Gaemon XIII

The doors to the Small Council chamber closed with a finality that Gaemon deeply misliked. Ser Garth Rowan, one of the King's newest White Cloaks, had permitted his entrance, alongside a thoroughly uncomfortable Nettles. The onyx Valyrian Sphinxes that flanked the doors resembled great embers, reflecting the coals that smoldered brightly within their braziers.

For a moment, Gaemon stood silently alongside his fellow dragonseed, unwilling to speak first and unsure that his words would not resemble a torrent of excuses. The King's Regency was arrayed before him, save Ser Corwyn Corbray, who remained in the Vale, still unable to travel due to his wounds and illnesses. His seat remained empty, a glaring condemnation. The eyes upon him were hard, as he knew they would be. Lord Corlys Velaryon appeared incensed, whilst Lord Thaddeus Rowan's expression reflected a distaste for the company of the new arrivals. Ser Torrhen Manderly and Ser Elmo Tully were wary, and Gaemon suspected he knew the makeup of their minds. Ser Tyland Lannister was unrecognizable, save the fine crimsons and golds that he wore, his ruined face guarded against prying eyes by a thick veil, a Lannister page standing behind his chair, ready to guide him at the conclusion of the council. Grand Maester Orwyle bore the tired expression of a disappointed grandfather. Finally, Lord Manfryd Mooton wore his concern plainly, clearly concerned about the opinions of his fellow Regents. Gaemon noticed with considerable distaste that the King himself was not present, his seat as empty and forlorn as that of Ser Corwyn's.

The Lord of the Tides finally spoke, his voice grave. "What news do you bring of the Vale, Lord Gaemon?"

Gaemon resisted the urge to grimace, or to squirm under the condemnatory gaze of the highborn. "Lady Jessamyn Redfort is dead, found next to a chalice that carried the odor of hemlock. Her maidservants bore a letter, penned in her own hand, that spoke of rejoining her lady and liege in death. It seems she drank deeply of the poison only shortly after ordering the death of Ser Arnold Arryn for treason, just as his son's host encircled the Gates of the Moon."

Though the news certainly did not come as a shock, there were audible gasps and mutters around the chamber. Lord Corlys' frown deepened. "The wings of ravens brought further news as well. They state that Eldric Arryn, Arnold's son, sits upon Lady Jeyne's seat, in direct opposition to her will. Was it not your duty as Constable to forestall such developments? Eldric Arryn claims that both you and your companion oversaw his elevation to Lord Paramount of the Vale."

Gaemon pursed his lips. "When I departed for the Vale, I swore to find and return my companion, that she return to the Crown in a state of honorable fealty. I have done so, my Lords. When we returned from the Mountains of the Moon, the Vale was already riven by strife, and we acted as best as we could to prevent further violence from occurring. I could not have foreseen Ser Joffrey Arryn's desire for a duel, nor could I have prevented it once declared. The supporters of either side would have condemned such an act as a gross impropriety on the part of the Crown." He paused, calling to mind the words he had rehearsed in the Lady Rhaena's presence long ago, within the quiet halls of the library of the Gates of the Moon. "The laws of the mighty Jaehaerys himself granted authority to each realm to oversee the implementation of his laws, and granted parties the right to a wager of battle if sufficient cause could be found. Ser Joffrey claimed the disputed succession and accusations of dishonor as cause enough, and paid for his decisions with his life. In absence of an heir of his body, I determined on my own authority that the line of succession should follow that of Ser Arnold's line, as he was the nearest of Lady Jeyne's kin that yet lived."

Lord Corlys eyed the Grand Maester, waiting for his input. Orwyle, looking uncomfortable, finally spoke. "In matters pertaining to the judicial duel, Jaehaerys, first of his name, determined that the King need not personally oversee the dispensation of justice unless the matter involved two or more Lords Paramount or a member of the Royal Lineage. Ser Joffrey would have been within his rights to demand a resolution by such means."

