A Dragon Kissed by Sun

Jon Connington

He had always loved storms.

As a child, back in Griffin's Roost, he used to climb in one of the towers to watch the waves crashing against the red stone cliffs.

Not the highest tower, the one that overhangs the bay. Diving from its balcony would kill anyone; jumping from there means a quick death on the rocks spattered by white-crested waves.

He could stay all night long, listening to the howling wind and staring at the rough waters. There would be a ship, occasionally, rather a cog or a galley than another type of boat, desperately fighting to resist the elements, waiting for the lull. Sometimes, the ship would win. Sometimes not.

It's called the Shipbreaker Bay, after all.

The Shipbreaker Bay had always fascinated him, and since the day he had left Griffin's Roost to become a squire in King's Landing, he had missed the storms as much as one would miss a member of his family.

The same show starting over every time the wind rose, but I never got sated.

He loved the wind disrupting the flight of the birds daring enough to fly on these nights and the rain lashing his face.

When the storm broke at daytime, it could be even better, with the greyish skies taking a dark blue color, grey slate or purple, almost as black as ink. He loved to watch the sky clouding over, taking the darkest hues, as the claps of thunder echoed in the bay; when he looked at the stormy sky, it changed by the minute, always surprising him with all the possible color range of greys and blues. Lightning came as a glorious hero, when he least expected it and sent shivers down his spine.

He had always loved storms and this one, turning the Narrow Sea in a chaos of waves and winds, tossing the carrack about, shaking its mast and shattering the sails, was his first real storm since he left his father's castle. Jon had seen storms in King's Landing, of course, but it was never the same when he watched them from the shelter the large balconies of the Red Keep provided. From his apartments, he could barely glimpse at the sea.

A storm without the sight of waves crashing against the shore or against a boat is not a real storm.

No, he didn't get the opportunity to watch a storm since he left Griffin's Roost when he was a mere child. The years he had spent in the shadow of his prince were like a long lull, a calmness that only ended with his dismissal and his exile. If he was as devout as he was during his childhood, he could believe the gods had chosen to remind him this truth by sending a storm that made the ship rock and creak. Thus, the storms he had watched from the tower of Griffin's Roost and this one marked the duration of his years spent by Rhaegar.

The panic striking a part of the crew and all the other passengers left Jon indifferent; they didn't understand, they were not able to catch the beauty of the storm. A cloud as black as night was right above the upper deck of the Laughing Lady, right above his head, bringing a pouring rain.

Jon's clothes and hair were already soaked by the previous rain shower and the waves spattering everything that was not sheltered in a cabin. He watched the storm with a feverish gaze, stared at the rough waters hungrily, as if finding again one of his childhood memories could soothe his pain and mend his broken heart.

Among the few passengers of the Laughing Lady, he felt like an anomaly rather than a foreigner. There was not a single person he could talk to.

But do I really want to talk?

One was a red priest, on his way to Pentos; two were tradesmen and the wine they sold offered him the opportunity of exchanging a couple of trite remarks about their journey. The last one was a Bravosi sellsword, and Jon didn't want to discuss with him either. His past built a wall between him and the passengers, as high as the wall existing between him and the people he would meet in Essos; he therefore stayed silent and paced the upper deck under the crew's curious gaze, until Pentos was in sight.

A different continent. A different life. Is it a life worth fighting for?

In the Bay of Pentos, the waters were perfectly still and the carrack seemed to slide on the their iridescent surface. A thud and the sensation that the deck gave way under his feet announced they landed. When the captain shouted that they could come off the boat, he didn't react immediately and remained leaning on the rail. Coming off and setting foot upon this unknown land almost frightened him.

Because I don't know what I'm going to find. No, it's worse: I don't care about what I'm going to find.

He sighed, went to his cabin, took his cloak and his purse before asking a ship's boy to carry the chest containing his belongings. Even that simple question,

Could you carry this chest?'

Sounded weird. He had always had someone to serve him, to take care of the most simple and boring tasks; now that he was no longer the Lord of Griffin's Roost, no longer the Hand of King Aerys, he didn't know if he could keep his old habits.

The ship's boy nevertheless followed him with the chest, puffing and panting, put it down on the cobbled pier and left him wordlessly.

Dazzled by the pentoshi sun, Jon shielded his eyes with his hand. The wharves were crowded as the, 'Laughing Lady' was not the only ship unloading; sailors, tradesmen, and porters hurried themselves from the boats to the warehouses.

Jon decided he needed to quench his thirst before thinking of anything else; carrying his chest himself, he went to a tavern, took a room for the night to come and sat on a bench, alone with a jug of Pentoshi amber.

