Frostfyre
darkfire1220
Chapter 25: Of Ships, Thorns, and Fire
Summary:
Monford Velaryon begins to move on Dragonstone. Jon and Frostfyre fly through Westeros towards Highgarden.
Jon meets the Tyrells, and negotiations begin.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter Twenty-Five: Of Ships, Thorns, and Fire
Monford Velaryon considered himself to be a man of action.
The Master of Driftmark heralded from an impressive lineage; his family bore the blood of Old Valyria, and they'd been important supporters of House Targaryen throughout their dynasty. Several times had they married into the House of the Dragon, keeping the blood of the Targaryens strong and breeding Dragon Riders time and again with their unions.
People often forgot that Aegon the Conquerer and his sister-wives had a Velaryon mother.
Even now, after the fall of House Targaryen, they commanded a significant portion of the Royal Fleet—perhaps the most important naval force the King of the Seven Kingdoms possessed. They were survivors, capable of going on with or without their once-indomitable scions.
Well. Joffrey had no allegiance from House Velaryon now.
What had started as impossible whispers of a Dragon Rider across the Narrow Sea had built up into a surge of reignited loyalties. A Dragon King, the last of the Targaryens, had emerged and returned to Westeros astride the first dragon in over a hundred years!
The country was in turmoil. Between Euron Greyjoy's assault on the North, the Lannisters aligning with the Crow's-Eye, and the ever-growing rumors of Joffrey Baratheon's true lineage, Monford could smell opportunity like a shark tasting blood in the water. Stannis Baratheon and his younger brother were squabbling as they marched for King's Landing to wrest the Iron Throne from their nephew.
In the meantime, the ancestral, Westerosi home of House Targaryen was completely unguarded. Monford knew exactly what move he could make to show the Dragon King where his loyalties lay.
The ships were being prepared at that very moment. He stood at the helm of the Pride of Driftmark, his flagship. Although it would likely not be necessary, he wanted a show of force to drive home beyond any doubt that Dragonstone was once again under the control of House Targaryen and its allies.
Amidst the sounds of sailors bustling to load the ships in the harbor, he heard boots approaching him as they tread atop the wooden deck of the Pride. He half-turned as his bastard brother, Aurane Waters, came to a stop at his side.
Bastard or not, Aurane certainly had the look of House Velaryon—he and Monford could barely be told apart. Both were tall, though Aurane had a few inches on him, and they each bore the silver-gold hair of their Valyrian ancestors. The main difference was the eyes—Monford's were purple, like the Targaryen's, and Aurane's were grey-green.
Though he was not true-born, Aurane was a useful captain who had proved his mettle time and again on the seas. He was one of Monford's favored commanders.
"We'll be ready to leave within the hour, my Lord," Aurane told him.
"Good. I want this done quickly and decisively."
"Reports say that Stannis has relocated most of his forces to Storm's End. If there is any resistance remaining at Dragonstone, it will be of no consequence."
Monford nodded. "You will take command of the Seahorse. When we arrive, lead half of our forces and sweep around the island from the north. I will bring the other half along the south. We will catch them between us. Baratheon ships can sink if they do not surrender immediately, but I want the castle as unmarred as possible."
"It will be done, my Lord," Aurane bowed and then strode off to take command of the Seahorse as his half-brother had ordered.
Monford shifted on his feet, resting his arm on the grip of his sword. Soon, Dragonstone would once again belong to dragons. Not stags who had no business residing on an island.
A raven was already flying to Winterfell, to inform Jaehaerys Targaryen that Dragonstone was once more under the rightful command of his House.
The God's Eye was a beautiful sight in moonlight, Jon admitted. It was a huge expanse of glassy water, peaceful at first glance. And yet, its shores had seen some of the most unspeakable violence committed by dragons in the history of Westeros.
He and Frostfyre were taking a wide loop around the oncoming Lannister forces, in order to mitigate the chances that they might be spotting heading away from the North. As a result, they were currently hidden in a thick grove of trees by the lakeside. It had taken some shifting on Frostfyre's part—and a few unfortunate trees had simply been shoved out of the way—but they managed to make themselves comfortable for the night.
It had been an exhausting trip already. Jon realized as they traveled that they'd be crossing over too many heavily populated areas if they made a straight shot south to Highgarden. As a result, they were zig-zagging their way across Westeros. The first night had seen them in the western woods of the Neck, the second in mountains at the edge of the Vale's territory. Now here they were, on the northern edge of God's Eye.
They could see the twisted, ruined towers of a great castle to the northwest. Although they had flown over as the moon rose, using the cover of darkness to disguise their approach, the sheer size of it still boggled the mind.
Their little camp was lit only by the moon, which cast a silver sheen over everything in sight. Jon pointed to the old fortress, and Frostfyre's gaze followed the gesture.
"Have I ever told you about that place?" Jon asked. The dragon merely blinked.
