Gaemon X
From the terrace upon which he stood, Gaemon could see rolling green hills extend all the way to the sea. Wickenden as a seat stood proudly in the rolling foothills of the Vale's famous mountain ranges, and its sweeping Andalic architecture proudly stated their origins from across the Narrow Sea. In his time at the castle, Gaemon had asked and been permitted to examine some of the family histories, recorded for centuries on vellum that had grown brittle with age. The Waxleys, according to their records, had crossed over from Andalos as part of the initial pilgrimages, establishing footholds along the Bay of Crabs in order to grant safe harbors to the secondary and tertiary waves of armed pilgrims that poured forth to bring the Seven to Westeros.
While maintaining connection with the sea had provided the early Waxleys with ties to Andalos and increased security against punitive raids conducted by the First Men, it had also deprived them of the opportunity to claim the richest lands of the Vale for themselves. The inner valleys of the Vale were legendary for their verdant green fertility, their rich soils watered by the spring tears of the ancient mountains above. Houses that braved the initial savagery of the wars under the shadows of the mountains had been richly rewarded for their bravery in the form of productive lands and reliable growing seasons. The Arryns, along with the Waynwoods and Belmores, had long been amongst the wealthiest Houses of the Vale because they could count upon the bounty of the interior. The ancient Houses of the First Men that survived could count upon similar prosperity, as the power of the Redforts and Royces could attest. But not all Houses of the Vale were so fortunate. The Waxleys, amongst others like the Corbrays, had claimed lands that proved difficult to turn a profit from.
From his perch atop Wickenden's great tower, Gaemon watched as herds of sheep roamed placidly about the hillsides, hemmed into lots of various sizes by venerable hedgerows that marked the boundaries of land ownership. Small farming plots dotted the lands that he could see, but few were of great enough size to do anything other than feed an individual family. Further still, the sea glimmered, promising a livelihood to those who would willingly risk its mercurial temperament. He smiled. All in all, the people who call this place home would find Dragonstone most familiar. Every field hides its share of rocks, all ready to break a plow, and every sheep hides a temperamental and stubborn outlook beneath its fleece.
Ser Alan Waxley, recently returned from King's Landing after the conclusion of the war and the disbandment of Jeyne Arryn's 'knightly expedition', had proven a most welcoming host, offering Gaemon a place at Wickenden for however long he desired. Gaemon had taken a liking to the castle, with its worn stone alcoves and corridors that bore the weight of ages. The Waxleys had long understood that they were unlikely to ever become fabulously wealthy (their attempts to grow their small fishing hamlet into a port had failed long before the Conquest, with locations such as Gulltown and Maidenpool siphoning off the majority of inbound vessels), but they bore their circumstances with an admirable stoicism and moderation that Gaemon found quite comforting. Wickenden is a much-needed respite from the ostentatious Red Keep or the dramatic and severe Dragonstone. Gaemon found that the families that lacked great wealth were often far more practical, and more in tune with their people, than Houses that could rely upon great riches. The Waxleys, like the Pipers before them, know the importance of maintaining their bonds with their tenants. Contented smallfolk are productive smallfolk. Malda had never quite mastered that understanding, though Wat had. Gaemon had always prepared fish stews far more quickly when Wat had invited him to sample a new cask of ale.
He sipped at his mug of mulled wine, savoring the subtle hints of clove and cinnamon. Luxuries now more than ever, with the Narrow Sea unsafe for travel. The skies above had threatened snow for days, but had yet to make good on them. The lack of snow did not affect the temperature, however. Biting winds whipped down from the gray mountains behind Wickenden, howling day and night, reminding all that winter had arrived and was not planning on departing at any point in the near future. Gaemon watched those same mountains with trepidation. Are you still hiding amongst those peaks? He wondered. It must be bitterly cold up there, dragon or no dragon. Nettles had not been a large girl to begin with, and he suspected that she would have grown ever skinnier without reliable sources of hearty food. He suspected that he was running out of time.
"Ever the contemplative visage, my Lord." The earthly voice of Ser Alan Waxley broke the silence. "I begin to fear that our company grates upon you."
Gaemon shook his head, a smirk upon his features. "Not in the slightest, Ser. Your family's welcome has made it painful to contemplate my departure. I fear I will regret its loss most keenly once I go without it."
