The Wrath of the Fyres

by SiriusStark

Summary:

As the last heir of a dying line, Jon Blackfyre never desired power. As long as he and his mother Lyanna were safe, a life in obscurity was enough.

But ten years ago, Lyanna had crossed the wrong people- and is now paying the price. Seized from her son and home, she had been sold into slavery and vanished, with a noble name as the only clue to her whereabouts.

Now it's up to Jon to save her from her captors. With a blade by his side and an exiled knight as a companion, Jon must brave a cruel world of politics, gold, and spies to rescue his mother. Yet the more he ventures through Essos, the more he realizes that he's becoming part of something greater than himself. Whispers of new claimants to the Iron Throne are uttered. Of a black dragon and red dragon who had escaped their families' purges and are now gathering allies, ready to challenge the stag who now sits on the Iron Throne. And prophecies of fire and vengeance are proclaimed. Of an Essos ready to be united as one.

Lyanna's abduction was only the beginning. The Black Dragon is stirring, whether Jon wants it to or not.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Volantis, 292 AC

It was an unusually hot late afternoon, even for the typical hot days of Volantis, when it all started, Jon Blackfyre would reflect many years later. He had run from the children he thought he could call friends on this particular day. And yet, by the time he arrived at his mother’s temporary hut near the outskirts of the city nearly ten minutes later, the sky had darkened. The clouds rumbled, indicating a storm was fast approaching from the sea.

But Jon didn’t seem to notice the rain droplets that started to dot the gravel and dirt around him, slowly but surely getting larger as the storm progressed. Nor did he notice the rain soaking his dark hair, or washing the sweat from his skin. Or even the lightning that was periodically lighting up the sky.

No, Jon was more concerned about the tears that were threatening to spill out from the corners of his eyes. Although he was far away from the docks where his former friends were, he could still hear their laughter echoing in his mind.  Cruel laughter that started when Marqello Vhassar’s slave landed the first blow.

“This should teach you your place, rat.” Marqello’s voice spoke, overpowering the memory of the laughter from the other children as the slave landed blow after blow. 

Jon sat down in front of the hut, bringing his thin knees up to his chest before crossing his arms on them. The tears were now flowing freely. 

“Jon?” A soft, familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

Startled, Jon looked up to see his mother, Lyanna, staring down at him. A basket of groceries hung from her slender arm. Her dark eyebrows were furrowed in concern as she looked at him. Her grey eyes took in everything from his wet, dark hair to his soaked clothes. And perhaps what concerned her the most, the bruises that were beginning to form on Jon’s face.

“Oh gods, Jon.” Lyanna muttered as she hurried over to her son. 

Approaching her son, Lyanna placed the basket on the ground and crouched down so she could look her son in the eye. “Sweetheart, what happened?” She asked, placing gentle hands on both of his cheeks so she could tilt his head up to look her in the face.

Jon sniffed. “I was just playing with my f-friends when Marqello Vhassar passed by.” He trembled as he spoke.

Lyanna sucked in a breath as she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Here I thought the Vhassars were too good to walk among us mortals.” She said more to herself than to Jon. 

Letting it loose, she opened her eyes so she could address her son. Her eyes were watering with tears. 

“Oh Jon.” She whispered as she picked up the basket she had placed beside her. Standing up, she took Jon’s hands in hers and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s head inside. We’ll catch a chill out here.”

Opening the door, she ushered the both of them inside, pausing briefly to wring the water from her dark ponytail. The excess water dripped to the earthen floor from her dark tresses, creating a small puddle in front of the door.

The interior of the hut, dry and smelling of must and cedar, was as comfortable as Lyanna’s many, often low-paying jobs would allow. The hut had only one room, which was held up by makeshift walls dug deep into the earth. Privacy curtains made of patched canvas were hung up on opposite corners, hiding their sleeping mats and small wardrobes. A small, unlit fireplace made of old stones occupied another corner, by which cast iron pots and utensils were neatly placed or hung.

An hour later, a fire had been lit, warming a pot of freshly made beef stew that was hanging just above it. Both mother and son had changed into dry clothes, with Jon wrapped in an old blanket that Lyanna had found so he wouldn’t catch a cold. Now they were sitting at the table in the center of the hut, supping on their stews. Lyanna had pulled her thick hair out of the ponytail it had been styled into, letting it frame her long, elegant face. The storm had picked up outside, the soft rumbling giving way to violent claps. The rain pounded against the dilapidated roof, with a few drops leaking through here and there, threatening to burst the thatch roof open.

Jon just picked at his food, not feeling particularly hungry. Nor was he in the mood to look up at his mother and converse. The laughter and words were still lingering in his mind.

“Sweetheart,” Lyanna’s voice cut through his brooding. “Can you tell me more about what happened?”

Jon hesitated. “Marqello Vhassar had come by on his…” Jon paused to think of the word. He truly could not name what it was that the Volantene nobles had often ridden around the city.

“His palanquin?” Lyanna offered.

“I guess.” Jon shrugged. The best Jon could describe what Marqello had been lounging on would be a bed that was held up by four slaves, each holding up a pole the bed was attached to. This was typical transportation for the aristocrats of Valyria’s First Daughter- they never walked anywhere outside of the Black Walls.

“We thought he was gonna go away.” Jon continued, feeling more courage come to him. He always felt braver when his mother was around. “But he had his slaves stop when he caught sight of us.”

“Oh no…” Lyanna muttered to herself. Jon knew his mother’s thoughts on the aristocracy of Volantis: they had always been too arrogant for her liking.

“He…” Jon once again hesitated. “He thought it was amusing that rats were playing by the docks.”

“Rats?” Lyanna hissed, letting her spoon drop into the bowl. Her eyes flared with angry tears. “Did he call you that?”

“He did.” Jon confirmed. “When I tried to correct him, he only laughed and stated we were rats when compared to the Old Blood.”

Jon became more agitated as he continued his story. “I tried to correct him, but he only kept laughing at me. I…”

Jon paused as he let his angry tears spill down his face. How could he have been so foolish at that moment? “I challenged him to a fight. To see who the rat really was.”

“Oh sweetie, no.” Lyanna murmured. A scrape filled the air, as stone moved against wood. “Never challenge the nobility to a fight.”

“He said the Old Blood doesn’t touch the common folk.” Jon was now starting to shake. “And ordered his slave Benedict to fight me in his stead.”

