Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of The Golden Dragon.
If you want to Read 7 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch
Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31, Chapter 32, Chapter 33, Chapter 34 and Chapter 35 are already available for Patrons, so go to my Patreon to gain Early Access.
Aboard The Fury
Robert sat at the head of the table in a chair that was slightly too small for him. He had stripped off his armor hours ago and wore a loose linen tunic unlaced to the navel, dark hair curling across a chest that was still thick with muscle, but Ned was sure there was a bit more fat than Robert used to have. His warhammer leaned against the bulkhead behind him, its head dark with scratches that hadn't been there a month ago.
He looked happy. Ned knew that smile; he had seen it so many times, usually after a battle won. War was Robert Baratheon's second-best friend.
"Do you remember," Robert said, refilling his cup with a heavy hand, wine sloshing over the rim and pooling on the oak, "the time we hunted that shadowcat in the Mountains of the Moon?"
Ned set his cup down. "I remember you falling into a ravine."
"I did not fall." Robert jabbed a thick finger at him. "The ground gave way." He drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I killed the beast, didn't I? Climbed back out with the pelt on my shoulders and blood running down my face, and Yohn Royce nearly pissed himself when he saw me."
He fell, Ned thought. Yelped like a kicked dog the whole way down. I had to throw him a rope.
"You broke two ribs," Ned said instead.
"Three," Robert corrected proudly. "And I still drank Yohn's boys under the table that night. All four of them. One after the other." He slammed his cup on the table. "Gods, those were good days. Good days. Do you remember, Jon?"
Jon Arryn sat to Robert's left, his thin frame draped in a heavy cloak despite the warmth of the cabin. Ned frowned when he saw his foster father. He knew he wasn't young anymore; Ned could never remember him young, but now, he appeared as if the clothes would swallow him.
"I remember patching you up," Jon said. "And writing to your lady mother to assure her you were still alive. I wrote that letter more times than I care to count."
Robert roared with laughter. The sound filled the cabin and bounced off the low ceiling, and somewhere above them, a sailor's boots shuffled on the deck. "My mother. Gods rest her. She sent a raven back once that said, and I remember this to the word: If my son dies doing something stupid, Lord Arryn, I will hold you personally responsible." He shook his head, grinning. "She meant it, too."
She was right to worry, Ned thought.
"And you, Ned." Robert turned on him, blue eyes bright in the candlelight. "You were the worst of it. Standing there with that long Stark face, watching me and saying nothing. You never said a word, but I could feel the disapproval coming off you like heat from a forge."
"Someone had to be sensible."
"Sensible." Robert spat the word like a fishbone. "You were fifteen, and you were already an old man. I'd sneak a girl up the back stairs and you'd be sitting there reading some bloody history, looking at me like I'd pissed on one of your precious trees."
Jon Arryn smiled, and Ned for a moment felt like he was at the Eyrie. "You did piss on the sept floor. During Maiden's Day services."
"I was very, very drunk. And anyway, the Maiden didn't seem to mind." He roared again, and this time even Ned chuckled.
"They never did, with you," Ned said, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. "Though I seem to recall you once tried to charm old Anya Waynwood's handmaid by reciting the words of House Arryn. You got halfway through before you told the poor girl that House Arryn's words were As High As My—"
"She laughed!" Robert protested, though his face had gone red as a Lannister cloak. "She laughed so hard she spilled wine on Lord Arryn's best doublet."
"She threw wine on you," Ned corrected quietly. "Jon made you write her a letter of apology. Three drafts."
"Four," Jon Arryn murmured, and Robert groaned.
The laughter faded slowly, like embers settling in a hearth. Robert drank deep from his cup, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and fixed Ned with a look. "And your boy? Your Robb? How old is he now?"
"Six," Ned said. "He'd just started training with a wooden sword when I rode south. Ser Rodrik says he has a good arm." He paused, remembering—Robb in the yard at Winterfell, his auburn hair bright against the grey stone, swinging the little blade with more fury than form. Catelyn watching from the covered bridge, one hand resting on the swell of her belly where their third child grew. It felt like another lifetime. "He'll be a fine swordsman, if the gods are good."