"The castle is Harrenhal. In the years before Aegon's Conquest, King Harren of House Hoare ordered its construction. This was back when the Ironborn ruled over the Riverlands, as well," he began. "It took them forty years to complete. They say the last stones for the castle were laid on the day Aegon and his sisters landed in Westeros. It was so immense, a million men could have marched on it and a million men would have been repelled.
"When Aegon came here, he ordered Harren to yield, or his family line would end. Harren refused, even after seeing the dragons Aegon brought with him. He said, 'Stone doesn't burn'."
Frostfyre snorted. Jon grinned at her. "Aegon flew up on Balerion, high into the sky until Harrenhal was as tiny as an ant's mound beneath them. Then they plunged into the castle, inside the walls, and Balerion bathed it all in fire. Harren was right—stone doesn't burn, but men do. And even those who hid inside the castle doomed themselves. The more fire Balerion breathed, the hotter the stone became. He turned the castle into the world's biggest oven. King Harren burned to death inside, along with the rest of his line."
The dragon's lip curved into a mockery of a smile, seemingly amused by the tale. Jon rubbed her snout with a hand. "Aegon's victory drove the Ironborn back to the Iron Islands, where they belonged. Just as well—can you imagine what it would be like to deal with Euron and his ice dragon if that monstrosity was their stronghold?"
She let a puff white flame escape her mouth. Jon chuckled.
"True. It's not as if we'd be fighting the ice dragon inside the castle, anyways."
Jon's gaze left the ruined castle and returned to the massive lake. His smile faded some. "This was also where the last great battle of the Dance of the Dragons took place. Daemon Targaryen and his dragon, Caraxes, were hunting his nephew Aemond and Vhagar. He made an announcement that he would be waiting at Harrenhal for them. For fourteen days, he waited. Each day, he slashed the Heart Tree in the castle's godswood. Finally, Aemond and Vhagar arrived.
"They drove their dragons into the sky above the lake. Caraxes was smaller than Vhagar by half—by then, Vhagar was almost as big as Balerion had been, and nearly as old, too. But Caraxes was the most furious dragon Westeros has ever known. He was called 'the Blood Wyrm' for good reason.
"At their peak, Caraxes climbed above Vhagar and flew down. He clamped onto Vhagar's throat with his teeth and didn't let go, even as Vhagar ripped his belly open with her claws and tore one of his wings off. The dragons fell towards the lake, and Daemon leapt from his saddle and onto Vhagar, where he drove his sword, Dark Sister, through Aemond's blind eye. When they crashed into the lake, the water flew up so high they say it could have touched the highest towers of Harrenhal."
Jon let out a sigh. "None of them survived, of course. Caraxes somehow managed to get to shore, but his guts were spilling from his belly and he'd lost one of his wings. He died soon after the battle. Vhagar and Aemond washed up a few years later, I think. Caraxes tore out Vhagar's throat. No one ever found Daemon's body, so I suppose it's possible he survived, but he was never seen again. Chances are he's nothing but a skeleton at the bottom of the lake."
Frostfyre seemed content to just watch him, but she was listening raptly. Jon wished he could tell what she was thinking.
"House Targaryen had twenty dragons before the civil war began. When it was over, there were just four alive in Westeros. Two of them disappeared completely. One made a lair on an island in Red Lake. The last was the only dragon still bonded to a Rider at Dragonstone. In two years, they were almost all destroyed, along with the Targaryens."
He drummed his fingers against her scales, lost in thought for a moment. "People do such mad things for power, Frostfyre. My ancestors were their own worst enemies. The dragons became extinct for a century because of their struggle over the Iron Throne."
The dragon made a low rumble in her throat. Jon leaned his head against her skull. "We have to be different from them. We have to be better. If we can get the eggs to hatch, maybe we can bring more dragons back."
A smile suddenly leapt unbidden to his lips. "Wouldn't that be something? A nest of baby dragons? Little terrors getting up to all manner of trouble? They'd probably set everything in sight on fire."
Frostfyre snorted again. Jon's tone became teasing. "Come now, my sister. Wouldn't it be fun to be a mother?"
She growled at him and her gentle nudge almost knocked him over. Jon laughed for a few moments. He was quiet for a time afterwards.
"Dany is with child," he murmured. He shook his head in disbelief. "It doesn't feel real to me. I'm going to be a father. Just saying that aloud sounds…unbelievable."
Jon swallowed tightly. "I just—I need everything to work out. I need for Dany and the baby to be alright. I need them to be alive and well when we go back to Winterfell. I do not know how I would manage without her, Frostfyre. And if we lose the babe…if something goes wrong…what will I do?"
The rumble again, but quieter this time. The closest thing a dragon could make to a soothing purr. He looked at her great eye and purple laced with moon's silver stared back at him, communicating an unspoken message.
The dragon shifted, bringing one of her great wings up to cover Jon like a canopy. Her glowing eye was the only light left beneath it, and as he watched, it slowly closed.
