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The pair of them sat atop Visenya’s tower - the tallest in the Holdfast. Jace’s heart jumped into his throat when Helaena had clambered upon the red ledge, the wind catching at her silver hair, her laughter dancing on the breeze.
“You’ll fall,” he told her, but followed, as he always did, to perch beside her. The height was dizzying in a way that flying did not quite catch. He thought it was, perhaps, because there was no safety of his dragon beneath him. Just stone, warm from the day’s sun and his own practiced balance to be safe.
He tangled his fingers through Helaena’s, not for a moment thinking that he’d be able to pull her back should she fall. No, instead he would fall with her. She had woken up, frantic and tearful, and found her way to his rooms a night not so long ago, gasping as she crawled into bed with him.
“I fell I fell I lost my wings I lost them they were taken I fell I fell.”
Helaena had babbled those words over and over until his neck and nightshirt were soaked with her tears and he had to keep her sobs muffled lest one of the guards hear and discover them.
Her fingers were delicate, deceptively fragile when he knew how strong her grip was; how those very fingers could turn to claws just as they could stroke gently down the line of his spine.
“The Red Priest in the market told a story,” she whispered now, months later, far less frightened than before. The night was bright; the moon hung heavy and round in the sky, the blanket of twinkling stars so beautiful and wondrous, streaked with distant clouds that caught the light.He felt so small beneath the expanse. “He said that Azor Ahai thrust his sword into the breast of his wife, Nissa Nissa, and her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the moon.”
“I don’t see a crack,” Jace mused, his gaze searching across the bright shine of it. Dark blotches, certainly, but no tell-tale crack of an egg. “That’s a cruel way to treat the woman he loved the most in the world.”
“Are you saying you would not use my soul and blood to forge a great blade that would save the world?” Helaena laughed, her breath warm against his ear as the stone was warm beneath him. Jace squeezed her hand and her fingers tightened around his, reassuring. “There’s another story. There were two moons, my maid told me. One wandered too close to the sun and cracked open, birthing the dragons.”
“One of my grandfather’s crewmen told me a tale from Volantis.” It was Jace’s turn now. “That a shepherd approached the only dragon, to tame it by feeding him sheep. They would meet beneath the light of the moon.”
“In the night?” Helaena asked, a curious furrow to her brow that he brushed a kiss against to smooth. “But why is the shepherd visiting a dragon at night?”
“Because she was watching the flock to protect them from wolves,” he told her, tracking along the pictures in the sky, seeking out the fish, the lion, the hunter. “A dragon, she thought, would surely be the finest protector of her flock, for what wolf or thief would dare rouse the anger of the dragon.” She hummed softly but did not interrupt, her fingers playing with his. “Each night she came, feeding him one of the sheep to sate his hunger, so he might trust her, and eventually the shepherd lay with the dragon. The moons turned and the shepherd gave birth to more dragons.”
Helaena’s teeth scraped against her lower lip. “So the shepherd lay with the dragon and the dragon… fit?”
He snorted. “She was a very special woman.”
She shivered, giggling. “So the shepherd lay with the dragon. There were no other dragons?”
“I guess not. That’s what the story says: it was the only dragon. And that’s how the other dragons came to be, I suppose.”
“They do say that Old Valyria was founded by sheep herders,” Helaena mused. He felt her carefully shift to rest her chin upon his shoulder, and Jace turned his head slightly to brush his nose against hers. She smelled of citrus, of lemon balm and mint. “Kivio biantys,” she murmured.
His cheeks turned red, his heart stuttering at the whisper. Promised shepherd, caretaker of the soul. Soulmates, as the Westerosi called it. His mouth went dry, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.
“Did you dream this?” he asked, the Valyrian he’d learned from the cradle rolling off his tongue, the accent of his mother, of Laenor, of his grandmother coating the words. It was warm, different from the elegant polish of Helaena’s maester taught tongue. Sometimes he felt they should exchange how they sounded, to match their insides.
“Daor.” She blinked, soft and slow, matching lavender gaze reflecting the shine of stars, the pierce of moonglow that caught on her hair and Jace thought she was otherworldly with it - the woman of the tale he’d spun for her. “I just know it.”