Our Choices Seal Our Fate

by DolorousEdditor

Summary:

An AU fic where there is no Battle of the Trident and Rhaegar becomes king. Things aren’t all well and good in the realm and the king’s second son, Prince Jon, is sent to ward with his dead mother’s family at Winterfell. A whole new world with different roles for familiar characters, strange alliances and loves that never had a chance to blossom.

A realm that will be torn apart by war, ambition, and treachery.

With fire and blood while winter is coming.

Chapter 1

Notes:

This work was inspired by and most of the characters come from George RR Martin's A Song of Fire and Ice book series. I gain nothing from this. Nothing I say.

I only give permission for my works to be on AO3. If you upload it elsewhere, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will... be angry with you.

CATELYN

Peace was a fragile thing, often broken with startling ease.

This was a lesson she had learned long before the tumult which raged before her now.  

“But mother she’s horrid!”

“You’re horrid!”

Catelyn sighed loudly as she listened to her daughters complain. They were following after her like two ducklings, both obviously unhappy with how she was handling their most recent spat. That couldn’t be helped for as much as she wished to sit them both down and force them to get along, there were more pressing concerns.

“Tell her to behave!”

“Tell her not to smell!”

“Sansa! Arya! Hush!” Cat reached to take her four year old daughter’s hand in hers before doing the same with her sister. “Sansa, you’ll be seven in a few moons. I expect you to act like it.”

“But mother…”

“You will take Arya, and together you will go and take care of your little brother.” She stopped to press the two girls’ hands together. “You will go and watch over Bran, just as your Aunt Lysa and I once cared for your uncle Edmure. We would never have quarreled like you two and you should both be ashamed. You are sisters and young ladies after that.”

“A young lady wouldn’t have ruined my doll.” Sansa pouted and Arya stomped in response.

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Stop right now.” Cat warned. “I must see to your father and unless you want him to teach you two proper manners, you will do as I say. Now.”

It was an empty threat but it worked. Sansa led Arya down the corridor, holding her hand, and Catelyn watched them just long enough to make sure neither tried to strike the other. She had no intention of bothering Ned with such things, not with how unsettled he’d been in the courtyard.

She’d been scolding the girls for squabbling in the Great Hall when she’d seen Maester Luwin come to her husband’s side while he had been eating with some of his guardsmen. Words passed between them and a dark expression clouded Ned’s face.

Ned had caught her watching them and took his leave, the Maester by his side, both heading back to the Great Keep. She imagined they’d retired to his solar and it was there she sought him.

“Cat.”

Ned turned and for a brief moment his worried face lightened. It warmed her heart that her solemn lord would still melt at times, just for her. Once, years ago, she’d foolishly thought the man he showed to the world was the man she married. It had not taken long for her to see past his cold, hard exterior to find the tender, caring man within.

Yet the moment of weakness passed quickly and his face became ice again. She

saw the parchment in his hand and thought it likely to have come from a raven. A quick glance to the maester and she saw the man pulling lightly on his chain, as he so often did when nervous.

“I don’t mean to intrude but I saw you below and worried…”

“You are not intruding, Winterfell is your home as much as mine.” Ned handed the parchment to the maester. “And this matter concerns us both.”

Dark wings, dark words.

This raven brings foul news.

“Is it word of Robert Baratheon? Has something happened…?”

“No. It is not about Robert.” Ned said coldly and she cursed her clumsy handling of the situation.

Often it was news of his former friend that drove her husband into such foul moods. Yet any attempt she made to comfort him on the matter only caused Ned to push away from her.

It was always best to let him come to her.

“Jon Arryn has sent word from the capital, my lady.” The maester interrupted the awkward silence and her heart felt as if it stopped.

“Is it Edmure? Or Lysa?”

“Both your brother and sister are hale as far as we know. As is Lord Eddard’s brother.”

Benjen, how could I not ask about his brother? How selfish of me.

Ned’s brother was a hostage in King’s Landing alongside her own siblings, though Benjen was in an even more precarious position than Catelyn’s brother and sister, a thought which often added to her husband’s worries. Far from his family’s seat and bannermen, Benjen had little protection, whereas Edmure was only a week’s ride away from Riverrun and their father, often being allowed to visit, while Lysa, enjoyed some security from Jon Arryn’s new, prominent role in the capital.

It’s sad that being the most powerful of the king’s hostages is a position to be envied.

“Benjen has left the capital.” Ned came to her, taking her hands in his, as if sensing her shame. “He sails for White Harbor as we speak and comes here, to Winterfell.”

“He’s been freed?” She smiled widely. “Oh Ned, how wonderful!”

It had been over three years since her goodbrother had last been permitted to visit his home. Almost ten years since he’d gone south as a hostage to ensure Ned kept faith with the crown.

Her heart fell when he began to shake his head.

“He hasn’t been freed… only given leave to come north. The king commanded that Benjen serve as an escort to Winterfell. He will be returning to the capital after performing his duty.”

“A fine escort indeed. Who is so important that the king would have your brother sent away from the capital?”

“The king has asked House Stark to extend its courtesies to the party he sends north.”  The maester’s words didn’t make her eyes leave Ned’s worried face. “He writes that Lord Eddard is expected to welcome his kin within Winterfell’s walls, as a sign of fealty-”

“He took our kin as a sign of fealty.” Cat cut him off, perhaps more harshly than she meant but King Rhaegar’s demands of their families still left a bitter taste in her mouth. “And of course we would welcome Benjen here. This is his home.”

“Not Benjen, my love.” Ned said softly, giving her hands a squeeze. “My nephew. That is who we welcome, that is who Benjen brings north.”

“Prince Jon?”

Ned nodded.

“He comes to Winterfell. My sister’s son… returned to us.”

The second son of Rhaegar Targaryen was also the only son of Lyanna Stark. Ned’s only nephew, and a babe many in the realm placed the burden of the rebellion upon. Jon Targaryen was of an age with their son Robb, yet she’d never laid eyes on the child. She only knew of him from what word reached all the way to the distant North, and from what Benjen would tell them during his rare visits.

“He’s more wolf than a dragon.” Benjen had said one night, in his cups enough to speak freely before her. “But he’s still a dragon… no matter what anyone says.”

Ned had seemed to take a grim satisfaction in that at the time. Ned had only had custody of Prince Jon for a short time, when he was a babe, but for as little as he spoke of his nephew, Cat often sensed her husband’s thoughts wandering to the boy’s well-being.

And the vow he couldn’t fulfill.

“A knight of the Kingsguard accompanies them.” Ned broke into her thoughts. “And we should expect a number of guards besides.”

“I’d imagine so.” She reached up to touch his face. “I did not think Rhaegar capable of such generosity. To allow Benjen to come home is one thing, but to let the prince travel so far from home, I’d be surprised if they didn’t have a small army at their backs for this visit...”

“Not a visit.” Ned finished for her. “Benjen will have to leave again for the capital, yet Jon will be staying here. He is to become my ward.”

She was speechless.

To make a prince their ward was of the highest honor yet all knew the North’s standing with the Iron Throne was strained at best. The North was at peace and still part of the realm as most of its lords had been content enough to bend the knee when news of Aerys’ murder by the Kingslayer’s hands had reached their ears. Justice for the Starks, for Rickard and Brandon’s murders, had come with the death of the king who’d burned them alive.

Yet the bad blood between the Rhaegar and Ned ran so deep, she could never have expected the king to make such an offer. Seeing as Rhaegar seduced Ned’s only sister, leading to her death at some far off tower in Dorne, there was more than enough reason for her husband to hate the man.

And Rhaegar pushed him even further, she thought, not that he’d ever admit to it.

As she looked into Ned’s eyes, they admitted something different altogether. He was troubled, worried even. Having the prince away from his father and here in Winterfell was something Ned had long wanted, but now he acted as if it was some great burden he could do without.

“Surely this is welcome news?” She asked, reaching up to run her fingers along the side of his worried face. “You never liked the idea of Lyanna’s boy in the capital. Not among the Targaryens and the Lannisters. You wanted to bring him here after your sister died, didn’t you…?”

“And Rhaegar forbid it. Gods damn the man.” Ned barely contained his anger. “Lyanna made me promise to protect that boy with her last breath. I swore to it before friends and foes alike, and still I had to hand her son over to the man who caused the whole bloody war.”

“To do otherwise would have been unwise, my lord.” The maester said gravely. “Prince Jon was the king’s son, and despite the whisperings against him, King Rhaegar is no kinslayer. At such a young age, the child’s place was under his father’s care. Nor could you have been expected to stay in the capital, honor bound by the duties which awaited you here in the North…”

He doesn’t just speak of Winterfell. He speaks of me, she thought, of a time when Robb was but a babe in my arms and I awaited my husband’s return in a strange castle.

“Things I know. It doesn’t change the fact that for ten years I failed to do as I promised.”

“Benjen swore to do what you could not Ned.” She gently reminded him. “As did Mark Ryswell and Martyn Cassel. Three finer men you’d be hard pressed to find.”

At that Ned and the maester shared a look much darker than she’d expected. The maester pulled on his chain as he lowered his eyes to the floor.

“My lady, Ser Mark and Martyn have fallen.”

“Killed.” Ned put in, shaking his head. “They were killed.”

Catelyn was shocked. She’d barely known the men, but they’re reputations here at Winterfell marked them as good and true men. They were earnest in their service to House Stark and, more importantly, personal friends of her husband.

“Ned… oh Ned, I’m sorry.” Cat went to his side and pulled his hand into her own. “I wish I’d known them better, you spoke so highly of them. What happened?”

“Lord Arryn writes of an incident near the God’s Eye.” The maester made to answer before her husband held up his hand.

“There will be time to speak of that later. After I talk to Rodrik and Jory. Maester Luwin, you best go fetch some parchment for a raven now. I need a moment alone with my wife.”

The maester inclined his head politely before taking leave of them. When they were alone, Ned pulled her hand to his lips and planted a gentle, soft kiss upon it.

“I’m sorry Cat.” He rasped.

“You have nothing to apologize for. To me or to anyone else.”

“Don’t I?” Ned looked away from her, instead staring down at the parchment in his hand. A moment later he crumpled it and tossed it away. “Two men have died performing a duty I was meant to. How do I write Lord Ryswell of his nephew’s death without owning up to such? I have to tell Ser Rodrik that he’s lost a brother, that Jory has lost his father. Shouldn’t I have to apologize for them losing the last ten years with Martyn because of me?”

“You should act as you would tell Robb to act in your place. They were in service to their lord, putting their lives in danger was expected of them.”

“What of my apology to Robert? A man I once called a brother, who still fights to avenge all those killed by the Targaryens while I swear allegiance to them!”

“You cannot speak like that!” Her voice was almost pleading. “The man is half a world away and has forsaken everything in the name of vengeance, even his own family. You are not so selfish.”

Despite her feelings towards House Targaryen, the fact that all of them still had their heads was a miracle, for Rhaegar could have destroyed the houses that rose up against his family. Instead he had accepted bent knees and hostages in the place of severed heads and burning castles. Ned and her father had taken the peace offered, rather than the war Robert Baratheon had wanted. Whether it was the thought of bending the knee to Rhaegar, or accepting the fact that Lyanna Stark had chosen the dragon prince over him, Catelyn couldn’t say which fueled Robert’s rage more.

Instead he spurned all those who had bent the knee. He’d left Ned’s side and then the Seven Kingdoms altogether, to seek refuge across the Narrow Sea. Now he rode to war alongside the Golden Company, fighting and pillaging in many of the sellsword-driven wars that burdened Essos, all the while vowing to the world that he’d be the one to kill Rhaegar Targaryen someday.

And none can hear Ned express sympathy with such a man.

She wrapped her arm around his back and leaned against his chest so that her cheek rested against his shoulder.

“To the children then and you… I owe that apology at least.” Ned hushed her attempt to protest. “Jon’s coming here is something that I’ve wanted for some time. I can finally fulfill my promise to Lyanna but it carries risks.”

She did not like the sound of that. As much as she wanted to thank the seven that Ned might finally find peace in the matter of his nephew, she knew the boy little.

Nowhere near enough to wish endangering my own children for him.

Ned would never endanger them, she reminded herself, never.

“What happened in the south? At the God’s Eye?”

“The raven said little in truth. Only that Martyn and Ser Mark died protecting Jon. Rhaegar wishes him kept here now, for his own safety.” Ned did meet her eyes then. His eyes were not pleading, nor were they cold without care for her feelings. They appeared as they often did when the Lord of Winterfell was called on to make hard decisions. “I cannot balk from this Cat… I will not. I apologize for any worry it causes you.”

She said nothing, accepting his apology, putting her trust in her husband. Catelyn had married him in place of his brother Brandon, and for a time she had been childishly disappointed in the shorter, less handsome Stark brother who was to be her husband, but over the years she’d grown to treasure him more than anyone. She learned that Ned Stark was the kind of man who put his family before any other selfish desires and she loved him completely for that. If he was any other sort of man, she imagined they’d be in exile like Robert Baratheon.

Or dead.

Yet worries began to gnaw at her as they held each other. Something had happened in the south to put the young prince in danger.

What if it followed him here?

Benjen’s words came back to haunt her thoughts then.

‘He’s a dragon.’

Just like Aerys, just like Rhaegar.

And dragons are beasts of death and destruction.

 

JON

 

“Slow it down boy, you may be in a hurry to begin our stay in this frozen hell but I most certainly am not.”

“Yes ser.” Jon pulled somewhat on his horse’s reins, slowing it from its canter.

The white cloaked knight of the Kingsguard rode up to his side a moment later. Ser Oswell’s face looked even more displeased than usual, which was saying something for the dour knight.

Jon felt the exact opposite though, for he was full of hope for what lay ahead. He knew they were still a day’s ride from Winterfell but he’d become more and more excited as he thought of their impending arrival at the legendary castle. In his haste to get there all the sooner he couldn’t help urging his horse ahead of the others.

He’d done so several times already and he saw Ser Oswell’s patience was at almost at an end. The knight was likely to bloody men for displeasing him so yet Jon feared so no such treatment himself. For Ser Oswell was honor bound to protect him at all times.

A task he complained about often.

“Starks should’ve named their bloody castle Winterhell.” Ser Oswell shivered some. “I think I’ll suggest that to Lord Stark when we arrive, remind me to do so.”

“I won’t and you won’t call it such! Winterfell isn’t a frozen hell! It has hot springs under its grounds! Besides it’s not even that cold yet, it’s still summer. Look!” He waved his arm about, as if to remind his sworn protector that the land around them was empty of the flesh-eating savages Ser Oswell tried to scare him with.

“There’s farms and people and we haven’t seen any of the wildlings you were talking about. These are good lands.”