Might as well get used to the local wine.

Inside the tavern, everything was different from Westeros; the building in itself was different, higher and lighter than what he knew, the maids looked more like slaves, with their bronze collars, the language had nothing to do with the Common Tongue. He noticed the customers used different languages, which was rather normal in a harbor like Pentos.

Keeping a habit he had gained a few years ago, when he occasionally ventured to Flea Bottom, he sat in a corner, his back to the wall. On his left, three sailors had a heated discussion; two of them, with their olive skin and their use of bastard Valyrian, were most likely Pentoshi.

The third one, a slim youth hiding his freckled face behind dull blond hair, made them repeat everything they said. Jon finally understood the third sailor was from Westeros; his Pentoshi friends kept him informed about his homeland. Despite his shortcomings in high Valyrian and his lack of practice since the age of five and ten, Jon noticed they repeated the valyrian word for 'battle' and heard the name 'Rhaegar'. Hesitating, he emptied his cup, the Pentoshi wine leaving a taste of plums and sour blackberries on his tongue.

"Are you from Westeros?" he shouted across to the blond sailor.

The man turned slightly to him and a smile crept over his freckled face.

"You're Westerosi too?" the sailor exclaimed, without concealing his enthusiasm. "'Thought I couldn't find someone speaking the Common Tongue in this damn place!"

"Where are you from?"

"White Harbor, m'lord."

A bloody Northerner

The sailor left the Pentoshi men and planted himself in front of him. Jon gestured to the seat across him and the man sat instantly. He noticed they were of an age.

"I'm not a lord." His tone was adamant enough to prevent any further question. Not anymore.

The sailor frowned, but soon regained his cheerful smile.

"You like this city?" he asked Jon.

"I don't know yet, I just landed. I was on the Laughing Lady, but the journey was long enough to make me wonder about what's going on in Westeros."

"My friends are both sailors on the 'White Star' and they arrived at the same time, though their ship is quicker than yours and didn't stop over. Heard your boat faced a big storm? It didn't help, since-"

"Do they have fresh news from the Seven Kingdoms?" Jon said, too impatient not to cut off the sailor.

"They do. Before they set sail, they heard about the rebellion. There was a battle at the Green Fork of the Trident."

"Who won?"

The sailor leaned forward, as if he was confessing a secret.

"Seven Hells, I still don't believe it, but Mello says it's true and Gods know, he speaks the Common Tongue quite well..."

"What happened?" Jon asked, losing his temper.

At that moment, the sailor's gaze changed. "Prince Rhaegar commanded the royal army and he faced Robert," he said flatly. "And Robert killed Rhaegar."

Jon didn't move, nor reply anything. His body felt suddenly numb and he didn't protest when the sailor asked if he could have some of his Pentoshi amber. He saw the man pouring wine and drinking in one gulp, then getting on his feet and leaving him. He couldn't say for how long he stayed like this, perfectly still on his bench, before going upstairs and collapsing on his bed.

Lying flat on the sagging mattress, he stared at the ceiling and tried to give meaning to the news. When Elia had left his apartments after his dismissal, he had understood he would never meet Rhaegar again. The realization had been terribly painful, but he had had the whole crossing to accept this idea. He could still harbor the hope that, one day, after Aerys' death, Rhaegar would rule the Seven Kingdoms and ask for him. The prince wouldn't forget Jon had chosen to stay and fight when he had offered him to go back to Griffin's Roost.

Now that Rhaegar was dead, the faintest hopes had disappeared. As long as he was alive, his heart contained a complete range of emotions, from anger to melancholy to yearning; Rhaegar wasn't by his side, but he was somewhere. His death left a void, huge and cold. There was nothing to fill the deep hole he felt in his chest. Maybe the news are false, maybe it's some gossip the rebels repeat to undermine Aerys' power.

Denial tempted Jon for a while, but he knew the sailor was right.

Jon still remembered like yesterday when it was announced that Rhaegar would marry Princess Elia, he hadn't even congratulated his prince for a week, he had been heartbroken but when he had seen Rhaegar smiling brightly with Elia one night, a genuine one, Jon had almost slapped himself.

In that moment he had decided, if he's happy, then that's what's important, I should not get in the way because of jealousy, as long as he's happy, I'm happy. The next day Jon had congratulated his friend...