Ser Alan nodded, pleased. "It has been our honor to host you, Lord Gaemon. The Waxleys have never had the honor of hosting a dragonrider. My grandsire swore he once spotted Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa amidst the clouds over the Bay, but we suspected that ale had clouded his vision. He would have been pleased as punch to see Wickenden now, with a great black beast coiled in the fields beyond. I daresay he'd have gotten himself burnt and eaten, for he'd never have been able to leave that creature at peace."
Gaemon nodded, feigning solumness. "That would have cast a dark pall over my visit. Perhaps it is best that your grandsire can only bear witness to this occasion from the Seven Heavens Above."
The Knight of Wickenden chuckled. "Right you are, Lord, right you are. He is no longer in any real danger."
Gaemon turned once more to gaze upon the mountains. "On the topic of dragons, have your men seen anything? The beast I seek has a particular fondness for sheep-flesh. I would have bet a gold dragon that it'd be unable to resist seeking its prey here."
He heard Ser Alan shift uncomfortably behind him. "My apologies, Lord. None of my household knights have seen anything larger than a falcon. The mountains continue to hide their secrets well."
Gaemon nodded. I suspected they would. He finished his cup of wine, before placing it next to the pitcher that the servants had left for him. Taking his saddlebags into his hands from where he had left them earlier, he hefted them over his shoulders before offering his hand to his host. "I am most grateful for your assistance, Ser. I will not forget your service rendered." With his spare hand, he withdrew a pouch of coin, and offered it to the Knight of Wickenden. "Please accept this as a token of my gratitude."
His host held out a calloused hand, clearly refusing the payment. "We have not done this for coin, Lord. We Waxleys remember and honor our friends. You've served the realm and our King admirably, and we have been most pleased to host you. My only regret is that we have not been of much aid in your search."
Gaemon returned the coin to its place within his belongings. "In that case, Seven Blessings to you and your kin. It is with sorrow that I must depart."
As he emerged from Wickenden's gatehouse, Gaemon followed the muddy path marked by wheel ruts into the fields beyond. From behind the battlements, he spotted Ser Waxley and his family waving goodbye, and he returned their gesture with enthusiasm. His stroll took him to a small clearing a few hundred yards from the castle where the Cannibal lay coiled, appearing like a great black serpent. Gaemon did not bother baring his dragon whip; the two of them had grown used to one another's presence enough that he found its use barely necessary. Once he stepped within twenty paces of his mount, the great black dragon uncoiled, steam rising in gusts off of its hide in the winter air. At ten paces, the Cannibal rose upwards upon its legs, unfolding its leathery wings to their full extent, evidently needing to stretch them after remaining folded for so long. To the casual observer, Gaemon supposed that it might appear as though the dragon was about to immolate him in a powerful gust of sorcerous green flame. Gaemon, however, knew better. He knew the Cannibal better than most, and the one thing it never seemed to grow tired of was spectacle.
"Having a stretch, are we?" He asked, depositing his saddle bags at his feet.
The great black beast, slayer of men and dragons alike, eyed him with green eyes that glowed like a witch's cauldron. It opened its maw and roared, loudly enough to startle the smallfolk carting foodstuffs into the Waxleys' castle for storage and preservation. Gaemon crossed his arms, unamused. He had learned the hard way to cease flinching at such displays, for it only emboldened the beast. Instead, he stared at it dully until it snorted, exhaling great smoky gusts from its nostrils that smelled of ash and sulfur. Eventually, the creature finally lowered itself downwards, resting upon the claws at the tips of its wings and ceasing its attempt to appear as hellishly terrifying as possible. Without any pomp or circumstance, Gaemon hefted his bags and began attaching them to the saddle perched upon the base of his mount's great muscled neck. Before mounting, he walked slowly around, running his hand along scales that could have passed as obsidian. Ducking under its neck, he ran his hands along the great scars that ran down the Cannibal's chest, remnants of the rents that Vermithor had torn into his killer. They appeared to have healed over, but the scales that had taken the place of the others were grayer in color, leaving the scars visible to all observers. Had Vermithor gone on for much longer, he might've torn open the Cannibal's stomach, leaving us all to fall to our deaths. He made his way to the dragon's head, giving it a sympathetic pat upon the ridge above its eye, paying no mind to the jagged teeth that were nearly as long as his legs. With time, I truly believe this creature has changed. I still struggle to believe how differently it behaves to when I first mounted it. The Cannibal had largely ceased snapping at passerby, and contented itself with the meals provided to it by servants. Gaemon suspected dragons were more intelligent creatures than most realized. There is simply no benefit for it to maintain the overwhelming hostility it once had for all living beings. It is still a killer, but a sated killer.