He took the hint and banished his worries and demons from his thoughts. Jon settled against Frostfyre's jaw, closed his eyes, and made to sleep.
They still had a long journey ahead of them.
The next two days were nerve-wracking for Jon. They were deep in enemy territory, caught between the Westerlands and the Crownlands. King's Landing and Lannisport were literally a day's flight in either direction.
They holed up in the mountains of the Westerlands after they left God's Eye and headed southwest. Normally, he might've pushed a bit farther, but he really did not want to be any closer to the King's Road than was necessary. Unfriendly eyes were everywhere in these parts.
He was torn on what to do on the next day. They were just two days out from Highgarden, but there were few places they could conceal themselves. The problem with the Reach, Jon realized, was that it was so wide-open with fields and farms, that there was almost nowhere to rest in the night where they wouldn't be spotted.
The people of the Reach weren't allies yet. He didn't know who they could trust to not give away their position to Euron and Tywin. The Northern forces weren't helpless without them, of course, but Jon did not want to give their enemy any sort of advantage if he could help it.
There was one possible place to hide lingering in his thoughts, but it would be pushing it, even for Frostfyre, to make it in a single day from their current position. But he didn't see another way.
They flew southeast above the Mander River for Red Lake.
There were small islands on it, he knew, and those were just remote enough to serve their purposes. The good news was that the farther south they went, the hotter it got, and the warm winds made flying easier for Frostfyre.
It was the single longest flight they'd attempted, even greater a distance than the narrow stretches of ocean they'd crossed to fly back and forth between Essos and Westeros. By the time the lake was in sight, Jon was stiff, his skin red and tender from long hours of exposure to the sun, and even Frostfyre was weary beneath him.
He spotted the tiny island in the center of the lake and felt relief course through his bones. The moon was already rising, so long had they been in the sky. They dove towards the island, a speck of land barely noticeable amidst the dark waves of the lake.
There was only one reason Jon knew this place existed.
A cavern took up most of the island, big enough for even Frostfyre to fit within. As they landed, heavier than usual due to their exhaustion, Jon stumbled down from his dragon partner and led her inside. She let out a deep sigh, tail almost dragging behind her.
It was so dark he could barely see. Frostfyre sniffed the air, then spat a half-hearted gout of fire onto the debris covering the cave floor.
Jon found a dead stick lying nearby and knelt to pick it up, lighting the end with dragonfire so they could see better. He led Frostfyre deeper in, and soon they found the back of the cavern.
And its lonely, last inhabitant.
His breath caught. Frostfyre stopped in her tracks and made a startled noise in her throat.
The skeleton of a dragon was curled up in the back of the cave, as big as Frostfyre—no, bigger. Untouched, undisturbed, and unmarred. Not even the Targaryens before him had come here to claim the skull, as they had for almost every other dragon bound to their family.
So unbothered was the mountain of bones, so perfectly protected by the cave from the weather, that Jon could even see the slightest sheen of silver-gray on the once-mighty scales that littered the cavern floor around them. Almost a century and a half later, and still she rested here.
His heart broke a little at the sight. "Oh, Silverwing…"
Jon set his makeshift torch down and knelt beside the huge skull. Once, this had been the dragon that hatched for Queen Alysanne Targaryen. She had been tightly bound to her mate, Vermithor, and many of the Targaryen dragons descended from her blood. The offspring of Meraxes and Balerion the Black Dread himself. And also…
"This is your grandmother, Frostfyre," Jon choked out.
His dragon let out a keen, lowering her head beside the remains of Silverwing and breathing in any faint traces of scent that remained in the old bones. Jon doubted there was much to find. She'd been here for so long, he imagined the bones smelled like the cave around them.
He gingerly set his hand on the old skull, hoping not to damage it. As with all dragon bones—though Jon had never seen such bones before—they were black, due to the iron that made them so strong.
They were surprisingly sturdy beneath his touch, but then maybe it wasn't such a surprise. The skulls of other Targaryen dragons were still in one piece beneath the Red Keep, after all. Jon thanked any gods who existed that no one had disturbed Silverwing's final resting place. The island had been her lair following the Dance of the Dragons, and clearly no one in the Reach had been foolish enough to bother her.
No one was really sure exactly when Silverwing died. She'd simply stopped appearing from the cave one day, or so Aemon had told him once before. Jon saw no obvious wounds marring the dragon's skeleton.
He doubted it was age. Balerion had been almost two-hundred years old by the time he died in the Dragonpit. Silverwing had barely crossed a century.
But she'd been so tightly bound to Vermithor throughout her life. It was said that when her mate fell in battle during the Dance of the Dragons, Silverwing had tried to lift his wings thrice in the night as if to rouse him. By the time the civil war ended, she'd been alone and riderless.
The Dragonseed, Nettles, had flown off into the depths of the Vale's mountains with her mount, Sheepstealer, and was never seen again. The Cannibal on Dragonstone also vanished. The only other dragon belonging to the Targaryens who survived the Dance of the Dragons, Morning, was just a hatchling.
