Chapter 40 — Raven's Rest
The training yard of Brown Fort shimmered beneath a haze of torchlight, the pale moon hanging like a ghost above the high stone walls. Two women faced one another across the packed earth — Mia Hogg, broad-shouldered and fierce as a she-bear, and Mona Dake, the sharp-eyed, sinewy daughter of Lord Cesse Dake of Duskendale.
Though Mona stood scarcely five and a half feet tall, her stance carried a quiet ferocity that silenced the murmuring crowd. She wore black leather, her assassin's blade gleaming like a fang in the moonlight, and a yew longbow slung across her back. Mia, in contrast, bore a longsword forged in the forges of Harrenhal — a weapon that shimmered like pale steel fire.
From the high platform above the yard, Prince Daemon Targaryen leaned forward with amused interest, his silver hair reflecting the flickering firelight.
"You are both warriors of rare mettle," Daemon said, his voice smooth and resonant. "Let us see which of you deserves to stand beside dragons."
The crowd stirred as servants, guards, and even stable boys gathered along the edges of the yard. Beside Daemon sat Prince Baelon Targaryen, calm and steady, with Lord Cesse Dake and the aged warrior Ser Qiong Qi Dake, once famed across the Riverlands for her unmatched swordplay.
Lord Cesse frowned, his fingers tightening on the railing.
"Mia Hogg is too tall, too strong," he murmured. "My daughter will be cut down."
The old knight gave a faint smile.
"Strength alone wins few battles, my lord," said Ser Qiong Qi. "The sword that dances is deadlier than the hammer that strikes."
The first clash came like thunder. Mona darted forward, blade flashing with deadly precision. Mia met her blow head-on, sparks bursting from their meeting like falling stars.
They circled, steel singing, moonlight glinting off sweat-slick armor. Mona moved like a lynx — fluid, unpredictable — while Mia fought with the raw, disciplined power of a trained knight. Strike after strike, they pressed one another to the limit, until the air itself seemed to tremble with the rhythm of their blades.
Ser Qiong Qi watched with the faraway eyes of memory. She thought of the tourneys at King's Landing — of Lucamore Strong, Joffrey Doggett, the she-knight Kali who once fought for her honor. All of them dust now, their bones buried beneath the Seven Kingdoms.
As the duel stretched on, Mia's superior strength began to show. She forced Mona back, step by step, until the smaller woman's boots scraped against the edge of the training pit. But Mona was quick — too quick.
With a flick of her wrist, she cast a weighted net that tangled around Mia's legs. The larger woman stumbled, and in a heartbeat, Mona's slender blade was at her throat.
"Yield," Mona said, smiling through her labored breaths.
Mia's eyes narrowed. Then, with a sudden twist, she disarmed Mona — her sword sending the assassin's blade skittering across the stones.
"You fight like a shadow," Mia said, rising. "But even shadows bleed."
Daemon laughed aloud, the sound ringing like a challenge across the courtyard.
"Enough! Both of you have fought well. Westeros has too few women who know steel as you do."
He rose, his crimson cloak billowing.
"Mona Dake, from this day, you shall serve in the royal guard — alongside Mia Hogg. The Crown will have need of shields such as you."
Applause rippled through the spectators as the two women bowed.
Later that night, within the candlelit study of Lord Cesse Dake, the air smelled of parchment and melting wax. Charts and sea maps covered the oak table, their corners curling in the heat.
"The Sea Snake's trade grows unchecked," Lord Cesse said, his brow furrowed. "His Spice Town has stolen much of Duskendale's commerce. I would petition His Grace for a royal charter to expand our markets."
Prince Baelon inclined his head.
"When we return to King's Landing, I will place your request before the Small Council."
Daemon leaned lazily against the wall, his voice low and sharp.
"Petitions will not win you what Corlys Velaryon earned with daring. He built his wealth through the Nine Voyages, not with ink and seals. You'll never surpass the Sea Snake by hiding in your harbor."
"The sea is a cruel mistress," the Count muttered. "My ships suffice for trade. I will not risk men's lives for folly."
Daemon smiled faintly.
"Then at least fortify your docks. Sooner or later, the Crown will need Duskendale to stand guard against smugglers and pirates. When that day comes, your harbor will become the shield of the Crownlands."
For the first time that night, Lord Cesse's eyes glimmered with ambition.
"Truly, my prince?"
"Truly," Daemon said softly — though whether it was promise or prophecy, none could tell.
At dawn, the courtyard filled with clamor and hoofbeats. Mona and Mia rode at the head of the escort, armor gleaming. Prince Baelon and Daemon mounted their dragons — Vhagar, ancient and vast, and Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm whose scarlet scales burned beneath the rising sun.
Lord Cesse approached Daemon before takeoff.
"They say you are a dreamer, my prince," he said quietly. "Tell me — have you seen the fate of my house in your dreams?"
Daemon's violet eyes flickered. In the depths of his mind, he saw flashes: Duskendale aflame, the Bloodstone King chained in a dungeon, the banners of the Westerlands blotting the horizon, a count's widow weeping before a pyre.
"Tell your heirs," he murmured, "to keep no company with Myrish women… and forget that city charter."
Before the stunned lord could reply, Daemon mounted Caraxes, the dragon's roar echoing over the castle walls as crimson wings beat the sky. Vhagar followed, vast and terrible, casting long shadows across the fields below.
That evening, Dragonstone rose from the mist like a specter — white walls glistening against the dark sea, the domed towers glowing faintly beneath the stars. The small harbor bustled with life: five ships anchored in the bay — three of Earl Kevin Stanton's, one from Pentos, and one bearing the golden seahorse of Corlys Velaryon.
Earl Kevin himself awaited them, handsome and grave in blue silk, his pregnant lady beside him and their children lined in solemn greeting.
The air was thick with the sound of crows. They clung to rooftops and trees, black silhouettes against the dying light.
"Why so many crows?" Daemon asked.
The youngest child, Tom Stanton, only eight, looked up with moss-green eyes.
"They watch dragons, my lord. They are the eyes of the old gods. My maester says the Green Men send them to see through the world."
Daemon studied the boy for a moment — small, sharp, and strangely calm. There was something unsettling in his tone, something that stirred faint memories of another boy long dead at Summerhall.
Dinner that night was humble but rich: milk bread and honeyed quail, creamed herring, and larks stuffed with pine nuts. When the meal was done, Daemon lingered in the courtyard, watching the children play.
Tom Stanton looked up again, his gaze fixed on Mia Hogg.
"I dreamed you in white armor," he said. "A knight of the Kingsguard."
Mia laughed, shaking her head.
"A girl cannot be a Kingsguard."
"Not just any girl," Tom said. "My Green Dreams never lie. I dreamed of a bronze dragon with a broken wing, a silver mate dying in fire, and a hatchling shrouded in death. I dreamed of three sisters chased by giants, dragons, and seahorses — and sailors eaten by crabs on a rocky shore. Green Dreams always come true."
Daemon's expression darkened. The words echoed in his thoughts like the tolling of a bell. Perhaps the boy spoke madness. Or perhaps the old gods still watched, patient and silent, from roots that ran deeper than dragonfire.
Above them, Caraxes and Vhagar shifted restlessly in their roosts, wings rustling like whispers. The night grew heavy with unseen omens — and the future, as always, trembled on the edge of prophecy.
End of Chapter 40 — "Raven's Rest"
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