Now the tears fell freely as Jon remembered the boy with the sullen expression who was around his age. “The slave was big and had me on the ground, punching me. All while Trianna, Rhaello, and Vhalaso had joined Marquello in laughing at me.”

“Oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Lyanna whispered.

For the first time that evening, Jon looked up at his mother, not bothering to hide his tears. He so desperately wanted to remove the memory from his mind. 

A thought occurred to him. He had heard the term “Old Blood” before. But he didn’t know exactly what it entailed. “What’s the Old Blood?”

Lyanna sighed, dipping her head. “The Old Blood is just a silly thing these aristocrats put way too much stock in.” She explained, leaning in so she could look her son in the eye. “It refers to their claims of descent from Valyria.”

“So the Vhassars-”

“Claim they’re descended from some Dragonlord or other.” Lyanna finished for Jon with a wave of her hand. “A claim that may or may not be true.”

“But if it’s not true, then why are they in power?” Jon asked. May or may not? Was there really that much uncertainty about the origins of those who rule this city?

“Because sweetheart,” Lyanna said, placed a slender hand on top of his small one. “Some people want power so bad they will do anything to get it. Even if they have to lie, chear, or embellish on certain details. Or even kill. Remember that.”

“But how could they get away with such a lie?” Jon asked. “They often run to be Triarchs.” 

To be a Triarch of Volantis, one must prove Valyrian descent. Jon remembered an old, greying merchant telling him that once, a couple of years ago, when Jon had declared his intention to run for Triarch when he was older. He had witnessed a parade of elephants draped with cloth that said “Vote for Vhassar” march through the city at the time. 

“There is likely some truth to their claim.” Lyanna continued. “But how much of it is true? I do not know. After all, they could have been descended from a common Valyrian citizen who took advantage of the chaos the Doom created to come to power.”

Lyanna pulled her bowl back in front of her. Picking up her spoon, she took another bite of her stew. “And then edited any of the scarce records left behind, claiming their ancestor was more important than they actually were.” She said after she swallowed.

“I wish we were of the Old Blood.” Jon muttered, sullenly staring at his unfinished stew. He didn’t feel particularly hungry. “Then I would be able to get back at Marqello.”

Suddenly, he felt his mother grip his hand. He looked up to see Lyanna smiling brightly at him. “But technically, we are, Jon.” Lyanna said. The twinkle in her eye grew brighter. “Or more accurately, you are.”

“I am?” Jon quietly asked. In all of his wildest dreams, he never imagined that he would have the Old Blood running through his veins. That he was actually descended from the Valyrian Freehold. He certainly didn’t have the traditional Valyrian look of pale or light hair and violet eyes. 

“You are indeed.” Lyanna’s smile turned into a grin. “And dare I say it, you have something that’s better than a silly thing like the Old Blood.”

Jon blinked as his mouth dropped open. “What do I have then, mother?” He had something better than the Old Blood? Was there such a thing?

“I want to show you something.” She said, rising to her feet. Her smile never wavered as she motioned for him to stand up as well.

“Come on, Jon!” She whispered. 

Confused, Jon rose and followed her. She wanted to show him something? What?

Pulling back the canvas curtain, Lyanna ushered him into her small space before following him, throwing it over the rope it hung from so she could use the light of the fire. Sitting on her mat of straw, Jon watched as his mother found a sudden interest in a particularly loose plank in the oak floor. 

Pulling the plank back, she paused as she gazed at what was hidden beneath it. 

“What is it, mother?” Jon excitedly asked as he peered over his mother’s shoulder. What could it be? A shield? No, it couldn’t be. The hole wasn’t big enough.

His jaw dropped when he saw the sword underneath an old, leathery pouch and a thick book. A sword! An actual sword made of real, live steel instead of the oak wood he and the other Volantene children played with when they pretended to be knights and bandits.

His heart was racing in his chest. Grey eyes widening in anticipation… 

Only for his expression to fall when Lyanna reached instead for the pouch, disregarding the weapon and the tome.

“Your father gave that sword to me.” Lyanna explained as she retrieved the pouch and settled back against the wooden wall. Another clap of thunder just above them made Jon jump as he backed up against the wall.

Lyanna was likewise startled, but immediately recovered. She reached out to her son and pulled him closer to her slim side, holding him as tightly as she could.

“Father gave you that sword?” Jon asked, his eyes still trained on the hole.

Lyanna nodded. “Yes.” She whispered, hooking two slender fingers into the opening and pulling apart. “So I can defend myself if he isn't around.”

“He knew how to fight with a sword?” Jon quickly asked, eyes widening in surprise.

Lyanna’s smile widened. “He sure did.” She said, reaching into the pouch. “And he was quite good at it, too. Courtesy of being trained by his uncle, Gawen Swann.”

“Who was he?” Jon bounced with excitement. He never knew his father, just flickers of a dark-haired man with haunting violet eyes smiling at him. Dreams or distant memories, Jon could never tell.

There had been many nights when he lay awake in bed, fantasizing about who his father could be. Oftentimes, he had been a knight who had a brief but passionate love affair with his mother. Sometimes his father wore a black cloak, sometimes a cloak of white. Brave, chivalrous, kind. All things his mother deserved after years of hardships.

His father had to have been important if he knew swordplay. And if he was connected to the Swanns from Westeros. The Swanns of Stonehelm were one of the oldest houses in the Stormlands of Westeros, after all. And perhaps the proudest and most cautious. 

Maybe his father was also a Swann?

Lyanna said nothing but reached into the pouch. Jon couldn’t help but let the excitement in his chest rise. After nine years of not knowing his father, he was finally getting the answers he craved.

He watched as his mother pulled something out of the pouch…

Only to be slightly disappointed when he saw it was just an old, yellow brown scroll. 

Before his disappointment sank too deeply, Lyanna rolled open the scroll and turned it so Jon could have a better look. The first thing he noticed was the stamp, which caused his jaw to drop. It was a black, three-headed dragon on a scarlet field. The sigil of the infamous Blackfyre family. Cousins to the Targaryens who used to rule the Kingdoms across the Narrow Sea, they had been branded as traitors and exiled after a series of rebellions.

Seeing the sigil, his eyes quickly darted to the words on the paper, noticing it was a family tree. There had to be some explanation for why his mother had an official document from the Blackfyre family.

He scanned over the names on the family tree until he saw the one at the bottom. His eyes popped out of their sockets and his jaw dropped as he read the words:

Jon Blackfyre, 283 AC.