“Oh, and just because you don’t see danger, that means there is none?” Ser Oswell shook his head again. “Lectured by a boy not quite ten yet about good lands… I keep forgetting how rarely you’ve been south of the Blackwater. Lands full of fruits and flowers as far as the eye can see. I won’t even speak of the drink! All those fine wines given up for a land of pines. A bloody barren wilderness…”

It was the same speech Ser Oswell always gave, of how the North was a grim place compared to the rest of the realm. The sky above them was grey to be sure, and there’d been some cold rain during their trip, yet it hadn’t bothered Jon too much. He was almost disappointed that they hadn’t seen any of the summer snows his uncle had spoken of.

“Lands like these will make any man hard and bitter.” Ser Oswell continued. “Look what they’ve done to me already! I can’t imagine what they’ll do to a sullen little snot like you.”

Jon was about to yell at the knight when a quick laugh heralded the arrival of another rider to his right. A thin, sharp-featured man with hair and beard as dark as his own. An uncle he loved dearly.

“Gods Oswell! This from a man who foreswore all lands and women for a pretty white cloak!” His Uncle Benjen winked at him. “Don’t let the ser bother you, Jon. He’s just jealous that we have these furs to keep us warm and all he has is a fancy cloak.”

They’d still been at White Harbor when his uncle had surprised him with a thick grey cloak of wolf pelts. It was just a lighter tinge than the one Benjen wore himself and Jon had snatched at it eagerly. For a moment he’d paused, his happiness lost as he thought of how his stepmother would have disapproved of the furs. Had she been there, she would’ve called them shabby or even savage. He’d had to remind himself that she was far away and he could wear whatever he pleased now.

That Queen Cersei’s wants meant little this far north.

Besides, Viserys would have said something worse. A deep anger burned in Jon at the thought of his other uncle.

The banter between his uncle and the Kingsguard helped push that anger away.

“The king should’ve had your head off years ago, Stark.” Ser Oswell sounded serious enough but Jon saw a tug at the corner of his mouth, betraying his jest.

“Southrons need to be pampered here in the north Jon, they’re not from the same hardy stock we are. Though I’ll say Oswell’s right on one thing-”

“Several things-”

“-he’s right that his lot are born into flowers and warmth, a life far different than here in the North. Our folk are born into hardship, live difficult lives, and some even welcome a good honorable death at the end of an enemy’s sword rather than waste away in the face of such adversity. All the while they weather the cold, there’s always the cold Jon. Usually much colder than this summer’s day. The good ser here is lucky he will be staying at Winterfell and not some other northern castle, like Karhold, though I doubt he knows why…”

“Because Winterfell has hot springs!” Jon said again excitedly. “They run through the walls and keep the castle warm no matter the season!”

He tried to remember everything his uncle had told him of the Stark castle. When he’d been little, Benjen would help him sleep by telling him stories of the mythical castle Brandon the Builder had raised. For the longest time, he’d only had Benjen’s descriptions and his imagination to help him picture the ancient Stark castle until Tyrion Lannister had helped. The kind lordling had shown him drawings of Winterfell he found within some old tomes.

Jon had lain awake each night on their journey, wondering if the castle they headed towards would look more like the one he pictured as a little boy or the drawings. His uncle had been testing him here and there with questions of the North and he’d done well he thought.

Apparently so did Benjen.

“Good lad, good. Here I am worrying how angry Ned is going to be with me. I’m spoiling so much of what he could show you himself.” The warm look on his uncle’s face fell away then for behind them came a crash.

The sound came from the other riders following behind. They were only twenty in all, flying both the grey and white banners of House Stark and the red and black of House Targaryen. It was the wagon towards the front, the only one pulled by oxen, which drew their attention now.

“The wheel’s come off again, your grace!” One of the riders called up. “Take but a moment to fix!”

Ser Oswell cursed quietly. The wagon had faltered several times already during their journey. The men usually repaired it soon enough, but the poor job it had been doing at ferrying its cargo bothered them all. It carried no supplies as those were born upon pack horses and mules towards the rear of their column. This wagon bore something much more important.

The bones of Martyn Cassel.

A man Jon had known as long as he could remember.

“If I ever see that merchant who sold us that bloody thing I’ll beat him to a pulp.” Ser Oswell swore again as Jon shook his head.

“Martyn deserved better than this…”

“He did.” Benjen echoed.

“And we should’ve taken Ser Mark’s bones back ourselves. He deserved that.”

“He did.”

“A fine knight.” Ser Oswell gave one of his rare compliments. “I’d have been honored to do so for him, but your father commanded us to see you to Winterfell your grace. Taking Ser Mark home would have meant riding clear across the North, east to west, before ever even making toward Winterfell.”

“It be the honorable thing! The ser earned-”

“Mark’s bones are being escorted by some of the finest knights in White Harbor. Neither he nor Martyn died so you could put yourself in danger by protecting their bones of all things.”

“I’m not in danger! And if anyone wants to hurt me, let them try! We can fight them! We’ve more men now than we had at the God’s Eye-”

“Don’t be a fool.” Benjen spoke sharply, catching Jon off guard.

He glared at his uncle, angry at this man who would talk endlessly about honor yet now argued against honoring those who’d fallen for him.

“I’m a prince!”

“And princes can’t act as fools? Ask your father about…”

“Careful Stark.” Ser Oswell warned, but not as forcefully as he could have. “Jon, your uncle and I fought beside Ser Mark and Martyn. Trust me when I say that neither of us is happy to see only one of them returned to his kin, but we swore oaths to do as the king commanded. We’re to have you behind the walls of Winterfell, safe and sound, as soon as possible. It’s for your own good.”

 “Aerys hid behind walls, was that for his own good?”

The words were out of his mouth before he even realized he was speaking them. He wouldn’t have dared saying so in front of his father or any of the other knights of the Kingsguard, but he knew it was true.

“I hear some of your mother in that.” Benjen sighed. “Lyanna would’ve ridden to the Ryswells personally, no matter anyone’s complaints. Brandon likely would’ve done the same. They were children of the Lord of Winterfell, respected and maybe even feared here in the North. You are the son of a king most northern lords called an enemy once. A king they only bent their knees to because the Starks demanded it. Trust me when I say that many of them are still angry about that to this day.”

“It’s like the capital then. They all blame me for the war.”

Benjen reached for his shoulder again and gripped it in a firm, comforting way.

“Not all… but I won’t lie to you, some do. The North is the land of the Starks. The land of your mother and the land of your Uncle Eddard and his children. It’s not your land… not yet. This is likely the first of the northern hardships that await you. I think you strong enough to-”

“So Viserys was right?” Jon shook off his uncle’s touch. “Father has just sent me to another place where people hate me, only colder.”

“At least it smells better than the capital.” Ser Oswell’s jest didn’t make any of them laugh and Jon urged his horse just slightly ahead of them. He didn’t want to speak to either of them anymore.

Father had to know it would be like this.

He doesn’t care where I go… as long as I’m not with him…

In the capital, people whispered he was the reason the Usurper’s War happened and why so many people died during the rebellion. Rhaenys told Aegon if their father hadn’t broken his marriage vows to be with Lyanna Stark, their mother would still be alive. Viserys took every chance to tell Jon he was no trueborn son, only the bastard of a kinslayer and northern savage. Others would say worse things, and it was rare that anyone besides Uncle Benjen or Ser Barristan would take up his defense.

Not even his father denied it.

It had been the king who sent Jon and the others to visit the Isle of Faces after his fight with Viserys. Father hadn’t cared who was at fault. He’d silenced Jon when he had tried to argue, all the while giving excuses for why he had to leave the capital.

“You’ve never seen where I wed your mother.” Father had spoken from atop his ugly throne. “I promised her you’d keep to the old gods, and the godswood here has no weirwoods. They are so rare in the south but on the Isle of Faces there are groves of those sacred trees. I found it to be a wonderful place, a peaceful place. And I think peace is something you need, my son.”

“Did you find peace after going there?” Jon had asked and those watching and listening had gasped. Viserys, sporting a fat lip, had rushed forward to point at him then.

“You see!? The boy attacks a prince of the blood, gets punished with a pleasure ride, and then insults his father and king!” Viserys had raged before the throne, seemingly forgetting that he had insulted the king plenty of times. “He deserves a proper punishment for waking the dragon!”

“A bit more of your wailing is punishment enough for any of us uncle.” Aegon had joked and laughter had rippled through the audience. Aegon was always able to make the court laugh and clap with his wit and charm.

Jon had felt their eyes on him though, that familiar uneasy feeling in his stomach whenever he knew he was being stared at. Daenerys understood that feeling, she’d looked terrified when they’d brought forth for her part in that ordeal.  They’d sent her off before the talk of the Isle of Faces and he was thankful for it. He’d forgiven her for not speaking the whole truth of what happened between Viserys and himself.

 She had tried to keep everyone happy, which made sense to him. No one could want to be as hated at court as Jon was. Seeing Dany scared had been far worse than anything else. So when his father made some comment about wishing to call the princess back to speak to her again Jon couldn’t bear to put her through all that again.

So he’d agreed to go on the trip to the God’s Eye. To seek the peace his father wanted him to.

They never found whatever peace the king talked about at the Isle of Faces. In truth he never even made it to the island, they’d been attacked long before that. The lords of Harrenhal were kin to Ser Oswell and had invited them to feast there before attending the island. They’d been riding along the shores of the God’s Eye when the bandits had attacked.

At least Jon thought they were bandits. Most of the dead men had worn strange clothing, with a queer look to them, and they screamed for mercy in different tongues. His lessons with the royal maesters helped him recognize some as dialects of Valyrian from the Free Cities. Others though had been completely foreign to him.

His horse had been shot out from under him and his fall was so hard that he hadn’t regained his senses until after the fight was practically over. Ser Oswell and Uncle Benjen had been the only others to survive and they had not lingered afterwards. It was only later, when they reached the safety of Harrenhal, that they sent men back to collect the bodies of their dead.

Jon had never been a part of a battle. As far as he knew none of the royal children had even been attacked like this. Mourning for his friends at Harrenhal, he had wondered if the king would worry about him.

Maybe he’d call the banners and ride from the capital at the head of an army.

Father could do that. He could come and get me himself.

It had been foolish to expect.

The only thing that came from the capital was his father’s command that Jon be sent even further away from home. They’d ridden from Harrenhal to Maidenpool and from there they’d gotten on a ship to White Harbor.

As Jon and his horse pressed on, he felt ashamed of even after the disappointment at Harrenhal he’d still acted a little boy. Of how hopeful he’d been that his father might be there to see him off from Maidenpool’s port. How the king might have come to say his farewells. Maybe even told Jon he would miss him.

A weak boy ignoring what he knew deep down. I knew he wouldn’t come.

Father’s never there when I need him.

While they waited to take ship at Maidenpool a royal party had arrived at the port to see Jon off, riding all the way from the capital to do so. They had come under the Targaryen banners, but not to announce the coming of King Rhaegar, for he was likely still back in King’s Landing. Instead it had been another member of the royal family who had come. It had heartened him to see Daenerys riding down the town streets towards him. Besides his father the young princess was the only one of his kin Jon yearned to see before he left.

Even though she arrived at the town surrounded by three score lances and Ser Barristan besides, Dany asked for privacy to say her farewells to Jon. Lord Mooton had offered his own solar to do so and Jon had blushed when Ser Barristan closed the door behind them. She was his aunt but Jon was the older of the two, by just under a year. The girl had looked quite pretty in her purple gown with her hair done up in one thick braid, as it was always was when she went riding. It made him sad to think how long it would be before they might right together again.

Dany’s sadness had broken free shortly after. It was only when they were well away from all prying eyes did her tears begin to fall.

“I begged him Jon, I swear I did.” Dany wept, pulling at her braid as she did so. “I told Rhaegar to send you to Duskendale or even Dragonstone… not to some place where you would be so far away from us…”

“A princess shouldn’t beg.” He’d said simply, aware that Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell waited just without the door. “And don’t cry Dany. You know I’ve always wanted to see Winterfell…”

“To visit! Not to stay! It was never to stay!” She wiped away her tears angrily. “When Rhaegar said he was sending Viserys to Oldtown it was like a dream! To think he’d be gone for some time, I was so happy. I wanted to run to your rooms and tell you! To show you everything was going to be alright and I hadn’t ruined it all… but they wouldn’t let me. They kept it all from me. I only found out because I heard Rhaenys talking about how you were leaving too…”

Being sent away is not leaving, he’d thought, it’s not like I had a choice.

Besides, I chose to fight Viserys. And I’d do it again… a hundred times over.

She was worth it.

“I’m glad Viserys is gone.” Jon tried to smile but doing so while Dany wept was too hard. “I heard about that at Harrenhal… if Uncle Benjen hadn’t told me I wouldn’t have let them take me away. I’d hit Viserys a thousand times if he ever tried to hurt-”

“Jon.” Dany jerked her head to the door. It was no good threatening the king’s brother in the hearing of the Kingsguard. “It’s not worth it. None of this was. I was stupid! I’d rather have Viserys and you in King’s Landing than to have you gone! I can’t let you go…”

“You’ll be fine. Aegon will take care of you and Rhaenys is always kind to her aunt Dany. Plus there’s a whole flock of highborn ladies, just eager to be friends with the beautiful Princess Daenerys… you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“Your grace?” A gentle rap on the door followed Benjen’s words, a sign he’d grown impatient. “The ship was set to sail hours ago…”

“It can wait forever for all I care!” Dany shouted back, her fists clenched at her sides. “Tell them-”

“No… I’m coming uncle. One more moment please.”

She looked as angry as sad when he’d said that. Daenerys Stormborn was the only other member of the royal family whose birth had caused many to tell foul tales, though never as foul as his. They’d grown up together and become as close as brother and sister. Well as far as Jon knew of what having a sister was supposed to feel like. His own half-siblings wanted little to do with him and Dany’s brother terrorized them both.

“One moment? Why not ask for more?” Dany had whispered in a hurt way. “You want to leave me…”

“I don’t. I just know that you’ll be fine. You’re my aunt, sister to the king… the great Daenerys Stormborn!” He’d actually manage to smile then, trying to make Dany remember their games at playing Aegon the Conquerer and Queen Rhaenys. “Remember when you conquered Storm’s End and Sunspear all in the same day? The maesters still don’t how a dragon could fly so fast…”

“Stop!” She’d laughed through her tears. “This isn’t a tale… not one of our tales. Ours have happy endings. In my tale the brave prince wouldn’t be send away for defending his princess. He would want to stay with her.”