Lord Corlys scoffed. "While it may have been legally justified, the matter remains that the death of Ser Joffrey and subsequent execution of Ser Arnold have been an unmitigated disaster! Whilst Eldric may now reign as Lord Paramount, the Redforts are on the verge of open rebellion. My granddaughter writes that the Corbrays seethe with the belief that they have received no justice since the wounding of Ser Corwyn, mine own kin to be."

Gaemon eyed Nettles, who appeared as though she'd love nothing more than to melt through the finely cut stones that lined the chamber floor. "My Lord, the Lady Nettles and I acted on what we felt would best serve the interests of the Realm with the authority granted to me as Constable. I was not dispatched to the Vale to rule on the succession, but events forced my hand, and I could not help but act. To have stood aside would have all but assured that the Royces, amongst others, would have fought openly with Ser Joffrey's supporters. To plunge an entire realm into bloodletting so soon after the recent crisis within the realm at large would have been madness. The Crown cannot afford to appear indecisive."

Ser Torrhen scoffed. "Your recent actions were more akin to reactions. Ser Joffrey's demand for a duel could have been avoided with sufficient direction from a higher authority. I must say that I feel as though the granting of such wide-ranging and ill-defined authorities to an individual so unprepared for rulership was a mistake. I am certain that I am not alone in these sentiments."

Lord Corlys eyed the Manderly heir with a look that could curdle milk. "This council was not called to call my own decisions into judgment, Ser Manderly. Besides, if you would recall, my grandson and great-nephew comported themselves most admirably across the Narrow Sea."

Ser Tyland's voice rasped quietly across the table. "In these matters, I must concur with Lord Corlys. The decision to raise each of these men to Constable has not proven without merit. I do, however, question whether it might have been more prudent to send another in Lord Gaemon's place? His purported sire was well-known for his contentious relations with the Vale, and Lord Gaemon's presence may have done little to soothe tempers."

Lord Mooton scoffed. "Lord Gaemon accomplished what was asked of him. The girl I sheltered stands before us, unharmed, and prepared to swear her allegiance to the Crown once more! The Vale may be in a contentious state, but the matters of succession are resolved, for good and all. Are a realm's peace and a dragon not a sufficient prize for each of you?"

Ser Elmo nodded cautiously. "Ser Gaemon's acumen may have proven insufficient in some respects, but if that was so, that responsibility falls upon us as Regents to the King. I daresay few could have resolved matters to a much more satisfactory degree… all here are familiar with the obstinacy of Valeman when their blood is up."

Gaemon's relief was palpable as the Tully knight's comments prompted chuckles from many of those assembled. Lord Corlys waited for the room to quiet before speaking once more.

"Ser Elmo tells the truth of it; Lady Nettles stands before us in the flesh, her mount safely ensconced within the Dragonpit. The matter remains, however: will she restate her oaths? Loyalty is a commodity most precious, and I wish to hear her commitments to our King's cause myself."

The girl next to Gaemon stirred, her gaze shifting uncomfortably between the members of the Regency as their gaze fell upon her. She quickly fell to one knee, kneeling before those assembled. "I swear my loyalty to the Iron Throne, and the King who sits upon it."

Gaemon nodded, before watching the Regency. Many of its members eyed the girl before them cautiously, and he was certain that all had observed the slit upon her nose. In no time, Corlys Velaryon rose, balancing steadily on a cane of jet-black coloration. The Hand of the King walked slowly around the Small Council's table, coming to stand before the tumbling curls of the girl before him. From the shadows, Ser Malentine Velaryon emerged, silver hair tied into braids of an Essosi fashion and sea-green eyes narrowed intently. Drawing his blade, he presented it to his kinsman, who gratefully accepted it before placing it upon Nettles' shoulders.

"The Crown accepts your oaths of fealty, my Lady, and renounces its prior accusations of treason, witchcraft, and heresy. Be welcome as a friend amongst friends."

Returning the blade to its owner, Lord Corlys leaned heavily upon his kinsman, smiling wanly and whispering his thanks. Ser Malentine nodded in return, a small smile on his lips. The glow of the braziers danced within his eyes.

Turning to face Gaemon and Nettles, Corlys Velaryon eyed them warily. "Lord Gaemon, you have my thanks for retrieving your companion, and for your… well-intentioned actions within the Vale. The Regency now has other matters that must be discussed, so I would ask that the both of you depart, that we may return to our deliberations."