Robert's smile did not leave his face, but he seemed envious. "Six," he repeated. "Six years old and already swinging steel. Well, wood. That's good. That's... good."
"What of your boy, Robert?" Ned asked, wanting to know more about the Heir of Westeros. "Prince Joffrey. He must be, what, four now?"
Ned wanted to hear what Robert would say about his son; he expected to see pride in his eyes.
Robert's face changed.
The joy didn't drain slowly. It dropped, all at once, like a stone thrown into a well.
"Joffrey," Robert said. He reached for the wine flagon and poured again. "Four years old. Aye."
Ned waited.
Robert drank. He set the cup down and stared at the table.
"The boy's a coward, Ned."
"He cries," Robert continued. "He cries at everything. Thunder, dogs, men in armor. His nursemaid tells me he shrieks if someone shuts a door too hard. Four years old and he flinches if you raise your voice." He looked up, and his blue eyes were hard. "He won't pick up a wooden sword. Cersei gives him dolls. Dolls, Ned. Stuffed lions and silk knights. He sleeps with them. He won't go near the training yard. He won't go near me."
Because you frighten him, Ned thought, but did not say.
"He's taken too much after his bloody mother," Robert said, and the words came out like something chewed and spat. "Cersei holds him and pets him and tells him the world is cruel. She's turning him into a little woman. My son. My heir." He jabbed a finger at the table. "Tywin's boy killed four men at six. Four armed men, and he carved his way out with a fishbone and a stolen blade. My son weeps if the nursemaid combs his hair too hard."
He's four, Ned thought. Four years old, and you've already measured him against a boy who was tortured into killing.
"Robert," Ned said carefully. "He is four. Boys grow into themselves. You were no warrior at four either."
"I wasn't a coward at four."
"You don't know that. You were too young to remember, and so was everyone else." Ned kept his voice even. "Perhaps if you spent more time with the boy. Took him riding. Let him see you as something other than a voice that shouts and a hand that—"
"I've tried." Robert cut him off, and for a moment, something genuinely wounded flickered across his face. "I've tried, Ned. The boy looks at me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm something that walked into his mother's chambers by mistake. He runs to Cersei. He always runs to Cersei." He shook his head. "She's poisoned him against me. I'm sure of it."
Jon Arryn stirred. He set his cup down with a quiet clink and folded his hands on the table.
"Children need time, Robert," Jon said. "And guidance. A boy of four sees the world through his mother's eyes because his mother is the world. That will change, but only if you let it change. Only if you are patient enough to be there when it does."
Robert looked at Jon with an expression that was half-gratitude and half-annoyance, the look of a man who knows the advice is good and hates it anyway.
"Patient," Robert muttered. "Everyone tells me to be patient. Be patient with the boy, be patient with the crown, be patient with the bloody Small Council. I wasn't built for patience, Jon. You of all people should know that."
Jon Arryn said nothing, but he seemed displeased by his explosion of anger, and Robert quickly calmed down and looked apologetic.
"Well." Robert slapped the table, making the cups jump. "Enough of that. I didn't crack open the good wine to talk about my disappointment of a son." He grinned, and the mask was back, broad and boisterous and impenetrable. "I have news. Good news, for a change."
He leaned forward, and his eyes lit with a different fire. Not the battle-fire.
"A Grand Tourney," Robert announced, spreading his hands wide. "In King's Landing. The biggest the realm has seen since..." He waved vaguely. "Since whenever the last one was. Jousting, melee, archery, a feast that'll last a full week. Music, wine, the whole bloody spectacle. We crushed a rebellion. We saved the Lannister boy. The realm deserves a celebration."
The realm deserves rest, Ned thought. The realm deserves to bury its dead and plant its fields.
