Chapter 23: Ice and Steel
Summary:
Petyr Baelish plots against potential allies of House Targaryen. The Night's Watch learns about the second Dance of the Dragons.
Jon and Frostfyre find themselves meeting an unexpected visitor in the night...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter Twenty-Three: Ice and Steel
Chaos was a ladder. That being said, it was not always a well-made ladder, Petyr reflected. There was a reason so many people lost their grip and fell into the pits of anarchy.
The thing about chaos was that it did no favors for anybody. You had to take advantage of whatever havoc it wreaked, or—if it was particularly unfavorable—you had to roll with the punches to live another day.
The latter summed up his current situation rather nicely.
Littlefinger's plans were being shifted with every passing day more than he could ever remember. The Game of Thrones was a subtle art, one he often danced to with Varys as they played with their pieces on the board. Spies and secrets and whispers, that was the terrain he had mastered over the years. He'd had plans upon plans, ranging all over from success to failure and everything in-between for many more scenarios than most people would bother to imagine.
He still had plenty of plans, but now he had to accommodate for not one, but two, TWO dragons wreaking havoc in Westeros.
Dragons were not board pieces he was familiar with, nor were either of them in any sort of favorable position for him at the moment. Had the dragons not been present, he would have sent parties North to seek out and retrieve the little Lord who was meant to be in the Vale. The mother Petyr would soon marry.
The plan had been to neatly dispose of Lysa and Robert Arryn in separate events. Lysa, known for her unstable mind, would accidentally tumble out the moon door to a tragic end. The young Lord Arryn, always of ill health, would meet an ailment that his weak body could not fight off.
Honestly, it would have been one of his simpler plans, although Petyr knew he needed to be patient in his disposal of them to properly and securely claim his coveted position as Lord of the Vale. But Lysa had let her son slip through her fingers in her giddiness to be married, before Petyr had arrived at her home. The young Lord Arryn had most likely almost reached Winterfell by now, if he wasn't there already.
Winterfell, home of the one woman Petyr had desired throughout his life, the man he despised most, and apparently the Dragon King himself. Littlefinger could be a gambler at times—calculated risks were necessary if one wished to succeed at times—but he was not willing to gamble with dragons. Not when his position was insecure. Not when, he suspected, Ned Stark was already wary of him.
No matter. He had been patient for many years, and he would continue to be so. Some of his plans would face delays or require adjustments, but it would hardly be the first time.
He tapped his finger in thought upon the wood of the desk in his new solar, the former seat of Jon Arryn. The Lord of the Vale he was not, but as Lysa Arryn's intended—and with the current Lord far and away—he had found the seat to be easy enough to obtain. A holding position, he called it, until Robert Arryn returned.
A temporary seat he would one day make more permanent.
His mind wandered to the dragons. New, dangerous, and unpredictable pieces on the game board. For all his dislike of Ned Stark, Petyr had to admit he had not expected the man to be capable of any sort of deceit without being obvious. He had been an exceedingly clumsy politician in King's Landing, a weakness that very nearly got him killed.
The revelation that the Quiet Wolf had hidden away Rhaegar Targaryen's last surviving child under the noses of everyone in Westeros by claiming him as a bastard, not to mention the first living dragon in over a hundred years beyond the Wall—well, perhaps Littlefinger had misjudged the man. He hardly imagined he was the only one to believe so, either.
It seemed Ned Stark was more cunning than he'd given the man credit for.
But truthfully, the dragons themselves weren't necessarily the problem. He couldn't negotiate, ally, or betray a dragon. Their masters were another matter.
Jaehaerys Targaryen and Euron Greyjoy had made themselves into some of the most important pieces on the board quite literally overnight. The son of the late Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark was perhaps the true heir to the Iron Throne, and the first Dragon Rider the world had seen in a very long time. He had already demonstrated the power he wielded with that beast under his command—all the stores he'd heard tell of from Pentos were clear enough about that.
Ten-thousand Dothraki screamers against one Dragon Rider and his beast. It hadn't been a fight at all—it had been a slaughter.
Now they were in Westeros, allied to the North with the rest of House Targaryen. Well, the girl was hardly a threat, but rumors did suggest the possibility that the blood of the dragon was regaining its strength. Perhaps numbers, as well. Nothing concrete, but he would not dismiss the possibility outright until proven otherwise.