Drinking another cup of wine, he had only one thought, I failed you Rhaegar

Finding the Golden Company was not difficult, in a way. He exited Pentos and crossed the Sunrise Gate leading to the Flatlands where the sellswords' encampment was located. From that moment on he rode east, for lack of any other indication. His mare's flanks disappeared in the waist-high grass and he believed he was lost when half a dozen horsemen surrounded him. Their impressive outfits mesmerized Jon. Two of them bore inlaid armors; the one who seemed to be their leader had a incredible sword whose handle was set with gemstones; all of them wore silken clothes and heavy torcs of gold. Pulling the reins of his restless mare, Jon remembered the tales about the Golden Company and realized that they had got hold on him before he could find them.

They probably thought of stripping him from the belongings he kept in two saddlebags bought at the same time as the mare; Jon could tell it by their curious looks and their leader's eyes appraising the weight of the leather bags lying on his horse's croup. He told them who he was, asked to talk to their commander; the men laughed and nevertheless led him to their encampment.

A sea of tents bathing in the late afternoon sun welcomed him as he arrived with horsemen on both sides. The Golden Company forces were not larger than those he had commanded in the Riverlands. Ten thousand men, the man with a jeweled sword said: knights, squires, archers. An organization based on Westerosi hosts: nothing that will break my habits. And most of the members, even among the archers are Westerosi, as well. Still... can I stay and fight with them? Is this what I want? Jon knew he didn't have many options left, now that he was an exile.

The jeweled sword dismounted and told him to do so. A boy, perhaps a recruit, took the reins of their horses as they walked toward one of the strangest things Jon had ever seen; in front of a large tent of cloth-of-gold, there were pikes, hammered in the hard soil like standard poles. On top of each pike, something glimmered under the fading sun. Seven save us... The are skulls, he realized. Gilded skulls hanged from the top of the pikes; as there were at least three or four skulls tied to each pole, they made an uncanny sound with the slightest breeze, something between the thump of bones knocking together and a dainty clang.

"Our late commanders' skulls," the jeweled sword informed Jon, with an amused smile contrasting with his gruff voice. "Ever heard of Maelys Blackfyre's skull?"

In Westeros, people whispered Maelys had killed his twin in the womb and therefore never omitted to call him 'the Monstrous' whenever they mentioned his prowess as a captain-general of the Golden Company. The second head – his dead twin's head – sprouting from his neck was horrifying enough to be an asset on the battlefield. The jewelled sword's question implied the Golden Company had found a way to make Maelys still horrifying after his death, probably by dipping the twin's head in gold and keeping it alongside the commander's skull.

"So you need those kind of trinkets to frighten your enemies?" Jon casually asked the sellsword, to show just how unimpressed he was.

The jeweled sword burst out laughing. He's no sucker, Jon mused.

"A man according to my heart!" the sellsword finally replied. "Come, our Captain-General will meet you."

He first entered the tent, leaving Jon alone, enough time to admire the gilded skulls of the nearest pike so far as one can admire skulls, then let him in.

The display of material wealth inside the commander's tent couldn't be ignored, just like on the sellswords' outfits: the cloth-of-gold that sheltered the leader of the Golden Company mirrored the heavy chest of ebony, the silver candelabras and the unwashed silver-gilt dishes someone had put on the thick rug as if it was some ordinary wooden bowls.

In the half-light, Jon didn't see anyone at first, then a tall figure left the darkest corner of the tent and paced toward him. The man's face was not handsome by any standards: he was jug-eared and neither his crooked jaw nor his big nose added elegance to his very common face. He made upon the fine clothes he wore: a silken doublet and, despite the heat, velvet breeches. Like his men, his hands and neck were heavy with golden ornaments. Jon thought he looked like a beggar with his boiled leather and his red stubble.

"This is Jon Connington," the jewelled sword said a bit stiffly to his commander, "Lord of Griffin's Roost, former Hand of King Aerys."

"I knew who he is," the commander retorted, staring at Jon.

"Our Captain-General, Myles Toyne," the sellsword went on.

"My enemies call me 'Blackheart'," Toyne precised, "and I go by the same name, here."

The sellsword understood his presence wasn't necessary anymore and he left. The last sun rays came in by the opening of the tent and shone on the commander's rings.

"Illyrio Mopatis says you would be a fine recruit for the Golden Company," Myles Toyne began. "With your experience during Robert's Rebellion. 'One of the best warriors of Westeros,' according to Lord Varys' words."

He turned around and lowered himself to take a scroll inside the ebony chest and held it out. Bloody Spider: whoever I talk to, they always have had a conversation with Varys before. Myles Toyne must have noticed Jon's pout, for he asked if he disagreed with the eunuch.