Ned was hoping Jon Arryn would say something against this, but this time, it seems Jon was in agreement with this. "The Tourney is important, Ned. We won and crushed the Rebellion, and right now, the Tourney will be needed to bring some happiness to the people of Westeros."
"And you, Ned." Robert pointed at him with his wine cup, sloshing golden drops onto the maps. "You're coming. No arguments. You're staying South for the tourney, and you're going to enjoy yourself for once in your miserable frozen life. You will get to enjoy the sweetness of the south."
Ned looked at his cup. "The South has rarely given me sweetness, Robert."
Robert's grin faded.
"I know," Robert said, and his voice was quieter now. "I know what that city took from you. From both of us. But that was the Mad King's doing, not the South's. The city is mine now, and it's better. Not perfect, gods know. But better." He leaned forward. "Come to the tourney. Stay a few weeks. Let us drink together and watch knights fall on their arses. After that, you can go home and bury your head in the snow again. But give me this much, Ned."
"I'll think on it," Ned said, and regretted it. His place was in Winterfell, not the South.
Robert looked at him for a moment, then nodded. He refilled his cup — his sixth, or perhaps seventh — and the grin crept back, though it was softer now. "Fair enough. You think on it. But you'll come. I know you will. You always come when I need you."
Then, as Robert drank, suddenly, his cup was on the table, and his eyes were looking back at Ned, and Ned knew that look; he knew what he was about to ask.
"And Lyanna," Ned could not remember him sounding so young. The voice of the boy in the Vale who had sworn to Ned a hundred times that he would marry the she-wolf and give her a crown. "How is she? I saw her across the camp at Seagard, but we never..." He trailed off and looked into his wine. "I didn't know what to say."
Ned took a slow breath.
"She fought well," Ned said, choosing each word. "She rode with the Northern van and never faltered. She is still the Warrior of the North."
Robert looked up, and his eyes were raw. "Is she—"
"She is better now," Ned said before Robert could continue.
Robert held his gaze. Is she still alone? Has she spoken of me?
Ned gave him nothing.
Robert looked down. He nodded, once, and drank.
"Good," he said. "That's good. I'm glad she's well." He cleared his throat and reached for the flagon. "More wine?"
"I should rest," Ned said. He stood, and his chair scraped against the planks. "It's been a long war, and I'd like to sleep knowing the war is over."
Robert laughed, but it was a thinner sound than before. "Go on, then. Get your Northern beauty sleep. We'll be at Seagard in two days, and I want you looking your best when I inevitably beat you at something."
"You've never beaten me at anything that didn't involve a wine cup."
"That's a filthy lie and you know it."
Ned clasped Robert's forearm across the table. Robert gripped back and grinned.
Ned released his grip. He nodded to Jon Arryn. Then he turned and walked out of the cabin.
The deck was dark and cold after the stuffy warmth below. Wind cut off the black water, carrying the smell of brine and distant rain. Above him, the sails snapped taut, and the rigging hummed. A pair of sailors passed, nodding to him without stopping.
Ned walked to the stern and stood alone for a moment, looking back at the darkness where the Iron Islands had been.
We won, he thought. The rebellion is crushed. The Ironborn are broken. Balon Greyjoy is dead.
Ned's thoughts went to that moment in the hall when the boy ordered the deaths of everyone there, besides the girl. Ned did not like the sight of that boy, to order the deaths of so many people while so young. Ned's thoughts went to Robb, his boy, and the thought of him doing something similar...no, his son would grow up to be an honorable man, a good man, not a monster.
Ned felt a little guilty for thinking of the boy as a monster, after all, Tywin put the decision in his hands, and the boy had to make a decision to make his father proud. Still, this was not Ned's concern; the South was not his Home. Yet, Ned thought back on the bundles with blood, wrapped in Lannister gold and red.
Once this Grand Tourney ends, he would ride back to Winterfell and, hopefully, never see the South again.
Adrian Lannister - One Week Later
—woke with the taste of iron on his tongue and his arms locked around Red Rain's scabbard.