The Northern Lords had rallied to their Warden, and with the Targaryen's dragon flying to war with them, they quite possibly could have become the deadliest fighting force in a hundred years.
Could have, if not for the rival found suddenly and unexpectedly in Euron Greyjoy.
News of the Greyjoy Rebellion had only been bothersome to Petyr at first, but even with Euron in revolt, the move gave him plenty of opportunities to work with. Ironborn pirates were easy enough to work with.
Unfortunately, Euron had come to war with a weapon of mass destruction of his own—an Ice Dragon. Where he found such a beast, Petyr couldn't be bothered to discover. More pressing matters concerned him now.
The Greyjoy King had used his monster to bring Tywin Lannister and the Westerlands under his command. There were rumors from the Red Keep that Joffrey was to give the crown to Euron when they won this war against the North, and Cersei would become Queen again to the new King. Of course, Joffrey and Cersei were doing their damnedest to crush such rumors, but they could hide nothing from the likes of Littlefinger and the Spider.
Littlefinger could work with Euron if he won. He imagined his chances for success and any plans he envisioned would be delayed more significantly should Jaehaerys Targaryen win this war. If the boy was anything like Ned Stark, the man who raised him—and indeed if he was even half as charismatic as his blood father had been—he could potentially sweep support from many of the Seven Kingdoms in the aftermath of a victory.
Some of his spies had already reported whispers from the Crownlands further south. The lands that were once under the direct and complete control of the Dragonlords themselves. Old Houses who had become less…significant in the waning years of the Targaryen dynasty were breathing in fresh life.
Not to say they were useless. Many of the Houses in the Crownlands were naval powers, and together their ships made up much of the Royal Fleet itself. But they hadn't brought much to the forefront of the Game of Thrones in a long time.
Thus, such a stir was unsurprising. To find that the House of their old overlords was not dead and, in fact, had regained no small amount of their once-terrifying power would undoubtedly inspire some loyalists to take action. Stannis Baratheon wasn't even on Dragonstone anymore. He and Renly were marching north from Storm's End towards King's Landing.
Not to mention that although many of the Houses in the Crownlands answered directly to the Iron Throne, Joffrey and Cersei had done little to inspire their loyalty. Littlefinger doubted they'd do anything terribly dramatic in rebellion to their current King, but he did wonder.
The two Houses that really drew Littlefinger's eye were Houses Celtigar and—of course—Velaryon. Both were of Valyrian descent, with some of their kin even today still sporting some of the classic features such as violet eyes and silver hair.
The Head of House Celtigar was an old, sour man, and Littlefinger didn't think he'd be in any rush to make his loyalties known until he got a better lay of the land, but Monford Velaryon was another matter entirely.
The Master of Driftmark was in his prime, and only a short distance away from Dragonstone. Seeing as Stannis was otherwise occupied, Littlefinger wondered if the temptation to reclaim the island in the name of House Targaryen would be too much for Lord Velaryon. The man was known to be brash at times.
He considered the thought somewhat more. The right amount of temptation might work out in his favor. Stannis Baratheon would not be a beneficial ruler for Petyr's business—that much had been made clear the few times they had interacted directly.
Stealing Dragonstone from the Baratheons wouldn't be a huge loss to Stannis, but losing any access to a large portion of the Royal Fleet just might. Stannis hadn't called for them to answer to the "rightful King" just yet. He was probably too busy keeping Renly in-line as they plotted their assault on King's Landing. Sibling enmity was a wonderful thing, Petyr reflected.
The rebellion of House Velaryon and the seizing of Dragonstone might serve as a distraction to the would-be Stag King…and, perhaps, even a distraction to Jaehaerys Targaryen. Surely the boy would have to respond if House Velaryon took back the island stronghold in his family's name.
It was a gamble, of course. If Euron and Tywin didn't take full advantage of such an opportunity to crush the Northern armies, thus leaving the Dragon King devoid of his most important allies, Jaehaerys would have much of the Royal Fleet under his command and an ideal strike point from which to attack King's Landing.
Littlefinger had no doubt that should the boy actually conquer Euron and his Ice Dragon, he'd go after the Iron Throne next. The Lannisters had made enemies of the Starks—his greatest allies—and in addition, the Baratheons were no longer friends of House Targaryen. He would be wise to crush those enemies who resided in the greatest seat of power Westeros had to offer.
But again, inciting House Velaryon to reclaim Dragonstone in the name of the young Targaryen King would delay and distract several of the people Petyr would prefer lose this war.
