Monford Velaryon leaned against the gallery railing, looking down at the Dragonstone training yard. Ardrian Celtigar stood next to him, probably watching just as intently as Monford did. Watching the exact same thing. Young Jon Targaryen was sparring against his Stark cousin, making it look almost ridiculously easy.
"It has been a long time since that House had a genuine warrior," Celtigar said.
Monford might have objected and pointed out the boy's own father, except even a fool could tell it was an unfair comparison. Rhaegar had been a good fighter, yes, strong and honourable, but he was no more a natural fighter than his son - while still far beyond merely passable - was a natural scholar. Where once people had jested that Queen Rhaella had swallowed a book and a candle while carrying Rhaegar, Monford truly did not think he would be shocked if someone came up to him one day and told him Lyanna Stark had swallowed a sword and Jon Targaryen had been born holding it. Yes, of course some of it came from being raised by the Sword of the Morning, who had probably put a wooden sword in his charge's hand before the boy even toddled his first steps. But there was a naturalness in the way he moved and fought that even Rhaegar had only ever accomplished with a high harp, even while Jon Targaryen had been able to learn some wisdom and book knowledge, just as his father had reluctantly taken to the sword and lance. "It is the perfect time for one, though, would you not say?" With a throne to regain and an uphill struggle to get there, Jon Targaryen was better served being a warrior than anything else.
Monford still remembered, shamefully, his first encounter with the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. He had mistaken the boy's natural solemnity and tendency towards melancholy for simple, immature sullenness. He had taken the Targaryen decorations on the walls - many hidden away for the duration of the festivities so as to not incur the Usurper's wrath prematurely - as a mockery. He had hoped to push the greenboy far enough that he would do something unforgivably stupid. Instead, the boy - all of ten name days old back then - had lectured him, and Monford had heard the ghost of Jaehaerys the Second in his words, had seen Rhaella in the restrained flash of anger in his eyes.
It was only after he returned to Driftmark that the puzzle pieces truly began to come together in Monford's mind. The timing of the boy's birth, Lyanna Stark's inexplicable fever and death, the uncharacteristic stain upon Eddard Stark's honour, and Ser Arthur Dayne appearing to run from nearly every oath he had ever spoken so he could remain with the infant he had claimed for a nephew.
Without complaint, he had given up his portion of the ships he and his fellow lords had commissioned once upon a time to show Stannis Baratheon how unsuited he was to Dragonstone. The invoice he had sent barely covered the cost of the materials that had gone into the ships. The rest, he had absorbed himself, while counselling his neighbours to do the same. He had even sent his bastard brother here, to serve as harbour master, and to observe the king, take his measure.
Young King Jon had a good head on his shoulders, by Aurane's accounts, and while he did display a few of the typical Targaryen oddities, he showed no tendencies towards the madness that had plagued his grandfather and had been visible in his uncle even from early childhood. Even Rhaegar had showed the signs in the end, but Jon Targaryen's infusion of Northern blood seemed to have shielded him from the affliction. Monford thanked the Seven for that each and every day.
In the yard below, Jon Targaryen sent his cousin flying to the ground once more. Monford smiled. "I would," he agreed.
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