Checking the position of the Sun, Gaemon quickly climbed atop the saddle, tugging at the chains that bound it to the beast beneath him. The Cannibal roared once more, spreading its wings and running forward with its massive legs. After a few moments of sending great gusts of air beneath it, it propelled itself into the air, circling Wickenden before righting its course and flying for the gray mountains before it.
Gaemon pulled his woolen clothing and furs tightly about himself, trying somewhat futilely to ward off the biting chill. The Vale had not been warm when he had first visited, but with the advent of winter the winds and air cut through one's layers of clothing with the effectiveness of Valyrian steel. One had to be ever careful to not fly for too long, as it was easy to lose all feeling in one's extremities if you remained aloft for an extended period.
Hills and valleys, hedgerows and streams flew by beneath them, all obscured momentarily by the Cannibal's great black shadow. While they soared, Gaemon allowed himself to drift deep into thought. Nettles must have come this way. Lord Mooton swore they watched her fly across the Bay of Crabs. She would not have fled overseas; she would never have wished to find shelter amongst slavers and it would be impossible to remain hidden in Braavos, even if they would have agreed to host her. The Vale is the natural choice. Vast and impenetrable mountain ranges populated only by beasts and savage clansmen. Only a dragonrider could find her, and she would have known that both Rhaenrya and Aegon had bigger concerns. While narrowing his search to the Vale had helped, it had not helped overly much. We searched the Riverlands for several months for Aemond, yet could not find him. Gaemon clutched the saddle chains of his mount tightly. We searched for Aemond long before I knew how to peer into the flames. Would that I had known then what I know now. He would not have been able to hide away so easily.
Gaemon grimaced. Since he had gazed into the flames with Rhaena at his side, he had been loath to do so again. The visions had been powerful, and the voice that had spoken through them more powerful still. He harbored deep misgivings about the presence in the fire. No matter how hot the flames burn, they still send shivers down my spine. There was something queer about magic, something that made one's stomach feel uneasy and compelled them to cast glances over their shoulder. Alys Rivers was like that too. Something about her was… unnatural. Gaemon was not a particularly religious man, but The Seven were a known quantity: Gods of the home, hearth, and village. Essos' gods were dark things, beings that drank deeply of blood and demanded obeisance. He wasn't sure what had spoken to him in the flames, but he was certain that he didn't wish to speak with it again. And yet…
In his mind's eye, he saw his friend, wrapped in rags, shivering in an icy cave that howled with fury of the winter wind. If Sheepstealer neglected to return with its kills, she could already have starved. He closed his eyes, and out of habit, his hand found its way to the pouch tied around his neck. With a motion of the chains, he compelled the Cannibal to land.
Gaemon nursed the small fire with a stick, watching as the flames began to lick at the meager kindling he had provided. The Cannibal itself had arranged itself so that it blocked the majority of the winter winds with its body, and Gaemon found it oddly comforting to be surrounded by the massive creature and the warmth that radiated outwards from its form. His dragon had landed atop a ridge hundreds of feet above a pine forest below, and its presence had caused the accumulated snow to begin to melt. Gaemon had been forced to build his fire atop a bare rock face, only a few feet away from a patch of earth that sported a few diminutive the fire grew, he heated some smoked blood sausages and sliced a piece of bread from a loaf provided by the kitchens of Wickenden. Listening to the meat crackle in the flame, his stomach rumbled. Unable to wait any longer, he speared it with his knife and began biting chunks off of it while it was still warm, partially burning his tongue in the process. The heat was addictive, making him feel alive again after the wind had seemingly stripped him of vitality. As he finished his small meal, he snatched some snow from a nearby drift, shoveling it into his mouth and letting it melt to quench his thirst.