Truthfully, his plans were only going to thrive if under the reign of men like Joffrey or Euron. Men who cared little and less for morals, who could be manipulated and bought. Men he could do business with…and make a little extra coin on the side for his future endeavors. Not that he was wanting for coin.
It would have to be done carefully. If his interests in this war went south, it wouldn't do for any newfound enemies to have some sort of evidence to trace back to him.
Then again, this would hardly be the first time he had led more powerful men than himself on a merry chase.
Thus, he began to plot exactly how he could convince Lord Velaryon to take the significant portion of the Royal Fleet he commanded and seize Dragonstone in the name of House Targaryen. A little more discord in the Crownlands wouldn't hurt, either.
Petyr snatched his quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write.
The hall of Castle Black was filled with the clamor of men shouting.
Given the gravity of the situation Mormont had just dropped on his men, the Lord Commander allowed them to vent their feelings on the matter for exactly ten seconds before he stood from his seat and roared over their voices.
"ENOUGH!"
The bark of his command reflexively snapped the men into obedience, silencing the hall in an instant. He glared to ensure they remained so for just a moment before he chose to speak again, holding up the letter in his hands that had been sent to them from the Lady of Winterfell.
"We know why this was sent to us," Mormont growled. "It's a warning—to keep us informed of the war unfolding in the south. A second Dance of the Dragons is a serious matter to be aware of! We take no part, aye, but I would like to know exactly what is happening down there. No one wants Euron Greyjoy to catch us off-guard, do they?"
There was a low murmur of agreement amongst the men. Many of them looked afraid, others grim, and some angry. Mormont hardly blamed them—no one had expected this sort of development.
Damn the fucking mad pirate who had found a way to control a beast once thought to be only a myth. And thank the gods the Watch had done what they could to see Jon Snow as well-trained as he could be for his age.
He had a feeling more men in the Watch would have been angry at their Lord Commander—and the few others who had known about Jon Snow's true purpose at Castle Black—if Euron Greyjoy hadn't returned to Westeros with an Ice Dragon under his command, but Mormont would much rather have their anger than this news.
It was their creed to not be involved in southern politics. They were separate from the Seven Kingdoms in their duty, and his men would have been in their rights to be angry with the Lord Commander for allowing Jon Snow to reside amongst them knowing that he would likely never take the Black.
They could be even angrier for his allowing the dragon to reside beyond the Wall, but they'd gotten lucky in that regard. Mormont's knowledge of its whereabouts and Benjen's patrols—as well as Jon's eventual taming of the beast—had allowed him to organize a perimeter around the dragon's territory, so none of their men had fallen prey to the creature.
Well, he wondered if that was all. The dragon wasn't a common animal, as Aemon had told him many times. Although none of his men save Benjen and Alliser had encountered the dragon in the wild, she never threatened them. Mormont wondered if she was intelligent enough to associate the black cloaks of the Night's Watch as allies. He would never be fool enough to call the dragon a friend of their order, but he had no reason to call her an enemy, either. She had done them a few favors in her time beyond the Wall.
The growing dragon had steadily nullified many of the Wildling raids coming from that area over the years. The bigger and more territorial she became, the less of Mance Rayder's savages tried to hit them from that direction. Mormont knew from Alliser's own testimony that the dragon had no qualms about killing Wildlings. Perhaps her presence had even kept Mance's growing forces from venturing too close. He knew that he would certainly think several times before daring to tresspass upon the dragon's territory.
They'd had years of relative calm thanks to the risk that came with crossing the beast, but since she'd left, tensions had steadily been climbing. It seemed that from the moment they received word of the young Targaryen Dragon King in Essos, the agitation in Westeros had been building like a great cap of snow on the mountains, ready to collapse and burst into an avalanche.
The Wildlings, of course, couldn't know the dragon was gone as quickly as the Watch did, but they'd been tentatively exploring the territory of the beast that once dominated the lands north of the Wall. They were getting bolder as they realized the dragon was no longer present.
Several of his rangers had told him by now that the Wildlings were heading south under Mance Rayder's command. Raiding parties were becoming more daring. Blood was being drawn more often.
"Shouldn't we help them?" Mormont locked onto the source of the question, one of the newer recruits—Grenn. "We can't just let a madman like Euron Greyjoy take over Westeros!"