Gaemon bowed, and turned quickly on his heel to depart. As they left the chambers, he cast one glance as the doors slammed shut, watching with muted interest as Lord Corlys returned to his seat, his years showing their weight. Whilst Malentine might have assisted his great-uncle, his eyes remained upon Gaemon, watching him closely.

The halls of the Red Keep were frigid in winter, despite the best attempts of the serving staff to keep them warm. Gaemon eyed Nettles cautiously, curious about her thoughts but unwilling to probe. She spared him any further attempts at awkward subtlety by breaking the silence herself.

"I, for one, am glad that is over. I was certain you'd lost our heads for a moment."

Gaemon nodded, smirking in amusement. "As was I. 'Tis easy to resemble a deer scented by hounds when confronted by so many displeased Lords. I tend to forget I am now one of them."

Nettles eyed him exasperatedly. "You forget because they only make an effort to remind you when it suits them. They still see you as the pot boy you once were, just clad in a mummer's dress. They'll see you as a true Lord not a moment after they award me with the rich dowry I was promised."

"I am certain that will be soon then." His reply caused her to eye him with shock until she realized his jest, causing her to huff and quicken her pace. Gaemon lengthened his stride to keep pace with her. "What say you we abandon this keep for the nonce? I am sure there is merriment to be found in the city below."

Eyeing him cautiously, his companion agreed. They faced one another, each clad in the Blacks and Reds of the House they served, though neither feeling particularly entitled to them (or so Gaemon would wager). As they turned to depart the great hall, they were halted by a familiar face.

Addam Velaryon had shaved his scrabbly beard that had grown on campaign, and Gaemon would have bet good coin that he had grown an inch. Standing at his side was a girl that stood a handful of inches taller, with bright blue eyes and raven black hair. Whilst she wore the blues and sea greens of her husband, Gaemon knew her to be the eldest of Borros Baratheon's daughters from his days in the capital after the peace.

"Gaemon! It has been some time since I was fortunate enough to cross paths with you! I am well-pleased to spot you within these halls once again!" Ser Addam paused, a genuine smile upon his face. Upon seeing Nettles, he offered a small bow. "And my Lady… your loss was one felt deeply by those of us who held the Queen's cause most dear. It is good indeed to see that Gaemon was able to ensure your return."

Nettles, to Gaemon's surprise, offered a small smile. "It is well to see you again, Ser. It feels as though an age has passed since I spotted another from Hull."

Addam smiled, though his partner seemed uncomfortable at the mention of his origins. "I wished to introduce the both of you to my wife, the Lady Cassandra."

Cassandra Velaryon curtsied, watching the two of them with guarded eyes. "My Lord, my Lady. It is an honor to meet with you both, though I have seen and heard much of you from afar."

Gaemon bowed in return. "It is our pleasure. I must apologize, however, as I had promised my companion a journey into the city. We must arrange a time to speak more at length."

Addam nodded, understanding. As he and his wife moved to join with others attending the court, Gaemon and Nettles took their chance to depart. In the courtyard, as they donned heavier clothing for the winter chill, Nettles finally spoke. "Wasn't that girl's sire a servant of the Usurper? I am surprised Ser Addam would agree to wed her."

Gaemon eyed the various servants in the yard warily as he stalked towards the gatehouse. "The peace brought about many changes. Lord Corlys had long made plain his desires for a match between the Lady Baela and Ser Addam, but her sister Rhaena told me that Baela spurned the match. It seems that Lord Corlys had other plans at the ready for such a result."

Nettles pursed her lips, pulling her fur-lined coat close, blowing steam like a dragon when she released a breath. "But her father served the enemy, Gaemon. He'd have killed Ser Addam should they have crossed paths before!"

Gaemon shrugged. "It seems that many have been forced to make new friends whilst I have been away. What once were stark divides have been bridged. It is not my place to speak on the Hand's doings."