For a few moments, he sat in silence, listening to the wailing of the wind and the rhythmic hiss of the Cannibal's breathing. There is some degree of peace in overwhelming isolation. He wondered if his father had ever wandered like this, driven away from Runestone after an acrimonious visit with Rhea Royce. Gaemon pitied the woman. Prince Daemon's cruelty was not savage, like that of Prince Aemond. My father's cruelty was a cold and dismissive apathy. If someone was in his way, he could murder them in the same breath as ordering a hardboiled egg to break his fast. Gaemon found such men far more disturbing than the likes of violent bullies like Ulf the White or even Hugh Hammer. Hugh was a killer, but he was more of a rabid dog than a spider. He enjoyed killing. I fear my father did as well, but was wise enough to find opportunities to do so that would not endanger his status. Gaemon frowned. The 'Dance' as the singers are calling it might have been the greatest thing to ever happen to Daemon Targaryen.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Gaemon wiped the grease from his knife before pricking his left thumb. Squeezing it tightly, he watched as the blood dripped quickly into the flames, sizzling as it landed. At first, nothing visibly changed. After a few heartbeats, however, the flames began to grow, growing deeper and redder by the moment. Eventually, they grew so large and so hot that Gaemon almost felt compelled to back away. Instead, he gazed into them, forcing the gnawing unease out of his thoughts. As he did so, amorphous shapes danced in the conflagration. Half-realized visions whirled and spun, each as nonsensical as the next. Gaemon furrowed his brow, and willed the flames to obey. They recoiled as if slapped, before shrinking ever so slightly and becoming more coherent. Eventually, he saw her. She lay sleeping, her hair wild and unkempt. She slept beneath a mound of pelts, deep within the darkness of a cave that seemed surprisingly neither cold nor damp. The flames flickered, and suddenly Nettles slept with a pack of dogs about her, barking and snarling and snapping at one another, fighting for a place by her side. For a moment, he thought their flanks were slicked with blood, but he realized quickly that they dripped instead with all manner of riotous hues, from strong reds to garish blues and bright yellows. As the hounds bayed and growled, the Moon glowed brightly through the entrance of the cave. Gaemon was watching the dogs so intently that when a dragon's roar sounded he fell backwards into the Cannibal after nearly jumping out of his skin. His mount hissed, a sound like daggers drawn across ice. The noise startled Gaemon further, and for a moment he thought they were under attack. That was the Sheepstealer's roar. We remain alone, yet the Cannibal heard it in the flames, the same as I. When he glanced back to check the vision, he found that the flames had returned to their previous state, guttering weakly in the wind.
A cave. Filled with painted hounds. Gaemon wracked his brain for answers. The flames had always seemingly granted half-truths; messages that conveyed meaning indirectly. When he had last gazed into the flames Gaemon had been assailed by imagery that made little sense; Falcons shot out of the sky, Seahorses, and wrestling Krakens. The flames showed me something about the Velaryons, it seems. They wear the Seahorse on their breast and fly it on their banners. The others though… those are not so clear. He suspected that they could be house symbols as well… but he knew of no faceless knight or painted hound banners. As the Cannibal soared, Gaemon gazed at the peaks below them. They flew only during the day- the visibility was far better and the sunlight kept him from freezing half to death. Days before they had passed over the High Road- Gaemon could only identify it as such due to the bridges it occasionally sported; it was otherwise nearly entirely buried beneath vast snow drifts that had been blown down from the mountainsides. Based upon the maps he had consulted in the Waxley's meager library, Gaemon knew that he was approaching the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon. The vast range of those peaks would not allow for him to search them all thoroughly- that could take years- but he did not plan to do so.
As he had slept, his nightmares had been stalked by the savage clansmen and their merciless tortures reserved for intruders. While he had woken in a cold sweat, he had also begun the morning with a kernel of an idea. An insane idea, but one that could bear fruit. After all… a promise is a promise. I WILL right the wrongs that drove my friend into exile. From the air, much could be seen that was normally invisible. Footpaths that wound through the many jagged crevices and uneven terrain of the Vale remained all but hidden from the eyes of someone traveling by foot or by horseback. Such concealing measures were rendered completely ineffective by observing them from above. What would appear to be desolate and broken hills to the land bound observer became a patchwork of paths and campsites that extended for miles to a dragonrider's eyes. Gaemon followed the paths to their main thoroughfares, where they traveled alongside the beds of streams and along the crests of hills. He watched for the signs of life, and found them. On a clear day such as this, the sapphire skies of the Vale did not conceal smoke trails, and soon the horizon was dotted with signs of life. Primitive villages, concealed by hills and gullies, could be seen dotting the base of the Mountains of the Moon every ten to twenty miles or so.
Gaemon watched with amusement as the clanspeople scurried about beneath him, fingers pointing upward in gestures of excitement, terror and curiosity. I, too, watched with awe as dragonriders flew in the skies of Dragonstone above my head. He did not intend these people any harm, but he did not think it a poor idea to leave them guessing. Perhaps they will be less likely to attack me if they have been sufficiently cowed. As the villages became more frequent, he began to fly lower, watching for identifying symbols. If my visions were indeed a metaphor, the symbols will be replicated in life as they were presented in the flames.