“That is indeed you, Jon.” Lyanna smiled at her son. Then she pointed to a name above his. “And here’s me.”

Jon followed his mother’s finger and saw her name, printed just above his: 

Lyanna Stark, 267 AC.

Just above her name was another sigil: a grey wolf on a white field. Underneath which were two words written: House Stark of Winterfell .

“And here,” She pointed to the name that was connected to hers. “Is your father.”

Jon read the name:

Baelon Blackfyre, 266 AC to 287 AC.

287 AC. Jon turned four that year.

“He died?” Despite not knowing the man, Jon couldn’t stop the tears from forming behind his eyes. In his fantasies, his father had been alive. Fighting in some foreign wars, trying to earn enough money to return home and support his wife and son for the rest of their lives. The thought of him being dead had never crossed Jon’s mind.

Lyanna’s eyes were likewise watery. “He died fighting the Crow King on the Stepstones.” She confirmed in a whisper. “Alongside your grandfather.”

At the word, Lyanna pointed to the name above Baelon’s. Jon couldn’t help but look at the name connected to his grandfather’s at the same time.

Haegon Blackfyre, 240 AC to 287 AC.

Elinor Swann, 238 AC to 288 AC.

“Grandfather and Father fought the Crow King?” Jon asked, looking back up at his mother. The Crow King was a mysterious pirate captain who had once terrorized the Tyroshi-Myrish coast. Although he had been defeated seven years ago on the island Bloodstone, his name still inspired fear and dread to those who venture on the sea. Whispers of mysterious deaths and ships disappearing along with their crews had often been attributed to him. Or to his ghost- nobody was sure if he was still alive or died of his wounds.

“They did, sweetheart.” Was Lyanna’s quiet response. “They did and they died repelling him.”

Lyanna's voice was shaky as she spoke the next part. “Your grandmother died of grief, not too long after they did.”

Jon was about to ask another question before his eyes latched onto another name. Just above Haegon’s:

Daemon Blackfyre, Second Captain-General of the Golden Company. 222 AC to 243 AC.

“Captain-General of the Golden Company.” Jon whispered awestruck as he ran a finger over the name. The Golden Company was one of the finest mercenary companies in Essos. Made up of mostly Westerosi exiles, they were disciplined and fierce. What Jon liked most about them, though, was that they had never broken a contract.

Just as he was letting this information sink in, a feeling of dread fell over him. There had been a Captain-General of the Golden Company named Daemon nearly fifty years ago. Who had been killed by his own power-hungry cousin Maelys. And this Daemon he was looking at lived around the same time. And had the same title. 

Which meant…

Lyanna nodded. “You are his great-grandson, Jon.” She said. “You carry the legacy of the Black Dragon as his last male heir.”

A chill swept over him as he was briefly taken back to a street corner on a typical hot day in Volantis, where he listened to a traveling bard sing the Song of the Mercenary and the Monster. It was a popular ballad among Essos of a tragic, cautionary tale. It’s sad melody ran through his mind. Lyrics were sung of how a monster challenged a mercenary to a duel for his sword. The mercenary had foolishly accepted, only to lose easily to the monster.

He memorized the lyrics. But he had never thought that they would be about his own great-grandfather.

“But how did grandfather survive?” Jon asked Lyanna. Maelys was called the Monstrous, for both his grotesque appearance and cruel personality. Why would he have allowed Haegon, someone who could be a threat to him, to live?

“Your grandfather was spirited away by his mother and five of Daemon’s most loyal men.” Lyanna explained. “He lived his entire life in secrecy.”

Lyanna leaned further in. So close it appeared it appeared she was moving to kiss his ear.. “Jon, you have to keep this a secret.” Her voice was below a whisper. “The Blackfyre line may be publicly extinct, but we still inspire fear in the hearts of many. Should King Robert get a hold of this information…”

Lyanna paused for a second. She turned her head to look at the fire. But her eyes were locked on some distant memory. “He’ll do everything in his power to have you killed.” She finally confessed. “He drove the Targaryens from power, but he will see no difference in the Blackfyres should he find out some still live.”

Lyanna’s breaths were now filled with huffs. “And it’s important he doesn’t know I’m still alive. We’ll never know peace otherwise.”

As if to drive home the point, lightning flashed through the cracks of the rotting wood. Then thunder rumbled once again overhead as the rain picked up outside.

“What did he do to you, Mother?” Jon asked. He had no idea that his mother personally knew the King across the Narrow Sea.

“It’s more of what I didn’t do for him.” Lyanna explained. Despite his young age, Jon could still detect the iron in her voice. “And that was to fulfill a deal my father set with him.”

She let loose another huff. “ Without my say in it.”

“My grandfather made a deal with him?” Jon asked. 

“Yes.” Lyanna sighed, breathing out to calm herself down. “In Westeros, noble families arranged marriages between each other to solidify alliances. My father wanted me to marry King Robert back when he was just a lord. A powerful one, yes. But still just a lord.”

“But then how did you end up out here?” Jon asked. This was the first time he had heard of his mother’s father. And it sounded like he was the type to keep her close.

Lyanna’s lips twisted into a small, sad smile as her gaze locked onto another memory. One much happier. “I have your father to thank for that.” She said. “In my darkest hour, he and his father saved me and spirited me away from men who wanted my body.”

Lyanna’s smile brightened. Which made Jon smile as well. He was always happy to see his mother smile. “Your father was so gallant and charming.” She said, reaching up for the necklace at her throat. “I met him at a tournament long ago. He helped me teach a gang of bullies a lesson.”

Lyanna briefly laughed at the memory. “He swept me off my feet.”

“You met him at a tournament?” Jon couldn’t contain his excitement. He learned a great deal about his heritage today. Not only was his father part of a well-known line, but his mother had once been nobility. He had never suspected her to be such. To him, she was just his mother. Constantly exhausted from the heat, but hardworking all the same. Kind. And fierce like a wolf if she wanted to be.

Lyanna rolled up the scroll and placed it back in the pouch. “We’ve had enough revelations for one day.” She said. “Besides, that stew you’ve barely touched is getting cold. Why don’t we return to our supper before going to bed. I’ve had a long day, and it sounds like you have too.”

“Come on, Mother.” Jon whined. He was just beginning to get invested in his family history. And now it was time to stop learning about it?

“That tournament holds so many ghosts.” Lyanna sadly said. “I do not wish to dwell on them.”

“But Mother-”

“Go back to eating your stew.” Lyanna cut him off as she placed the pouch back in the hole. Her tone was stern now, and no argument was to be made.