“Dany I can’t. You’ll be…”

“I know, I know. I’ll be well I swear but you have to swear the same. That no matter where you go you’ll be safe and we’ll see each other again.”

He’d done as she asked, even putting a hand to his chest like knights would when they made vows. Yet Jon felt kind of silly doing so. This wasn’t some grand quest or noble battle he was heading off to. Dany hadn’t found it so foolish though; instead she’d made a soft sound of agreement before closing her eyes and rushing forward. She planted a soft kiss against his cheek before he could say anything to stop her.

It was that cheek he reached up and touched now, feeling his face burn more from the memory than the cool northern breeze blowing about him..

Weeks old now and it still felt like yesterday that his ship sailed out of Maidenpool’s harbor, with Dany watching from the docks. The only family who’d cared enough to weep for him as he left to meet a family he’d never known.

Thinking of Dany had helped cool his anger but Jon still felt awkward about the argument with his uncle and Ser Oswell. He spent the next few hours riding alone and in silence. He pretended he was a warrior prince, leading a column of fighting men on a grand trek. A brave leader, keeping watch for any threats and giving any evil men seconds thoughts.

He turned out to be a poor outrider though, and a worse watchman in truth.

While he’d been picturing how fine his steed and armor would look something remarkable had appeared ahead of him. When Jon finally took notice of it he had to blink several times in disbelief. For in the distance rose a dark shape, a shadow so large he cursed himself for missing it.

It’s a castle, he realized, a huge castle… but which one?

Be this Castle Hornwood? Or maybe Castle Cerywn?

Jon racked his mind for all his uncle has told him of the North. The Hornwood keep was far east of Winterfell but he knew the seat of House Cerwyn was close to that of the Starks. As more of the castle was laid bare to him he knew, in his heart, this was not Castle Cerwyn.

The castle took up a great space and lay very close to a deep, dark unending forest. He could make out two sets of tall walls ringed with towers and one keep greater than the others, rising high into the sky. The drawings Tyrion had shown Jon came back to him all at once and he dared to hope that this was Winterfell that lay ahead. His heart pounded in his chest, for he had been imagining this moment since he was a little boy listening to his uncle’s tales.

When he brought his horse to a halt, gaping up at the castle, another horse soon joined his. His uncle smiled when Jon turned to him with hope in his eyes.

“I wanted to be here when you saw it for the first time.” Benjen said as they both took in the sight of the castle.

“You said we were a day’s ride away…”

“I lied. I figured you needed a pleasant surprise.” Uncle Benjen’s smile went all the way to his eyes, which held a sad warmth to them all of sudden. “Your mother always loved playing such tricks on me. So tell me, did I do it justice? Is it like you imagined?”

“No.” He said honestly.

It’s better.

 

EDDARD

 

“Ned, my gods. He looks just like you.”

Catelyn’s words might well have been his own.

In truth though, Eddard saw more of his sister than himself in the young rider entering his castle. Riding between Benjen and a knight of the Kingsguard he knew all too well, came a boy whom none could ever mistake for anything but his kin.

This Targaryen prince had more Stark features to him than most of his own children. Robb sometimes laughed and talked like Brandon did, but he had his mother’s coloring along with Bran and Sansa. Arya was Lyanna reborn in look and shared many features with the newly arrived princeling. Lyanna’s only son and Ned’s youngest daughter both had the same flowing, dark hair and the long face of their grandfather Rickard. He also took notice how similar their eyes were.

As the boy’s grey eyes swept about the castle with wonderment it reminded Ned so much of Benjen when he was a little.

Yet, despite the excitement in his eyes, the boy’s face remained somber.

Cat’s right, he thought, in that, he’s just like me.

“Is that the prince father?” Arya asked, the small child pulling on his leg in excitement. “That’s him isn’t it?”

“It must be. I don’t see any other boys with them.” Robb answered quickly as Sansa nudged their little sister back to her place so that she could get a better look.

There were few gathered about the courtyard beyond his family, as the reception had been hastily arranged. Benjen’s rider had given them barely any notice before the party’s arrival at the gates.

I should’ve had men watching the road.

Benjen lives to annoy me.

“Ned! I hope we weren’t a bother!” Benjen called out, climbing from his horse and marching towards them, arms outstretched. “Catelyn! Gods, you’re more beautiful than ever!”

“Thank you Ben, you look well yourse-”

Cat didn’t get to finish her words before his little brother wrapped her in a warm embrace, laughing the whole time. He released her to look down upon the two year-old boy at her side.

“This one can’t be little Bran. You were nothing but a name on a parchment and yet here you stand, almost fully grown!” Benjen pulled Bran up into his arms and tossed him bodily into the air, bringing forth a torrent of giggles from the boy. “Look at him fly! A winged wolf!”

“You should have sent a rider to us hours ago.” He chided Benjen even as Bran laughed and laughed.

“Hear that little one? Hasn’t seen me for three years and the first thing he does is chastise me. Your father is a lord alright.”

Benjen balanced Bran in one arm and slapped Ned’s shoulder with the other, giving him a smirk. Ned had no doubt his brother knew exactly how much of a bother he was being. A moment later Benjen turned his attentions to the grinning boy eager to reunite with his favorite uncle.

“Robb! Did you do as I asked you to?”

“Yes Uncle Benjen!” Robb smiled, shaking his uncle’s outstretched hand. “I practiced at swords everyday and I’m better at the rings than ever!”

“And what of making your father smile?”

“I… well… I try?”

“Ben…”

“Ned, scold me after I get a few kisses from these two beauties.” Benjen put Bran down to bow before Sansa and Arya. Sansa curtsied but Arya gaped a moment or two longer before following her sister’s example.

“You remember me don’t you Lady Sansa?”

“Of course, nuncle.” Sansa spoke courteously yet Ned saw her eyes flickering back from Benjen to the prince and the knight who were only now dismounting.

“Then where’s my kiss?”

His daughter leaned forward and gave her uncle the boon he asked for upon his cheek.

“Well I don’t remember you.” Arya spoke up and all eyes fell upon the little girl. It made Benjen laugh and Cat hiss disapprovingly.

“Little Arya, I forgive you for it. You were only a babe when I was last home and you know what? I’m wondering if we even met! I’ve no doubt I would remember such a pretty girl. I don’t deserve a kiss for that, now do I?

Arya shook her head and Benjen patted it gently.

“Then I beg the honor to give you one. You remind me so much of your Aunt Lyanna, it would warm me so after such a long, cold ride.”

The little girl glanced quickly to Cat who gave her a nod of approval. Arya mimicked her mother and nodded at Benjen. His kiss to the top of her head was quick but he noticed Benjen looked down meaningfully into Arya’s eyes before giving the girl an extra squeeze around the arms.

I can’t blame him, he thought, it must be like seeing Lyanna again.

Arya grows to look like her more every day.

“Speaking of Lyanna.” Benjen’s voice changed, becoming somewhat more serious as he rose to watch the prince’s approach.

His nephew was dressed all in black, save for the grey fur cloak draped around his shoulders. It was of a kind to one their sister had worn in her youth, so much so that he could almost see it in his mind’s eye, whipping about Lyanna’s shoulders as she rode ahead of him laughing.

“Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, may I present Prince Jon Targaryen, son of King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna… and your nephew.” Benjen gestured to the prince, who had come to a halt by his side.

The boy’s eyes had lost some of their wonder and he looked about nervously. His gaze moving across the collection of Starks before him to the few others of Winterfell’s household that had gathered to welcome the prince.

“Your grace, I welcome you to Winterfell. It is your home as much as it was your mother’s.” Ned struggled to give voice to what he wanted to say next. “I... when I last saw you, you were… that is… well no matter. Let me introduce my lady wife, the Lady Catelyn…”

As Ned went on introducing his wife to the quiet prince, he cursed himself for fumbling what he’d waited years to say.

Would it have been so hard to say he was but a babe you clutched desperately your chest?

That you missed him? That you’re sorry for all you’ve missed of his life?

“It’s an honor to have you here, your grace.” Cat smiled, doing her best to hold little Bran back from toddling back towards Benjen and Jon. “We’ve prepared chambers and a meal for you and your party. I’m sure both are welcome after your journey.”

The prince nodded yet still said nothing. The boy’s furtive glances about them almost seemed like he was seeking an escape from the situation. As if the Ned’s family made Jon uneasy.

Gods, what has Rhaegar told him about us?

The boy’s attention now focused on Winterfell’s master-at-arms, who was standing just off to the side of the courtyard.

“Are you Ser Rodrik Cassel?” Jon finally spoke , albeit in a quiet voice.

“I am your grace, I welcome you to Winterfell.” Ser Rodrik said, obviously surprised to have been singled out in such a way but remembering his courtesies as he stepped forward and bowed.

“You look like Martyn… is his son… I mean, is Jory Cassel here as well?”

“He is, your grace.” Ser Rodrik answered.

Jory actually stood beside Rodrik and was elbowed by his uncle when he made no effort to announce himself. Their captain of the guards followed his uncle in stepping forward and bowing.

“Could you come forward? Please?” Jon asked and the two men obliged, making to kneel before the prince. “No, you don’t have to… I just wanted to say…”

The boy stumbled some on his words, his fists clenching and unclenching. After an awkward moment Jon appeared to steel himself as he pointed towards a cart his party had ridden in with.

“Martyn Cassel was your father.” Jon’s words were quiet, speaking first to Jory before turning his attention to Ser Rodrik. “He was your brother. He was important to me... Martyn was a good and brave man and he died so that I could live. He was always kind to me and, well, I think he was my friend… and- and I’m sorry he can’t be here. I wish he could be… we brought him here so…”

Jon’s voice broke off and it became clear what was inside that cart. Eddard had told the Cassels how Martyn had died doing as he promised, of how their kin had brought honor to himself and their family. Yet it was plain neither had expected the prince to bring Martyn’s bones home, all the way to Winterfell.

“Prince Jon, I thank you. My father would have wanted to be laid to rest here, within these walls.” Jory spoke with all the strength and authority Ned remembered hearing in Martyn Cassel’s voice.

“You do us and him a great service.” Rodrik echoed. His eyes had not left the cart the entire time.

“No, it was him who did the great service, and I’m sorry.” Jon’s young voice was full of grief as he lowered his eyes.

All were silent in the yard after that. Many in the courtyard had known Martyn, most liked him, and perhaps even loved him. The spectacle of a prince honoring him in such a way was more than they would have expected.

It fell to his youngest daughter to break the spell.

“Why is the prince sad? Why is everyone sad?”

A second later she gave a cry. Sansa did not move quick enough to hide the fact that she’d pinched the girl for her query.

The mood had definitely become more somber and with his announcement over, Jon now appeared lost. There was no shame in that. To make a speech like that at such a young age was a great feat and it was something the prince had probably practiced often.

Probably not as long as you prepared for this.

“You did well.” Benjen’s whispering to Jon was just loud enough for Ned to hear. “I’m proud of you.”

As the two Cassels walked towards the cart, Ned reached out to take hold of his nephew’s small shoulder.

“Jon.” He spoke in as reassuring a tone as he could muster and the boy met his gaze, his eyes glistening. “That was a kind and honorable act. While I mourn the passing of Martyn, I thank you for doing as you did. Reuniting Ser Rodrik and Jory with his remains was as unexpected as it was welcome. While I cannot be happy for a reunion like that, I can be for ours. It’s been many years since I’ve seen you.”

“Father said you were with us when mother died. You were the one who named me Jon.”

“I was.” He tried not to sound surprised that Rhaegar spoke of him. “And I did.”

His parting words to the king shouldn’t have earned Ned any place in the man’s tales. The other surprise was how the last part seemed almost an accusation but Ned doubted that the boy had meant it as such.

He couldn’t know how much handing him over had shamed me.

Robb broke in then, stepping forward and offering his hand.

“I’m Robb. Father says I’m to show you the castle. I’m glad they sent us a prince. Another boy my age to spar with! Bran’s too young and the girls, well, swords aren’t for girls.”

Catelyn hissed again at how brash their son was being and Jon seemed taken aback. It passed quick enough though, and the prince took Robb’s hand in his with a glimmer of a grin appearing on his face.

“Do you really spar daily?”

“Of course.” Robb almost seemed to puff his chest out in pride. “I’d do it more but they make me go to lessons with the maester…”

“It’s the same in the capital.” Jon shook his head. “They take our swords away and give us books.”

“How can we be warriors with books? Our fathers didn’t beat the Greyjoys with books! You’re a prince, tell them we don’t need…”

“I would think it a sign of how important your studies are if a prince is expected to learn from a maester as well.” Cat sought to end the boys’ rebellion before it could go too far.

Robb made to argue further when Arya was suddenly pulling on the prince’s cloak.

“Do you have a dragon?”

“No… I… the last dragon died a long time ago.” Jon’s words disappointed his little Arya and she began to pout.

“In the stories, the prince always has a dragon. It be good if you had one.”

“Mother!” Sansa almost wailed while Benjen chuckled.

“Arya, the dragons are only stories now.” Ned waved at the girl, beckoning her to him. “There are no more dragons.”

“I told her that.” Sansa put her face in her hands. “So many times. I told you she’d make a scene and embarrass us. Mother, I told you.”

“I didn’t make a scene! You’re dumb and forget things. You might forget a dragon!” Arya shouted, making several turn their heads, his daughters beginning a familiar dance before the true battle would begin. Arya whipped back around to face Jon.

“Sansa’s dumb! She’ll try and brush your hair like a doll! She tried on four different dresses today because she thinks she’ll be a princess if -”

“You’re horrid!” Sansa cried, burying her face in her hands in embarrassment.

“Arya! Come here right now!”

Cat ushered Bran towards Robb, who was laughing as hard as Benjen, though he at least showed the sense to try and hide it. His wife grabbed Arya by the arm to pull her away as Ned reached out to hold Sansa in place, the girl now trying to flee away from the spectacle their fight had made.

“I have a dragon’s egg.”

Everything seemed to stop at once. Cat froze midstride. Arya stopped pulling against her mother’s hand. Sansa’s struggles and wails ended as Robb and Benjen’s laughter died away. All stopped at Jon’s softly worded statement. With all their attention back on him again, he shifted awkwardly and shrugged.

“Really?” Arya asked, tugging on her mother’s arm again, her face beaming.

“A real dragon’s egg?” Robb was enthralled too.

“Well, not here.” Jon scratched his head. “Father says its somewhere safe. There’s one for each of us. Rhaenys, Aegon and me.”

“What does it look like?” Sansa pulled her face from his shoulder as the other children erupted with their own questions.

“When will it hatch?”

“How big is it?”

“All questions you can ask the prince as you show him to his chambers.” Ned decided to save his nephew and stop airing so much of his family’s business before everyone. Jon would have years to learn how hot excitable his pups could be.