"And what exactly do you suggest we contribute?" Alliser snapped at the boy. "What supplies or weapons do we possess that Lord Stark doesn't already have? What forces?"
"Ser Alliser is right," Mormont agreed gruffly. "The armies of the North have rallied to their Warden, as has the Dragon King and his beast. We would contribute very little in exchange for breaking our oaths."
"What if this is bigger than our oaths?" Another new recruit asked hesitantly. Pyp, Mormont believed. "This isn't a common war, this is the second Dance of the Dragons! It's madness! What if we do nothing while Euron Greyjoy takes command of Westeros?"
That got another series of murmurs, Mormont noted grimly. He didn't really blame the men—when gods of ice and fire stirred and went to war, the whole world held its breath waiting for the outcome.
"I wonder if you would humor an old man, young Pyp," Aemon spoke at last, having been silent since Mormont first read the letter. The whole of the Watch looked to their ancient, dragon-blooded Maester. "I have something of an expertise in the matter of dragons and their history in Westeros, as you might remember. When Aegon the Conquerer and his sister-wives brought the Seven Kingdoms under their rule three-hundred years ago, we did not interfere. When the first Dance of the Dragons tore the country apart, we did not interfere. Do you know what we will do during this second Dance, my boy?"
Pyp hesitated a moment. "Not interfere?"
"Yes."
"But—"
"But nothing," Aemon cut him off, his voice gentle, yet firm. "To contribute the whole of the Night's Watch or even a fraction of it would achieve nothing in this war. Especially now, when our ranks are lower than they have ever been. There are minor Lords in the Seven Kingdoms with more men at their command than we. More importantly, if we abandon our post, who will stop the Wildlings from breaching the Wall? Are we to join the forces of Lord Stark and Jon Snow, only to leave our backs open to an assault from Mance Rayder?"
Mormont relaxed as he saw many of the men settle down at the old Maester's wisdom and reason. Trust Aemon to calm the room when the Lord Commander's gruff bite didn't quite do the job.
"We have a duty to fulfill here," Aemon went on. "And so here we must remain, no matter how much we might desire otherwise. I would like nothing more than to be with the last remnants of my House, who are barely more than children as they wage war against perhaps the greatest threat we have faced since the Targaryens chose to fight amongst themselves. I fear for them. But I cannot leave. I am the Maester of the Citadel, bound in service for life, and so here I will stay no matter the temptation."
"Aemon is right," Alliser admitted. "Most of you know I was a Targaryen Loyalist before Robert's Rebellion. I'd prefer to be fighting for them once again, but we're needed here. Is what it is, shit hand though it might be. Let the Dragon King burn the Greyjoys to hell, he can handle himself. We have to keep the Wildlings from getting south of the Wall. Do your fucking jobs."
There was another strong voice in their favor. Alliser was popular amongst a large sect of the men, and his contribution about settled the matter. There was perhaps still a small sect of lingering uncertainty, but the vast majority had been convinced.
"Lady Stark tells us she will do her best to keep us updated as the war progresses," Mormont announced. "We will do our duties and keep an ear open just in case the situation goes south. In the meantime, I'll be damned to hell if the Wildlings breach the Wall while the Watch is under my command. Am I understood?"
A chorus of agreement filled the hall. Mormont grunted, satisfied. "Good. As you were, then. Meeting adjourned."
As the men went about their business for the night—most of them eager to find dinner—Mormont spotted Aemon standing from his seat further down the table. The old Maester slowly walked to the Lord Commander's side and leaned his head close to the man's ear.
"I must speak with you and Ser Alliser once you are both finished here. Meet me in my quarters."
Mormont raised an eyebrow, but muttered an agreement. He watched as Aemon then proceeded to make his way to the doors, pausing only briefly when his apprentice, Samwell Tarly, stood to talk with him. They exchanged a few words before the Tarly boy was sent back to his friends, looking more relaxed than before.
The ancient Targaryen slipped out of the hall and Mormont could only wonder what he wished to speak of.
Flying down the river system and along the coastline had, thus far, been a quiet affair.
Jon was sitting by a small campfire he'd set up for the night, close to where Frostfyre had decided to bed down. They were about as close to Flint's Finger as they would get from this side of the Salt Spear. They'd start flying north again tomorrow to reunite with his uncle's army.
