Fire And Blood

Korra The Cruel

Jon XII

"I don't trust her," Dany stated bluntly.

Jon felt his lips twitch in response to his aunt's words, though it did little to ease the frown on his face since entering the waters of Dagger Lake. He kept a vigilant eye on the Hag's Teeth in front of them, absent of oars and not even a light breeze against its sails, yet somehow leading their ships through the maze of small islands and islets to what he presumed would be Korra the Cruel's hideout. His gaze then shifted upwards to the skies, their dragons appearing as if identical black shadows beneath the sun's glare whilst following them. He heaved a sigh, fully turning to face his aunt.

"I don't trust her either, but I rather try my chances at negotiating with that woman than facing her sorcery," he told her. "I am also curious about her, I must admit."

"How so?" Rhaenys asked with a slight edge to her voice.

Jon shook his head before glancing towards his sister, whose narrowed eyes glared at him. "Not in the way you appear to be thinking, my lovely wife." He held her hands and pulled her into an embrace, which she accepted with a huff. Jon ran a hand up and down Rhaenys's back in slow, gentle motions. "I'm merely curious about her motivations for her actions. The gelding of men appears to be more than just hearsay if her earlier threat is anything to go by. I have a feeling her spite and anger is personal."

"I concur, your Grace," Ser Barristan spoke up from behind them. "However, I have to agree with Queen Daenerys also. This pirate appears...unstable."

"Mad is what she is," Pahryl commented dryly, "but her magic seems real enough and could be useful."

Jon nodded. "Aye. That it could be indeed."

"She is far from what I imagined her to be," Dany murmured, scowling at the pirate's ship.

Her words were followed by silence. Jon wasn't sure what any of them were supposed to say that hadn't been said already.

Was Korra the Cruel mad mayhaps? Or was she just an oddity? He couldn't say for certain after one brief interaction with her but Jon was sure that it was uncommon, at the very least, for one's moods to swing from one extreme to another the way he had witnessed from the she-pirate. And it was obvious that she hated dragons and Valyrians.

Heaving a heavy breath, he kept his gaze focused on the Hag's Teeth.

Many possible outcomes were playing themselves out in his mind's eye. He, of course, favoured reaching an accord with her. Her sorcery would be a boon for them, without a doubt. However, and that was what worried him, she appeared to be unstable at the very best and mad at the worst. The she-pirate could endanger them, their dragons, the people they were leading. She could endanger his wives' handmaidens, Feraya and Minela. If anything were to happen to them, Rhaenys and Dany would be distraught, he was sure of it. He could see that, still to this day, even after so many moons had passed since then, that Dany was still haunted by Nilira's death.

They would have to be careful with Korra the Cruel.

Dany, Rhaenys and he spent the rest of the journey to Korra's hideout in silence. The tension had not waned and Jon doubted that it would lessen any. They were in foreign and hostile waters, led by a mad sorceress who had powers over said waters. The tension was well-deserved.

Arrax, Sundancer and Jadewing enjoyed themselves at least, however, and he couldn't help his proud smile when glancing up. Imagining them fully grown, their wings alone darkening the sun and casting entire villages and towns underneath their shadows, their deafening roars sapping the courage and resolve from the most seasoned soldiers, their very breaths casting forth waves of fire and destruction – just their potential chilled him to his very core, but Jon would be lying if he said that it didn't excite him also. Ever since the events in Qohor he had felt a shift within himself. He had grown into this role – the role of the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the role of the next Targaryen king – before Qohor, he had accepted it without fully grasping the weight of the responsibility which had been thrust upon him. After Qohor, however, after he had done what needed to be done, after ridding the Free City of its magisters, merchant princes and even of its religious zealots – after all who had conspired against him and his had been put to the sword – Jon had felt a shift. The desire to lead, the desire to prove himself, to prove that he was not to be trifled with, that he was more than a mere boy-king of dust and dirt, of empty words and empty promises; that desire and hunger was growing with each order he uttered and action he took as king. Jon knew that he could lead and he would lead. A fire burned inside of him and it was burning brighter with every passing day. There would come a day, be it a fortnight from now or many years to come, that he would return to Westeros. To stake his claim upon the Iron Throne. He would do so with his wives by his side, with their sons and daughters at their hips, with their dragons soaring through the skies once more. Woe to their enemies when that day would finally come to pass.