The Throne’s Last Flame-Chapter 202 – Blood and Fire, Same Source (IX)
Tears brightened Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes. She shook her head slightly and whispered, “Jon, I will tell everyone you are my nephew—my kin.”
Jon Snow turned his face aside and wiped at the corner of his eye with the back of his hand.
He drew a breath, faced her, and managed a shy smile. “I understand… Aunt Daenerys.”
Her tears spilled in shining tracks, and she smiled for joy.
Jon flustered. “D—don’t cry…”
She dabbed her cheeks and gave a small, amused shake of her head.
“You’re all right, Princess Daenerys?” he asked, still concerned.
“Don’t worry. I’m happy—too happy.” Her brows lifted; in high spirits she teased, “My Jon—have you never seen a lady cry for joy?”
“Never noticed before,” he admitted honestly… then added with a bashful smile, “She laughs a lot.”
“She?” Daenerys tilted him a sidelong smile.
“Her name is Rhaeniel. I mean to wed her.” Jon’s face was all boyish light when he spoke the name.
“How lovely,” Daenerys murmured, almost to herself. Then, warmer, “You have my blessing, Jon.”
In the Governor’s garden, Daenerys and Jon sat together in a pavilion, talking and laughing.
“Goose, goose, goose…” Daenerys covered her mouth, giggling; Jon wore a mortified look.
“There was a time I dreaded running into him,” Jon said, hands spread in defeat, “for fear he’d drag me off to cross blades again.”
He had told her of his youth and of what he’d seen at the Red Keep. Seeing how keen she was on Earl Gawen, he shared what he knew of the man—including the bout where Gawen had flattened him. The forthright boy from the North saw nothing amiss; it pleased him to see his aunt happy.
Daenerys rubbed her belly, thoughtful. “I’d guess… it was some sort of test from the earl?”
Jon nodded. “I learned that later. He meant to take me as his squire. I lost that honor, but I remain grateful.”
“And I could feel he hadn’t chosen me for… other reasons,” he added. “Nor did he scorn me for being baseborn. He’s a good man.”
They steered, almost wordlessly, around the Usurper.
After a pause, Daenerys asked, “I heard King’s Landing held a tourney not long ago. Who won the champion’s crown?”
Jon shrugged. “Earl Gawen, of course. I’ve yet to see any man better.”
So he did it…
Daenerys thought of the first gift he’d sent her—the crown of Love and Beauty. She had treasured it ever since; her smile turned sweet without her noticing.
The slow-on-the-uptake northern boy finally sensed something. “Princess… do you care for Earl Gawen?”
She gave a dazzling smile and nodded. “Jon, you may call me Daenerys—or Dany.”
“Then you have
my
blessing as well, Daenerys,” Jon replied.
From a distance, Viserys Targaryen watched the pair beneath the pavilion’s eaves, a cold smile on his lips.
“How merry… Dick, who is that?”
Dick craned his neck, double-checking before answering. “Your Grace, I hear he and our princess recognized each other today—”
“Spare me.”
“His name is Jon. They say he is the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”
Viserys’s handsome face twisted; his teeth ground audibly. “The False Spring… a filthy bastard… the root of rebellion… the blood of the Usurper…”
He stood muttering a long while, until Dick ventured, “Your Grace…?”
Viserys’s mouth stretched into a grin. “Good. Very good.”
He cast one last long look toward the pavilion and strode away.
Daenerys and Jon had both grown up starved of family. The lack yawned like a gorge through their lives; both longed for a kinsman’s warmth.
So their meeting was rare good fortune—and they cherished it.
On the first day, Daenerys named Jon to her personal guard, signifying her trust.
Morning, the next day.
Dressed in clean black leathers, Jon came to a small hall of the palace to await the princess. A balding, broad-chested man drew his eye—more precisely, the badge on his dark-green surcoat: a black bear rampant.
House Mormont, Bear Island?
Jon considered, then went to him. “Good day. I’m Jon Snow.”
Ser Jorah Mormont’s face went stiff. “Good day. Ser Jorah Mormont.”
Jon’s expression chilled—the name had come from Uncle Ned’s own lips.
The man who fled for the crime of selling slaves.
“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Jon said, cold.
“So, you know me—bastard of Winterfell,” Jorah answered, meeting his gaze.
“You’ve cast your honor away, Mormont.”
“It was Eddard Stark’s
twisted
justice that robbed me like a bandit,” Jorah said, raking him with a look.
Jon’s hand found his sword-hilt. “A slaver has no right to speak of honor. You stain the very word.”
Jorah’s hand settled on his own hilt. “I had the right to deal with poachers trespassing on my lands. Their crime was death.”
“That is no leave to sell men,” Jon said, ice-cold.
Jorah snorted. “You
are
a Stark.”
“When we return to the Sunset Kingdoms, boy,” he added, “I’ll give you a chance to prove that honor.”
“You—”
Their raised voices had already drawn notice. Angai—the tall, gaunt youth—ambled over.