Frostfyre rumbled behind him, the vibration going straight through Jon's body. He smiled and pressed a hand to her scaled jaw. She'd become a bit more energetic as they got further south and the climate warmed slightly. The sea breeze might've done her a few favors, as well. Flying over water always seemed to be a little easier for the dragon.
"What do you think, Frostfyre?" Jon murmured, looking at the great, amethyst eye cracked open just the slightest to regard him. "Suppose we'll see more ships on our way to Borrowton? Part of me hopes the Ironborn haven't gone that far inland yet, but…it would make sense for them to take the town."
The dragon only blinked slowly, like a lazy cat. Jon wasn't surprised by the lack of a reaction. Human settlements meant nothing to her. He had to remind himself often despite their bond that for all her incredible intelligence, Frostfyre had a different way of thinking than people did. She was instinctive, primal, and dangerous.
But she liked to listen to him talk when they were together on such nights like this. It was perhaps the most peaceful chance they had to bond, when they were both tired and needed the rest. Here, beneath the full moon and the star-studded sky, they were allowed to be as close as siblings.
Jon leaned back against her huge snout, closing his eyes for the night as the fire crackled close by. He felt the dragon's body gently shift with every slow breath she took. The warmth she permeated lulled him closer to sleep.
She took a deeper breath after a few minutes, nostrils flaring, and stiffened. Jon frowned, eyes still closed, and roused only when he heard a low growl building in her throat. He was awake in an instant, climbing to his feet as Frostfyre lifted her head from the ground and rose up.
Her gaze trailed towards the sea and Jon was quick to choke out the fire with kicked-up dirt. With the light nullified, he could see the dark waters of the Sunset Sea more clearly. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for what he assumed were likely ships—the wind was blowing towards them from the south.
And then he heard it.
Jon's blood turned to ice as a sound unlike anything he'd ever heard before reached his ears. It was the sound of a howling winter storm, a blizzard's cry that seemed to make everything around him colder. His gaze jerked upwards and the breath caught in his throat.
The Ice Dragon had found them.
Already it was diving, wings flared out and flapping as it began to land a fair distance further down the beach. He balked at the size of it; a creature as large as his own dragon for all its odd proportions. It had longer legs and shorter wings, standing upright like a bird with its wings tucked in to its sides. The neck was shorter, the skull more blunt, but no less powerful. The tail didn't sway as much as Frostfyre's often did, and he realized why when he laid eyes upon the club-like structure at the very end.
Frostfyre positioned herself over Jon, fire pooling from inside of her jaws as she let out a furious screech—a challenge he'd never heard from her before. A challenge made only to another dragon, a creature she could view as an equal to her terrible splendor.
The Ice Dragon regarded them with startling blue eyes, the only sign that it was a living thing. As Jon's eyes took the beast in, he realized more and more that it looked as if it had been crafted out of pure ice. Its body didn't look nearly as natural as Frostfyre's did.
It didn't answer Frostfyre's threat, only lowered its head slightly, eyes still locked onto them. It stood with the length of its body facing them, letting Jon see exactly how large the creature was. Slightly shorter than his own dragon, perhaps, but no less bulky.
A sound that was low, yet still oddly high-pitched left its frozen mouth. Jon glanced back at Frostfyre and saw her sneer, lips curling up distastefully to bare her teeth. His gaze returned to the Ice Dragon, who was tentatively shifting on its feet.
It wasn't attacking. The standoff was uncomfortable and tense, but bloody violence had not yet been decided upon.
What was it even doing out here? A glance towards the sea still revealed no sign of ships. Was it out hunting, then? Surely even someone as mad as Euron Greyjoy understood that a dragon—let alone a dragon this size—needed a significant amount of food. Perhaps it had been roaming to sate its appetite and caught Frostfyre's scent. He couldn't think of another reason as to why the dragon would be so far from the Iron Islands without its master.
He lifted a hand to Frostfyre's lower jaw, stroking the scales in an attempt to keep her as calm as possible. The Ice Dragon's gaze jerked to him, as if it had just realized Jon was there.
"Easy," he breathed quietly. The longer it stared at Jon, the more Frostfyre's growl built in her throat. She knew it had seen him. "Frostfyre, easy."
The Ice Dragon was taking slow, hesitant steps in a semi-circle towards them. Every breath it released loosed a plume of frozen mist into the air. Jon watched it warily; he didn't think this was hunting behavior, but he couldn't compare this dragon entirely to his own. It was clear with every passing second that the Valyrian Fire Dragons and these Ice Dragons were vastly different beasts.