"Hire me as a sellsword and you'll see," Jon retorted in a defiant tone.

Toyne chuckled and his jaw seemed even more crooked.

"As you wish. This is the shortest discussion I ever had with a recruit," he finally said.

Assuming they were done, Jon showed a clean pair of heels, but the Captain-General's hoarse voice stopped him mid-stride.

"We are all outlaws, here," he said. "Either exiles or exiles' descendants."

He had spoken matter-of-factly, yet Jon took his words as an attempt to comfort him, in the rough, uncouth style of the Golden Company's commander. Exiting the golden tent, he swept the encampment until he found a bunch of men starting a campfire; from now on, his life would be there, on this foreign land, with these men, fighting for rich cities or wealthy people instead of defending a king who had dismissed him. How he would keep his promise now that he was a sellsword, he didn't know, but he felt in his guts that as long as Rhaegar's child was alive, he'd feel useful.

Mopatis House

The rustle of poplar leaves, even in this exotic place, even hundreds of leagues away from the Stormlands, reminded him of his childhood. It was his third visit at Illyrio Mopatis' mansion in Pentos, and he hadn't paid attention to the gardens so far; he had just walked through to reach the large entrance hall, led by a servant. Why is it different today?

Jon could pretend not to care about the motive of his visit, but neither Mopatis, nor himself would buy that story.

He therefore remained under the colonnades, outside of the house strictly spoken yet not in the gardens, and he looked at the poplar trees. In the hot climate of Pentos, Jon had never expected to find poplar trees; he associated them with the water-logged soil of the riverbanks, or with the chilly winters of the Riverlands and the Stormlands. Now that he had noticed their presence in Mopatis' gardens, he couldn't get his eyes off of their haughty frame. In the warm breeze of the late afternoon, the rustle of the tree leaves was soothing like the voice of a long-lost friend.

"I had no idea you loved so much these gardens, my friend," Mopatis said.

Surprised, Jon turned around. Mopatis was not what he would call a friend. At best, he's an ally, nothing more. Our interest in House Targaryen is the only thing we share and I'm not even sure he won't betray their cause.

'Their cause'

it sounded both strange and sweet to think 'their' when Jon had thought Rhaegar's son to be the only survivor of House Targaryen. Mopatis was positive, though: if Queen Rhaella was dead, her children, the young Viserys and his baby sister Daenerys, had escaped Dragonstone thanks to Ser Willem Darry.

He did what I should have done for Rhaenys: he didn't ask anybody's permission. His nails dug deeply in his palms.

Why?

"Are you sure about Prince Viserys and his little sister?" Jon asked, after regaining his composure.

Mopatis chuckled.

"Are all Westerosi men distrustful?" he answered. "Why would I lie to you? My informers in Braavos have not found them yet,"

"Will Queen Rhaella's children going to join the young Aegon here if they are Found?"

"Of course not!" Mopatis exclaimed, wiping his sticky fingers on a white cloth.

"Three Targaryen children in the same place would be too easy to find for King Robert's spies. And don't forget that no one knows about Aegon. If you want my opinion, your brave Willem Darry should keep Viserys with him and send away the baby girl. Someone else should take care of her..."

"No need to say you shall never meet Ser Willem Darry, Jon. Robert Baratheon is no fool. He could make a connection. Anyway, for everybody's safety, Viserys and Daenerys should ignore Aegon's existence, and Aegon won't know who his parents were before I decide to tell him. Children are very bad liars, when it comes to family matters."

This confession confirmed something Jon already knew: the fat merchant didn't want to put all his eggs in one basket. His opportunist behavior exasperated Jon who wondered what would happen the day both Viserys and Aegon would be old enough to cross the Narrow Sea with an army.

Will they fight each other? Will Mopatis take advantage of their division? What does he expect? Gold, lands, once a Targaryen prince reconquer the Seven Kingdoms? He's certainly not helping their cause for free.

Why Did they Not?

Jon scooted to the edge of his seat.

"I want to see him," he suddenly told Mopatis.

"Who do you want to see? I told you we don't where Prince-"

"I want to see Aegon."

"We should not call him Aegon. We should-"

"I'm tired of following your rules, Mopatis. Just let me see the child."

Indignant, Mopatis almost choked on a date.

"You still don't believe me! Well, Jon-"

Jon nearly shouted. "I just want to see him."

The fat man stared at him in disbelief. If Jon demanded to see the boy, it meant one thing, in Mopatis' world: the exile didn't trust his word. He scowled at Jon, then angrily wiped his plump hands on the cloth and tossed it to the floor with a childish gesture.