The sword lay against his chest, sheathed, the leather cool against his collarbone. His fingers had cramped around the grip in the night, and it took a long moment of blinking in the grey morning light before he could convince them to let go. His left hand throbbed beneath its wrappings. His ribs ached, but the pain was not as bad as it used to be.
He lay still. The cabin rocked gently, and through the small round porthole, a thin sword of light peeked through the keyhole, illuminating the darkness of the room.
Adrian closed his eyes, and he could see their faces again.
Grey eyes. A wolf beneath his paws. Two voices pulling him apart.
Kill the wolf.
The wolf is not your enemy.
Adrian sat up slowly, wincing as his ribs burned with pain. He placed Red Rain beside him on the cot, and pressed his good hand against his chest until the pain settled back.
He didn't understand the dream. The Shadow Man, he could understand it somewhat, he liked to believe that he was Euron, still haunting him, even in his dreams, but this one...there was no Shadow Man.
I had three heads, he thought, and the thought was so strange that he almost laughed. He had heard of a Dragon with three heads, but never of a lion with three heads, one being a dragon head.
Three knocks on the door. Adrian knew who it was, and all thoughts of the dream flade away.
"Come in."
Jaime pushed the door open with his shoulder because his hands were full. He carried a wooden tray, bread, a wedge of pale cheese, a bowl of broth that steamed in the cool air, and a small clay pot that Adrian didn't recognize.
"Breakfast," Jaime said, setting the tray on the narrow table bolted to the wall.
Adrian swung his legs off the cot. His feet were bare and the floorboards were cold.
"What's in the pot?" he asked.
Jaime pulled the chair from under the table and sat down, stretching his legs out. His golden hair was uncombed and his white cloak was draped over one arm. Without the armor, he looked younger.
"Honey," Jaime said. "For the bread. I remembered you said honeycakes were your favorite."
Honeycakes. Adrian stared at the pot. He had told Jaime that in their first real conversation, weeks ago, back when Jaime was still a stranger in golden armor and Adrian was still covered in blood.
"Thank you," Adrian said. He pulled the tray onto his lap and tore a piece of bread. He dipped it in the honey and ate. Then another piece. Then a third.
Jaime watched without comment, but Adrian caught the slight easing around his eyes. Adrian had been eating poorly for weeks, a few bites of broth, a crust of bread, then pushing the plate away. Today the honey helped. It tasted like Casterly Rock. Like the kitchen, and the cook who let him lick the spoons, and mornings when the worst thing in the world was a boring lesson with Maester Creylen.
"Slow down," Jaime said. "The honey isn't going anywhere."
Adrian slowed down. He ate the cheese in small bites and drank the broth in careful sips, and by the time he set the tray aside, more than half the food was gone. More than he'd eaten at any single meal since the rescue.
Jaime leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "I have something to tell you."
Adrian's stomach clenched. He didn't know why. The words I have something to tell you had never been followed by anything good, not in his experience.
"We'll reach the split in the fleet by midday," Jaime said. "Your ship turns south for Lannisport. From there, it's a short ride to Casterly Rock."
Adrian looked at him. "Home."
"Home." Jaime nodded. "Aunt Genna will be waiting. Uncle Gerion. Joy."
Joy. Adrian thought of her face, beautiful, small, and kind. He thought of the wooden lion she'd carved for him, the one he'd clutched in the dark of his cell when the walls closed in. He'd kept it. Through everything, he'd kept it.
"And Tyrion?" Adrian asked.
"And Tyrion," Jaime confirmed. "Ravens went out weeks ago. He knows you're coming." He paused, tilted his head. "Knowing our brother, he's probably reorganized the entire library in your honor and prepared a three-hour lecture on the history of homecoming feasts."
Adrian smiled big; he felt his entire face light up like a candle, and he liked the warm feeling in his belly.
"He'll want to talk about everything," Adrian said. "He always wants to talk about everything."