“Alright. Mother.” Jon mumbled, sullenly getting up and beginning his walk back to the table. 

Just as he passed her, he heard her speak again, stopping him in his tracks. “Jon?”

He turned back towards her to notice her expression had softened. Tears trailed down her face, making tiny rivers along her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” She softly said. “But Har-” she paused again, choking back a sob. “The- the only good thing about that damn tournament was me meeting your father.”

She reached up for the canvas. “Please eat your stew.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that, she pulled the canvas down, disappearing behind the curtain. A minute later, Jon heard soft sobbing from the other side. 

Jon took his place back at the table, placing his elbow on the surface and his palm in his hand as he stared at the stew. He was not particularly hungry at the moment. Not after learning about his heritage. And especially not after he made his mother cry.

Jon exhaled, as if it would help relieve him of the burden of guilt. Blackfyres. Targaryens. Westeros. Harrenhal. He never guessed his mother would have so many ghosts haunting her after all this time. 

A few minutes ago, he had been eager to learn more about his father. Now all he wanted to do was see his mother smile again. Maybe finishing his food would make her happy in the morning?

With great reluctance, he picked up his spoon and scooped up a bit of the brown liquid that was in the bowl. After staring at it for a minute, he brought it up to his lips and took hit first bite for the evening.

The stew had turned cold.

Notes:

If you liked this chapter, do me a favor and leave a kudos or a comment. Let me know what you think.

Till next time!

Chapter 2: Chapter One

Notes:

Hey everybody! Here is Chapter One!

Outskirts of Qohor, 302 AC

It was yet another overcast day in the Land of Sorcerers, despite the pale promise of the sun rising from the east.

But Jon Blackfyre had come to expect nothing less as he and his mother continued on the path. After all, why should the gods allow for the sun to shine in a place filled with blood rituals and dark magic? Where doom prophets lurked in every corner and the locals worshipped what Lyanna had called- always carefully and in private- a demon?

Jon and Lyanna had been living in Qohor for about ten years now, moving a month after Jon was told about his Blackfyre heritage. The decision had been a quick one. So quick that Jon- and even Lyanna- hadn’t planned on moving until that very day.

He still remembered it all quite vividly. How his mother had come home one day with panic on her face and an order on her lips for him to pack his things. Within the hour, they went from living in a small makeshift hut in Volantis to traveling north until they reached Qohor nearly a month later. Shortly after a visit with a shady merchant, Lyanna had purchased a farm on the outskirts of the city. They had lived there quietly ever since.

It is from this farm that they walked on this morning, leading a pair of horses pulling a wagon of linens, turnips and honey. Hunting bow slung across his shoulder and hand guiding the reins of Bold Wheat, his trusted steed, Jon looked like any other farm boy ready for another day of selling the crops and handmade clothes he and his mother had grown and made over the past year.

But his grey eyes were scanning the tree lines. The air was quiet. Too quiet for his liking. And too still, even for the quiet, still days of Qohor. No birds were chirping, not even the calls of the crickets. 

What was worse, Jon felt as though there were eyes on him. He grimaced and shivered as he unwillingly recalled the dream of the rotting man melting into a tree he had last night.

“Is everything alright, Jon?” He heard his mother ask him.

Jon shook his head. “I just have…” he paused as he turned his head to look at Lyanna. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“A sense of dread?” Lyanna asked, with a raised eyebrow.

She’s noticing it, too. Jon realized as he noticed the tense look on her face. Her eyes were as alert as his, consistently scanning the treeline. And her slender fingers were on the hilt of the dagger that was tucked into her belt.

Jon nodded. “Even for this land, something isn’t-”

Before he could finish, a sudden wind blew through the forest, bringing the scent of cedars and amber with it. Jon only had enough time to raise his arms and shield his face, as did his mother. Bold Wheat, true to his name, stood firm against the wind, looking at the source with curiosity instead of dread. Lyanna’s horse Sentinel, however, reared and broke free of her reins and harness, running off into the forest.

Jon sighed as he watched her run. It was not surprising this happened- Sentinel had always been too skittish. “I’ll go get her.” He whispered to his mother. 

Handing Bold Wheat’s reins to Lyanna, he jogged after Sentinel, bow in hand in case he encountered any threats. One never knew if they would encounter a wolf or a bear in the forest.

After a few minutes, he found Sentinel in a clearing, thrashing about wildly with a wild look in her eyes. Slowly, he slung his bow over his shoulder again as he approached, hands up and palms out like his mother taught him. “Woah.” He said as he approached, making sure to keep his words soft and soothing. “Easy.”

Carefully, he placed both hands on the mare’s face, one holding her chin and the other to stroke her nose. “Steady, girl.” He whispered. “I’m right here.”

The horse snorted and huffed, her movements calming down. Slowly, but surely her panicked snorting quieted.

“I’m here.” Jon continued in his soft voice. “Calm yourself. There is nothing to be-”

A sudden cawing caused both horse and man to jump. Sentinel whinnied and ran off in the direction Jon came from.

Jon’s bow was once again in his hand in a second, an arrow nocked and the string drawn. With one sharp movement, he spun on his feet and scanned the treeline, trained eyes searching for the source of the disturbance. 

There was nothing. The trees stood tall and firm, darkness seen from between the cracks. The air was cold, still, and silent. 

Another caw echoed through the clearing to his right. He spun, his bow drawn and ready to loose an arrow as he scanned the treeline again. This time he paid attention to the branches.

That was when Jon saw it- a lone black raven was sitting on a dark branch. His beady eyes were trained directly on him.

Jon felt chills envelop his very being, freezing him to that very spot. The bow and arrow became like steel in his hands. His heart hammered inside his chest, like it was trying to escape. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew this bird was staring right into his soul.

The bird opened his beak. “Black Dragon.” He said. His voice was raspy and unpleasant.

Jon’s eyes widened as he relaxed his stance and lowered his bow. “Black Dragon?” He whispered. That was what the rotting man in his dream called him last night.

“Black Dragon! Black Dragon!” The raven continued to call, spreading his wings. “Bright fire is coming! Flames of change”

Then the raven took flight in the air and was gone.

Jon unnocked his arrow before he shifted it so it rested in his hand alongside his bow. He blinked as his senses returned to him. He found that he was alone in the clearing. Nothing was heard except for the silent wind blowing through the branches.

Well, he should get back to his mother before she worries herself. He hated it when she worried about him.