He remained in his place beneath Frostfyre's jaws, half-turned in case he needed to bolt for her wings. He hadn't seen it fly for very long, but it had a shorter wingspan than his dragon, he knew. Could she outrun this thing? It seemed to be heavier than she was…
It made another low sound from deep in its throat, but the odd pitch made his hairs stand on-end. Frostfyre's tail lashed behind them, slapping the ground and giving the Ice Dragon pause for a half-step.
She didn't want this thing anywhere near them. Jon was mostly in agreement with her.
But that treacherous little ember of hope had sparked now. The Ice Dragon hadn't assaulted them. It was uncertain, but not committed to an attack.
Could he take the dragon for his own and rob Euron of his most prized weapon? Was it possible that the dragonblood in his veins would register for the Ice Dragon? Would it follow him if given the choice?
He did not want to claim the dragon as a second mount—he already had Frostfyre. But if he won its loyalty, that could be it. The war would be over before it could become truly terrible.
Jon whistled lowly, regaining the Ice Dragon's attention. Frostfyre's growl deepened once more, but he stroked her jaw to calm her as much as possible. Well, it was to calm himself down, too.
He had to be smart about this. He had no illusions that this thing could kill him in an instant if it wanted to.
Fire could not kill him. Ice was another matter.
Jon took a deep breath. Restrained the instinctive fear curling in his belly. He could do this.
The minutes that followed were the slowest, most intense minutes of his life. Jon watched from beneath Frostfyre's jaws as the Ice Dragon warily made its way closer to them. It's blue eyes flickered constantly from Frostfyre to Jon, but it was obviously more concerned with the Fire Dragon.
Eventually, the pair of titans stood scarcely six yards apart. Licks of flame and frost mingled in the air, causing the temperature to fluctuate strangely. Jon whistled as he carefully stepped forward a bit, still keeping a hand on his dragon as he stretched another out towards the frozen creature.
"Come on," he exhaled. "It's alright."
It regarded him with uncertain blue eyes. A chirp left its mouth and Frostfyre hissed. Jon could hear her frills rattling threateningly.
She was not in support of this idea. Not in the slightest. He didn't blame her—when was the last time she'd encountered a predator as dangerous as herself? Was there even a chance she'd seen one of these things before?
"Frostfyre, please," Jon whispered. "Maybe…"
She didn't take her eyes from the Ice Dragon, but after a moment her head rose such that it was too high for Jon to touch. She glared down at the frozen creature, violet eyes blazing bright, and snorted once.
Once. One chance.
It was not lost on any of them that she was in the perfect position to bathe the Ice Dragon in dragonfire or snap her teeth into its neck. If it so much as twitched in a way she didn't like, she would spend her full fury upon the frozen beast.
The Ice Dragon was more keenly aware of that than any of them, and it outright stopped moving to stare at Frostfyre for a full minute, unsure of approaching any further. To put itself at risk undoubtedly went against its every instinct.
Jon whistled quietly once more. He needed the creature's attention. It slowly looked at him, but its gaze constantly flickered to the massive, white female towering over them.
He cautiously stretched his hand out towards the dragon, hyper-alert and ready to bolt if it decided he was food rather than a friend. If it chose to strike, he could only pray that Frostfyre would be fast enough to stop it.
The Ice Dragon extended its neck as far as possible, snorting and sniffing the air. It grew more focused on him as the seconds ticked by and Jon watched as the creature tilted its head, blinking in what he thought might be confusion. Clearly, it had never encountered a human with dragonblood in their veins.
He allowed himself to feel a smidge more hopeful. Only a smidge.
By now, its every exhale was coating his furs in a light dusting of frost. Dragonfrost, he decided, for this was not a creature that could spit fire.
The tension in the air was thick enough to cut. Frostfyre was hovering directly over them by now, the Ice Dragon mere feet away as Jon slowly, incrementally, shifted just a bit closer to the creature. His palm rested inches away from its nose and he could feel the cold radiating from the dragon like a physical force.
He licked his lips nervously, steeled his spine, and covered those last few inches.
Touching the dragon with his bare skin burned. It was not hot like fire, but an icy blaze of cold unlike anything he'd experienced before. Even the cold beyond the Wall could not compare.