Nettles gazed at him as they followed the road that led downwards from Aegon's High Hill. "I'm not sure there will be many chances for you to get a word in edgewise if Lord Corlys keeps ahold of the Lords in charge. I don't think he is very keen about you."

He laughed. "I'm shocked! He always seemed very friendly to me, amongst those most welcoming to my presence at court."

Nettles scoffed. "Don't be an arse, Gaemon. He might be tempted to have someone work a knife between your ribs if you don't dance to his tune."

Gaemon smiled. "I really am stunned you've managed to go this long without the utterance of a curse. Perhaps the Red Keep has proven a good influence."

Nettles gave a sickeningly sweet smile. "Don't change the fucking subject. I really think you may be in danger."

Pulling Nettles to the right, Gaemon dragged her down a side road that was known as the Hook. Eyeing a trio of Gold Cloaks as they passed, he waited until they were out of earshot before speaking. "I think I may be as well! I am certain he blames me for Baela's intransigence, though I've spoken few words to her since her release from imprisonment. I'm more certain he thinks I've royally fucked the Vale, by allowing Eldric to become Lord. Mayhaps I did royally fuck the Vale. But I lack the foresight to see how I could possibly make myself out to be less of a threat to him. House Velaryon stands strong, stronger than it ever has. You and I, along with Maegor, simply don't fit into that tapestry. We are all in danger, so long as we do not bear a Seahorse upon our breast."

They passed a swinging sign that denoted an inn. The building was impressively built, a three story monstrosity that dwarfed Malda and Wat's old abode. Balconies wrapped about it on both the second and third floor. Nettles eyed the sign and yanked him into the doorway, pushing their way inside and calling for ale. They found a table in the corner, whilst they waited for a serving girl to bring them their drinks. Gaemon fiddled with the strings of his cloak whilst Nettles watched some merchants play with dice.

Eventually, one such girl placed two tankards before them, foam precariously swaying at the top of each. Gaemon placed some coppers before her, prompting a smile that bore the vicious reds of sourleaf in return. After the serving woman had gone, Gaemon spoke again.

"I'd advise you against taking up the chewing of sourleaf. It really does make one look like a corpse."

Nettles, still watching the dice game, took a deep draft of her ale. "And a slit-nose does not? Between my crooked teeth and thieve's mark, I might as well drip bloody juice from my maw. I'd make a pretty picture then, wouldn't I? Sers would dream of being granted my favor, or perhaps a kiss or a tumble, if they were lucky."

"An appalling image. A tumble with the corpse of a thief."

"To hear the women in this city speak, that was just how the Usurper liked it."

"Perhaps you ought to have served him, then. The two of you might have been Jonquil and Florian come again, and you never had the chance to realize it."

"I've had more than my fill of silver Princes, m'lord."

At that, Gaemon grew silent, and quaffed his ale. That was foolish of me. "I'm sorry." He spoke only loudly enough to be heard over the din. "I'm sure I seem a dunce to you."

The girl across from him grinned wickedly. "Seem?"

He smiled, relieved he had not salted poorly-healed wounds overmuch. "So with you no longer having the headsman's ax looming above that head of yours, how do you plan to serve the King?"

Nettles drank deeply of her tankard once more, her face growing serious again. "I… I don't know. Spending time in this city is like waiting to get buggered…you know they're coming for your arse but you don't know when. I hated this place before, and now, with all of these Lords pretending to love one another again, I just don't know how I'll be able to stand it. I'll never fit in, even if I take to wearing pretty dresses and letting maids spend hours trying to straighten my hair."

Gaemon frowned. An uncomfortable truth, that. As he drank his ale, watching a well-dressed man shout with joy as the dice rewarded him, an idea sparked into existence in the recesses of his tired mind. As a serving girl was pulled into the lap of a city guardsman, he was certain of its worth.

"What if you served in another way? What if you didn't have to stay in this city?"

Nettles replied whilst watching the serving girl shriek playfully. "What do you mean? I don't think Lord Velaryon will let me fly my arse back to the Vale."