Jon wondered if it was possible for a dragon to die of a broken heart. Along with her mate, how many of her hatchlings had Silverwing lost during the civil war? Maybe she'd isolated herself in her grief, out here in this lonely cave, and simply continued to live until she lost the will to go on.
No one could know for sure. Silverwing's final moments were hers, and hers alone. But for the first time in almost a hundred and fifty years, she had some company which perhaps would not have bothered her in life.
Jon picked up the torch and slowly walked around the dragon's old, dilapidated nest. He felt like something of an intruder—especially while Frostfyre was nuzzling the bones with a tenderness he'd never seen from her before—but he needed to look around. Despite his exhaustion and the solemn discovery, they needed some answers.
Walking up and down her massive skeleton, Jon searched the old lair carefully. He was looking for a very specific kind of object in the remnants of Silverwing's nest.
His search was fruitless, in the end. There were no dragon eggs to be found. Jon wasn't really surprised—if she'd laid a clutch here, Silverwing undoubtedly would have been more than capable of getting her own eggs to hatch. Still, it was a bit disappointing. Even one egg would have been an incredible find.
He rejoined Frostfyre, who had settled onto the cave floor length-for-length beside the skeleton of her grandmother. Jon could see the size difference, which wasn't as great as he expected, if he was honest. Silverwing was big, but for a dragon that was a hundred years old or more, she wasn't as bulky as he'd thought she'd be.
Dragons, Jon knew, grew at different paces. Meraxes, for example, had been younger than Vhagar, but at the time of her death, had been even larger than the older dragon. Most went through incredible bursts in their younger years, but their growth slowed to a crawl the older they got.
He'd learned from Aemon that baby dragons, if fed properly and allowed to fly free, could go from the size of a cat to a beast as large as a bear inside of two years.
Frostfyre had grown slowly in the cold beyond the Wall, with its limited food, before she'd really hit her stride and grown explosively. Jon wondered how much bigger the dragon would be if she'd been able to eat properly in those early years.
Nothing for it now.
Jon sat down beside Frostfyre's head, stroking her scales and staring at the empty eye sockets of a once-beautiful she-dragon.
At least for tonight, Silverwing wasn't alone anymore.
Highgarden was a majestic sight as the sun fell ever closer to the horizon. It always was.
Margaery walked alongside her Lord father as they toured the battlements with a handful of guards. Highgarden's soldiers were more tense than usual due to the threat of war raging around them, but still they were friendly and greeted the two of them respectfully as they passed.
As happy as Margaery was to see her people, she couldn't help but feel that touring the battlements was an odd thing to do at this time of the day. It certainly was for her father, who would usually be getting ready to eat and rest for the night.
They'd spoken of trivial day-to-day matters on the way here, the young woman following her father without question as they left the streets and climbed the steps to the walls of soldiers. Finally too curious to avoid the question, she spoke her mind.
"Not that I am not pleased to see our men hearty and hale, but why come here, father?"
Lord Tyrell nodded to a group of men who saluted them with respectful murmurs, then answered her. "Call it stress, my dear. Between your grandmother's planning and the wars north of our borders, I have found myself upon the battlements on many an evening this past moon. Forgive me the long walk; I wasn't really even thinking about where I was going."
"It is understandable, father," she replied gracefully. "Dragons stir fear in the hearts of men."
"That they do," he admitted. "I never imagined in my wildest dreams that dragons would return to Westeros one day. Never in my lifetime, I was sure. Terrible beasts men should never have trifled with."
"Perhaps not, but here they are, and we must adapt as we always have," Margaery lay a reassuring hand on Lord Tyrell's arm. "Our family survived the conquest of Aegon Targaryen and the chaos of the Dance of the Dragons. We will survive this new war, as we have the ones before."
"I pray you speak the truth, my dear. The dragons of House Targaryen are to be feared, it is known, but this…strange frozen beast Euron Greyjoy has leashed to his whim…it is what I believe I fear more so than anything else."
She couldn't help but agree with that. They knew next to nothing of this so-called ice dragon and the dangers it presented, only that it would be pointed to them if Euron began to drive his forces inland.
Margaery glanced past one of the soldiers, looking to the north over the fields beyond Highgarden. Peaceful and quiet, with the ever-dwindling murmurs of their people as they began to settle for the night to come. The sun was a dimming sphere of darkening light to the west, growing more and more obscured by the horizon even while it bathed the lands in rays of reddish gold.
A flicker of movement caught her attention, a motion in the colored sky she believed to be a bird at first. She focused on it but briefly, ready to dismiss it until she suddenly realized how…unusual it was. How large, despite the distance. She stopped in place and frowned at it, frowned at the bizarre up-and-down motion of the body—
"Margaery?" Lord Tyrell stopped and half-turned towards his daughter.
"What is that?"
"What is what?"
She opened her mouth and froze as a sound reached her ears, from far away and yet louder than thunder.