“Follow me! I know the way!” Arya called as she took off running towards the Great Keep.

“She thinks she’s faster than me but she’s wrong. No one is faster than me!” Robb laughed as he looked Jon up and down in a challenge.

The prince needed little more encouragement than that and the two boys took off like a flash. Bran was giggling as he tottered after and Sansa came alongside him, grabbing his hand and moving just quick enough to keep up with the others.

“Were we ever that young?” Benjen asked.

“You were when I met you.” Cat teased but as Ned watched the children running with their cousin, he found it hard to remember such a time.

If I ever was that young, it did not last, he thought, there were always reasons for the smiles to end and the laughter to die.

Winter is coming.

Sure enough, a reason to end their good humor presented itself.

“Lord Stark.” Ser Oswell had finally joined them. There was little love between them yet the man had done them all a service by waiting until after the reunion was over to approach. “There are matters we should discuss.”

“He’s right Ned.” Benjen added, his grin becoming a firm line. “And not here.”

“My solar then.”

Having the Kingsguard within his walls made Ned uneasy but it was a price he was willing to pay to fulfill his vow to Lyanna. Ser Oswell had been one of the three to face off against Ned and his party when they came upon the Tower of Joy. Rhaegar had entrusted the Kingsguard with the protection of his new wife and child while he rode off to war. Later he placed a similar trust in Ned to see to Lyanna’s well being while he settled the chaos of the realm.

He often wondered how things would have turned out if he had not come to that tower bearing commands with Rhaegar’s own seal. How easily his party of seven might have drawn swords against the three Kingsguard, rather than adding to their watch over Lyanna. To Ser Oswell and his companions, he’d been a rebel lord. From the way the knight regarded Ned now, it seemed little had changed in his mind.

Soon enough five gathered in his solar, the maester having joined them along the way.

“I thought we’d speak in confidence.” Ser Oswell’s words were punctuated by a glance to Cat, standing at Ned’s side.

“I trust my wife as much as I trust my brother, and she has every right to hear what you’d say.” He hoped his tone let the man know that that was as far as he’d allow the argument to go.

“Besides, we are kin ser. My mother was a Whent of Harrenhal.” Cat added and to his annoyance, the knight shrugged.

“Minisa was only a cousin to my mother. That wouldn’t have stopped your father from killing me during the war, given the chance. Rebellion has a way of thinning the ties of blood and loyalty.”

“The rebellion is over.” Ned stated, struggling not to clench his fists.

“The rebellion was defeated.”

“Gods, the boys were right, enough with maester’s lessons.” Benjen scowled as he leaned against the wall. “What word did you get from the capital Ned?”

“Little enough. Jon Arryn wrote of some business at the God’s Eye and the prince needing a safe haven.”

“That’s all he could fit in the raven?” The knight asked. “The lord should practice smaller writing.”

Ser Oswell gave a wry laugh at his own joke and again, Ned bristled at the man’s disrespect. Before he could defend Jon Arryn’s name, Cat took up his cause

“Lord Arryn sent what he could, after giving us word of how our kin kept in the capital are fairing. Considering the mood of the request, giving us that comfort was kind of him.”

Ser Oswell grunted and shifted the bat-wing helm he cradled in his arm, but he argued no more. He raised an eyebrow towards Benjen.

“He’s your brother, you tell him.”

“I’m not surprised Jon Arryn put little in a raven as there’s little of this story the king wants known beyond those gathered here.” Benjen paused, as if to let them know without saying that none of this was to leave the room. Ned gave a solemn nod and Cat and Maester Luwin returned it before Benjen continued.

“We were escorting the prince on his way to visit the Isle of Faces, so we thought to call upon House Whent at Harrenhal, before sailing for the island itself.”

The younger Stark’s faced darkened then, clearly upset at the memory.

“We were riding under the royal banner with just over a score of men, Martyn and Ser Mark among us. In those lands, no one thought we’d need more than that. Fools we were. On the way we were ambushed and we came this close to being slaughtered Ned. Arrows came from the bushes and then men on horses charged us, coming from all sides. Jon’s horse was shot out from under him before we even knew we were under attack. Something was on our side that day… at least for us three. Only Jon, Oswell and I survived. We managed to make to it to Harrenhal and found protection from Lady Whent. From there we went to Maidenpool, to sail to White Harbor and then come here.”

“Bandits thought to attack a party flying the king’s banner?” Maester Luwin asked incredulously.

“That’s the story being told by the Whents and in the capital.” Ser Oswell growled. “But these were no bandits. They were sellswords for sure, men with ability, and few enough from any lands close by.”

“Assassins.” Benjen almost spat the word. “Someone wanted Jon dead.”

“That’s what I put in my raven to the king.” The knight continued. “And whoever it was must have arranged it from the capital itself.”

“We were barely on the road a week and a half when they came upon us, Ned.” Benjen continued. “Those men were recruited and sent from King’s Landing for the express purpose of killing Jon.”

“You know this for certain?” Cat asked and Oswell snorted.

“For certain? No. If we did, heads would be on spikes along the city walls and I wouldn’t have saddle sores from weeks of riding though this ugly country. It’s the only thing that makes sense though. The best place to find sellswords, especially foreign ones, are at ports. Duskendale or Maidenpool might serve up a few, but it’s not possible to arrange such an attack in so a short time from those places. It had to have been done by someone who was in the capital, who saw their chance after the king ordered the prince to the Isle…”

“He what?” Ned took a step towards the knight. “Rhaegar did what?”

“The king ordered the prince to visit the Isle of Faces.”

“He’s the one who sent him away from the city? Rhaegar sent his son into that trap?”

The bastard. The bloody fool. You knew he would hurt the boy.

How could you leave her son with that careless idiot?

“Do you accuse the king of conspiring to kill the prince? His own son? You think I would be party to the murder of that boy?” Oswell took a step forward as well, the knight’s nose almost touching his own. “If so, say it plainly so that when I take you from this room and throw you from this keep…”

“You threaten me in my own castle?”

“Stop this! Ned!”

“Oswell!” Benjen was between them and Cat had her arm on his a moment later, clutching it tightly. “For two men sworn to see that boy safe, you both seem eager to do away with a good portion of his protection.”

“He threatened me…”

“He insulted the king…”

“And you both did so poorly.” Benjen shook his head. “Ned, if Rhaegar wanted Jon dead, why would he ever send him here? To the one lord he knows would do anything to keep him safe. Oswell, my brother has as much reason to hate Rhaegar as any, yet he has bent the knee and has more honor than any man I have ever known, including myself. Have I ever given you reason to doubt my word?”

The knight and he glared at each other. He imagined Oswell’s head was as full of violence as his own. Still, some of what Benjen said began to ring true to him and he felt the tightness in his muscles lessen some. Oswell himself took a step back from Benjen, muttering something unheard.

“If I may inquire…” Maester Luwin broke in. “If I may inquire as to why the prince was not just kept at Harrenhal while any conspiracy was rooted out?”

“The simple answer is to avoid other questions.” Benjen sighed. “Root out a conspiracy? Which one? There’s too many to count in that den of cutthroats. Keep the prince at Harrenhal? Why? People would whisper horrible rumors about Rhaegar and Jon both. Sending Jon north was the simplest way to keep him safe and keep up appearances that nothing is awry.”

“Lord Stark is the only rebel lord the king has not publicly reconciled.” Oswell offered. “House Baratheon has been bound to the throne through marriages and Lord Arryn has been given a position of esteem in court.”

Maester Luwin made a sound that he often made when surprised by the quickness of one the children’s answers to his questions.

“I see… The king still needed to make a public offer of reconciliation to House Stark... the prince would appear to be that offer.”

“Fine.” Ned accepted the reasoning, though it bothered him to think that Rhaegar may have actually been acting wisely. Still he was not such a fool to ignore what questions were still unanswered.

“Rhaegar acted well in this but I want to know why Jon was sent from the capital in the first place?”

 Benjen and Oswell exchanged a look before the knight answered.

“The king wished his son to see the place where he wed his mother. A place of…”

“Come off it Oswell.” Benjen scowled again. “It was so Rhaegar could avoid calling his royal brother a fool and a sot in front of the whole court. Prince Viserys and Jon got into a bit of a scuffle where the boy got the upper hand…”

“Isn’t the prince a man grown?” Cat asked incredulously while Benjen laughed and Oswell cracked a smile.

“Some princes take their yard training more seriously than others.” Oswell offered. “It was no true fight, Viserys angered Jon and wasn’t prepared to be taken to task for it. Still, a fight between two of royal blood is not something to be overlooked. The matter was handled discreetly.”

“They were both bundled off for a while.” Benjen smiled some. “Viserys was sent to Oldtown to drink and whore while Jon was sent to live for a time among the weirwoods of the island. To spend time with the gods of his mother. His gods too.”

Rhaegar kept his word to Lyanna on that at least.

“I will have to show him the godswood.” He said, hoping the children had not already done so. “The prince should see where his mother and Starks long past have knelt in prayer…”

“There’s a sept in this castle?” Ser Oswell asked and when they all acted surprised to hear the man act so pious. “Not for me, my prayers are done in the practice yard. The boy is a prince of the blood though. The king has decreed he at least be instructed in the Faith of the Seven and I will see his will done.”

Ned was about to ask what else Rhaegar wished down within his castle when Cat put a hand too his arm and smiled.

“My lord had a sept built for me when I arrived. If the ser wishes, I can take up the prince’s education in the Faith.”

“Fantastic.” The knight grunted. “Speaking of, I have left my prince too long without a guardian. I would take my leave…”

“My nephew is safe.” He spoke firmly, reminding himself of this as much as the knight. “Within these walls, in this castle, my sister’s son shall be as safe as he is welcome.”

“Be as welcoming as you want.” Ser Oswell shrugged and turned to leave the room. “I put more faith in my blade than your words.”

With the man gone from the room Cat and he shared a look of complete astonishment. Having Jon stay at their home was one thing, enduring Ser Oswell Whent and his bloody mouth would be something else entirely. Benjen caught their expressions and ran a hand through his hair while chuckling.

“Believe it or not, he grows on you.” Benjen came forward and clapped Ned’s shoulders again. “Truly brother, it is good to see you. To see your family… our family doing so well here, it’ll give me strength when I leave again.”

“Ben…” He spoke sadly. “You have given away years of your life for our safety… I can never repay you.”

“Nonsense. Like I said, seeing Cat and the beautiful children you two have made here, that’s thanks enough.” Benjen paused, a serious look passing over his face. “There is something you could do though Ned… something I do not have the strength to do.”

“Name it brother.”

“When it comes time let it be you who takes Jon down to see Lyanna.” Benjen’s hold tightened some. “I can’t bear it Ned… I’ve done all I can to keep her memory alive in him, I remember her face well enough to describe it to Jon and that’s how I want to remember her… I can’t bare to see a statue staring back at me.”

In a flash, Ned was back at the Tower of Joy, kneeling next to Lyanna’s bloodstained bed. In one arm he clutched a sleeping babe while his free hand held his sister’s clammy and weak one. She was weeping tears of blood and her breathing became more and more strained.

“You name him Ned…” Lyanna had said. “The best of us… you were the best of us. I trust you to watch over him… my babe… keep him safe…”

“Of course, Lya.” He’d wept as well. “I’ll care for him like he’s my own.”

“His name Ned… tell me it before… my son’s name…”

The choice had been easy for him in a way, to name this boy he would love as a son he thought of the man who had loved him as a son. Who had sheltered Ned in the Vale when the Mad King called for his head.

“Jon.” Ned had kissed Lyanna’s hand. “This is your son Lya, this is Jon.”

“Jon…” She reached for the babe and Ned let her press a gentle kiss to the babe’s brow. “Oh gods Ned spare him all this pain… all the follies… keep him safe…”

“Promise me, Ned.”

He had promised to do so, his sister dying with a smile to hear it.

A promise he’d break only a short later.

The shame he felt when Rhaegar had forced him to hand over Jon was as fresh in his mind now as when he had done it in King’s Landing. Instead of carrying the boy back to Winterfell as he’d hoped all Rhaegar had been willing to part with was Lyanna’s bones.

Bones which now laid to rest in the crypts below the castle, a constant reminder of his failure to live up to a promise.

“I will take him.” Ned said then, nodding to his brother. “I could not bring him here all those years ago… I could not do justice by Lyanna then but now, starting today, all of that will change.”

For all my family is finally gathered within the walls of Winterfell.

Where they belong. Where we all belong.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Almost five years after Jon arrives at Winterfell he's joined the pack of direwolves.
Still, he remains a dragon and like his uncle, is haunted by the past.
Especially with his past coming north.

CATELYN

 

She enjoyed moments like these.

When the affairs of Winterfell were in order and young Rickon was napping, Catelyn could take her time and wander about the castle aimlessly. It was a rare treat to be able to stop and bask in the life that Ned and she had built here.

A life they had built together.

She decided then to stop by the sewing circle later, to join her daughters in their embroidery. It was always a treat to watch Sansa at it, her eldest girl displaying the same adeptness with needle and thread she showed with etiquette and courtly arts.

Beyond admiring Sansa’s talents she looked forward to helping Arya develop her own. While not so gifted as her elder sister Cat had faith Arya could do whatever she put her mind to. Arya had been born with such determination and she loved that about her youngest daughter.

My girls, as different as can be yet they’ve made proud since the moment I handed them each to Ned for the first time.

It’ll be good to watch Sansa take pride in her needlework and Arya… well she can take pride in trying.

For now though Cat was content standing upon the balcony overlooking the practice yard, watching her sons practice their swordplay. She smiled at the sight of her sweet Bran, pleased to see how eagerly the boy took to his lessons. Ser Rodrik was putting the seven year old through motions he’d once put Robb through and countless young guardsmen before him. Robb was encouraging Bran from the sidelines as he wiped sweat from his own brow, it appeared the last bout with his cousin had been an exerting one.

“Keep up the good work Bran and maybe the ser will let us spar!” Robb shouted, raising his sword in mock challenge. “Stark to Stark, let’s see what you’ve learned!”

Her eldest was becoming a fine young man and she took great joy in that. Cat had given Ned a handsome and strong heir, one who was immensely popular with their people and eager to live up to his father’s expectations. While Robb had the Tully look, none could ever question that he was his father’s son, something she was thankful for. As somber and cool as Ned could be with strangers, he was in truth a good and caring man who lived his life by a code of honor as strong as the Valyrian steel blade of his house.

For Robb to take after such a father is a gift from the gods, she thought, I should light a candle to the Father in thanks for it.