Finding Sentinel’s hoofprints in the muddied ground, Jon followed her trail back through the path and up to where he had left Lyanna. He saw the scared horse with his mother, who had taken up the task of calming the horse. “Shh, shhh.” Jon could hear Lyanna hush as he approached. Her hand soothingly stroked the mare’s snout. “It’s alright, Sentinel. It was just a bit of wind. Nothing more.”

“There was also a raven, Mother.”

Lyanna jumped at her son’s words. Jon watched as she turned to him, spinning on her toes as she did so. She stared at him for a few minutes. Her eyes were full of questions. 

She finally found the strength to speak. “Raven?”

Jon nodded. “Raven.”

Lyanna was quiet for a moment, blinking as she stared at her son. Her gaze caused Jon to shrink inwardly.

Then she spoke. “Are you sure it was a raven?”

Jon once again nodded. “I’m sure.”

Lyanna frowned at her son’s response, blinking a few times as if trying to process what she had heard. “That’s odd.” She said, gazing at the muddied ground. “Ravens are not native to Essos. Especially this far east.”

“He called me Black Dragon.” 

Lyanna’s head snapped back up at him, eyes wide with alarm. “Black…” she started, slowly blinking. “Dragon?”

Jon only nodded. Lyanna’s breath hitched in her throat as her eyes widened.

“Does anyone else know?” Jon asked, even though he already knew the answer. His mother had been very secretive of their past. She even evaded their only friend in the city- an old stranger called Arstan- when he asked about where they came from. As far as Jon knew, only he and she knew the truth.

Lyanna shook her head as she knelt to retrieve the harness Sentinel had shaken off. “There is no one else.” She firmly said. “Your grandfather wanted to keep it a secret that his line survived.”

She looked Jon dead in the eye. “Something your father and I honored to the letter.”

“Then-”

“Jon, that raven must have been referring to something else.” Lyanna cut in, placing the girdle around Sentinel’s shoulders. Her voice was firm, and brokered no room for argument. And yet spoken so quickly, with his mother not sparing him another glance. 

She motioned her head back to the trail. “Come on.” She said, a little more softly this time. “I want to reach Qohor when the gates open at sunrise.”

Jon watched Lyanna as she fastened the harness to her horse. Securing the straps, she looked her son in the eye and waved for him to follow her.

Jon nodded and positioned himself near Bold Wheat. Gently grabbing the horse’s reins with one hand and his bow and arrow in the other, he walked alongside his mother as they made their way to the city. The air turned back to its original state before the wind and the raven. Quiet. Still.

And yet the raven’s words still echoed in Jon’s head. And each time the phrases looped around to the beginning, he felt the dread build up in his heart. Black Dragon. Bright fire. Flames of change.

Notes:

If you liked this chapter, do me the kind favor of leaving a comment and let me know what you think. Kudos and bookmarks are also very much encouraged!

Edit: If you have any ideas for this story, I’m all ears.

Till next time!

Chapter 3: Chapter Two

Qohor

Jon shivered as he and Lyanna passed the obsidian double gates of Qohor. He always hated it when he and his mother visited the city.

The air felt alive. But it was not the life of a merry pub on a warm evening. Rather, it was the life of sorcerers practicing their evil magics and dark arts, doom prophets proclaiming their ill and often false omens, and the Magicrats who ruled the city sharpening their blades for their next unwilling victims. 

“Lady Lyanna.” A melodic voice called out to them as the mother and son were setting up their stall.

Jon paused as he dug the stake in its place, holding the canvas up above the wood table the two had claimed as their own. He rolled his eyes as he groaned. And from the look on her face, from her flared eyes to her thinned lips, Jon could tell Lyanna was bracing herself as well. This was the biggest reason he hated Qohor: all of the men vying for his mother’s hand. It was to be expected, Jon thought. She was thirty-five namedays, and it was starting to show. Her thick, long, dark hair now had a few streaks of silver and faint lines were forming under her eyes. And yet Lyanna Stark was still beautiful enough to catch the attention of many men. Even boys slightly younger than Jon, who was just shy of twenty himself, made clumsy passes at her.

Jon sucked in a breath before turning alongside his mother, lips pressed together. There he was. Azhem Vezh. One of Lyanna’s most persistent suitors. He was quickly waddling towards them. His lips curled in a sickening white grin that didn’t meet his eyes.

“Good morrow, Azhem.” Lyanna bowed her head. “Although I believe I have told you multiple times that I am no noble lady.”

Azhem’s grin widened into an amused smile as he let loose a hearty laugh. “Nonsense, my lady.” He said. “You have the look of the Starks of Winterfell, specifically the previous Lady Stark, Lyarra. Goat, what a woman! So icy, and yet so full of fire.” 

“Azhem.” Jon flatly said. “What a surprise. I thought you were on another voyage.”

Azhem laughed at the statement, his large belly jiggling as he did so. “Jon, my boy. You know me so well. How are you today?”

“How’s the nose?” Jon dryly asked, ignoring his question as he gazed at the broken nose on the merchant’s fat face. “Still crooked from the looks of it.”

“Jon!” Lyanna scolded him.

“No, no, it’s alright, my Lady.” Azhem said with a chuckle. His eyes briefly darkened as he gazed at the pair. Jon couldn’t tell if it was a warning, a wound, or a promise. “The lad’s got a firm fist.”

“To what do we owe the pleasure of Azhem Vezh today?” Lyanna asked, crossing her arms, cutting off Jon’s retort.

“Oh nothing much.” Azhem coyly replied, reaching into his robe. In a flash, he produced a bouquet of roses, both blue and black. “Just thought you’d appreciate these. From the gardens at Winterfell and the fields near Old Valyria.”

He chuckled as he flashed another hollow grin. “I picked them myself on my previous trip.”

Lyanna froze as she stared at the bouquet. Her breath hitched and mouth was agape. Her face- already naturally pale- was now the color of bleached bone.

Jon, however, raised an eyebrow. Winterfell and Old Valyria? Azhem had been in Qohor for the past two weeks, according to the villagers who visited their homestead. And went on his last expedition nearly a month ago. Nobody could make a journey like that in such a short amount of time. 

“Quite the voyage, Vezh.” Jon told the merchant. “And in such an impressive amount of time, too. Tell me, are you now sailing the Winged Ship?”

“Jon.” Lyanna snapped at him. “Be civil.”