A shriek, a roar, a noise that stirred the most primal fear in her belly and silenced all of Highgarden for a single moment. A terrible bellow that undoubtedly came from the strange shape flying ever closer to their home.
And it hit her.
"DRAGON!" A guard nearby screamed, and chaos filled the silence.
Highgarden rose into a clamor of terror, soldiers scrambling to arm themselves and commanders shouting orders. Civilians screamed and fled indoors, leaving messes of supplies and their own belongings strewn in the streets.
"Margaery—Ser, take her to the castle, quickly!"
"Father, wait—!"
"This is not to be argued! You must flee!"
Reason and logic drilled into her by her grandmother for so many years finally snapped Margaery out of her brief terror. "STOP!"
Her father and the soldiers hesitated and she pushed on before the fear could reclaim them. "That must be King Jaehaerys! Father, think! He must have come to speak with grandmother!"
"We don't know for sure—"
"Why would Euron send his dragon here? He's too busy fighting the Northerners!"
Mace hesitated and glanced at the incoming dragon again. As they watched, tense and uncertain, the creature banked right and began to fly in a circle around Highgarden. It was fast—Margaery could barely believe how quickly it had gone from a distant shape to the aerial behemoth soaring above them.
Oh, and how huge it was! The wings blotted out so much of the sky, the body long and armored with thick scales. It let out a low growl that send a shiver down her spine, shaking its long neck
It was staying out of range of their archers, and she could see a fair few arrows being shot at the beast, and yet it wasn't attacking. It didn't seem to care in the slightest about the missiles. She watched it loop around the castle and then return to the northern side of their city, slowly drawing closer to the ground.
No enemy armies. No attacks from the dragon. Non-hostile. And as the dragon turned, she saw a small, dark shape riding on its back.
"That has to be Jaehaerys," Margaery spun back towards her father. "We have to make the soldiers stand down before they anger the dragon."
Mace finally seemed to agree and nodded, looking to his waiting soldiers. "Get the word out! This isn't an attack! The Dragon King is here for a peace meeting. Stand our soldiers down before they bring dragonfire down on the city!"
His men scrambled to follow his orders, the chain of command re-established as they hurried to get the word out. Mace began to stride down the battlement steps and Margaery hurried alongside him. She needed to be present when Jaehaerys was received by her Lord father—unexpected or not, appearances had to be kept up.
By the time they reached the gates, the tension was palpable, but the panic was settled. Citizens were hesitantly coming back out to clean up after the brief chaos, and the soldiers were armed and at the ready, but no longer in a frenzy to prepare the defenses.
They met her brother, Garlan, at the gates. He was grim-faced and evidently ready for a fight should it come to it, but the paleness in his face told Margaery he already knew this was not a battle they could win.
Not against a dragon. Certainly not a dragon of such size.
"Father," he greeted Lord Tyrell, who reached up to clasp his son's shoulder.
"I want you to guard your sister," Mace told him. "We must meet our guest."
"What is he doing here?"
"We will find out. Come."
Garlan nodded and looked to the soldiers in the gate towers, calling up to them. "Open the gates!"
There was a brief pause, and then the gates began to part in a low rumble. Margaery remained close to her brother as an entourage of knights surrounded her family, ready to defend them with their lives. On the battlements above, archers were armed and at the ready, for what good arrows would do them against such a foe.
When they began to march through the widening gates, Margaery finally got a close look at the dragon.
She'd thought it was large before when it was flying above them. Close-up, it was a giant. The biggest living thing she'd ever seen, by and far. The skull alone was large enough to swallow a horse, lengthy and almost snake-like were it not for the spattering of horns and spikes along its head. Its great wings were folded so it stood on the joints, supported by a single claw on each limb. The legs were strong and the talons wickedly curved. A long tail swayed back and forth, like a whip ready to lash out.
It was massive, it was beautiful, it was terrifying.
And it was much more quiet than before.
It was almost eerie to Margaery, how silent the beast was as they got closer. Sharp, dark eyes studied them with an intelligence that she couldn't match to any animal she'd ever seen.
Her gaze fell from the dragon to its Rider.
Diminutive though he was compared to his beast, Jaehaerys Targaryen was tall for a young man. She knew from what her grandmother had told her that the Dragon King was her age, or perhaps just a few moons older. Both of them, along with Robb Stark, had been born at the end of Robert's Rebellion.
He was taller than her father, she could tell—as tall as Garlan, she thought, who was the tallest man of the Tyrell family. Yet as with any teenager, he had a lankiness to him that was, to be fair, mostly covered up by his Northern attire. An unfinished quality that was unsurprising, since he was not yet fully grown.
But he was dark of hair and dark of eyes, with a solemn, yet guarded face. Handsome in a way she could only associate with his evidently Northern features, for Northerners were exceedingly rare outside of their vast, empty kingdom. His left hand rested on the pommel of a sword, and though he donned light armor, he bore no shield. The crimson, three-headed dragon of House Targaryen found its insignia over his heart.