As Cat added that to her unwritten list of things to do she saw Robb speaking to another young man among the group of swordsmen. Robb must have made a jest for her husband’s second ward laughed loudly then, clapping his hands together as he did so.

Domeric Bolton was several years older than Robb yet the two had bonded well during his time at Winterfell. Three years earlier Domeric had been squiring at Barrowton under Lord Willam Dustin, his uncle by marriage and a dear friend of her husband. Willam had thought so highly of his nephew that he’d asked Ned to bestow upon him an even greater honor. Thus Ned had named Domeric his ward and for the past three years the Bolton heir had been a part of their lives here at Winterfell.

Domeric was comely in the pale, northern way. He was quiet with those of a greater station than him but could be seen coming alive in the presence of Robb or his friends. His skill with the harp had filled the Great Hall with music many a night which spared Ned and Cat both from Sansa’s constant begging for a bard.

Yet the feature which made Domeric stand out the most was also the one she liked least. For his eyes, paler than stone but darker than snow, were too much like his father’s for Cat to feel comfortable under the young man’s gaze for too long.

As she reflected on that, she spotted Robb’s favorite sparring partner approaching her. With her thoughts on Domeric’s father, and the coming of this young man, she decided to light a second candle in the sept later.

To thank the seven that not all sons need take after their fathers.

“Lady Stark, a good morning to you.” The tall, dark youth came before her, inclining his head in respect.

“Jon, we’ve spoken on this countless times.” Cat chided her husband’s first ward, her goodnephew. “If you cannot bring yourself to call me Catelyn or aunt then Lady Catelyn would be polite enough.”

“Yes my lady.” Jon smiled.

To see the somber prince do so was a rare enough thing, and once it had been even rarer. When Jon had first arrived at Winterfell almost five years ago, it had been hard to tell who was more burdened by the weight of the world, her husband or the young prince.

Time has a way of changing things so that nowadays the castle was graced with at least one smile a day from their resident prince, more if they were lucky.

He should smile at young ladies so, she thought, at one young lady more than any.

It will open her eyes quicker than mine did with Ned.

“You gave Robb quite the match today. A fierce battle from what I saw.” She spoke with mock concern. “I’m surprised neither of you are bloodied from it.”

“Not today at least. I’ll have a bruise of two for it but at least I can say I held my own against a direwolf.” Jon wiped some sweat from his brow.

“Who carried the day?”

“I lost count.” Jon looked down at his feet.

He’s being modest. Robb is the better rider, my son’s half-horse himself, but Jon’s always been the better swordsman of the two.

From her count, the young prince had taken three of the five bouts but she decided to accept his modesty. Jon took a place at her side as they watched Robb take a mark across from Bran, preparing to challenge his younger brother.

“I hope for Bran’s sake that you tired Robb’s arm, I’m not eager to bandage one son while punishing the other for making me do so.”

“Bran will do well. I think he’s better than I was at his age. He is spry and very quick-witted. I think sometimes he guesses his opponents’ moves before they make them. He’s got some sort of third eye.”

She thought Bran had more youthful bravery than anything else as he charged straight across the yard, attacking Robb as if he were the Warrior reborn. Robb let out a laugh as he allowed the boy to chase him about the yard. None of Bran’s blows made it by Robb’s own blunted blade but neither was his elder brother attacking, merely letting the boy test his skill.

“My lady, there’s something I would ask of you.” Jon’s voice had changed in tone, sounding somewhat younger than it had been. “About Bran.”

This is interesting.

“About Bran? Do you wish to take him on a hunt again? As long as you’ve got the proper pony for him I see no problem…”

“No, it’s not a hunt. I… well it’s something Bran has been asking of Ser Oswell and I for some time.” Jon paused as a shout came from the yard. Robb had tried to spin away from Bran, having become a bit too cocky, and had earned a sword swat across his rear for the trouble.

“He’s always been jealous of your knight.” Cat admitted. “I’m afraid he became even more so when Ser Oswell allowed Robb to join your private lessons. If Bran wishes to train with the good ser it’s a matter for Ser Rodrik to decide, not myself.”

She was not being entirely truthful in that. Truly she believed Bran a tad too young for what Jon was proposing and would surely make those concerns known to Rodrik before Jon brought the matter to their master-at-arms. It was likely he’d accede to how she viewed things as well.

Still, Cat allowed Jon to continue.

“It’s not really a matter of training.” Jon said thoughtfully. “Bran’s always asking about tales of knights and tourneys and it’s plain how much he likes Ser Oswell. He even puts off climbing to follow him about!”

That he does… although I hate to credit Oswell with such.

In Cat’s opinion, the foul humored knight had few saving graces besides his steadfast service to Jon and his skill with a sword. Yet somehow he’d managed to inspire awe in Bran which distracted him from clambering about the castle walls. Whenever Bran wasn’t terrifying her with his climbing, he could be seen following the Kingsguard about the castle peppering him with questions.

“Show me a young boy who wouldn’t be so enamored with a Kingsguard?”

“I don’t think I was ever half as eager as Bran… to be truthful, I think he’s more worthy of Ser Oswell’s instructions than I. That’s why I’ve asked the good ser if he would consider taking Bran as a squire.”

Jon’s words shocked Cat so much that she whipped around to gaze at the dark-haired prince. He met her gaze with eyes so much like Ned’s that she swore this boy her husband had adopted could’ve been named his trueborn son and none would deny it. His expression was not as somber as it usually was though, as Jon was plainly worried at her reaction.

“I’ve spent years squiring for Oswell myself, but I’ve never wanted to do so nearly as much as Bran wants to. He’s been begging me for moons to ask the ser and with the duties my uncle is tasking Robb and I with lately, we haven’t been able to train with Bran as much… and well, I thought Oswell taking Bran as a second squire…”

“Jon, he is far too young…”

“For some parts of squiring maybe but not for seeing to Ser Oswell’s horse or armor, I was his age when I started to act a squire. My father demanded it.” Jon’s tone soured some towards the end and it always bothered her how that would happen when he spoke of the king. “And Oswell agreed that it was a good enough idea. We haven’t said anything to Bran though. I wanted to ask my uncle...”

“You’ve asked Ned?” She raised an eyebrow at him, causing Jon to redden some and look to the ground.

“I should say… I wanted to ask you first. It’s more than getting permission from Bran’s mother and the lady of the castle, I wanted your approval. You’ve been good to me here my lady. It’s plain having me here has not always been… easy…”

It saddened her that Jon spoke truly in that.

The North held little love for the Targaryens, hating Aerys for what he had done to their Rickard and Brandon and liking Rhaegar little better. At feasts that welcomed Ned’s bannermen to Winterfell, Jon was often forced to meet men who had warred to depose and kill his father. Seeing the boy often brought the old feelings to the surface for those lords. Men like Ser Helman Tallhart and Lord Rickard Karstark were content enough to glare at the princeling while others like Lord Roose Bolton had gone so far as to suggest to Ned that he now held a powerful hostage.

“A life the king would not likely wish threatened.” Roose had said almost too softly to hear.

That had been the first time she’d ever seen Ned close to throwing a man from his own hall. Lord Bolton’s departure had come quickly after yet the ill will the North held against Jon’s father lingered.

The sins of the father visited upon a young man worthy of better.

Jon has endured it well though, far better than most would have.

“Nothing in life is easy, no one understands that more than this family.” Cat offered him a reassuring smile. “I never expected having a prince as my husband’s ward would be a picnic in the Reach, but I also didn’t foresee how you would add to our happiness here. Nor did I expect how much Ned and I would begin to take pride in the man that you are becoming. So when you say that having you here has not been easy… in truth, you know nothing Jon.”

The young prince appeared at a loss for words and even she felt a slight blush at speaking so freely. Eager to ease their shared embarrassment Cat set to returning to the topic at hand, inclining her head back towards her sparring sons.

“We were speaking of Bran were we not?”

“Yes… yes we were. I only propose Bran squiring because of how much his climbing worries you. And I didn’t want you to have any more worries than you already do. I thought that if Bran entered Ser Oswell’s service, he’d be too busy trying to be the best squire any knight ever had rather than climbing all about the castle. But if you don’t wish it for him I won’t even ask Uncle Eddard. It will end here, you have my word.”

His word.

Was there ever a family to take their word as seriously as the Starks?

“You’ve given this some thought.” She said evenly.

“I have... I wanted to help my family. To spare you all some hardship.” Jon’s tone was even more serious and she thought she heard Ned in that.

If only your father had wanted to do the same.

Cat pushed that thought away. It was unfair to think such of Jon. Whatever she may have thought of Rhaegar Targaryen, it had not taken long after the prince’s arrival for her to see that his son was cut from a different cloth.

Half of her hated the idea of Bran squiring for the Kingsguard. She still remembered clearly the days when he had been a babe at the breast and Cat selfishly wanted him to stay by her skirts for just a little while longer. There was also the fact that despite Ser Oswell and Ned developing a begrudging respect for one another over the years, it was plain neither would ever truly warm to the other. She didn’t want Bran to be caught in squabbles between his master and his father.

The other half of her could see the prestige in having her son squire for a knight of the Kingsguard. The only Kingsguard in the whole of the North at that. Not to mention how much better Cat would sleep at night if she knew Bran was passed out in his chambers from exhaustion at scouring armor or grooming horses all day, rather than sneaking out to climb the First Keep.

A glance down to Bran showed the boy had earned himself a personal victory. He had succeeded in tackling Robb to the ground and now stood, his foot upon Robb’s chest, laughing as he held his training sword high. His eyes found hers and Bran cried out gleefully.

“Winterfell!”

“Winterfell!” Cat called back, clapping at her son’s small victory.

Robb earned an approving grin from her as well for allowing such to happen, as there was little doubt in her mind that he’d let his little brother win. Bran remembered his chivalry quickly though, hopping off his older brother and offering Robb a hand to gain his feet again.

They’re all growing so quickly.

Changing before my eyes.

“Jon!”

A cry came from behind the prince’s shoulder and Cat scowled to see her daughter’s behavior had not changed much since she was a child. As Jon turned towards the caller, Cat saw Arya running towards them full tilt, her skirts whipping around her legs.

“Jon, where’s Robb? Riders just rode in by the Hunter’s Gate! I think I heard some of them saying-”

Arya stopped so abruptly at the sight of her mother that the girl lost her footing and almost pitched forward before swiftly regaining her balance.

“Arya Stark.” Cat snapped as she bore down on the girl, doing all she could to keep her temper even. “You are supposed to be doing needlework with the other girls. How is it that you saw the coming and goings of the Hunter’s Gate?”

“I was just… I was going to, um…”

“Jon, tell me. In the capital, how common is it for young ladies to escape their septas and be seen gallivanting around the castle?”

“Not very common.” Jon sounded put out to answer truthfully.

He’s too loyal to her, she thought, and Arya’s too full of childish love for him.

The hurt expression on Arya’s face was one she’d seen Lysa have countless times in their youth. Whenever Petyr would choose Cat over her sister at one of their games, it would be as if the world had ended. Lysa would run off crying while Petyr and her would laugh at her foolishness. Arya was often the same when Sansa would steal Jon away to act as her true knight in a game of Monsters and Maidens or pull him into a dance whenever music was played in the Great Hall.

In truth, Sansa hadn’t acted much better than Arya the last time a bard had come to Winterfell. During that occasion Jon had been bold enough to seek out Arya first for a dance, surprising everyone. Cat had beamed at how happy Arya looked and had been thankful that Jon was encouraging her younger daughter to pursue a more feminine activity for once. Arya had danced well enough, though she spent too much time staring Jon’s feet in her unsuccessful attempts to avoid trampling them. Stil every eye in the hall saw Arya as a young lady rather than the girl so often hidden under dirt and tangled hair. Sansa on the other hand had been reduced to tears and ran away from the hall, clearly stricken by their roles being reversed.

That was good for Sansa. Some humility is a healthy thing for a girl her age.

And Arya deserved her moment in the sun.

Just as she deserves censure now.

“There! From a prince’s mouth you hear how young ladies commonly act.” She raised a finger to Arya when Jon made a sound.

“I have to speak truthfully though.” He scratched his head. “From what I remember of my lessons with the maester, there are few enough great tales about the girls who act commonly.”

Jon smiled towards the end and Arya began to beam as if the sun itself had burst through the clouds. Cat thought Jon’s message was meant well enough, Arya’s head probably full of names like Visenya or Rhaenys Targaryen. Yet that was not the point.

It will not do, she cannot act so rashly.

“Not all those stories are good ones, Jon.” Cat said. “You more than anyone should know of how ladies, who act without a care for what’s proper, often have the worst stories.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Cat realized how foolishly she’d spoken. She’d merely been referring to Jon’s better education in the capital, hoping to inspire thoughts of immoral girls with ruined reputations. Yet to any who did not know her mind Cat could have easily been referring to the prince’s mother. Her description of improper ladies drew simple an easy comparison to Lyanna’s own actions.

Even Arya saw the implications, her eyes widening as Jon’s face darkened and his gaze grew distant.

“Jon, I did not mean-”

“You said nothing that was untrue my lady.” Jon bowed slightly. “I spoke out of turn. I beg your pardon, I will see if there was indeed any trouble at the gate.”

Cat wanted to apologize further but she understood the prince well enough to know that it would only embarrass him more. She gave him her blessing to depart and he did so.

While she led Arya bodily back to the sewing circle with Sansa and the other girls, her thoughts turned to how much Lyanna and Rhaegar’s reputations had once tainted her opinion of her good-nephew.

At first she’d worried him a harbinger of woe and perhaps, at worst, a curse upon their home. In the years that followed however she began to glimpse more and more of the boy a good part of the realm had scorned for most of his life. Catelyn heard of how many misguidedly laid blame for the war at Jon’s feet and how it had given him a very lonely childhood and a somber disposition.

Perhaps worst of all was the way he had been treated by his own father. Jon never spoke warmly of the king or of his other relatives in the royal family, save his young aunt, Daenerys. Cat could count on one hand the number of letters that had come from King’s Landing which weren’t from Daenerys or Benjen. Most troubling, none came from Rhaegar himself.

Sadly she suspected that deep down Ned was pleased with such distance between the king and the prince, yet it worried her. Fostering Jon as a ward was a pleasant thing. Allowing him to foster resentment towards the king and perhaps the royal family was far more dangerous.

At times it seemed like Jon had always been with them in Winterfell, the letters from Benjen and Princess Daenerys being the only reminders of his ever living in the south. While it had taken Cat years to adjust to her new home in the North, the prince had taken to the cold lands like he was born to them. He had been so eager to learn and ride about the lands of his uncle, that after a year, Jon was the one telling her things about the North.

