Jon warned, though he smiled.
RedHeart devoured three large chunks of beef in rapid succession. After the third piece, she sat back on her haunches, looked content, and opened her mouth to let out a satisfied noise.
BUUUURP.
It wasn't just a sound. A cloud of thick, black smoke erupted from the dragon's gullet, billowing out into the room. It smelled of sulfur and charred meat.
"Seven Hells!" Jon hissed, trying to sit up and wincing as his ribs protested. "The smoke! Arya, the smoke!"
"I see it!" Arya grabbed a tunic from Jon's chair and began frantically fanning the air. "Shush! RedHeart, shush!"
The dragon looked offended. She let out another small puff of smoke, just to make a point.
"Open the window!" Jon commanded in a harsh whisper.
"It is open!" Arya waved the tunic wildly, trying to disperse the grey cloud that was drifting dangerously close to the door. "If the guards smell smoke..."
"They'll think I knocked over a candle," Jon said, trying to come up with a lie. "Or... or Ghost got too close to the fire."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound of a gauntlet hitting the heavy oak door froze them both.
"Lord Snow?" came the muffled voice of a Stark guard. "Everything alright in there? We smell burning."
Arya froze, the tunic mid-air. Ghost lifted his head, ears pricked. RedHeart, sensing the tension, scurried under the bed.
Jon forced his voice to remain steady, swallowing the panic that tasted like ash. "Everything is fine," he called out, hoping the door muffled the slight tremor in his voice. "I... I dropped a book into the hearth. Clumsy of me. It's out now."
There was a pause. A long, agonizing silence where Jon could practically hear the guard deciding whether to open the door or not.
"Do you require assistance, my lord?"
"No!" Jon said, perhaps too quickly. He cleared his throat. "No, thank you. I am resting. My sister is... reading to me."
Another pause.
"Very good, my lord."
The footsteps receded.
Jon slumped back against the pillows, exhaling a breath he felt he had been holding for an eternity. Arya dropped the tunic and leaned against the wall, looking pale.
"That was close," she whispered.
"Too close," Jon agreed. He looked at the space under the bed where two glowing golden eyes peered out from the darkness.
"We can't keep doing this, Arya," Jon said softly. "She's growing. She's making noise. She's making smoke. Eventually, a guard is going to open that door without knocking."
Arya walked over to the bed and sat down. She looked at Jon, her expression fierce and sad all at once. "But we have to. Until you can ride."
"Six weeks," Jon muttered, repeating the Maester's prognosis. "Six weeks until I'm whole."
He looked at the dragon, who slowly crawled out from under the bed, looked around to ensure the coast was clear, and then hopped back up to Jon, curling against his side as if nothing had happened.
"Six weeks," Jon whispered to the dragon. "Please, little one. Stay small for just six weeks."
RedHeart chirped, smoke curling from her nostrils, and closed her eyes. She made no promises.
.
.
The door opened without a knock this time, and Jon's heart leaped into his throat.
RedHeart was on the bed, chasing a stray thread on the quilt. As the heavy oak creaked inward, Jon moved with a speed that made him wince in pain, grabbing the thick woolen coverlet and throwing it over the dragon. He hissed in pain as his shoulder protested, but he masked it with a cough as Lord Eddard Stark stepped into the room.
"Father," Jon said, his voice tight.
Ned Stark looked tired. The circles under his eyes were dark bruises against his pale skin, and the badge of the Hand seemed to weigh down his tunic like a millstone. He closed the door behind him and offered Jon a weary smile.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Ned said, walking to the foot of the bed. He glanced at Arya, who was trying very hard to look like she hadn't just been fanning dragon smoke out of the air. "Arya. Keeping your brother company?"
"Yes, Father," Arya said, clasping her hands behind her back. "Just... telling stories."
Ned nodded, then turned his grey eyes back to Jon. "How are the ribs today?"
"Better," Jon lied. Under the blankets, he felt a distinct, hot wriggle against his thigh. He pressed his hand down gently on the lump, praying RedHeart wouldn't bite him. "Maester Pycelle says I am healing well."
"Good," Ned said. He pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Because we cannot stay here, Jon. King's Landing is... it is not safe. For any of us."
"We are all leaving," Ned corrected. "I have secured passage on a ship bound for White Harbor. The Wind Witch. She sails in six weeks. The Maester believes you will be fit to travel by then."