He stood beside his dragon, who lowered her head to his side. Margaery watched in silent awe as Jaehaerys reached up to stroke the creature's brow, a fond smile curving his lips. The dragon puffed air out of its nostrils, looking at him briefly before its gaze returned to their entourage.
Only now did Jaehaerys push at the dragon, stepping away from her and coming forward to meet them. The beast lifted its head high to look down upon them, but made no move otherwise.
They stopped what Margaery assumed her father believed was a safe distance from the dragon—as if there was such a thing!—and waited for Jaehaerys to reach them. He didn't have far to walk, but they remained closer to the gates than to the dragon.
"Jaehaerys Targaryen," Mace greeted as the Dragon King came to a stop several paces away from them. "I am Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden. The Lord Paramount of the Mander, Defender of the Marches, and High Marshall of the Reach. I am Warden of the South and the Head of House Tyrell. I must say, we weren't expecting a personal visit from you so soon."
"I know," his voice was soft and quieter than she was expecting. In fact, the more Margaery looked at him, the harder it was to believe he was of Targaryen blood. He looked nothing like the silver-haired, violet eyed dynasty she'd only heard tell of. He was Northern in every aspect of his appearance.
It was no wonder Eddard Stark had blindsided absolutely everybody with this boy's identity. He'd taken after Lyanna Stark entirely and left nothing of Rhaegar Targaryen save his blood.
Well. She glanced back at the dragon behind him and refuted that thought. Not nothing.
"I apologize for my sudden visit," Jaehaerys continued, and she refocused on him. "Lord Stark and I decided that the information we wished to discuss with you was too sensitive to risk on ravens flying through Lannister lands. And we believed it would be best to speak in-person."
"We are pleased to meet you, although I daresay you gave our city quite a fright."
Margaery pressed her lips at the comment. It was not wholly offensive, but her father really didn't need to voice it.
But the Dragon King took it in stride and dipped his head. "Again, I apologize. There truly is no way to prepare for a dragon. I know she must be frightening for those who have never seen such a creature before, but Frostfyre means you no harm. You have my word."
Mace let his gaze slide to the dragon. He seemed mollified, if perhaps slightly unconvinced. "You must forgive me, but we do not have a Dragonpit or the like prepared for her. I am not sure where she can stay."
Again, Margaery felt tempted to simply take over from her father—he wasn't handling this quite as well as she liked—but Jaehaerys just shook his head. "There is no need, my Lord. Cities are not suited to housing dragons, Dragonpit or not. She will stay in the wilderness while I am here."
"She will not need food?"
"She will hunt for herself. She always has. And truly, I would prefer it remain that way," Jaehaerys admitted to himself at the end. "Shall I send her off?"
Mace finally relaxed a little. "If you are ready to join us, I think it would put the city at ease."
The Dragon King nodded and turned back to his mount—Frostfyre, Margaery reminded herself—walking to her in just a few moments. The dragon lowered her head to meet him, and she watched as Jaehaerys stroked her snout and spoke quietly to the creature. Within a minute, she was turning away from her Rider and got a short, running start before launching herself into the sky once again, twisting towards the west banks of the Mander River.
Jaehaerys returned to them, once more meeting the eyes of her Lord father. "Shall we?"
Mace nodded, called for his bannermen to surround them, and led the group back inside the walls of Highgarden.
It was strange, Jon reflected, being more or less on his own like this. Highgarden had received him with minimal hostilities—he'd seen a few of those arrows fly towards Frostfyre, though he knew they were panic shots and none had gotten anywhere close to them.
They were tense, however. The soldiers were watching him with barely-concealed fear in their eyes, and only the commanders and senior knights were disciplined enough to hide it convincingly.
Mace himself was tense, Jon could tell. He was a big man. Not as large as Master Illyrio had been, but he had a visible belly and fat on his face. A warrior he might've been once, but no longer. Still, he kept a brisk pace as they made their way first through the labyrinth Jon had only heard tell of.
Highgarden's castle had three rings of white stone surrounding it, with the space between the outer and middle walls filled with a labyrinth of briars that served both to entertain guests and slow down any invaders. Only those who knew the labyrinth well could navigate it effectively. The next ring, between the inner and middle walls, was filled with courtyards, groves, and fountains, and all around him he could see ivy, grapes, and climbing roses decorating the castle.
He couldn't really recognize any of their entourage from what Lord Stark had told him before he'd left their army, but Jon was mostly sure the girl who was present must've been Margaery Tyrell—the girl Lady Olenna wanted married to Robb.
Highgarden was growing dark in the fading light. It had been a lovely sight in the sunset, but Jon had a feeling its true beauty would be more evident in the light—and probably easier to take in once the city recovered from the shock of a dragon flying to its doorstep.
Once they reached the palatial keep, another knight met them and spoke quietly to Lord Tyrell, briefly glancing at Jon. He waited in silence, a thought away from Frostfyre if it became necessary to call his dragon.