Their darkest time had been after Benjen had left to return to the capital. Ned had tensed to lose his brother again and Jon had moped for weeks. Only the combined efforts of her children had brought him around. The news that she was once again with child had helped as well, the prince acting as excited as Robb and the others at a new Stark entering the world.

Soon she felt a felt like a fool for thinking Jon’s arrival could ever be a foul thing, for the years afterwards had brought great tidings.

Rhaegar had decreed the release of a great many of his highborn hostages, including her brother Edmure. While Jon Arryn and Lysa remained in the capital, due to the lord’s duties on the small council, Edmure was released to return to their father’s side at Riverrun. Benjen had also been released yet, to Ned’s annoyance, he had not returned to the North. Like Jon Arryn, Benjen’s place at court had become esteemed and had him travelling about the realm doing the king’s business. The last they’d heard, Benjen had been in the Dornish Marches doing only the gods knew what.

Wherever Benjen was, Ned’s summons would find the wayward Stark eventually. Hopefully her good-brother would welcome the news the summons carried, for Ned had been able to arrange a betrothal between his brother and a granddaughter of Lord Manderly.

Binding White Harbor to them would be a great boon for the Starks. As ignorant as she’d once been of these lands, Cat now understood that many of Ned’s bannermen remained angered by their submission at the Trident. The Karstarks and the Ryswells had been the most outspoken in their anger. Others hid their displeasure behind smiles, but Ned had told her that he suspected some Umbers of still holding resentment at bending the knee and the Boltons of harboring ill will.

After a considerably sour visit from Rickard Karstark she’d grown fearful indeed. The man had come to introduce his young daughter Alys to Robb, his mind obviously set on making a match, yet Lord Rickard’s disdain of Jon had not endeared Ned to the proposal.

“Do you fear rebellion?” She’d asked Ned after the Karstarks departed in foul moods.

“No. If I was older or weaker with no heirs, then perhaps.” Ned had comforted her. “Some may be disgruntled but we are not without friends in the North. The Glovers, the Cerwyns, and the Mormonts remain loyal. We had justice for Brandon and my father when Aerys died, so they saw the wisdom in bending the knee.”

“What of the Greyjoy Rebellion? Some weren’t happy you rejected Lord Balon’s alliance…”

Years ago the Greyjoys had risen up in rebellion, thinking the realm too divided under Rhaegar to unite against them. During his ill-fated campaign Balon Greyjoy had offered to support Ned in declaring a Kingdom in the North in return for their help against the Targaryens. Instead the Starks had answered Rhaegar’s call for arms, a surprise to many, including the Greyjoys.

“Short sighted fools.” Ned had shaken his head. “The Targaryens may not be our friends but the ironmen have been the North’s enemy for time untold. Were we free of the dragons, how long until the krakens would be once again reaving along our shores? No, we made the right choice there, I’m sure of that…”

Ned had looked deep in thought as he rubbed soothing circles on the small of her back. She’d been about to take her leave when his hands had wandered lower to grab at the curve of her behind, a sign of whose chambers he’d likely want to bed in that night. She had glanced at the door to his solar before grinning shamelessly and settling herself on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. Once she was atop her lord husband, she saw his face was unchanged, still in thought, but the familiar flush was around his neck. Cat had learned that that flush only came when he was full of desire for her.

Her heart still swelled at how comfortable they had become with one another. Once, Ned had barely attempted to bed with her, seeming only interested in coupling when attempting for more children, twice every moon. That was a long time ago though and they had come very far.

What she had once taken for coldness and a desire for only fulfilling his duties as a husband, she had eventually realized was actually patience and concern for her. Now when alone, Ned would often begin touching her without even thinking, causing her to warm with desire. Sometimes when this happened Cat felt like a maiden of six and ten rather than a woman over thirty who had mothered five children.

She’d felt that familiar heat between her legs, wishing her husband would send his hands south as he finished his thoughts on the North.

“Fighting the Greyjoys was good for us. A great victory over an old enemy, fought well and with honor. The Greatjon was won back to me because of it, as were most of the lords along our western shores. That’s how we keep the North my love. Through strength and through honor, the old ways.”

She’d cared little for the old ways when Ned had come calling on her chambers later that night yet now they were a pressing concern.

After Cat had finished scolding Arya, she learned most of the Stark men would be going forth to deal with the old ways.

For Arya had been right, a patrol had returned to the castle with word that they’d captured a deserter from the Night’s Watch. Ned of course had ridden out to see to the man’s execution himself. Robb had gone as well, with Jon and Domeric joining him as they usually did. Yet Ned taking Bran along had surprised Cat, even upset her a little, but her husband had been firm that their son was old enough now.

Cat was tending to their youngest son while her daughters and the other young ladies of Winterfell tried their best to not speak of the execution happening beyond the castle walls.

“Can’t we play?” Rickon asked as he slammed two woven dolls together in a mock battle. “Where’s Bran?”

They were all in the Great Hall awaiting the return of the others. Sansa was gossiping quietly with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel off to one side of the room, while Arya was moping off to the other side, working on her stitches again.

“He’s with your father and the other boys.” Cat lifted the toddler up into her lap. “They’ll be back soon.”

“It’s taking longer this time.” Arya said, attacking her needlework in frustration. It was her punishment for escaping her earlier lessons with the septa. “It never takes so long.”

“Very long!” Rickon agreed, slamming his dolls together again.

She’s right.

They’ve been gone far longer than usual.

“That’s why they’ll be back soon. And Arya, you will leave Bran be about this matter. It is not something to pester him about.”

“I don’t pester.” Arya grumbled, before hissing and drawing back a finger which now bled. “I bet he cried though.”

“Whether he did or didn’t is not for you to speak of.” She scolded.

Deep down Cat hoped the girl was wrong for if Bran cried at seeing the beheading, she knew his father would be disappointed. It was a weakness that the Starks could not afford from any of their sons.

“Mother.” Sansa had come to join them, her chin held high while her two friends waited behind. “I have something to tell you about why Arya missed the circle today that’s very important.”

“Oh?”

“Jeyne’s father was going to tell you himself but with father riding out he must have forgotten. One of the servants, Rega, she saw-”

“Sansa! Don’t!” Arya jumped up but Sansa just held her chin higher.

“Rega saw Arya going into the prince’s chambers and caught her reading one of his letters-”

“Shut up!”

“Arya Stark!” Cat yelled, startling Rickon with the anger in her voice. “What business did you have in Jon’s chambers? Or reading his letters?”

Arya gazed at her needlework as if it would somehow save her from this. Sansa was clearly pleased as she shot a smile back to Jeyne and Beth. That bothered Cat, for Sansa was taking far too much joy in her tattling, yet she was far more disappointed with Arya. If what her sister said was true it was a grave breach of courtesy.

When Arya didn’t answer her questions, Sansa continued on.

“I think she must have been reading the letter from Princess Daenerys. When you told Jon another raven came for him Arya turned beet-red. She’s always asking him about the princess, mother…”

“Enough Sansa.” Cat warned, for the utter embarrassment on Arya’s face checked her anger just enough to make her stop Sansa’s gloating. “Arya, did you go into Jon’s chambers without his leave?” 

“He’s let me go in them before…”

“Allowing you and Bran to play there with him is a different matter than you entering his chambers while he is not there. It is not proper.”

“It’s not proper for her to hurt him!” Arya threw her needlework away and began to weep angry tears. “Why does she try to make him sad? He’s always upset when she writes him! I hate her!”

She’s not wrong.

Whenever a letter from the princess came, a pall would come over Jon, often for days on end. She had asked Ned once if they should keep those letters from the prince, such was the effect it had on him.

“No.” Ned had decided. “When Benjen would send me word of Jon from the capital, I would feel a shame greater than I’ve ever known, but not hearing of him would have been worse… far worse. If he does not wish to read the princess’s letters, he won’t, but I will not make that decision for him.”

Those words helped Cat decide on a punishment for her snooping daughter.

“When Jon returns you will tell him what you have done. You will beg his forgiveness and then I will have to apologize on behalf of all of us.” She watched Arya’s face fall at the idea and glimpsed Sansa looking smug. “Then your father will decide on how to deal with his daughter, who has acted so dishonorably that I honestly cannot tell you what to expect of him…”

“Lady Stark!” Came a cry from the doorway. Harwin, one of their men, came in looking almost breathless. “Lord Eddard and the others have returned! He bids you to bring his children forth to the kennels!”

The kennels?

“Is something amiss Harwin?” She rose with Rickon in her arms, fearing the worst.

“Direwolves m’lady!” Harwin yelled out, seemingly eager to return from wherever he’d run. “They found direwolves. Six pups! One for each of your children.”

“Direwolves?” She felt dumbfounded.

It made no sense. The beasts were the sigil of House Stark yet she put as much stock in their existence as the Umber giants.

If there were ever direwolves, they have left these lands long ago.

Just like the dragons.

Direwolves and dragons flooded her thoughts as she did as her husband asked, ordering Sansa and Arya to follow while she made her way to the kennels.

It was on the way there that she met Maester Luwin, parchment in hand. Bearing a symbol she knew all too well.

Her heart began pounding in her chest, for direwolves and dragons had both come to Winterfell on the same day.

 

EDDARD

 

The blade was finally coming clean.

It was a strange thing blood. No matter how long Eddard cleaned his sword, he always felt more remained behind, as if unseen to the eye, haunting the blade still. He’d been carefully wiping an oilcloth down Ice for some time now, praying the man he’d killed would find some peace, wherever the sword had sent him.

We all deserve that in the end, he thought, even those who have lost their way.

He wanted to believe that, even if it was a selfish thing to think on. For the hope he held was not for the man he’d just killed, rather, it was for his sister. No matter the chaos and death Lyanna’s love had caused the realm. Ned could not bring himself to be angry at her.

Brandon would’ve been. Father might have even disowned her, but that was something Ned could never do. He had struggled under Brandon’s shadow all his life, sometimes even now. Lyanna, however, had struggled against what was expected of her as a lady. Through their similar troubles they had found an understanding that had bonded them. He would always accept her, love her.

Promise me, Ned.

Another smudge of red finally started to fade as the cloth ran down the length of the greatsword again. Strong and beautiful was this blade, yet the deserter’s eyes would have seen little of it. It was not lost on Ned, the strangeness of today’s events. For had the deserter not broken his oath and fled south, it was likely the Starks would have never come across those direwolf pups.

For all this to happen in one day is strange. Cat is more the one to trust signs, but that does not mean I am blind to them.

Are the gods moving us about like playthings?

A glance above him showed the blood red canopy of leaves spreading out from the weirwood’s great white branches. The tree stood tall and strong, as it did for thousands of years, serene in this place of reflection and prayer.

The beautiful woman standing before him looked anything but.

“Ned… what shall we do?” Cat’s voice sounded strained, likely an effort to sound more patient than she felt.

While Ned had been lost to his thoughts, she had been waiting for him to react to the letter she carried. At first he’d thought her wishing to hear his version of how they came across the direwolves, most likely having already heard the children’s recounting of what happened.

Instead Cat had come with dire news.

“It’s his seal?” He asked. “You’re sure of it?”

“Maester Luwin believes so but we can show it to Ser Oswell to be certain.”

“He’ll be thrilled.” Ned grumbled as he glanced at the parchment Cat clutched gingerly in her hands. Even from a distance he could see the broken seal clearly.

A three-headed dragon set in red wax.

The King’s seal.

Rhaegar’s seal.

“We could give some sort of excuse… perhaps say the castle is unfit to be…”

I will not have that man thinking my home is unfit in any way.

“No. I’ve worried that this day would come for years and lying to forestall it was never an option.” He rose, sliding Ice back into its massive sheath. “The king will come to Winterfell and our gates will be open to him.”

His muscles tightened even as he said it, a part of him wishing to have the greatsword bare, so he could focus on cleaning it again. There were few Ned named as people he never wished to see again in this lifetime, and even among that short list, Rhaegar Targaryen stood out. Others who knew him might fear bringing such grim news while he was brandishing Valyrian Steel. Yet Cat would never have reason to fear him, even if the letter she bore him was troubling.

For it seemed the king had decided to take a journey north and, even worse, was already on his way to Winterfell. The letter may have born Rhaegar’s seal yet it had come from Lord Jon Connington, Hand of the King, who announced the king’s impending journey to the North.

‘Matters at the Wall have beckoned that the king himself inspect it and the state of the Night’s Watch with his own eyes. He expects the hospitality of his Warden of the North to be made available to him and his companions on their long journey.’

“Do you think he’s being truthful? About this business with the Wall?” Cat asked, her eyes as wide as he’d ever seen them. “When was the last time the Iron Throne ever bothered with the Watch?”

Far too long, they mostly use it to exile those they find too troublesome to bother with.

Or too rigid to bend the knee.

“I can’t pretend to know Rhaegar’s mind… but if he truly wishes to see the state of the Watch, it could not come at a better time. The Night’s Watch has never been worse off.” He shook his head to think of today’s execution. “Today’s deserter was the fourth this year and Lord-Commander Baratheon writes that their numbers are barely over a thousand. If there was ever a moment for the Iron Throne to take an interest in the Wall, it would be now.”

The Greatjon and Lord Mormont had been complaining of that very thing that last time he’d seen them. The weakness of the Watch and the growing number of wildling raiders were great concerns to both men. The Greatjon had smashed a flagon when speaking of the number of women stolen from his lands, while Jorah Mormont couldn’t safely allow fishing sloops to go out in small numbers anymore, for fear that they would run into wildlings sailing over the Bay of Ice. Ned had shared their worries himself and realized now that it was time to share with his wife an idea he’d been grappling with.

“With all the problems facing the Wall and the Watch’s poor state action may need to be taken. In truth I’ve been giving thought to calling the banners and dealing with this King-Beyond-the Wall myself.”

As Cat began to protest he went to her, taking a lock of her hair in his hand and letting the soft auburn strands slide between his fingers. Such often put her at ease, and him as well. Cat’s concerns over this matter were precisely why he’d kept his thoughts to himself for so long.

“It’s alright my love. If Rhaegar is being truthful then it may never come to pass. Perhaps he’ll get to the Wall and decide that the south could spare a few thousand men to take the black. The king could then boast he set the North to rights…”

Ned grimaced to think of the king claiming to have done the North any good. Cat reached up to stroke his beard, as tenderly as she would during their love-making.

“You don’t want him to interfere.”

“Of course I don’t.” He admitted. “These are my lands, Stark lands. As they were long before the dragons ever came and I intend them to stay as such long after I am gone. I am still the Warden of the North, so if Rhaegar intends to set the Wall to rights, it will be with me at his side.”