Horns of various types echoed amongst the mountains as the clans warned friend and foe alike of his passage. Eventually, he spotted a small village composed of roughly hewn cabins surrounding a longhouse built of stone. All along its walls dogs had been painted running, as if in the midst of a hunt, the colors of the paint mimicking the hues he had glimpsed in his vision. The Painted Hounds. I've arrived. He called out, calling for the Cannibal to begin its descent, his voice nearly totally drowned out by the roaring winter winds. The dragon beneath him nonetheless responded, beginning a wide and lazy arc downwards towards the village below, its inhabitants scurrying about frantically. The Cannibal landed upon the rough highlands with a deft grip, its long talons scraping loudly on the weathered stones of the field. Sheep bleated frantically in a nearby enclosure, their fear palpable. Gaemon loosened the straps on Dark Sister's sheath, ready to draw it at a moment's notice, but made no move to approach the village. He took a seat upon a nearby rock, listening to his dragon breath heavily behind him whilst a shepherd boy watched him warily from within the sheep enclosure.
The boy wore a rough patchwork of furs, and held what appeared to be a leather sling in his hands. He made no move to fling any projectiles at Gaemon, thankfully, choosing instead to stare at him with guarded eyes that were as gray as the Mountains of the Moon to the north. In time, Gaemon observed a small party approach from the longhouse. Clad in wolf and shadowcat skins, their arms were ringed with beaten brass rings engraved with crude runes of the First Men, and they wore their hair in long braids that were woven in surprisingly sophisticated fashion. What was most striking about them, however, were their weapons. Heavy wooden war clubs, stone axes and simple slings were their defense, and Gaemon saw no metal beyond the decorative brass. It is as if the First Men of ancient legend have emerged from the distant past to speak with me.
Gaemon stood, his right hand upon Dark Sister's hilt. He let go of the blade to offer his hand to the man in the lead, but was shocked to see that he and the others dropped to kneel before him, raising their hands in mute supplication. Behind them, women and children emerged, carrying carved wooden bowls bearing various meats and meager foodstuffs. They bring offerings. He was surprised, but he supposed that they had no way of knowing his intentions. The Cannibal is a beast out of myth. I would rightfully fear its rider in their position. Reaching downwards, he placed a cautious hand upon the lead man's shoulder, motioning for him to rise. He did so haltingly, clearly unsure of Gaemon's intentions. Gaemon waited for them all to stand before addressing them.
"Do any of you speak the common tongue?" He asked, worried all of the sudden that he would not be able to communicate.
The elder of the village glanced to his right, to a large man with a brutal scar that furrowed his face. He responded. "Speak it. Only little."
Gaemon nodded. "I am looking for a girl, brown of skin and of hair. She rides a great brown dragon, similar in size to my own. Have you seen her?"
The scarred man looked cautiously at the elder, and for a few moments they spoke in the gravelly and rumbling words of the Old Tongue. Glancing back at Gaemon, the man answered. "In mountains." He raised a muscled arm and pointed towards the Mountains of the Moon. "Beast sleeps in hot water cave."
Sheepstealer must be near, if they have spotted it. Nettles is near! "Can any of you show me the way there?" He asked.
More of the Old Tongue followed, this time sounding akin to an argument. The elder motioned at the Cannibal, and at the village's sheep. The younger man shook his head, fingering a stone ax slung in his belt. Eventually, the elder spoke in a tone that Gaemon recognised, a manner of speaking his own grandfather would adopt when he was unwilling to suffer any more debate. The young man nodded. "No show, but tell. Beast at top of Skarnur." He motioned at a specific peak, partially obscured by clouds but markedly darker than the surrounding gray peaks. Gaemon nodded, and turned to mount the Cannibal. He paused as the man spoke again. "Men go to pledge to fire witch. She burn them, make them strong. They no want you to take her away." With that warning, the clan villagers turned and made their way back towards the village.
Gaemon smiled. My lady has obtained some admirers. How surprising. Grabbing the Cannibal's chains, he climbed atop the dragon and leaned to pat the scales of its neck, feeling the nearly scalding heat beneath them. In a few moments they had taken to the skies, flying for the mountain the clansmen called Skarnur.
