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There was a bedroll on the floor of the cave, laid out as if waiting for its owner to return after a long day. Jacaera lay down on it and breathed deeply, even though she knew it wouldn’t smell like him anymore. It smelled only like mildew after so many weeks in the damp environs.
She imagined how Aegon must have awoken every day he had been hiding here. The cave entrance faced east, so he would have been roused by the rising sun. Or mayhaps he’d woken up earlier, in time to watch the sunrise. The stone ground beneath the thin bedroll was so uncomfortable, Jacaera certainly wouldn’t want to lie on it any longer than she had to.
Nearby was a large, flat-topped rock that had evidently been used as a table. Dishware and utensils—the clay bowl was horribly chipped—for one person rested on top of the rock. Jacaera picked up the spoon, roughly carved from wood. It was a far cry from the silverware in the Red Keep. Had he purchased or bartered it from one of Dragonstone’s villagers? Did he carve it himself? Aegon had always been good with his hands.
Jacaera’s gaze fell upon the tin cup on the stone table. When she saw that the cup still held the dregs of red wine, her heart almost stopped as she remembered.
Aegon’s lips had been stained with Arbor Red when he died. She had repeatedly traced her fingers across his mouth, fervently praying that she might feel him drawing the faintest breath. But he was already growing cold beneath her touch, deaf to her pleas to wake up. After several minutes, she’d had no choice but to gently close his eyelids, hiding his violet eyes forevermore.
She wondered what would have changed if she had somehow stumbled across him in this cave much earlier. Mayhaps he would have taken her hostage. Mayhaps she would have taken him prisoner in Dragonstone. Mayhaps they would have come to an accord. Mayhaps he would be alive. Mayhaps he would be more than just an urn of ashes now.
“Your Grace?” her guard called from the cave’s entrance. “We must go soon if we want to sail back to King’s Landing tonight.”
Back to King’s Landing, where her grandfather and her other counselors would inform her of the identity of her soon-to-be husband. Cregan Stark, Alyn Velaryon, Thaddeus Rowan, Martyn Hightower, Unwin Peake, Larys Strong, Torrhen Manderly—there was no end to the list of men who wanted to marry a young queen ostensibly in need of a husband’s guiding hand.
Even though Jacaera was the queen, she would have no say in her marriage. Her agreement would be solicited as a formality, but she would be expected to agree to whichever bridegroom was placed before her.
The Small Council ran the realm, not she. They decided what matters of governance to inform her of. They decided whom she would marry. They decided whether she was allowed to leave the Red Keep. They only permitted her to come to Dragonstone so she could inter Aegon’s remains in the ancestral crypts, on the condition that she immediately return to court when she was done.
If she disliked the way of things, she couldn’t do anything about it. Nobody would listen to her complaints. She had no family to fight on her behalf, except her grandfather—but he had goals of his own, separate from hers. Jacaera hadn’t failed to notice that Corlys favored Alyn, her purported half-brother, as her prospective husband. (Everyone knew that Alyn was no son of Laenor, and even if he was, such was the Targaryen custom, they would say.)
She had a crown and a throne. But she had no armies. No dragon. Not even a single copper penny without the Small Council’s say-so. She was the queen, but she had no power. It almost made her wish she had died with the rest of her family during the war.
Jacaera gathered the dishware and carefully wrapped them in the bedroll. She would have to make sure a servant didn’t mistake the items for refuse and throw them out. If anyone asked, she wouldn’t be able to explain why she was so intent on keeping them. She knew why, but she couldn’t say it aloud.
When so many of her loved ones were dead, how dare she mourn for the enemy? They would say she had the weak heart of a woman. Nobody would ever respect her again; their respect was already nonexistent, or just about.
Holding the bundle, she stepped out of the cave. “Thank you for waiting,” she said to the guard. “I am ready—”
Something glimmered in the distance.
At first, she thought it was the sun reflecting off the sea. But when the golden glimmer came closer, she realized what it was. For the first time since she found Aegon’s corpse, her heart lifted in hope.
Clutching the bedroll, she ran down the hill, ignoring the guard’s alarmed shouts. “Your Grace, wait, it’s a dragon!”
Of course it was a dragon. That was why she was running toward it. There was a dragon who hadn’t perished with all the other dragons during the Dance. There was a dragon here at Dragonstone, and it was his dragon.
When Sunfyre landed on the ground nearby, his movements were awkward as he struggled with his bent wing. But even though his entire left side was burned and scarred—just as Aegon’s had been—he could still fly, and he was beautiful. His golden scales were almost blinding as he stood beneath the sun. The pink membranes of his wings were the same shade as the roses that Aegon used to pick for her when they were children.
She and Sunfyre stared at each other. Sunfyre had always been unusually expressive for a dragon, just like his rider. She could tell that he was aimless. Sad. Heartbroken. She was not the only one who had lost Aegon.
And Sunfyre was not the only one who had lost Vermax. Jacaera had once thought that the two dragons might coil together and produce eggs one day. That was before the Gullet. Now Sunfyre was alone. There were rumors that Silverwing had made a nest somewhere in the west, so mayhaps there was yet hope for new dragons.
But it wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. She knew it, and Sunfyre knew it.
Jacaera didn’t bother with any Valyrian commands. She just stretched her arms wide and wrapped them as best as she could around the dragon, as if embracing him. She felt silly, but then Sunfyre nuzzled his snout against the top of her head, and she knew he was returning the gesture.
Her chest felt warm. It hadn’t felt this way since Vermax died. She looked up to meet Sunfyre’s gaze. In that moment, she swore she could sense Aegon watching her through his dragon’s eyes.
It was probably just her imagination. Wishful thinking. Or mayhaps she was going mad. But all dragonriders were mad in a way, weren’t they?
Without hesitation, she climbed into Sunfyre’s saddle. After strapping herself into the harness, she leaned forward to run her hand down his neck. She didn’t say dohaeras. She couldn’t bring herself to command Sunfyre to serve, not when she herself chafed against that same yoke.
“Va daervot,” she whispered instead. “To freedom, Sunfyre.”
When Sunfyre took to the skies, she closed her eyes. She imagined Aegon sitting in the saddle behind her, wrapping his arms around her middle. She remembered his long-ago promise to take her far away from the Seven Kingdoms, somewhere they would be free from duty and family and the throne. Then he died, and she’d thought that promise died with him.
Sunfyre soared east over the water, away from Dragonstone, away from the ship that was supposed to take her back to King’s Landing. She hugged the bedroll to her chest, smiling as tears rolled down her face. She should have had more faith in Aegon. Even though he was gone, he’d still found a way to fulfill his promise to her.