"Come with me," he ordered curtly, pushing himself from his armchair.

Jon followed the fat merchant out of the antechamber: at the end of a corridor, Mopatis pointed at a door similar to the others and pushed it open. The room had probably been a library once, for several empty shelves remained. In the mahogany bookcases where Mopatis stored his scrolls and books, the wet-nurse had put the clothes she used for the baby as if they were a lavish kind of linen closet. She welcomed them with a deep bow and a few words of bastard Valyrian Jon could have understood if he had paid attention, but the cradle in the center of the room was all he could see.

Wordlessly, he stepped forward, watched the crib made of wicker, which simplicity contrasted with the mahogany shelves and the expensive rug on the floor. Inside the cradle, a small head and two little fists emerged from the blankets.

"What are you doing?" Mopatis asked, surprised to see a man leaning over an infant with something in his eyes that looked like interest.

Why did they not try to save her?

Jon didn't listen to him and knelt by the child. As the baby was asleep, he gently wrapped him in the blankets and took him in his arms. This way, Jon could have a better look at his face. At first, he only saw the silver-blond hair that was typical of the Targaryens, then he wondered what he was looking for. His skin was smooth – not like a woman's skin, Aegon's seemed velvety – and it was difficult to recognize Rhaegar's features in such a small face, they were barely there...

The child shuddered and suddenly opened his eyes; for a second, Jon panicked and thought the baby would probably scream when awakening in a stranger's arms.

Even my red hair could frighten him. After all, it was the first thing Rhaenys noticed when she looked at me.

The memory of the little princess was still painful, even years after her death.

"What are you doing?" Mopatis repeated.

He was right behind Jon this time and towered above him without trying to hide his impatience.

"If I'm supposed to raise this child, sooner or later, we should make acquaintance."

The baby's blue eyes turned to purple with the late afternoon sun; mesmerized by this gaze which reminded him of someone else's, Jon smiled and stood up, holding tightly the heap of blankets. He crossed the room to reach the nearest window.

"Aegon," he whispered.

The child didn't flinch and looked back at him.

"For the time being, he's just 'the baby'," Mopatis announced, with the insistent tone of a man who liked to ruin others' happiness.

Jon wondered if he was happy at this very moment; the lump in his throat and Mopatis' annoying presence pleaded against any sort of pleasure, yet, with Aegon in his arms, he felt different. Raising this child meant teaching him so many things and protecting him from so many dangers it was somehow more demanding than any office in King's Landing.

The day Jon would take this boy with him and raise him as his own child, his life wouldn't focus anymore on sellswords' contracts, war elephants or gilded armors. A sellsword's life was pointless; a father's life – for he would be the closest thing the child would have to a father – made him feel dizzy.

When Mopatis cleared his throat, Jon understood he had to leave and turned to the wet-nurse; the tanned dark-haired woman looked at him suspiciously while she took Aegon from his arms, maybe wondering if this stranger who was so eager to hold the baby could be his father. Jon knew his behaviour was surprising and even shocking, but he didn't care.

He soon regained his mask of arrogance and followed Mopatis back in the antechamber, then under the colonnades. The orange and pink hues in the sky revealed how late it already was. Before crossing the gardens to reach the porch, Jon stopped and so did his host, wondering why the exile couldn't just leave.

"What's the matter, Jon?"

"The poplar trees in your gardens... they remind me of my home. I didn't know there were poplar trees in Essos."

Mopatis chuckled at his remark.

"There are not such trees here. They wouldn't survive without the cisterns; my servants water them everyday. Poplar trees are an expensive fancy."

The rustle of the poplar leaves in the breeze lulled Jon and he was glad that Aegon could hear that sound day after day.

"I imported them from your country," Mopatis added, eager to show his wealth. "Uprooted in the Crownlands, I think, carefully transported on a ship and replanted here. Are they not splendid?"

"They are," Jon answered, nodding vehemently.

A servant brought his horse and Jon left Illyrio Mopatis' mansion. Questions tumbled in his head, but as he moved away from the mansion surrounded by creamy yellow high walls, he still saw the top of the poplar trees and their green-silver leaves.

Uprooted and exiled, like me, like Aegon.

Raising the boy and helping him reconquer the Seven Kingdoms was much more challenging than anything he had done so far. Strangely, it was not the conquest that worried Jon, but the very existence of Aegon.

Despite seeing him, Why do I feel that there's more to this? Why did they not save Rhaenys, Why did Elia even trust Varys? Rhaegar, please give me your wisdom...