Jon chose to ignore his mother as he stepped forward, jabbing a finger in the merchant’s face. “How did you-”

“I thank you for your gift, Azhem.” Lyanna cut Jon off as she accepted the bouquet. “These will look lovely with my other flowers.”

Despite his irritation, Jon was able to hold back an amused snort. The other bouquets Lyanna had received from Azhem all ended up as ashes in their fireplace.

Lyanna offered her suitor a small smile. “Give me one moment, and I’ll be back. I’m placing these in my cart.”

With that, Lyanna walked back to their cart. As soon as her back was turned and she was out of earshot, Azhem grabbed Jon by the collar of his worn out tunic and pulled him in. “Listen, boy,” he snarled in Jon’s face. “When is your whore of a mother going to marry?”

Gripping the merchant’s wrist, Jon pulled him off of his tunic. “What did you just call my mother?”

“A whore.” Azhem repeated himself, placing his fat hands on his wide hips. He tilted his head as he looked Jon in the eye. “Or would the word tramp sound better?”

“Call her that again and I’ll break your jaw this time.” Jon snarled. The need to punch this man swelled up in his chest. And it was a need Jon was desperate to quell. Jon and Lyanna preferred to lie low, and thus didn’t need a spectacle. “Or maybe you’d like your nose to become even more crooked.”

“Why shouldn’t I call her one?” Azhem growled back. Jon flinched as spittle from Azhem’s mouth hit his face. “She’s parading herself like she’s a maiden, clearly enjoying the attention of the men."

Azhem paused for a long moment, regarding Jon with a look of resentment. "I wonder if she's opened her legs for any of them.”

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Jon’s hands balled into fists. 

Azhem looked down at Jon’s hands and then around the square. Then back at Jon with a sly grin. “What are you waiting for? Let your bitch know what kind of son she raised.”

Bitch. Jon sucked in an enraged breath. That was it. He remembered the last person who called his mother that word. That person found himself waking up in a ditch with two missing teeth.

Before he had time to consider his options, Jon struck the merchant on his left jaw. While his fat absorbed much of the punch, his head snapped to his right and face contorted in a grimace of pain. 

Azhem caught himself before he fell on the cobbled ground. His jeweled hand flung up to his jaw, massaging it as if it would make that bruise go away.

“Fuck!” Azhem hissed, looking back up at Jon. “What did you do that for?”

“You know damn well what it was for.” Jon growled through clenched teeth. “Calling my mother that-”

“JON!”

Like mist to a revealing sun, Jon’s fury turned to dread. He didn’t have to turn to see the scowl on his mother’s face, for he could feel it burning in the back of his head.

Azhem now had a look of shock etched on his face. But the longer Jon gazed at his fat features, the more he realized it was all an act. There was a subtle look of amused glee in his black eyes. Like a volcano about to erupt, rage rose in Jon’s gut. For now he realized just what the merchant had done.

Azhem had set him up.

Pressing his lips together, Jon closed his eyes for a brief moment as he braced himself for a scolding. He slowly turned, if only to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. And yet it was far too soon, for there Lyanna was. Stomping toward him from their cart. Her strides were purposeful and furious. Her lips were now a thin line separating her jaw from her nose. And her eyes were wide with a fury that would have made her ancestor Theon proud.

Perhaps worse, a small crowd had gathered, watching this scene unfold. An old woman was guiding Azhem to a stool, gently sitting him down on it while whispering soothing words. Jon couldn’t make out much of what was said, but he did manage to hear one sentence: “Get the authorities to charge that troubled youth.”

The conversations nearby were clearer though. He heard one man speaking to his wife: “Why can’t that young man understand that Azhem is just lonely?”

“I don’t condone his behavior.” His wife replied. “But I understand the boy’s concern. All of Azhem’s previous four wives had become ill and died. It seems as though the merchant is cursed.”

Jon’s eyes took note of the crowd, his horror growing with each face he saw. There were children watching the spectacle with wide eyes and bright smiles. Individuals wearing robes from Pentos or Tyrosh, or even slaves from Volantis carrying a curtained palanquin stopped to watch the spectacle. Unsullied guards looked at him with  hands tightening on their spears, as if they were daring him to continue. Priests of the Black Goat sneered at him as they passed by, accentuating their tattooed faces. Their dark robes billowed behind them as they walked.

One priest in particular approached him and got in his face. “Just remember, boy.” He said through clenched teeth, revealing black and yellow teeth before he followed his fellow priests. “The Black Goat demands black blood. Especially the blood of common folk who think to rise above their station.”

Out of everyone in the crowd, there was only one that filled him with shame besides his mother. In his usual corner, with his simple rowan staff resting against his arm, aging Arstan Whitebeard sat. His blue eyes bore into Jon with such disapproval that he felt himself retreating inward. 

Azhem groaned as he looked back up at Lyanna. “Your son attacked me unprovoked, my lady!” He said. 

“Unprovoked?!” Jon snarled at the merchant. “Mother, he called you a bitch!” 

His mother was now in front of him, her arms tightly crossed under her breasts. Her angry eyes never left his face.

“Jon.” She said, voice low and calm. Too calm. “Stable the horses and come right back.”

“But Mother, lis-”

“Now.” The word was sharp as a whip, and the tone offered no argument.

Jon once again took a deep breath, exhaling the stress that his mother’s suitor had caused. 

“Fine.” He muttered, casting his gaze at the ground and walked to the horses. Though he may have changed throughout his life, one thing that stayed the same was that he hated disappointing his mother. And in a span of nearly ten minutes, he had managed to make her as furious as he had ever seen her. Even more furious than the time at age twelve when he accidentally broke a special plate she had purchased after a few years of hard work.

Gripping the reins of both horses, he gently tugged on them, motioning for the horses to follow. “Come on, Sentinel and Bold Wheat.” He glumly whispered to them, leading them through the streets. “Let’s get you two stabled up for the day.”

As he led them, he was unaware of Arstan rising from his seat and following him, rowan staff in hand.

Notes:

If you enjoyed this chapter, do not forget to leave a kudos, bookmark, or comment! Let me know what you think!

Till next time!

Chapter 4: Chapter Three

Qohor

“Getting into trouble again?”

Jon had tied the last knot of Bold Wheat’s reins in the hitch when he heard Arstan’s baritone voice from behind him. Jumping slightly, Jon took a few seconds to steady his heart beating before he turned to find the man leaning heavily on his staff as he crossed the stable to Jon. 

And yet there was a slight swiftness in his step. So slight an untrained eye would never catch it.