Jon didn't think this was a trap, but he couldn't be too careful.
They made their way to a tower courtyard in the eastern section of the castle, which looked out over the Reach itself. A table lit by candlelight was laid out that could comfortably seat perhaps a half-dozen people.
Sitting at it was an old woman with a shrewd face, whom Jon immediately knew had to be Olenna Tyrell. Although she was small—as small as a child, with soft, spotted hands and thin fingers, it would be the height of idiocy to underestimate her.
This was the Queen of Thorns.
"Mother," Lord Tyrell greeted her, and before he could get another word out, Olenna silenced him with a stare. Behind her were a pair of guardsmen whom Jon could not tell apart. They must've been twins.
"Took you long enough," Olenna muttered. "What, did you give him a tour of the whole castle?"
"We came as quickly as we could," Mace promised her, then turned to Jon. "Your Grace, this is my mother—"
"I'm sure he has gathered that given that the first word out of your mouth was 'mother'," Olenna snapped impatiently. "And I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself."
"Mother, please. This is important."
"Oh, do shut up, dear. Make yourself useful and offer our guest a seat. Garlan, Margaery, join us. Willas should be along—ah, there he is."
Jon half-glanced over his shoulder as a man limped out into the courtyard with a cane supporting him. He'd heard of Willas; Lord Tyrell's eldest son, crippled during a jousting accident at a tourney when he competed against Prince Oberyn. That incident hadn't done any favors for the long-standing enmity between Dorne and Highgarden.
"Forgive me, grandmother. I was reading in the labyrinth."
"No need to apologize, dear. Have a seat. All of you, have a seat," Olenna waved a hand at the table, which was being filled with food by hurrying servants. "Dinner won't eat itself. Mace, where is your wife?"
"Ah—I imagine she is in our chambers—"
"Well go and get her! Must I do everything around here?"
Mace hurried off without another word and Jon had to admit, he kind of liked the Tyrell matriarch.
He took a seat at the end of the table. One of the knights who had escorted them here—Garlan Tyrell, Jon realized, glanced at Olenna. "Grandmother, I should have my armor removed before I join you. I will return with all swiftness."
Olenna nodded. "Do so. This table is still half-empty."
Garlan bowed, then turned on his heel and strode off. Margaery and Willas took their seats on either side of their grandmother.
"Must anything else be done before I can finally greet our guest?" Olenna asked.
"Father did not take the time to introduce myself or Garlan," Margaery replied.
Olenna let out an exasperated sigh. "And it still took him—never mind."
She took a grape between her fingers and met Jon's eyes. Though aged, her gaze was sharp as her tongue. "You've already heard bits and pieces from this…fiasco of a greeting. My son is an oaf, just like his father. You must forgive me that, I am afraid. Regardless, I am Lady Olenna, as you no doubt have figured out. This is my eldest grandson, Willas, and my granddaughter, Margaery. We are pleased to have you here, Your Grace."
"The pleasure is mine," Jon replied, greeting her grandchildren one after another before he moved on. "I apologize for my sudden visit. Lord Stark and I decided the information we wished to share with your House was too sensitive to risk with ravens flying though Lannister territory. And we thought negotiating in-person would be more effective."
"I see. Well, let us eat as we speak. You've covered quite a distance in an impressively short time."
"It took us about a week to get here," Jon admitted. Margaery and Willas looked visibly startled by the answer. Dragonback was vastly swifter than any other form of transport Westeros had to offer.
Olenna merely raised an eyebrow. "Imagine, a man with a sense of urgency."
She began to eat, as did her grandchildren, and Jon did the same. The meal was mostly fruits—some of which he'd eaten before in Pentos—and some salted meats, as well as bread and wine. It was delicious, to say the least.
Garlan returned soon, and then Lord Tyrell with his Lady wife, who stared at Jon with an expression not unlike a startled deer.
Olenna handled introductions once more. "Garlan Tyrell, my second grandson. And Lady Alerie Hightower, my son's wife."
Jon greeted them both in turn, though only Garlan returned the greeting. Alerie still seemed wary of him.
To be fair, he'd flown in on a dragon.
With the family finally gathered, Olenna began to speak again. "We're missing one of my grandchildren, but Loras is fooling around in Renly Baratheon's bed, so his absence cannot be helped."
Jon almost choked on his wine at the admission, but managed to force it down and compose himself. That was a surprise, to say the least. "It is no trouble."
"Not for you, no," Olenna sighed. "But regardless of my grandson's foolishness, let us get to the matter at hand."
He schooled himself and reached into a pouch at his waist, pulling out a letter his uncle had written before he left. Jon handed it to Garlan, who had seated himself on Jon's left next to Willas. "Lord Stark wrote this before I flew here. I can negotiate on his behalf to some degree as well, if need be."
Garlan took the letter and passed it down to his grandmother, who opened it and scanned the writing shrewdly. Jon watched her, curious to see how she would react. Lord Stark hadn't overly demanding in his negotiations with the Queen of Thorns, so he imagined this would go well, but he didn't dare assume given who he was dealing with.