"Six weeks," Jon repeated. Six weeks of hiding a dragon. Six weeks of lying.
Under the blanket, RedHeart grew still. The heat radiating from her small body was intense, burning through Jon's breeches. It was a reminder of the secret he was keeping, and the secret that was kept from him.
Fire made flesh, Jon thought. I hatched a dragon. Why?
The question that had been gnawing at him for seven days, the question that kept him awake while the dragon slept on his chest, bubbled up. He couldn't stop it.
"Father," Jon said, his voice quiet.
"Yes?"
"My mother."
Ned's expression tightened instantly. The weary warmth vanished, replaced by the Lord of Winterfell's stone mask. "Jon..."
"Don't tell me you'll tell me later," Jon cut in, his voice rising. "Don't tell me 'when we are home.' You've said that for fourteen years. We are leaving in six weeks. We might die before we reach the ship. Tell me now."
"This is not the time," Ned said firmly. "There are... complications."
"Complications?" Jon laughed, a bitter, sharp sound. "I am a bastard, Father. My very existence is a complication. What could be more complicated than that?"
He felt the dragon shift against his leg, her claws pricking his skin. She is the complication, Jon thought. She is the proof.
"Is it because of who she was?" Jon pressed, leaning forward despite the pain in his ribs. The fear that had been festering in his gut spilled out. "Since the melee... since everything that has happened... I have been thinking. Why would you hide her name? Why would you be so ashamed unless..."
He swallowed hard. "Is it shame? Does my existence shame you that much?"
"Jon!" Ned stood up, his face paling. "No! Never think that."
"Then what?" Jon demanded. "Was she a whore? A traitor? A Targaryen?"
Ned didn't flinch, but his eyes went impossibly sad. "You let your imagination run wild, boy. You listen to too many songs."
"I listen to the silence!" Jon shouted. "I listen to you not answering me!" You never call me son, Jon wanted to say, but did not.
The silence that followed was absolute. Even Arya, usually so quick to defend him, stood frozen by the window.
Ned looked at Jon. He looked at the dark hair, the handsome face, the purple eyes. The grief in Ned's face was a raw, open wound.
"You are a Stark," Ned said, his voice thick with emotion. "You have the blood of the First Men in your veins. You are my... my blood. And you are my responsibility. Never think your existence is a shame to me, Jon. Never."
"But you still won't tell me who she was," Jon whispered.
Ned closed his eyes for a brief moment. He didn't answer. He didn't lie, and he didn't tell the truth. He simply turned away.
"Rest, Jon," Ned said, walking to the door. "We leave in six weeks. Focus on healing."
He opened the door and left.
Jon stared at the closed wood. The hollow feeling in his chest was vast, a cold cavern where his heart should be. He couldn't say it. He couldn't even lie and say it.
The blanket shifted. A small, black head poked out from the folds of wool. RedHeart blinked her golden eyes at Jon, sensing his distress. She chirped softly, a questioning sound, and crawled up his chest.
She reached his face and extended a rough, warm tongue, licking the moisture from Jon's cheek.
Jon hadn't realized he was crying.
He reached up and cupped the dragon's head, feeling the intense, magical heat of her skin. She purred against his palm, a vibration of pure, uncomplicated affection.
"At least you chose me," Jon whispered to the monster.
RedHeart licked his nose, curled into the crook of his neck, and went back to sleep.
Jaime Lannister
The solar was bright, bathed in the sharp, unforgiving light of midday. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air and the fine lines of tension around Cersei's mouth.
She sat behind her desk, a quill in hand, stabbing at a piece of parchment as if she were trying to kill it. When Jaime entered, she didn't look up.
"Is it done?" she asked.
Jaime closed the door and leaned against it, the gold of his armor clinking softly. "No."
Cersei stopped writing. She set the quill down slowly and raised her eyes to his. The green was cold today, hard as emeralds. "And why, pray tell, does the bastard still draw breath?"
"Because he is guarded by four of Ned Stark's best men, day and night," Jaime lied smoothly. He walked further into the room, pouring himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the side table. "Jory Cassel sits outside his door like a mastiff. If I were to walk in there and slit the boy's throat, I would have to kill four Northmen to do it. And then I would be covered in blood, standing over the corpse of the Hand's son in the Tower of the Hand."