“I thought you would have learned your lesson by now.” Arstan continued. “After the first five times you chased off a man after your mother’s heart.”

Jon huffed as he turned his attention to hitching Sentinel to the post. “Listen,” he started, wrapping the reins around the post. “I wasn’t-”

“I saw everything, boy.” Arstan cut him off.

Jon grimaced, tying the knot tighter than he intended. Here we go, he thought with a heavy sigh. In just one moment, Arstan was going to tell him that he was the instigator of the incident and that he should apologize to Azhem. Before counting every lucky star out there that he wasn’t sitting in some dark cell, being prepared to be sacrificed to the Black Goat like the worst criminals caught in the city.

Jon shivered at that thought. He’s never seen a Qohorik sacrifice before. But he heard terrible whispers about the shadows that engulfed the victims and claimed their souls, dragging them off to whatever eternal torment awaited them.

“Azhem laid a trap for you, and you walked right into it.”

Jon blinked, releasing the reins as he turned to the old man. “What?” That wasn’t what he had been expecting. He was sure the old man was going to lecture him about hitting his superiors. He recalled the last time it happened, when Jon broke Azhem’s nose and was chastised by both his mother and a nearby priest.

Arstan leaned on his staff with both hands, his blue eyes penetrating Jon’s greys as if he were staring straight into the young man’s soul. “Men like Azhem Vezh are dangerous, boy.”

“Why? Because they’ve had a succession of wives who all died?” Jon asked. Azhem was nothing more than a loud, fat merchant. Not a warrior. Why should Jon have to fear him?

“This is no jape, lad.” Arstan snapped at him. “Azhem Vezh may have never held a weapon in his life. But his shield is his influence, and his sword is his tongue. Such a combination cuts deeper than the sharpest blade of the greatest knight.”

“So we take his tongue, then,” Jon said. “Then he’ll be as harmless as a hare.”

Arstan closed his eyes and huffed, leaning over on his staff. “You do not understand.” He muttered. 

“No, you’re right.” Jon quietly retorted. His words grew in crescendo as he continued with his next sentences. “I don’t understand! Azhem is obnoxious. An idiot! What words does he have that will ruin my mother and me?”

“Wealth is the sharpest blade!” Arstan told Jon, once again looking at the young man. “Wealth buys power. The Vezhes have had both since before Qohor was founded. They can trace their lineage to the founding of Qohor. And even further back to Valyria. They’ve held influential positions in the city for as long as it’s been alive! Magicrats, treasurers, spymasters, commanders.”

Arstan paused to catch his breath: “Power, Jon. That is what each of these positions held. Vast power within the city.”

Jon crossed his arms. “His power doesn’t scare me. If he lays a finger on my mother, I’ll make sure he joins his four wives.”

“And that’s another thing, Jon.” Arstan pressed. “His wives. Four healthy young Westerosi maidens.”

Westerosi. For a moment, the word made Jon pause. Westerosi. He paled at the word. 

For as long as he had lived, he and his mother had kept to themselves. Friends were few, and whenever they had interactions, their origins were never discussed. Jon and his mother were hesitant to even tell people they were from Volantis, given whatever had happened ten years ago that made Lyanna and him pack and leave in such a hurry. All Lyanna would say was that they knew. And that was it.

Did somebody know that Lyanna was originally from the Seven Kingdoms? Jon was horrified by the thought. He and his mother had been so careful.

Jon felt his bravado return as he scoffed. “What makes you think we’re Westerosi?”

Arstan stepped closer, standing just before Jon. He looked over his shoulder before he leaned in, his pale blue eyes bearing into Jon’s dark grey. “Your names,” He whispered almost conspiratorially. “I’ve travelled more roads than most men in my life. And a man’s name speaks loudly about where his mother hails from.”

Arstan hesitated for a moment, then continued. “Your mother’s name, Lyanna. That isn’t a name you’ll easily find in Qohor. Or in any of the Free Cities, for that matter. It’s from the Kingdom of the North.”

There was another hesitant pause, and to Jon, it looked like Arstan was debating if he should say more. Then he apparently decided to go ahead: “Much like three of Azhem’s four wives.”

Jon’s mouth went dry, trembling before he asked. “And the fourth?”

“Sunspear.” Was the answer of the old man. “That one lasted only one moon. But that’s not the point.” 

Arstan shook his head and waved a hand before continuing. “What is though is their deaths.”

Jon couldn’t help but shudder. Arstan was right if what Jon heard was true. He remembered a conversation he had with Joridos the tanner shortly after the merchant began his courting attempts with Lyanna. Azhem had four wives before he started courting Lyanna. Four young, healthy wives who came from across the Narrow Sea. And all died of a sudden illness after a few years of marriage. Azhem’s longest marriage was with Sara Barstark, a plump woman from a minor house in Barrowton. They had been married three years before she fell ill and died within a week.

“Men like Azhem are dangerous, Jon,” Arstan told him. “It is no natural thing for all four to die so suddenly.”

Jon moved to retort when a whinny cut him off. Rolling his eyes, he turned around, expecting it to be Sentinel who was spooked. 

But it was not Sentinel. He turned just in time to see his horse, Bold Wheat, bucking and thrashing about wildly, his big brown eyes wide with evident panic.

A second later, Sentinel joined him in his panic.

“Whoa!” Jon called out to his horse, quickly but gently securing his nose. He calmly stroked it a few times, in an effort to calm his horse. “Steady, boy. Easy.”

The horse’s thrashing lessened with each calming word Jon spoke. “Steady.” Jon continued, gently striking the snout. “I’m here, Bold Wheat. It’s Jon. Remember?”

The horse snorted as if he were answering, and stood still. Although the tension was still seen in his eyes.

“I’m going to calm down Sentinel,” Jon muttered to the horse. “Just keep calm.”

Jon patted the gelding on the neck and turned to Sentinel, expecting to see her bucking and thrashing. But to his surprise, she had been calmed down by none other than Arstan, who was rubbing a soothing hand along her neck. His staff was resting in the crook of his arm as he held onto the reins. The horse, normally so skittish, had calmed quicker than anything Jon had done before.

As they were calming the horses down, the two men failed to notice the shadow emerging from the door. Leading back to the woman who stood there, watching them.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Jon asked.

Arstan smiled. “I’ve had my share of experience with horses in my time.” He said, looking back over at Jon. “They are easily spooked, but just as easily calmed.”