He nudged the bear knight with an elbow. “Ser, rare to see you so patient.”
Since his maiming, Angai had grown more staid. He bowed to Jon. “Good day, Ser Jon. I am Angai. I—”
He got no further. Borona shouldered past, cutting him off. She looked Jon up and down, pinched her chin, and lifted a brow. “Strong. I’ll come find you tonight.”
Angai stared up at the ceiling in mute appeal. Ser Jorah patted his shoulder.
Find me—what for?
The brave boy of the North took an involuntary step back.
The handmaid’s chant rang out: “Her Highness, Princess Daenerys!”
All bowed as Daenerys approached in a gown of pale gold silk, a gentle smile on her lips.
After the courtesies, the silver princess took her place at Jon’s side and presented him solemnly to the company.
Borona—just returned that morning—could not hide her disappointment.
The princess’s kin?
Handsome, strong husbands were hard to come by.
They discussed the tourney arrangements. When the meeting broke, Daenerys kept Jon back.
Seated, fingers interlaced, she spoke with remorse in her voice. “Jon, my brother… King Viserys…”
She paused, then went on, “There is much to do for the tourney. He has no time to see me—
for now
.”
The night before, she had sought an audience for Jon’s sake and been refused. She sensed something amiss in Viserys but had not traced it to the knots of law. A life on the road with her brother had left her untaught in such things—and she had no counselor for them.
Jon smiled kindly. “Daenerys, I’m already content.”
Fearing he hadn’t made it plain, he added, “Believe me. I mean it.”
She studied his earnest face and nodded. “There will be a right time.”
Jon gave a helpless smile. He was no maker of speeches; he’d prove himself by deed. To have such kin as Daenerys—to have a beloved
and
a family—sometimes he feared he would wake and find it only a dream.
Daenerys sipped her tea. “Jon… what of Rhaeniel?”
He blinked. “Your meaning?”
“My guardsman,” she laughed softly, “did it not occur to you to bring your Rhaeniel here?”
She paused; her voice gentled. “I will shelter you both.”
Gratitude and feeling warmed Jon’s face. He nodded and clenched a fist. Inwardly he swore: with his sword he would hew down Daenerys’s enemies.
The North remembers.
That night, unwilling to give up, Borona meant to sling Jon over her shoulder and make him a memory he would not forget—but in their bout she lost, to her chagrin.
On the second day, in the practice yard, Jon bested another of Daenerys’s close guards—Osanna of the Crab Claw.
The “Daenerys faction” took full note of his skill.
On the third day, Daenerys summoned a master smith to forge Jon a suit of black armor chased in red. The smith reckoned a month to finish.
On the seventh day, Jon’s blade-work carried him past all rivals, and he became one of the instructors of the Princess’s Guard.
On the eleventh day, Jon led a hundred men—Rolly among them—to hunt down a bandit troop near the city-state and wiped them out.
On the thirteenth day, Daenerys rewarded him with a finely ornamented sword.
Fourteen days later, evening—King Viserys’s pavilion.
Viserys reeked of wine. “My dear sister—will you teach me how to rule?”
He tapped her brow with a pale, long finger. “I am Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name—King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm—the
one true
king upon the Iron Throne.”
He shrilled the last: “The true king of the Seven Kingdoms!”
His shouting brought Borona, Jorah, and Dick rushing in from outside.
“Out!” Viserys bellowed when they entered unbidden.
Only Dick hesitated—bowed—and withdrew.
A strange smile curled Viserys’s lips as he looked at Daenerys. “My sweet sister—do you mean to wake the wrath of my sleeping dragon?”
Daenerys had not come to quarrel. She turned her head. “Wait outside. Unless I call, do not enter.”
He watched Jorah and Borona go, face gone cold, then took a sip and sneered. “Dany, my sweet, how is it that though you are so foolish, they heed
your
orders alone? How dare they ignore the true king?”
“They are my helpers,” she said evenly. “With help, I can win you the men to take back the Iron Throne.”
“And when you sit it, brother,” she added softly, “you will be a loved king.”
Viserys barked a laugh—scorn thick in it. “Ah, how sweet my sister’s tongue! I almost believed your lie.”
The words cut deep. Wounds from one’s only brother bled twice as much.
Eyes bright with pain, she breathed deep. “Viserys, I am your sister. How could I deceive you?”
His handsome face warped; he took a step and shrieked, “Did you not come to plead for the Usurper’s get?!”
With a crash, he hurled his cup. “You would have me
acknowledge
a bastard with the Usurper’s blood? You fool! You wretch!”
Tears pricked, but Daenerys lifted her chin and held his gaze. “Viserys—there are only three Targaryens left.”
His violet eyes seemed to flame red. “A laughable reason! Hear me: the world needs but
one
true dragon—and it is
me
!”
Eyes swimming, Daenerys swore then and there—by all the gods—this would be the last time she shed tears for her brother.
.
.
.
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Chapter 202 – Blood and Fire, Same Source (IX)
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