Gaemon shook his head. "Maegor has spent the last few moons quashing the rebellious Ironborn. From what I've heard, there is not much fighting that remains to be done in the Isles. There will, however, need to be quite a bit of time spent there ensuring they don't start getting any ideas in their salt-addled minds. Ideas of rebellion and the like. Perhaps the Regency would allow you to join Maegor there, away from all of this buggery."

Nettles wrenched her gaze away from the bawdy scene, just as the man's hand disappeared down the girl's bodice. "Do you think they'd let me go so soon? Did they not think me a witch and a bedeviler a few days ago?"

Gaemon grinned. "Half of them probably still think you a witch. But you're far less likely to bedevil anyone all the way across the continent. They'd probably jump at the chance for you to be the Ironborn's nightmare instead."

As he spoke, a small smile spread across his companion's face. A long-absent mischief returned to dance within long-forlorn brown eyes. "Mayhaps you're right, Gaemon. Besides, some dock whores in Hull used to speak of the way Ironmen treated women they captured. I'd not mind roasting a few if they raped on my watch."

Gaemon raised his tankard to her. "To roasting Ironmen, then. And new beginnings."

"To roasting Ironmen."

By the time they departed, it was likely past the Hour of the Wolf. Gaemon swayed, unsteady on his feet, feeling the effects of the drink firmly upon him. His companion, though a stalwart drinker herself, stumbled, giggled, then stumbled again. Passerby were few and far between, but those that did still walk the cobblestone streets steered clear of the both of them, so clearly wearing the royal livery. Gaemon was tempted to suggest following the winding streets to another tavern, heedlessly ignoring the small part of himself that warned against the pain he'd feel in the morning. As he opened his mouth to speak, however, the bells of the Red Keep began to toll, sounding clearly in the night air. The ringing was not frantic, nor joyous, but a slow and somber tone that rolled across the city akin to thunder. Casting an uncertain glace at his companion, he motioned that they ought to return to the King's seat.

Upon reaching its courtyard, it was clear that something was amiss. Courtiers bustled with nerves clearly displayed, a sure sign that something momentous had occurred. Gold Cloaks hefted their spears, casting suspicious glances about. The doors of the Great Hall were guarded, but Gaemon led Nettles to them regardless, and was pleased to see he was granted passage without issue. The hall was nearly empty, bereft of its usual attendants beyond a sparse staffing of servants and Velaryon household knights. Before the Iron Throne Corlys Velaryon stood, joined by the members of the King's Regency and gazing upon two forms wrapped in what appeared to be Velaryon sails. Sers Addam and Malentine stood with their backs to Gaemon and Nettles, waiting for the Lord Hand to speak. As Gaemon crossed the cavernous hall, he was puzzled as to what could have occurred. Could an attempt have been made upon the Hand's life? If so, why wrap the murderers to be within Seahorse banners?

As he reached the ring of steel that surrounded those assembled, he pushed inwards, finding himself to Addam's left. At his feet the ashen gray faces of dead men could be glimpsed within the sea-greens of the Velaryons. Their silvery hair, matted and crusted with long-dried blood, betrayed them as of Valyrian descent. Gaemon could not place their faces, try as he might. As he attempted to puzzle out their identities, Corlys Velaryon finally spoke.

"When were they delivered?"

A knight stepped forward, his salt-stained cloak betraying long days at sea. "A Myrish galley brought them to Driftmark a few days past. They docked in Spicetown, begging an audience. Ser Alyn asked that we bring them to you immediately, whilst he sounded the call for the fleet."

The Lord of the Tides stood straight, but each moment he spent gazing upon the slain seemed to weigh ever more heavily upon him. In a voice that was almost a whisper, he responded. "It is war, then. The Daughters have given me no choice. Vaemond's sons departed under a banner of peace. There can no longer be any hope of negotiation."

Addam watched his grandfather closely. "If it is war that the Three Daughters seek, why return Sers Daeron and Daemion? Would it not have been more prudent to leave us unaware of their demise whilst they plotted their next strike?"

Corlys raised his eyes to view his grandson. "They are arrogant, my boy. They believe that the corpses of the slain will deter us. They believe that a boy king and a dotard of a Hand are all that binds the Seven Kingdoms together. They are wrong, just as they were when they chose to wage war against me in the Stepstones. They shall be made to face their folly, soon enough."