The dragon grew still, black pupils shifting as it too endured what had to be a strange experience. Frostfyre's hot breath seared them both from above, and perhaps that was the only thing that kept Jon's skin from sticking to the Ice Dragon's hide for how unbelievably frozen it felt.
It did not have scales as he knew them. The hide was nothing like Frostfyre's—it felt like pure ice, and yet it was harder than any ice he'd touched before. It was as if he were touching frozen steel. It sapped at the warmth of his body, and yet could not take it all away from him.
Once more, he was drawn to the eyes. The dragon's bright blue eyes were the only sign that the creature was composed of flesh and blood at all—they stared at him, peered into his being with a strange curiosity. An alien interest in everything that was going on.
Jon realized quickly that he would not be able to take command of the creature with his Targaryen blood. There was a resonance between them, magic meeting magic, but only now did he realize just how harmonious his bond with Frostfyre was. With the Ice Dragon, the magic between them crackled and fluxed out of sync, not uncomfortable, but decidedly not meant to be.
The Ice Dragon didn't seem to know what to do about it. It was interested and perhaps even responsive, but still uncertain. Jon didn't know how to handle this, either. He'd hoped that perhaps it would react favorably to the magic in his blood, but…
He pulled back, slowly taking his hand away from the dragon's snout. It too backed away, retreating to a safer distance that did not expose its neck to Frostfyre's teeth. The dragon snorted, snuffled and shook its head in confusion. Jon's hand burned where they had touched, but he had not lost any of his skin. Perhaps the dragonblood in his veins had warded off the cold enough to prevent such a thing from happening.
It was unsure. The dragon kept taking steps back, but they were hesitant. It stared at them for several long, uncomfortable minutes. Then, with a snort of freezing air, the creature turned away and took several quick steps down the beach. Its wings unfurled, flapped thrice, and it was airborne once again, turning south towards the Iron Islands.
It was a good flier, but he didn't think it was quite as fast as Frostfyre. Then again, who knew if it was even in a hurry. He thought back to how hard its frozen armor felt beneath his hand. Could she pierce that with her claws and teeth? Would her fire burn hot enough to melt through that unnatural ice?
He didn't know.
Jon shifted closer to Frostfyre as they watched it fly off, just in case it decided to wheel back around and attack. He felt like that critical first contact had gone well enough, but they weren't allies. Not even close.
Frostfyre lowered her head close to him, growling quietly. Jon set a hand on her brow, stroking the scales in thought. For all the questions that had just filled his mind, he knew one thing for certain.
"We're moving," he decided, walking around to climb up her wing.
No, they would not be staying here any longer. They needed to fly further north, in case it changed its mind and decided to hunt them down. He would try to figure out how to handle the Ice Dragon tomorrow, when his thoughts were clear again.
Aemon had his hands wrapped around the mug of steaming hot tea he'd prepared earlier as he sat down at the small table in his chambers, breathing in the herbal scent filling the room.
It was relaxing—well, as relaxing as one could be at Castle Black, of course. A storm was rolling in from the east, as well. He could hear the thunder in the distance. The fireplace crackled and burned, kept his chambers warm. It would be more necessary than usual tonight.
He heard the knock on his door he had been expecting for a short while now. He called out to the men waiting outside. "Come in."
Aemon heard the door open and a pair of footsteps filled his ears. Mormont's voice reached him. "Aemon. You asked for us."
"I did," the Maester agreed. "I am afraid I must make a selfish request of you, Lord Commander."
"What would that be?"
Aemon set his tea down and stood from the table, slowly making his way to his bed. There was a thick fur on the floor beside it, which he felt for with a careful nudge of his foot. Once he found it, the old Maester slowly lowered himself first to one knee, then the other.
"Seven—you can ask us for help, Aemon," Mormont muttered as he steadied the old man. "At least wait until the Tarly boy's been trained some before you risk breaking your body."
"I am old, not brittle," Aemon reminded him with a chuckle. "The Wall is not kind to those who are easily broken."
"If that isn't the fucking truth," Alliser grunted in agreement.
Aemon felt for the furs before him, then pulled them aside. Once they were out of the way, he moved his hands along the wood of the floor until he found the board he was looking for. Hooking his fingers beneath it, he pulled upwards.
"What've you got here?" Mormont wondered aloud. "I never knew about this."
"You wouldn't have," Aemon replied. "This was made many decades ago, when Lord Commander Rivers had Castle Black."
"Rivers," he could hear the frown in the Lord Commander's voice. "The Bloodraven, you mean?"