Olenna looked up at him.
"Done."
Jon blinked. Well that was easier than he'd been expecting.
"Mother, I should—"
"Look it over if you must, Mace," Olenna passed the letter to her son, who scrambled to read it over. "But it's a moot point. Lord Stark has responded reasonably, as if that was ever going to be a problem. We aren't forming an alliance with Tywin Lannister or Stannis Baratheon, for the love of the gods."
"We're talking about marrying Margaery to Stark's son."
"We've been talking about it for a moon now," she snarked back. "And now we have his cousin dining with us. Do tell us, Your Grace, does Robb Stark have any worrying qualities that would make him a less-than-suitable husband to my granddaughter?"
"Robb is his father's son, my Lady," Jon assured her. "A good, honorable man. He would treat Margaery kindly, as would the rest of our family."
"There you have it," Olenna glanced at Mace, who was still looking over Lord Stark's letter.
Margaery finally spoke, sounding curious more so than nervous. "If I may, Your Grace, how does Robb look? I've only heard little about him."
Jon offered her a small smile. "Robb looks like a Tully, my Lady. He takes after his mother's side much in his looks. He is a bit shorter than me, but built more strongly, I think. And he is always accompanied by his dire wolf, Grey Wind."
"Dire wolf?" Willas asked curiously.
"Aye. Just before Robert Baratheon came to Winterfell to make Lord Stark Hand of the King, they found a dead dire wolf with a litter of pups. Each of the Stark children took one, and Lord Stark took their father as his own partner. The pups are still growing, but each of the six is larger than a normal wolf already, and Lord Stark's dire wolf, Blackfreeze, is as big as a small horse."
"Gods, what a beast," Garlan remarked, shaking his head in disbelief.
"You said six pups?" Margaery frowned briefly. "But Lord Stark has only five children, doesn't he?"
"He does. The last of the pups became mine when I returned to Winterfell with Daenerys and my dragon," Jon confessed. "I am Lady Lyanna Stark's son, and the wolf's blood is within me, just as Lord Stark's children. Ghost is my dire wolf."
"A dire wolf as well as a dragon? Did the wolf come as well?" Garlan asked.
Jon couldn't help but smile a bit. "Ghost isn't as fast as Frostfyre. He remained with the Northern army."
"Frostfyre," Willas tried the name out himself. "A fitting name, from what I've seen. I think I have a thousand questions about you and your dragon."
"I'd be happy to answer them," Jon told him.
The spoke for a while as they ate. Mace and his wife looked over the letter together, murmuring quietly while Lady Olenna seemed content to simply listen in on the conversation. Jon knew he needed to discuss his own House's alliance to House Tyrell, but she seemed willing to wait on that for now. He kind of hoped that matter could wait until tomorrow.
As quickly as Olenna had agreed to the betrothal between Robb and Margaery, Jon needed to rest before he dared attempt to negotiate further with the Queen of Thorns. He was exhausted from the flight, and knew full well that his mind wasn't as sharp as it needed to be to keep up with this shrewd old woman.
He had a feeling she'd been lenient so far. Perhaps she was even being quiet on purpose, letting her grandchildren speak with him so she could get a feel for how Jon thought and spoke.
He wouldn't put it past her.
Jon finished speaking of the battle against the Dothraki khalesar in Pentos just as a yawn overtook him. He covered his mouth with his hand, not so tired that he forgot his propriety. "Forgive me—I'm weary from the flight."
"If you have need of sleep, Your Grace, we can put an end to our conversation here and pick it up again tomorrow," Olenna told him. "There is much we have left to speak of, and I have no intention of staying up all night to talk anymore than you do."
He nodded. "I think that would be best. Thank you, my Lady."
"I will have chambers prepared—" Lord Tyrell began to stand up.
"I already had it done, Mace," Olenna cut him off. "While you were taking your time bringing him here. Margaery, he will be staying in the northwest tower guest chamber. Be a dear and show him there, will you? Garlan, would you go with her?"
"Of course, grandmother," the two of them stood as one, and Jon joined them.
"A bath should be ready for you as well, Your Grace," Olenna told him. "Do get your rest—we will have much to speak of on the morrow."
"I appreciate your generosity, my Lady," Jon bowed, then followed Garlan and Margaery out of the courtyard. He glanced back only briefly, and was unsurprised to see Olenna watching him leave.
Yes, he would need to be at his best to deal with the Queen of Thorns. The easy part was behind him. Now the real work would begin.
Notes:
I LIVE BITCH!
I'm also dead tired. Like, all the time. Honestly, it's a miracle I got this chapter out, but House of the Dragon is giving me a bit of spark back.
I'm hoping to get a new job soon. Two years of nighttime shifts have sucked my soul out. I need to return to a diurnal lifestyle, and hopefully that'll get me back on track.
Anyways, as ever, please review and thanks for reading!