Gaemon straightened, seeing his moment. "My Lord Hand, I fought in the Gullet, and Tumbleton besides. I am no stranger to war waged upon land or sea. I offer my sword and aid, should you desire them."

The eyes of the Seasnake rose to meet Gaemon's, watching him closely. After a time, he responded. "I… think not, Lord Gaemon. My House has been uniquely insulted, and this must be answered with our own strength of arms. My grandson and nephew are more than suited to the task of laying the Myrish fleet to waste, and Ser Addam will surely be able to count upon his goodfather's knights to aid him. Ser Alyn has already begun marshaling our fleet for war. House Velaryon must answer this treachery with our own strength of arms."

Addam glanced at Gaemon. "Grandfather, I served alongside Gaemon in war. I trust that he has our family's interests at heart, and would be well-pleased to fight alongside him again. We need not exclude him from this endeavor."

The Lord of Driftmark eyed his grandson warily, before a more friendly visage took hold. "I would never dream of denying Lord Gaemon the right of battle. But I cannot allow him and his companion to abandon the city. We shall need them here, in the event that the slavers of the Three Daughters harry the coasts of Massey's Hook. They may even consider an attempt on Sharp Point or Sweetwater Sound to menace Blackwater Bay. I will need Lord Gaemon and Lady Nettles to ward off any such attempts."

Addam seemed unsure of his grandfather's words, and Gaemon felt even less enthused. I have already denied him once, in my search for Nettles. I cannot do so again.

Before he could answer, Nettles spoke, drawing the surprised attention of all present. "M'lords, I am sure that Lord Gaemon and his beast will have more'n the strength needed to protect the Bay. I wished to beg thee for the chance to fly West, to join Ser Maegor in the Iron Isles. The plight of the women and children of the West has moved my heart, and I wish to do what I can to protect them."

For a few long moments, the only noise that could be heard was the crackling of the flames barely contained by the hall's great braziers. After what seemed like the passing of an era, Lord Corlys spoke.

"My Lady, your words have moved me. My own Lady wife was oft moved by the plight of the smallfolk menaced by slavers and raiders across the Narrow Sea, and once donated some of her own bridal jewels to fund the construction of watchtowers for their defense. I would not dream of preventing you from going where you feel you can do the most good."

Gaemon allowed a small smile to light his face, though he was less moved than he wished to appear. It is as I have always suspected, then. The Seasnake is eager to see us gone from the capital. I suspect I will receive my own orders to fly for Sharp Point soon enough. He decided to preempt such an eventuality.

"My Lord Hand, the Gullet taught me the importance of monitoring the entrance to the Bay. I will leave at once for Dragonstone, that I might patrol the waters from Claw Isle to Massey's Hook in search of the enemy." And if I pay your granddaughter a visit in the process, it will be all the better.

Corlys Velaryon smiled, ever so slightly, as if to acknowledge that his hand had been forced.

"So be it, my Lord. I am sure that you will ensure the defenses of Dragonstone are well-maintained." Turning his gaze to Ser Addam and Ser Malentine, his face grew more grave. "My grandson, my nephew, I fear that I must lay a great burden upon your shoulders. I must ask that you avenge the dishonor upon our house, and restore our glory in vengeance. Our prowess in the Narrow Sea has undoubtedly begun to be questioned, though I am certain you will restore its reputation." Placing a hand upon each of their shoulders, he grasped them tightly, spending a few moments locking eyes with each of them, unspoken words of kinship moving between them.

In time, each turned on their heels to exit the gathering, making for the great bronze doors and the Dragonpit beyond. Gaemon clasped Addam's shoulder as he passed. He smiled, and added:

"May good fortune await you in battle, Ser."

Addam raised a hand to clasp Gaemon's. "Thank you, my Lord. If battle finds you as well, I wish you the same. Gods willing, I will return victorious on the wings of my dear Seasmoke."

