Morning.
After eating from the provisions he’d brought, Jon told Daenerys what he meant to do that day.
“Jon— Aegon, are you certain about going into the city? Could it be dangerous?”
Seeing the worry on Daenerys’s face, Jon decided it was worth explaining why he needed to go.
“There’s something there I need to get. It matters a great deal.”
Hearing this, Daenerys could only nod.
A short, threatening growl from Frostflame reached their ears, cutting the conversation short.
When they stepped out of the tent, they saw several people standing at the foot of the hill.
At the head of them stood Viserys and Jorah, who had come back again early that same morning.
The Pentoshi envoy from the day before stood beside them as well.
Seeing Jon and Daenerys appear, the group let out a collective breath of relief.
They’d been under Frostflame’s violet, slitted stare the whole while, and their legs had long since gone weak with fear.
Had Jon come out even a little later, they might well have turned and fled.
The envoy gathered his courage and stepped forward a few paces, saying to Jon, somewhat stiffly:
“My lord, I trust you rested well last night?”
“I’ve come at Lord Illyrio’s command, to invite you into the city.”
“He meant to come himself, but was delayed by an urgent matter at the last moment.”
Jon nodded, showing he understood Illyrio had his hands full.
“Please go back and tell Magister Illyrio I accept his invitation. I’ll come into the city once I’m ready.”
Hearing his answer, the envoy went still for a moment, and once it registered, the stiffness on his face gave way quickly to a smile.
“Of course.”
He bowed again, his tone brimming with deference.
“The Magister will be overjoyed to hear this good news.”
“Forgive me, I’ll return to report it at once, so his lordship can make ready to receive you.”
With that, he didn’t linger further, and once Jon nodded, turned and led his people away from the hill.
Once the Pentoshi envoy had gone, Jon turned his attention to Jorah.
Ever since the day before, this weathered former lord of Bear Island had kept glancing at the longsword on Jon’s hip.
As though he’d recognized where it came from.
To Jorah Mormont, the grain of the scabbard and the familiar curve of the hilt both stirred a powerful sense of recognition in him.
The day before, he’d been too far off, and the shock of the dragon’s arrival besides, so he hadn’t made out the sword’s details clearly.
Not until he saw it up close today did he finally confirm where it had come from.
Longclaw — the ancient Valyrian steel sword passed down through generations of House Mormont.
“My lord.”
Jon looked at him calmly.
He had already recognized this weathered, middle-aged guard before him — the same man who, years ago, had sold poachers to slavers to pay off his debts.
In the end, the Warden of the North had ordered him taken, and he’d had no choice but to flee across the Narrow Sea, the former lord of Bear Island.
Jorah’s eyes stayed fixed on the sword at Jon’s hip, his voice hoarse.
“Could you tell me… where your sword came from?”
Jon didn’t answer, only looked at him quietly.
Longclaw’s original pommel had been shaped like a bear’s head; before ever coming here, Jon had already had it swapped for a plainer one.
He hadn’t expected Jorah to recognize it all the same.
“I don’t want to speak of the sword right now.”
Jon paused, then went on:
“When I’m ready to, I’ll come find you.”
Jorah’s lips parted, his face struggling for a moment, but in the end he pressed no further.
He lowered his head and slowly drew his gaze away.
Seeing him let it go, Jon turned to Daenerys beside him and asked, “Dany, how did you come to know this guard?”
“This is Ser Jorah Mormont. He was hired to protect us, some years back,” Daenerys answered.
Jon looked toward Jorah Mormont.
“Dany, can he be trusted?”
She glanced at Jorah, and decided to speak up for him after all.
“Ser Mormont doesn’t much like speaking of his past.”
“But he’s looked after us all these years. At least, to my mind, he’s worth trusting.”
Jon looked at Jorah once more.
“I’ll trust you, for now.”
Jorah Mormont’s face showed his gratitude.
“Thank you for your trust, Prince Aegon.”
Viserys, standing nearby, had no interest in any of this, his eyes only drifting back and forth between Jon and Frostflame.
Jon noticed the look in his eyes.
It wasn’t simple curiosity.
It was more like the way one might eye something that didn’t rightfully belong to them.
Jon’s brow drew together, so faintly it was almost unnoticeable.
But he didn’t act on it right away.
In those dreams that had once crossed the Narrow Sea, Daenerys had spoken, countless times, of her brother as a boy. Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Viserys then, though quick-tempered and sensitive, had genuinely loved his little sister.
But since their exile, he had been swallowed, bit by bit, by hatred, fear, and his obsession with reclaiming the throne.
If some last trace of warmth still survived in Viserys, and he could be brought to wake from this delusion of reconquest, Jon had no wish to make an enemy of him.
Jon looked quietly at Viserys, already lost in his fervor, and said, evenly, “Viserys. Do you truly mean to marry Daenerys off to Drogo?”
“Of course!”
Viserys answered at once, loud and without hesitation, as though he’d been asked something utterly absurd.
“Why?”
“For the Dothraki army!”
Viserys’s voice rose sharply, that sick, fervent light rising again in his eyes, his hands starting to gesture wildly.
“Once Drogo is my ally, I’ll have tens of thousands of riders to trample Westeros flat! Then I’ll take back the Iron Throne that’s mine by right, and make every last one of those who betrayed House Targaryen pay for it!”
Jon’s expression didn’t change.
His grey eyes, deep as the winter snows, regarded him calmly:
“And why would Drogo answer to you?”
Viserys froze for a moment, his lips trembling.
“Because I am a Targaryen! I am the rightful king of this land!”
“And so?” Jon’s voice was calm, almost cruelly so,
“Simply because you’re a Targaryen, a khal who commands the whole Dothraki Sea is going to hand his army over to you, just like that?”
Viserys opened his mouth, and a rush of broken, inarticulate sound came from his throat.
He gasped, flustered, his eyes darting back and forth between the massive Frostflame and the tall figure of Jon, before he suddenly spun around and jabbed a hard finger at Daenerys, standing silent nearby.
Viserys screamed, the sound piercing and ugly across the barren hillside,
“Because of her!”
“She’s the last princess of House Targaryen! The blood of the true dragons runs in her veins!”
“Once I marry her to Drogo, he’ll have no choice but to serve me!”
Hearing these cold, cutting words, Daenerys’s slight frame flinched violently, and she instinctively drew half a step back behind Jon.
Jon took in every part of it.
In that moment, the last trace of hope in his heart vanished entirely.
He had meant, once, to give this uncle of his a chance.
There was no longer any need for that, it seemed.
“No.”
“I won’t trade a Targaryen woman for an army.”