“You do not have to go.” Cat bit her lip like she always did when she was troubled. “To march Beyond-the-Wall… you’ve never been to those savage lands. They belong to the wildlings. To raiders and rapers. Not to you. They were abandoned for a reason.”

“As long as the wildlings threaten the North they threaten my home. So if the wildlings must be met in battle, it will be I who gives it to them. As liege lord of the North I can do no less and expect to command the respect of my bannermen. Gods know some have little enough of it for me.”

Silence fell between them then. Most times he’d take Cat into his confidence when it came to the running of the castle but this was beyond that. It was his decision to make as Lord of Winterfell and he hoped his tone told her that he’d made it. Eddard Stark would host the king in his castle even if he didn’t want to, just as the Rhaegar would accept his presence on the ride North even if the man didn’t want it.

“Jon is here.” Cat said simply, pulling his thoughts back again. “Well not far, he’s waiting by the old bent oak and he knows a letter has arrived.”

“You told him of the letter?”

“Of course not.” Cat backed away, looking disappointed. “He saw the seal on the parchment and remembers his father’s mark. I asked him to wait until we’d spoken, as I knew your mind on this matter.”

The mood between them had soured and Ned knew that the fault lay with him in this matter. Cat deserved better from him over the years but it couldn’t be helped now.

“No use putting it off then.” He admitted to himself. “Jon? Jon! Come here!”

Shouts carried further in this dark wood than it did in other parts of the castle but still he didn’t hear Jon’s coming, he was as silent and quick as a spirit at times. When Robb and Jon fought side by side as partners against other foes in the yard, they complimented each other well. Robb was stronger and more powerful, while Jon was faster, with a greater reach due to his height. They defended one another as fiercely as brothers would.

As Brandon and he used to.

Before we fought each other… to his shame and yours…

No. Neither Robb or Jon would act so foolishly. Blood and honor bind them.

That thought bid Eddard to speak to another matter before the youth arrived. One which involved his nephew and another of his beloved children.

“With the king coming here, it would be a good time to propose what we spoke of. Though telling Jon of it beforehand…”

“Might be foolish.” Cat spoke without warmth, not meeting his gaze. “To get either of their hopes up without the king’s blessing would be cruel, husband.”

He didn’t argue as his wife seemed to have the right of it. To do anything which might hurt Jon was the last thing he wanted, especially after the events of earlier today. For after they’d discovered the direwolf pups, Ned had almost given the order for another five lives to be taken.

“Please father!” Bran had pleaded. “We can’t kill them!”

“It’s a better death than what they’d face if we leave them son.”

He’d been of the same mind as Rodrik and Jory, that the direwolves were not meant to be here, and even if they lived, they might never be tamed. Even Oswell had voiced his agreement with him, arguing that the beasts could be dangerous. Domeric had kept his own thoughts quiet, as he often did, which reminded Ned a little too much of Roose at times.

Yet Jon had joined with his cousins to defend the pups.

“The direwolf is the sigil of your house uncle. You have three sons and two daughters, the same as these pups.” Jon had said. “Even the dragons could be tamed once…”

That argument had been one of the rare times Jon invoked his Targaryen heritage. It warmed Ned’s heart that the boy was so proud to have Stark blood and how earnestly he held to the old ways. To hear Jon defending the sigil of the Starks had been enough to win Ned over in the end. As touched as he’d been by the prince’s efforts on behalf of his cousins and the direwolves, he’d been saddened as well. For Lyanna’s son deserved a reward for his kindness and Ned had no more wolves to offer Jon.

Save ones who called him father.

The sadness had not lasted though, for Jon had surprised them all by finding a sixth pup. The last was an albino with snow-white fur and blood red eyes. Its odd appearance did not put off the prince however. In fact Jon smiled when he claimed the runt of the litter for himself.

Jon was not smiling now, as he came before them clad in wools and furs. Ned remembered then of how the young man had come to them with clothes of silk and satin. In the beginning there’d been other signs that Jon was too accustomed to too easy of a lifestyle for Ned’s liking. Yet with patience and a firm hand, the prince had shown himself to be a true Northman over time. So much so, that now Ned had as much faith in Jon as he did Robb.

Both will make fine lords one day.

If Jon is ever allowed the lands for such.

“You saw the letter?” He asked when Jon arrived. “You know what this is about then?”

“Yes, uncle.” The youth nodded, looking abashed. “I saw the seal by accident when Lady Sta –er, I mean Lady Catelyn was passing. I didn’t mean to pry into your messages…”

“I did not think you did.” Ned moved to stand next to his wife, hoping her warmth would hide his own mood. “The raven brought word from the capital. Your father has set out for the North and intends to visit Winterfell during his travels.”

Jon gaped at them as if they were telling a jest he could not comprehend.

“He comes to Winterfell? Alone?”

“No, we expect a rather large party, possibly even some of your family.” He watched as the boy’s face fell some at that. “Truly we know little because the letter said less.”

“How many does your father usually bring when he travels the realm?” Cat asked softly. “Do you remember such things?”

Jon nodded.

“If it was only my father, maybe a few score… Ser Arthur is a given.” He spoke the knight’s name with reverence before grimacing to continue. “But if any of the others come as well… there could be up to a hundred if not more, guards and cooks and stewards, perhaps even tradesmen…”

“I thought as such.” Ned sighed loudly, an act which made Cat grab his arm, not in support, but as if to chide him.

“I apologize for it uncle.” Jon said quickly. “The king bringing so many here after what he did to your family… he asks too much…”

Jon’s eyes set upon the ground then as his hands clenched into fists.

“I should prepare to leave then.”

“Leave? Jon, you’re not leaving.” Cat spoke quickly, explaining the rest of the letter to the prince, even mentioning Ned’s intentions on riding to the Wall.

It soon became plain their attempt to spare Jon any guilt for the visit failed to improve the prince’s mood. Ned saw the quick twinge of hurt cross the boy’s face when he learned the letter made no mention of him. It was gone as soon as it appeared but he was sure of what he saw.

“I thought with my father… with the king coming here, it would be to fetch me… to take me south again.” Jon shook his head at his own words, as if he thought them foolish. “I didn’t think he would force you from Winterfell… I apologize for that as well.”

“We have no word that he intends to do anything of the sort.” He corrected, sharing a concerned glance with Cat. “I am choosing to join your father when he decides to march to the Wall. Nor do you have anything to apologize for. As King and Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, your father has the right to call on the castle of any of his lords, and to be received with courtesy.”

“He should not presume on it.” Jon’s voice was so heavy with scorn that Ned barely recognized the lad’s voice. “He asks too much and gives too little.”

He’s never so disrespectful, he thought, we taught him better than that.

I cannot allow him to act this way.

“Your grace, you’re a guest in this castle and my ward, so you will remember your courtesies.” Ned scolded the prince as he would his own son. “While under my care you will not speak in such a way about the king again. I am many things, but I am loyal to those I swear fealty to, your father being one of them. If you understand this speak to it.”

“Uncle-”

“Speak to it!”

His nephew stared hard at him and he worried more yelling would be in order to bring the prince to heel. Then Jon glanced to Cat who was stone-faced, offering only a slight nod as well. A moment later the Jon’s gaze fell, as did his shoulders, like he’d been beaten at something.

“I understand my lord.” Jon bowed before them and when he rose he turned away, as if to leave. “If that is all you’d have of me now, I should not be away from my pup for too long.”

“You don’t have anything else to ask of us?” Cat asked, taking a step towards him.

“Is there more to the letter then you’ve told me my lady?”

There wasn’t and Ned thought that even if there was, the prince would still want to take his leave. Jon looked so uncomfortable that he almost felt guilty for correcting his behavior. Yet it was his duty to do so, as his lord and uncle.

No matter how much I may agree with him.

“Go on Jon but do not tell the others, we will make an announcement on the morrow.” Ned had barely spoken the last words before Jon had begun trudging away from them.

Jon reminded Ned of his mother then, much of his life had been spent watching Lyanna run away, after father or Brandon would scold her. Whether for besting some young lordling at riding or being caught playing at swords with Benjen again, no argument Lyanna could make would matter. So she’d show them all her back, escaping to some part of the castle where she’d be free of them.

Fleeing all the way to Rhaegar’s arms, he thought, to her death.

“I would take my own leave too husband.” Cat said icily as she left his side. “There are candles I’d light in the sept and prayers I’d say before seeing to...”

“You think me too hard on him?”

Cat paused at his words, not turning back but merely turning her head to the side.

“No, to speak like that about one’s father is wrong. To speak so about a king is far worse, likely dangerous. Allowing him to do so would have been a disservice. Jon must learn to keep his feelings towards his father better hidden than the man he looks up to.”

That took Ned aback, for he thought it a charge he was innocent of. 

“I have never spoken foully of Rhaegar in front of Jon. Not once in all the-”

“No, you’ve never given voice to it but any can see what you think of the man.” Cat still would not face him and from her stance she was clearly tense. “You hate Rhaegar. You hate that your sister left with him. You hate that you made peace with him. You hate that you lost your friend because of him…”

“Cat that’s not-”

“Don’t.” She cautioned. “Don’t pretend it’s not true. I know you Eddard Stark. You’re a good man, but it’s clear to me how much you wish it was Robert coming here instead of Rhaegar. You curse yourself for leaving Robert’s side just as much as Rhaegar for making you do so. I bear you no ill will for it. I just wish you wouldn’t be so ashamed of the life we built together or the peace that we have here.”

Cat shook her head and continued on her way then.

“I doubt Robert would have ever been so content with peace.”

With that, Ned was left standing alone in stunned silence at his wife’s harsh words. He’d wanted to argue against what she accused him of. To tell Cat that she was wrong, that he cherished the life they’d made here completely and that there was no portion of him that wished to still be a part of Robert’s ongoing rebellion.

Instead he let her leave.

You can’t lie to her, he thought, nor can you call her a liar.

For she speaks the truth, she knows me too well.

Ned grasped Ice tightly in his hands as he gazed up at the weirwood again, wondering at all the choices he’d made to bring himself here.

For once it all could have been different. There’d been a time when the Targaryen dynasty had been on the brink of collapse thanks in no small part to him, when Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon seemed poised to end the reign of the dragons.

When the rebel forces had converged upon the Trident in great numbers there was more than a fair chance of victory over the loyalist army awaiting them. The dragon prince’s force had been larger, but Robert’s army had been hungrier for victory, more blooded from their many battles. Robert had been so fierce in his anger that some suggested he fight Rhaegar’s army all by himself. With good counsel from Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully, a victory was within their grasp.

If not for Eddard Stark.

If not for Howland Reed.

It had been the night before they were set to give battle to Rhaegar’s army. The enemy was encamped not far from them, both sides awaiting the dawn. Ned had been preparing to rest when his men announced a stranger approaching his tent. In truth though the man was no stranger, he’d only been missing.

Howland had disappeared weeks earlier, having left his post shortly before the Battle of the Bells. His absence during that time had been as strange to Ned as the lord’s sudden appearance outside his tent. The trust between the two of them was so great that Ned did not refuse Howland’s request to follow him into the pitch black night.

Their army had camped to one side of the river, their enemy the other. Howland led them past their lines, into a copse of trees along the banks of the river. He’d thought  perhaps Howland had discovered some trick they could use against the Targaryens come morning.

Instead Ned was meant to meet his foe that very night. For among the darkened trees along the banks of the Trident, Howland brought him to meet Rhaegar Targaryen.

The prince had worn no armor, only a cloak as black as the night about him, and came alone save for a single guard. A protector of note, for while Ser Barristan Selmy had exchanged the white cloak of the Kingsguard for one of black, the knight was no less storied and eyed their coming warily.

He’d been shocked himself.

“If you think to offer me my sister in exchange for betraying the others, let us end this farce now. I will do no such thing.” Ned had said, his hatred misting in the cool air. He remembered doing his best to sound strong despite his fears that Rhaegar would indeed hurt his beloved Lyanna.

“Your sister was never anyone’s to barter, but I agree with you Lord Stark. It is time for the farces to come to an end.” Rhaegar’s purple eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, the parchment he offered in his hand a sheet of snow against the black about them.

“Your Lord Reed has shown me such folly. Both of us have had our eyes closed in this. Thousands remain ignorant of the truth behind all this madness…”

“Were your eyes closed when you kidnapped Lyanna? Was your distance from the capital so great that you did not hear the screams of my father and my brother as Aerys burnt them alive? My eyes are open prince and-”

“They aren’t Ned.” Howland had interrupted, taking the parchment from the prince and placing it in his hand. “You’ve never been more blind.”

Ned had been furious with his friend. To this day, he thought he still was. Yet he had read the parchment as he was bid. Then read it again when the words, plain as day in the Common Tongue, made no sense to him.

“This… this cannot be. You wish me to believe that my father… that my father and Jon- Lord Arryn could… no, it cannot be.”

“Is it likely that I was able to forge both their marks? What of Hoster Tully’s or Steffon Baratheon’s? Would I go so far to frame so many lords of the Great Houses?” Rhaegar had faced Ser Barristan then. “Good ser, I beg you to leave my side now, for the good of both of us. Take this chance else it may haunt you forever.”

“I am sworn to see you safe your grace. I will do so no matter what ghosts may come for me.”

“Then witness treason.” Rhaegar had said softly, gesturing to the parchment. “In his hands, Lord Stark bears evidence of a treason years, possibly decades in the making. For some time ago, Lord Rickard Stark approached me and asked that I should hold a Great Council, a council to be attended by the greatest lords of the realm. A council arranged to strip my father of his crown and raise me up in his stead. A prelude to a different rebellion.”

“My father was an honorable man.” He had said, tempted to rip the paper apart which bore his father’s signature. For it was his father’s signature he saw, as hard as it had been to accept, arranged alongside those of the lords Arryn and Tully and some others. Each one gave their assent in raising Rhaegar to the throne and offering their support to force Aerys to step down.

“He would not betray his fealty… his honor-”

“Not without good cause. Nor could I plot against a father I loved without the same.” Rhaegar had clutched at his heart, as if to hold it within his chest. “Sadly the king Lord Rickard swore fealty to and the father I knew… the father I loved… well, he has been lost to us for some time, perhaps even before Duskendale. Lost in the flames of madness.”

“If this is true…” He’d shaken the parchment between them as if it was a weapon itself. “If this is true, it means Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn have never mentioned any of it during all of this! If this is true, it means nothing now! It cannot excuse your kidnapping of Lyanna! My sister!”

“I’m sure your sister’s disappearance is precisely why the lords have not been honest with you. They most likely feel that I have been tainted by my father’s madness, and wish to avoid the awkwardness of admitting that they once planned to raise one madman up in place of another.”