With that, Addam Velaryon left the hall, though not before offering a courteous bow to Nettles. In his wake, Ser Malentine followed, an oddly blank look upon his face. Gaemon watched them depart, the shadows of the Great Hall snapping at their heels. His eyes followed the waning light to its source, crackling within the hall's bronze braziers. A small chill traveled down his spine as he recalled a vision of Seahorses dancing upon a bloody sea. I saw this, he realized. The flames showed a falcon pierced by three arrows, and a sea foaming with blood. The Vale bled first, and now Sers Daeron and Daemion lie dead. He was certain there could be no other explanation for what he saw. He had seen war, but not known the truth of it until it was too late. Godspeed, Ser Addam. May you and your kinsman bring ruin upon our foes.

The polished black leather of the dragon saddle gleamed in the torches of the Dragonpit, smelling faintly of Neatsfoot and smoke. Gaemon pulled a strap tight, ensuring that it would remain fastened for the flight ahead. The great beast before him exhaled, the chamber stirring in response as a gust of heated air billowed about. Despite frequent cleanings, the rushes in dragon-occupied chambers always carried the lingering smell of blood and ash, remnants of the livestock slaughtered to sate the appetites of the winged demons of Old Valyria. Gaemon finished with his preparations, satisfied that the Cannibal was ready to fly, and turned to walk quietly out of the chamber into the cavernous main hall of the pit.

He knew it was foolish, but the great dome above him always left him feeling vaguely unsettled; the thought of so many hundreds of tons of stone and iron held aloft by the grandiose but ever-fallible designs of men called to mind visions of a collapse, forever entombing those unfortunate enough to be caught underneath. Around him many of the bronze-gated enclosures were dark, long left unoccupied by the departure or deaths of the beasts that once lay within. Only a few of the man-made caves still glowed with the heat and breath of dragons: Tyraxes oft tested the strength of the great chains that imprisoned him, and his rapidly growing distant cousins had watched him closely, also seeking to win freedom from their unjust captivity.

Gaemon had learned from the Dragonkeepers that Shrykos and Morghul had hatched from a clutch of Dreamfyre's eggs years before, after having been placed lovingly in the cradles of the late Queen Helaena's twin children. It was only after they had grown larger than the King's hounds that they had been removed from the Red Keep and locked away, awaiting the summons of their bonded riders. According to the servants of the Targaryens, it was traditional for children to begin training their mounts as young as eight, or at the latest ten, so that by their twelfth or thirteenth nameday they might ride them for the first time. Supposedly the Prince Jaehaerys had begged to be allowed to begin training early, but had been forbidden by his mother, as she feared to place him in harm's way as heir during the war. The Dragonkeepers whispered that he had been bade to wait until his tenth nameday, that he might accompany his twin and betrothed to the Pit, as she had grown fearful of Morghul during their separation. The Prince never had the chance to fulfill his promise, Gaemon thought darkly. Mine own father murdered him, if not by hand then by quill. His own kin and great-nephew. Shrykos remained unclaimed, her shrill cries ever mournful in the darkness, answered by Dreamfyre and her brother. Three dragons left unbonded by the war in the Dragonpit alone, with Sunfyre unclaimed and unleashed upon the Dragonmont. When we fly to war, the Pit will be bereft of any riders to guard its occupants, for Queen Jaehaera refuses to speak to all but her most cherished servants, let alone approach her mount. Morning and Terrax will not be large enough to ride for years, and Moondancer has been all but banished with her mistress.

In the distance, the great gates of the enclosures used by Silverwing and Seasmoke were dragged open by attendants who retreated quickly from the mounted dragons within. Horns echoed throughout the chamber as the Dragonpit's main gates were pushed outwards, revealing the dark winter skies without. With great strides that could be felt across the flagstones, Silverwing propelled herself across the chamber with a roar, the scars left across her back by the Grey Ghost still visible. Malentine Velaryon's sea green cloak billowed behind him, and he cracked his dragonwhip once to signal a command for flight. Alysanne's pride responded quickly, launching herself into the night sky, wings stretched wide as though to embrace the stars. Not long behind her was Seasmoke, his dark gray scales muted in the torchlight, while the deep blue membranes of wings appeared as black as a nighttime sea. With an answering roar he too propelled himself aloft, following his much larger companion into the night. As the cries of the Velaryon dragons faded into the night, Gaemon made his way to the enclosure of the Sheepstealer, its occupants oddly quiet. Nettles had climbed atop her dragon, and wrapped herself tightly in layers of woolen garments dyed a deep black. A great red cloak streamed from her shoulders, flowing downwards amongst the brown spines of her mount. The Sheepstealer hissed as he entered, no doubt smelling the scent of the Cannibal upon him. The dragon's reaction drew the attention of its rider, who patted the scales of its neck to calm it.