"He does," Jaime agreed. "And you can tell him as much or as little as you like. That's your choice."
Adrian nodded slowly. Then the other part of what Jaime had said caught up with him.
Your ship turns south.
Your ship.
"You're not coming," Adrian said.
Jaime's almost-smile faded. "No. I sail with the King's fleet to King's Landing. I'm Kingsguard, Adrian. My duty is to protect Robert."
Adrian didn't argue. He didn't protest or beg or ask why. Tywin had taught him about duty. Duty was not negotiable.
Still.
His shoulders dropped. His eyes fell to his lap, where his right hand rested on Red Rain's sheath, and his fingers tightened on the leather.
"I wish you could come," he said with a small voice, and Adiran hated himself for sounding like that; he was a Lion, not a cub.
Jaime was silent for a moment. Then he stood from the chair and knelt beside the cot, bringing himself to Adrian's level. Eye to eye.
"Listen to me," Jaime said. "This is not goodbye. This is 'I will see you very soon.' Do you understand the difference?"
Adrian looked at him. "How soon?"
"The King is planning a Grand Tourney in King's Landing. A celebration for the victory. House Lannister will attend. You will attend. And I will be there."
Adrian's brow furrowed. "How do you know there's going to be a tourney? Has the King announced it?"
Jaime's mouth curved. "Robert Baratheon would hold a tourney because it rained on a Tuesday. The man celebrates his own breakfasts. Crushing a Rebellion? Jon Arryn will have to chain him to the Iron Throne to stop him from announcing it before the fleet reaches port." He shrugged. "Trust me. There will be a tourney. There is always a tourney."
Adrian felt the smile forming on his face again.
"Will you compete?" he asked.
"Kingsguard don't usually enter the lists. But Robert is generous with exceptions when he's in a good mood, and crushing a rebellion puts him in a very good mood." Jaime tilted his head. "I'll try."
Jaime smiled and kissed Adrian on the cheek. "I will win. You have my word and I keep it."
"Like Tyrion?" Adrian asked.
"Like Tyrion."
Jaime stood. He looked down at Adrian, and something crossed his face that Adrian couldn't read. Adrian was not sure why, but he felt that Jaime was looking very closely at his face, as if searching for something.
Jaime reached out and ruffled Adrian's hair.
Adrian liked the feeling of his hand in his hair.
"Take care of yourself, little brother," Jaime said.
"You too, Jaime."
Jaime left then, and Adrian was alone once again. His arms went around Red Rain; he felt the pommel pressing against his face.
Please, don't. Father, help me.
Adrian felt his eyes burn like fire. He hugged the sword closer; he didn't want to close his eyes, but he did, and he saw them.
Their blood spread against the floor like a red sea, the heads looking back at him with anger and rage. The boy's head was crying even after it was just a head.
Adrian pressed the sheathed sword tightly against his chest, and he felt a shot of pain across his chest; everything was rolling, the room, the ship. He felt the softness of the bed and the weight of the sword on his belly. He was lying on his bed now. Adrian looked out of the corner of his eye and saw that the pommel had slipped up, and he could see the blade.
It was red and bleeding blood
Adrian looked closely, and he saw them again, in the reflection, the heads, Euron, and the Lion with three heads.
Adrian felt his heart beating on his chest, and he sheathed the sword, breathing heavily. Adrian looked up at the ceiling, and he asked himself why he did it. Then he remembered.
They attacked my people, they killed innocent people, they killed Mira and Mora, and Rollan's father. They deserved it. They all did.
Yet, Adrian could not make the scream go away.
"Nooo, my brother. Father...No...Pleasee....You Monster. You are a Monster."
Adrian felt his eyes burn, and his cheeks wet. He hugged the sword against his shoulder. He wanted to see Casterly Rock again. To read with Tyrion, and to play with Joy.
Things will go back to normal. I just need home.
If you want to Read 7 More Chapters Right Now. Search 'patreon.com/Drinor' on Websearch