He took a sip of water, watching her over the rim of the cup. "You want him dead, Cersei. Do you also want a war before sunset?"
Cersei drummed her fingers on the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Robert would not go to war for a bastard."
"He would go to war for the Stark," Jaime corrected. "And the Stark would burn this city to the ground if his son was murdered in his bed under the King's roof. It needs to be an accident. Or a sickness. Or... something clean."
"I don't care about clean," Cersei snapped, standing up. She walked around the desk, her skirts rustling. "I care about done. Every day that boy lives is an insult. An insult to me."
She stopped in front of him, reaching out to toy with the lion-head clasp of his cloak. Her touch was possessive, a reminder of the bargain they had struck in her bed.
"Don't make me wait, Jaime," she warned softly. "You know how I get when I am bored."
"I said I would handle it. Give me time to find an opening. When the Starks leave... or when the boy is moved. Accidents happen on the Kingsroad."
Cersei smiled then, a thin, satisfied curving of her lips. She patted his cheek. "Good. See that they do."
.
.
The White Sword Tower offered a commanding view of the tourney grounds. From the high balcony, the lists looked like a child's toy set—brightly colored pavilions, banners snapping in the wind, the long strip of beaten earth where men would ride to break lances and bones for the mob's amusement.
Jaime stood at the railing, the wind ruffling his golden hair. Beside him stood Ser Arys Oakheart, and Ser Barristan Selmy, old and carved from stone.
Below, the squires were running drills, preparing the ground for the jousting which would begin in three days.
"A shame the Stark boy won't be riding," Ser Arys commented, leaning his elbows on the stone. "After that display in the melee? The smallfolk are already singing songs about it. 'The Wolf who blinded the Mountain.'"
Jaime stiffened slightly but kept his gaze fixed on a distant banner. "He got lucky. Gregor got careless."
"Maybe," Arys shrugged. "But luck doesn't teach a man to move like that. Did you see his footwork? Pure water dancing, but with a longsword's weight. He reminded me of the stories of Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning come again."
Arys chuckled, clearly pleased with his comparison. "Stark bastard or not, he has the Dayne blood. It shows."
"No," Ser Barristan said.
Jaime turned to look at the Lord Commander. Selmy was staring down at the practice yard, his blue eyes distant, lost in memories that were older than Arys Oakheart himself.
"My Lord?" Arys asked, confused. "He has the look of them. The eyes, the skill..."
"He has the eyes," Barristan conceded softly. "But he is nothing like Arthur."
Jaime felt a shiver. "How so, Barristan?"
Barristan sighed, the sound of a man carrying too many ghosts. "I knew Arthur as well as any man. I fought beside him for years. Arthur was... absolute. When he fought, he was steel and duty. He fought to win, because winning was what was required."
Barristan paused, his gaze tracking a squire running across the field below.
"This boy... Jon Snow," Barristan continued, his voice taking on a strange, melancholic tone. "He is skilled, yes. Perhaps a prodigy. But he does not move like Arthur. Arthur was a fortress. This boy is... fluid. He fights like he is weeping. There is a sadness to his blade work. An elegance that Arthur never cared for."
Barristan shook his head. "Arthur fought because he was the best. This boy fights like he is singing a sad song with a sword in his hand."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Jaime gripped the cold stone of the railing, his knuckles turning white.
Singing a sad song.
The image flashed in his mind. A silver prince who hated killing, who loved his harp more than his lance, who moved with a grace that made violence look like art.
It wasn't Arthur I saw, Jaime realized, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush. It wasn't the Sword of the Morning.
He closed his eyes, and he could see it again—Jon Snow in the training yard, spinning away from the Mountain's blade, the melancholy set of his jaw, the impossible, tragic elegance of his movement.
It was Rhaegar.
It was Rhaegar Targaryen, reborn in a bastard's black wool, fighting with the same doomed, beautiful grace that had died in the waters of the Trident.
"Ser Jaime?" Arys asked, sounding concerned. "Are you well? You look pale."
Jaime opened his eyes. The tourney grounds below blurred into a wash of color. The noise of the city faded into a dull roar.
"I am fine," Jaime rasped, though his voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger. "Just... the heat. I need... I need to go."
He pushed off the railing and walked away.
Rhaegar.
He hadn't failed to protect the Prince's children. Not all of them.
One was still alive. And Cersei had just ordered him to kill him.
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