Circling the dragon to where one could climb the ropes to its saddle, he ignored its predatory stare. Giving Nettles a smile, he climbed halfway up the side of her dragon so that he could extend his hand, offering it as both a greeting and a farewell.

Suddenly melancholy, he offered his best smile. "Though we have spent much time together in the past few weeks, I find myself wishing for your continued companionship."

Nettles smiled, looking tired. "I'd normally try to make my response sting, but I can't seem to find the words."

Gaemon shrugged. "Give yourself time, my lady. You've rarely disappointed before."

The girl above him clasped his outstretched hand. "I… don't place much of my faith in the Gods, whether they be the Seven or the queerer sorts from across the Narrow Sea. But I wish you the Gods' protection, Gaemon. I would rather you not fly once more to war. We've done more than enough killing for this life, and several more besides. I hope this will be your last war."

Bowing his head in thanks, he gave her hand a squeeze. "I too hope for an end to such things. Once won, glory is not nearly as intoxicating as one is led to believe." He paused, watching her nod slightly in agreement. "Thank you for returning, despite your fears. I know that Maegor will be as overjoyed as I was to see you again. Your flight weighed heavily upon him as well, and I fear for him, alone in the Isles. The war there may have ended, but when we last spoke he carried a great weight upon his shoulders. Perhaps your presence will allow the burden to be lifted, even if only slightly."

Nettles sighed. "I… I do not know if I am the sort to be a healer." A wry grin danced upon her lips. "But if it's to be whispered that I am a witch, mayhaps I ought to try my hand at it." The smile faded. "I owe you, Gaemon. Hiding in a cave may have brought some peace, but it was cold, dark, and full of memories I'd sooner forget."

Bowing his head in acknowledgement, Gaemon dismounted from the mud-brown beast. Raising his hand, he waved goodbye as Nettles' Mountain Clansmen climbed atop the Sheepstealer, taking great pains to chain themselves properly to its back and secure their packs of provisions. They eyed him momentarily, gray eyes wary but not entirely hostile. I suppose that is as good as I can hope for. With a snap of her whip and a wave goodbye, the girl from Hull and her dragon exited the chamber, great scales scraping the stones of the floor. In a short time, the beast had crossed the chamber, beating its wings powerfully to take wing into the dark night. Gaemon watched its silhouette grow fainter and fainter, finally losing it amongst the sparkling pinpricks in the night's veil. Sighing despite himself, he returned to the Cannibal's enclosure, gazing upon its great form and meeting the scorching green gaze of its eyes. A deep rumbling emitted from the dragon in response, and it slowly uncoiled at his approach. Climbing atop it, he checked his saddlebags, making certain that all of his provisions were packed. Within the largest of the blacks his hand hovered upon the hilt of a blade he had long left unused. For a time, he had thought to wield it as further proof of his lineage, suspecting that a royal demand for its return would not be immediately forthcoming. As he gripped its iron hilt, however, his thoughts turned to the hands that had once held it, the same hands that had slain hundreds in pursuit of glory and ambition, and had penned the murder of a child. It was the thought of those hands hurting his friend that decided the matter. With a swift motion, Gaemon clambered off of the dragon's saddle, Dark Sister sheathed in hand. Presenting it to a Dragonkeeper, he spoke softly.

"See that this is returned to the King."

Receiving a curt nod in response, he remounted the Cannibal, cracking his whip and urging it forward. As they left the chamber, the Cannibal roared, prompting mournful shrieks from the dragons that remained within. Circling higher and higher into the night sky, Gaemon flew East.