"The very one," Aemon heaved and shifted the hidden hatch, opening up a cavity in the floor. He set the hatch door to one side with a dull thunk of wood, then reached inside with only his memory to guide him.
He felt for the fabric he knew was here, and once he found it, he grasped it with his weathered, old hands, pulling free an object that hadn't seen the light of day in nearly fifty years. Though it was heavier than he remembered, it was still manageable for Aemon.
His guests remained silent as Aemon found the seam of the silken fabric—he could feel it too had been aged, with holes eaten through it from moths in some places. But still his fingers found the embroidery of a symbol he'd know anywhere by the shape of it. The three-headed dragon of his House.
More thunder rumbled far away, steadily growing closer with the storm. He unwrapped the fabric from the object it held within, felt for the grip below the cross-guard, and slowly pulled it free of the sheathe. The shiver of a blade filled his ears. Aemon's fingers dragged downwards, found the cold steel and caressed the flat of a sword that had seen too many decades entombed in darkness.
"This is Valyrian steel," the Lord Commander broke the silence. "Like Longclaw. Like Ice."
"It is," Aemon murmured. "This is Dark Sister, once the blade belonging to Queen Visenya Targaryen. Lord Commander Rivers entrusted it to me before he disappeared in his last ranging. I do not know why. His behavior had become…erratic in those final years. He was so often beyond the Wall, searching for something in the depths of the wilderness. I know not his fate, but he insisted I safeguard the sword."
He ran his fingers close to the edge, but was not fool enough to touch it—even in its stasis, the Valyrian longsword was undoubtedly still razor-sharp. "Rivers claimed I would know to whom it must be given, though I was skeptical as the decades passed me by. Now though—to whom else should I give it to but Jon? I meant to gift it to him when he was ready for such a weapon, but circumstances forced him to leave Westeros before his time with us was finished."
Mormont was silent for a few moments. "I can't afford to send a man that far south to find him, Aemon."
"You don't have to," Aemon admitted. "I would ask you send the sword to Winterfell. The Starks can see to it that it finds its way to Jon from there. I would prefer to give him the blade in-person, but such a thing is not possible and I fear he will need a true Targaryen sword before this war is over. If you cannot spare a man to ride to Winterfell, we could request Lady Stark send someone trustworthy to retrieve the blade."
"It would take more time to do that," Alliser pointed out. "The blade might not reach him for at least an extra moon. Let me take it."
"No," Mormont refused. "I need you here to help keep the men whipped into shape. Rayder's getting closer every day and you're one of my best fighters. I can't have you gone for two moons ferrying a sword to Winterfell."
"Then—"
"Benjen is due to return in two days. Perhaps four if this weather mucks the terrain north of the Wall," the Lord Commander told them. "While our next group of rangers heads out to search for more Wildling activity, I'll send him to Winterfell with the sword. When he returns, it'll be about time for him to go on his next patrol."
Alliser sounded reluctant, but accepted the answer he got. "Very well."
"Are there any other ancient Targaryen relics I should know about hiding in here, Aemon?"
The Maester chuckled. "Not that I am aware of, though I suppose it's possible Lord Commander Rivers might have hidden something else in this castle or the Shadow Tower."
"That's a hunt I'm not going to bother with," Mormont muttered. "We'll see to it that Dark Sister finds its way to Winterfell. In the meantime, our focus remains on Rayder and the Wildlings. If we're lucky, we can convince Jon Snow to help us with that problem when the war is over."
"If he survives," Alliser reminded him grimly.
The silence was the acknowledgement of that possibility, though none of the men wanted to imagine such a fate for the boy.
"Right," the Lord Commander sighed. "We keep the matter of the sword quiet until Benjen gets back. I want the men focused on our problems north of the Wall and nothing else. Is that understood?"
"It is," Aemon and Alliser agreed.
"Good," Mormont paused another moment. "I hope this sword finds its way to the boy. If he has to fight Euron Greyjoy, I'd rather know for certain that his blade won't be the one the break."
"Here's hoping the mad cunt is burnt alive before he gets anywhere near him," Alliser grunted.
On that, they could all agree.
Notes:
Sorry for how late and short this is. The holiday season has been brutal, plus I had jury duty for two weeks, and work has been...well, to call it mad is an understatement. I'm exhausted, please bear with me.
As ever, please review and thanks for reading!