The weather continued to worsen on his approach, and soon he and the Cannibal had been surrounded by a veil of whirling snow. He was still barely able to mark his approach, but the winter's wrath whipped all about him, the snow only dissipated as it struck the dragon's scales, turning to steam. The snowfall created a muted silence all about him, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the cold. What if she is not willing to return? Now that he was within striking distance of his friend, he finally allowed himself to begin asking the questions he had long buried. There is little reason for her to go back. Rhaenyra called for her head, and she knew well the disdain men felt for her long before that. Her looks mark her a foreigner in the eyes of most of Westeros, and her demeanor wins her few friends. He clutched the saddle chains tightly. We seeds are without a place, now that the war has ended. We will have to carve one for ourselves. Will she be willing to claw for a place amongst the people she holds in such low esteem? Perhaps she is happier here, away from the judgment and abuse of the highborn. He frowned. I will at least present her with the choice. I will not let her fade away, forgotten by all but the maesters and their quills. She deserves better than to become a footnote in someone else's story.
His frown deepened, images of Seahorses dancing in the waves of his mind's eye. If she will not return, I must needs decide whether or not to betray my oath to the Lord Hand. Initially, Gaemon had accepted the task of Corlys Velaryon without much thought. But the more mind he payed to his oath, the more it troubled him. If she refuses to return, and I do not slay the Sheepstealer, I could be found out as a liar and oathbreaker the moment it goes to feed. The Vale is isolated, but tales of a dragon will spread. Lord Velaryon needs little reason or justification to clap me in irons for treason. For many Lords, it will only be the final step of my long-expected betrayal. If he did decide to betray his friend, he would likely doom her to death. Even if she were to stand aside and allow the Cannibal to fall upon her mount, and even if his dragon were to emerge unscathed from their bout (unlikely, in his estimation), Gaemon would have doomed his friend to a lonely fate in the mountains with no means to escape or defend herself. Damn it. He cursed the bind his oath had placed him in. As the snow billowed around him, he could almost make out the sneering faces of Ulf and Hugh. It's not so easy to keep those blessed oaths of yours now, is it? They seemed to ask.
Gaemon shook his head. Damn the Hand and his plots. Nettles is more important. If she won't return, then so be it. Corlys Velaryon probably wants us to kill each other over nothing. Our folly is his gain. The mountain loomed large before him, its long face foreboding in the winter sunset. On a ledge a few hundred feet below him, he could barely make out a longhouse, smoke billowing out. The followers of the 'fire witch'. Guiding his great black dragon down to the ledge, he dismounted, noting the rapid emergence of several men from the shelter before him. They were clearly Vale clansmen, but their resemblance to their kin was marred by hideous burn scars that they bore prominently, many of which were clearly still healing. Gaemon raised his arms to show he meant no harm. When none spoke, he called out, his voice sounding faint in the winter storm.
"I have come to meet with your woman and her beast!"
The men exchanged glances, and after a moment a man stepped forward, half his face grotesquely burned off, leaving a milky eye and warped flesh. "Follow me, lowlander."
For a few moments, Gaemon walked alongside the man in silence. The Cannibal remained curled on the mountain ledge, its bright green eyes never leaving him. A semicircle of the Vale clansmen maintained a cautious semicircle about it. His guide took him along a winding path that led to a looming mouth of a cavern. Gaemon was taken aback at the heat that emanated forth. It smells of a dragon.
To his left, the clansman spoke. "Enter at your own peril, lowlander. The witch does not suffer visitors lightly. Be prepared to give something of yourself to the beast." With that, he left, descending as quickly as he came.
For a brief moment, a feeling of dread overcame Gaemon, akin to the way he had felt before first entering the Cannibal's cave. What if the Sheepstealer will not allow me to pass? What if she thinks me party to Queen Rhaenyra's betrayal? He clutched at the pouch around his neck. It matters not. A promise is a promise. He entered the cave.
As he walked deeper, he allowed his hand to trace the stone of the cavern walls. It wasn't jagged, rather smooth and ancient and surprisingly warm. Moisture clung to the walls, and as he descended deeper, steam licked at his boots from where it flowed on the smooth floor. Eventually, he began to smell what he could only assume was roast meat. Goat perhaps? He hoped it wasn't manflesh, but he could not be certain. His path rounded a corner, guiding him into a massive naturally formed chamber, its base a hot spring. Steam rose off its surface, and Gaemon was sorely tempted to swim its depths immediately. It was only as the all-too-familiar sound of blades upon stone sounded that he realized the Sheepstealer was turned to face him from where it had perched about the spring. As it emanated a low rumbling hiss, he feared he had made a fatal mistake. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth. Please don't be as ill-tempered as I remember you to be, Sheepstealer. For a few moments, there was no sound or flame. Finally, a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Gaemon? What the fuck are you doing here?"