Jon scoffed. “Not Bold Wheat.” He said, puffing up his chest proudly. “Up until today, there wasn’t anything that scared him.”

“All beings are scared of something,” Arstan said. He looked over at the horse, inquiring it with squinted blue eyes. “Bold Wheat?” That’s an interesting name for a horse.”

Jon grinned as he looked back at his horse. “It’s a tribute to a personal hero of mine.”

“And who would that be?” Arstan asked. Jon did not fail to notice the old man giving him his undivided attention as he once again took hold of his staff.

“Ser Barristan Selmy the Bold of the Westerosi Kingsguard." Jon proudly proclaimed. “His house sigil was a stalk of wheat.”

Arstan was quiet for a moment, as still as stone as he leaned heavily on his staff. There was a smile beneath his bushy white beard, yet it did not reach his eyes.

“So it was.” Arstan said, making his way over to Bold Wheat. He ran a hand down the gelding’s neck, admiring the house. “But I am curious about what Ser Barristan did that made you admire him so.”

“What did he do?” Jon said with an astonished breath. “Have you not heard the tales? He cut a path through the Golden Company to challenge and kill the pretender Maelys in single combat. He single-handedly rescued King Aerys Targaryen from Duskendale when the Darklyns held him hostage.” 

Jon looked back at his horse. “That man swore an oath to enforce justice and protect the weak. And he honored it until the day he disappeared.”

“So he did.” Arstan agreed with a solemn nod. “But what if I were to tell you that he was a man burdened with regret? And that he took one of the pale blades with him when he fled?”

Jon snapped his head in Arstan’s direction, mouth agape at the older man’s words. “Fled? Ser Barristan the Bold fled? He never did so in the tales!”

“Tales are often half told,” Arstan replied. “They sing of the deeds of knights, but never what they thought or felt.”

“But what would ever cause a bold man like Barristan to flee?” Jon asked. Barristan was called the Bold. Bold men never flee, no matter what the situation.

“Even the best of knights makes at least one hundred enemies during his lifetime,” Arstan explained with a shrug. “Especially the ones who are the most honorable.”

Arstan broke his gaze and looked back at the horse. “It’s a good name.” He declared to the beast, gently patting his neck. “Wear it with pride.”

“That’s what I told Jon when he chose the name.”

Lyanna’s voice cut through the stable like a blade. Both men- young and old- turned to find her walking up to them. Her expression was softer now, as if her face was an ice sheet that melted under a warm spring day.

Lyanna regarded Arstan. “You have my thanks, Ser… Arstan.” She said with a bow of her head. However, Jon saw her slightly wince when she said the word ser . “For talking to my son.”

Arstan likewise bowed his head. “The honor is all mine, my Lady.” He said. 

A faint red tinged Lyanna’s cheeks as she smiled. Her lips were nervous. “I believe I have told you before I’m no lady, my good ser.”

Arstan nodded before straightening. “Baerys needs me at his smithy.” He quickly said, as if he had just remembered something important. 

He looked over at Jon and clapped him on the shoulder. “You keep out of trouble, now. You hear?”

Jon nodded. Arstan removed his hand and turned his attention back to Lyanna.

“And you,” he said to Jon’s mother. “Take care of yourself.”

Lyanna bowed her head again. “Will do, my good- Arstan.”

Arstan smiled and made his way to the door. Both mother and son watched him until he disappeared around the corner before Jon turned his attention back to Lyanna. His mother was still watching the door, lost in thought.

“Do you have another suitor I need to chase off?” Jon quipped, a sly smile spreading across his face.

To Jon’s relief, Lyanna responded with a laugh. “Oh, good gods no!” She said, turning to face her son. “He’s way too old for me!”

“Really?” Jon asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Because the way you were staring at him-”

“It’s just a common kinship between two Westerosi trapped in Essos.” She clarified with a wave of her hand. “That’s all. I’d rather kiss a Lannister.”

Jon’s eyebrows shot to the sky. “Arstan Whitebeard is Westerosi?” 

Lyanna nodded. “Much like what he told you, names reveal parts of a person’s history. Like how you’ll find Lyanna in the North, for example. Arstan? That’s a name that Stormlanders mostly carry.”

“Like Barristan?” Jon asked, his smile widening.

Lyanna hesitated as her lips parted. “Like Barristan.” She finally nodded. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Upon hearing those words, Jon groaned. “Mother…”

“You need to be more careful,” Lyanna said, crossing her arms under her breasts.

“And just let that creep insult you like that?” Jon demanded. “Mother, he called you a whore!”

Lyanna closed her eyes and exhaled. “I heard him.” She said as she opened them so she could look her son in the eye. “But we already have enough problems. We don’t need to have a vindictive merchant added to them.”

“What problems, Mother?” Jon asked. “The only ones I see are us making enough money to make it to another season, and all the men vying for your hand.”

“What about Robert? From across the sea?” Lyanna asked, her voice low as she looked around the stables as if she were afraid the walls were listening. After a quick survey, she turned back to her son.

Jon huffed as he rolled his eyes. “Mother, you know I have no intention of claiming the Iron Throne. That chair has been the death of many of my ancestors.”

“Robert will not see it that way!” Lyanna hissed. “Blackfyre, Targaryen. It won’t matter to him. A dragon is a dragon in his eyes. And therefore will be a threat to his power.”

“It’s always Robert this. Robert that.” Jon retorted. “Can’t there be just one day where his shadow isn’t hanging over us?”

Silence filled the heavy air for a second before Lyanna continued. “All it takes is one mistake for someone to suspect something. Robert has eyes and ears out here. And if we attract the wrong attention…”

Lyanna cut herself off as she gazed down at the floor. Jon knew what she was going to say- that Robert would have him killed before dragging her back to Westeros for whatever fate Robert had planned for her. It was a conversation they had countless times, often when Jon let his temper loose in public.

Lyanna found her voice after a few breaths as she looked back up at Jon. “Azhem’s wooing is nothing compared to whatever happens should Robert discover the Blackfyre Line still live.”

Lyanna paused again as she appraised her son. Her expression was not one of sternness, but of pleading. “I can’t lose you, Jon. Not after losing your father and uncle. Promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Jon exhaled. “I’ll be careful, Mother.”

“Good.” Lyanna said. She motioned her head to the door. “Now come. Let’s get back to the stall. The day is young and we have a lot of selling to do.”

Notes:

If you enjoyed this chapter, please do not hesitate to leave a kudos, comment, or bookmark! Let me know what you think!

Till next time!