Rhaegar had been speaking to him while watching Ser Barristan the whole time. Ned could still remember how ghostly pale Ser Barristan had become, how the knight had reached at his side for a blade numbly and come up with nothing, having come to the meeting apparently unarmed. Ser Barristan’s hands trembled in a way that Ned would have never have expected of the man.

“I am no madman Lord Stark.” Rhaegar continued. “I am also no kidnapper or raper.”

“Liar!”

“Perhaps I’ve had to lie in the past but not now. Not with so much at stake. I have a rebellion to end and a kingdom to set to rights… and a new wife and child to return to.”

The words had been a blow to the pit of his stomach. Rhaegar’s wife was very much alive as far as Ned knew and it was common knowledge that she could bear no more children.

“You lie.” He’d rasped.

Howland had stepped forward to play his part then, like some shadow coming to darken his thoughts.

“He speaks the truth. Ned, trust me in this. Trust what I’ve seen and speak to just as I trust you to listen.”

Howland’s words seemed distant now, after all these years. Whether because of his soft-spoken nature, or how shaken Ned had been, he couldn’t be sure.

“When I left your side, I did so because an old friend told me to. I was told to seek the Isle of Faces and sought out the green men who tend the weirwoods there. They told me a tale… one which changed everything. A tale which made me realize this war is as mad as Aerys himself. It drove me to seek out the prince, to seek the truth of what I’d heard. The tale I had from him was the same told to me on that island.”

“I took your sister, that is true.” Rhaegar had come closer to him, his eyes even brighter. “As she wanted me to. For she went with me, to be my wife…”

“No.” He’d argued against the truth. “She was betrothed…”

“What Lyanna and I share goes beyond betrothals or laws of the Seven. Before the heart tree, in the eyes of your old gods, we are wed. She is my queen of winter, she is my queen by your own laws, and she will be the mother of my child. You are to be an uncle, Eddard Stark, uncle to my third child and kin to a piece of prophecy laid down long before our time. For the dragon must have three heads to-”

“Fool!” Ned had roared as he struck the prince clearly across his face.

He remembered that part clear enough. How satisfying it had been, landing the blow across Rhaegar’s face. How pleasing it still felt to remember now. Rhaegar had fallen to a knee and Ned stood ready to strike him again should he try and rise. Ser Barristan moved between them but the man had still not recovered from all he heard, so it fell to Howland to keep Ned at bay.

“Ned… my lord, this rebellion against the Mad King… it is just and it is right.” Howland had grasped his arms and Ned had returned the hold on his friend, the two grappling without actually struggling. “For the murders of your family King Aerys cannot be allowed to go unpunished and I will fight to see that done, but not this battle. I cannot take up arms against Lyanna’s husband. Or the father of her child.”

“That… man… stands between us and Aerys. How can we avenge my family while he protects that madman on the throne?”

“You can trust me to do what your brother and your father sought to when they went to the capital.” Rhaegar rose with the help of Ser Barristan, his cheek cut and bleeding from the blow. “Your brother sought redress for a wrong… your father wanted justice. I am at fault for their fates, so it is the least I can do to fulfill the quests they died seeking.”

What the prince implied took a moment for Ned to grasp. As a loyal son, he could have never fathomed even thinking of such a thing.

“You’re saying you’d fight the king? Your own father?”

“I’d do what needs to be done.” Rhaegar answered, his eyes seeking the starry sky above them. “I’d remove a madman from the throne and try to right the wrongs done in my family’s name.”

“Your grace…” Ser Barristan had found his words. “You’re speaking of joining the rebellion… to do so… to consider such a thing… it is foul…”

“More foul than burning good men alive? More foul than what he does to his own lady wife, my mother?” Rhaegar had wheeled about to face his protector. “You know I am right. You yourself spoke of how it shamed you to stand by and watch that crime Barristan. If good men such as you can stomach such things, simply because it is the king’s will, then what hope does our realm have? Good men cannot be silent any longer. If the king can violate the laws set forth in his name, and do such cruelty with impunity, then what world am I leaving my children?”

When the knight offered no answer, Rhaegar reached up to wipe the blood from his face.

“No. No more. If blood must be shed, let it be shed to see an end to this madness. If I must bear the shame of standing against my family for the sake of the realm, to be called a kinslayer for the rest of my days… then so be it.”

“Bear your shame?” Ned had shaken off Howland’s hold by then and once again the prince and he squared off. “You think that is punishment enough for all you’ve done? That’s what I’m to tell the others?”

“No. You’re to tell them that in rising against their king, they are traitors whose lives are forfeit.” Rhaegar reached within his cloak to pull forth another bit of parchment, handing it to Ned. “You’re to tell them that I see more value in a living vassal than a dead traitor. If they bend the knee to me then I will spare their heads, their lands, and their families. Swear fealty to me and I make this promise; we march on the capital as one. We act as the men in that accord wished, for the good of the realm, for the sake of us all.”

The parchment he bore now was sealed with the red wax of his House.

“This bears my seal and oath to all that I’ve offered. Tell them all I’ve said Lord Stark. Tell them that when dawn breaks, they must have their answer ready. For on the morrow we will either fight over a lie… or unite for the sake of the truth.”

Years later, he now stared at a different message bearing the seal of Rhaegar. This one did not feel as heavy in his hand as the other had. The wind rustled the leaves of the weirwood above him and Ned tried to remember if there’d been a breeze that night along the Trident.

You could’ve refused to carry the message.

You could’ve told him to burn in his seven hells.

But he hadn’t. Instead he’d done as Rhaegar and Howland had asked him to.

The others had all been upset to be awoken in the middle of the night, then furious when they learned who Ned had been meeting with.

Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn had lost most of their anger when he’d presented the oath they’d made alongside his father. They had come clean soon enough, admitting to all contained within the letter as being true. Robert had been wroth to learn of it, though the pain of that betrayal paled to the truth of Lyanna rejecting him.

Or how it must have felt when his allies began to debate the merits of Rhaegar’s proposal.

To hear Eddard himself struggle to find a reason to continue the fight.

When dawn came, Robert Baratheon had meant to ride into battle with his dear friend and two allies at his side. Instead the true battle had been waged during the night, in that tent. Robert and some others demanded an end to the Targaryen rule while Hoster Tully and Jon Arryn preferred the course laid forth by Rhaegar, they sought the course of peace.

To stand beside Robert in his rage was to ignore all Ned had learned, to take up arms against the husband of his beloved sister, possibly even the father of his new wife. It was too much. Even for how much Ned loved Robert.

It was too much. He’d hoped his friend would see reason.

And that had been too much.

Thus with the light of a new day, Ned had watched as Robert prepared to lead what men remained to him towards the rising sun, cursing all those who stayed behind even as they sheltered his withdrawal to whatever port would take him.

“Robert, please.” He’d begged of his friend. “Think of your brothers-”

“You were the brother I chose.” Robert had spat down at him from his horse. “The brother I loved.”

“Robert, don’t leave. I beg you to see the folly in this.”

“I see cowards… traitors… fools.” Robert had turned from him, urging his horse on. “I see a man who betrayed me, like his sister did… a man who tore my insides out… I leave now to spare myself from killing you. Do not tempt me to rethink it.”

With that Robert had ridden off, leading away the lords and knights still willing to continue the fight with him. That was the last time Ned would ever see Robert Baratheon before his friend fled Westeros.

The true rebellion started when they met Rhaegar on the field, to talk rather than fight, and to plot the overthrow of the Mad King.

All the while Robert’s curses had pounded in his ears. Even now he heard them still and thought every word he spat at him was true.

You lost the brother you chose to have a king that you hated.

And you still lost Lyanna in the end.

Rhaegar even took Benjen from me.

With that Eddard Stark finally turned away from the heart tree and began his lonely walk from the godswood. The wind was still shaking the leaves overheard, their soft clattering sounding different than usual.

As if the gods were laughing at him.

 

JON

 

 

“Beware brother, a moping she-wolf approaches.”

Robb’s warning bid Jon to look up from his double-checking of the saddle straps. The pair were preparing for a ride out with Oswell, Domeric, and some others, the group almost ready to depart when Robb spoke up.

Sure enough, Arya was walking towards them with her face pointed down to her feet and her direwolf pup struggling to keep pace with her.

He sighed to see her, which was a strange experience for him. Robb would often shake his head at his little sister’s antics, though sometimes with a smile, while Sansa would go as far as to scream bloody murder about Arya to anyone who would listen. Jon on the other hand embraced the feeling of having a younger sister, no matter how wild she might be. His father’s wife had never allowed him time with Myrcella to ever truly feel a sisterly bond with her.

Though Jon remembered his half-sister to be a sweet child with a charming wit, unlike the shit Joffrey was. He’d been touched to receive a couple letters from Myrcella during his time in Winterfell.

Arya was only his cousin but had filled the gap that Myrcella had never been allowed to. For as out of place as he felt in Winterfell at times, being Rhaegar Targaryen’s shamed son, the youngest Stark girl appeared to feel just the same sometimes about her place in comparison to her siblings. Which had made her invasion of his rooms hurt all the more.

“Jon… I mean your grace.” Arya spoke softly when she finally reached them, her eyes still on the ground. “I wanted to… I-I just wanted to say that I’m sorry…”

“You apologized to me days ago Arya.” He reminded her, waving away Harwin and shooting Robb a disapproving look for listening in.

“I know.” Arya sniffed, kicking at her leg as Nymeria nibbled on her skirts. “You didn’t say you believed it though… that you’re not mad at me anymore…”

“That’s because I am mad at you.” Jon admitted. “What you did… it felt like being in the capital again, when people would poke and pry into every part of my life. You aren’t allowed secrets in the Red Keep. I thought I could have them here…”

His anger wasn’t truly directed at the young lady. In his mind he pictured those who violated his privacy in the past. Varys, Cersei, even Oswell, who he’d once caught reading a poem that Jon had written for Daenerys on her nameday. Most of all he thought of his father.

The man Jon had always run to as a small, scared boy. The one who was supposed to protect him from all of the foul whispers he’d heard about his birth, about his very life. Viserys blamed him for his parents’ deaths. Rhaenys blamed him for her mother’s death. Cersei blamed him because Joffrey was not Aegon’s heir. Others blamed him for the rebellion.

And Jon blamed the king for all of it. For the man who was supposed to act a father to him, to shelter him from all of that, had done little to comfort the young boy against such hardships.

“A prince must numb himself to the whisperings of others.” His father would say. “You must be strong… like your mother was.”

Jon had no doubt how his mother had become so strong, for he’d learned quickly in the capital who to seek when others berated him. His uncle Benjen shied away from no conflict, and would shout back any insult to those who sought to hurt his nephew.

“You will watch your tongue Stark.” Viserys had raged, red-faced once after Benjen had defended Jon against his bullying. “Or you’ll bring out the dragon…”

“Oh, is Rhaegar vexed with me?” Benjen had answered, looking about at Viserys’s highborn lackeys in mock confusion. “And what will he do? Make me a hostage?”

That his uncle was no longer a hostage was small comfort to Jon though, for he had not yet returned to Winterfell. It shamed him to think that he now called the Stark castle home while a trueborn Stark could not.

“You can have secrets here!” Arya protested, her grey eyes finally seeking his own. Those were eyes that were hard to be mad at, for they were akin to his.

Akin to his mother’s eyes.

“Can I?” He asked. “With you sneaking into my chambers, reading letters meant for my eyes and no one else’s?”

“I won’t do it again! I swear!” Arya clutched at her chest, though the solemn act was marred by her having to continue shaking off the pup’s attacks at her skirts. “I only did it because they upset you… she makes you sad! I hate it when you’re sad…”

“Dany- Princess Daenerys does not make me sad.” He knelt, which meant Nymeria now leapt up at him too, licking his face. It was worth it though to duck low of other’s gazes and to meet Arya’s face to face. “She is dear to me. It’s what happens to her, that’s what makes me sad.”

“She didn’t say anybody was hurting her! Just that a fool and a beast and some harpy were pestering her, like Sansa pesters me…”

That would be Viserys, Joffrey and my dear sweet step-mother.

And the way they treat Daenerys is leagues away from how Sansa treats you Arya.

For there is no love underneath their actions; only cruelty.

“And how do you feel when Sansa and Jeyne mock you?” Jon asked, having thought of the comparison. When Arya didn’t speak to it right away he continued on. “Daenerys is family to me… just as you are. If I heard someone was being cruel to you, wouldn’t you want me to be upset for you?”

Again Arya remained silent. Her only response was to bite her lip and reach down to snatch the direwolf pup up into her arms. As angry as he was that she’d gone into his room without his permission, he could not ignore how sincerely sorry the girl appeared for doing so.

Nor how Sansa and her friends had taken pleasure in mocking Arya over the matter. It always disappointed him when Sansa acted in such a way. For she was quite beautiful and kind, but when she acted in such a way toward Arya, Jon could not see that beauty at all. It became buried under pettiness.

At that very moment, he glanced beyond Arya to see Sansa and Jeyne Poole were approaching, his aunt Catelyn leading the pair. Both the younger ladies were wearing riding clothes, speaking behind raised hands. Their eyes had locked upon Arya as well, joining Robb and all the others in doing so.

With everyone watching while the girl once again apologized to him, Jon felt no need to continue her shame. So he reached out to pet the direwolf pup in Arya’s arms. When she looked up at him so hopefully, so earnest in her feelings toward him, Jon couldn’t help but let his heart melt and give her a smile.

“Promise me that you won’t do it again?” He put to his cousin, raising an eyebrow. “Swear on this wolf, sister to my own, that you shall never do such again.”

“I promise.” Arya nodded eagerly, kissing Nymeria upon her head as if to make the point clearer. “On Nymeria, I swear.”

“Then I forgive you cousin.” Jon pulled at her sleeve and Arya came to him eagerly, letting his arms wrap around her in a firm embrace that lifted her off of her feet. “My little wolf sister.”

It shamed him in a way how good it felt for Arya to hug him back. Few enough had ever done so before he came to Winterfell. Princes weren’t meant to be embraced, though Dany and Uncle Benjen had done so in secret sometimes. He thought he remembered his father doing so once, long ago, but time had bled those memories from him.

“Hey, where’s my apology for stealing that helm from my room?” Robb asked as he crossed his arms impatiently.

“You can’t prove that was me!” Arya stuck out her tongue at her elder brother and Jon stood up chuckling.

“I bloody well saw you wearing it!”

“Robb!” Lady Catelyn’s admonishment came quickly as she arrived with Sansa and Jeyne in tow. “Do not speak so to your sister. She is a young lady.”

“A lady who steals helms…”

“Pardon?” Jon’s aunt inquired, shooting Arya an exasperated look.

As annoyed as Robb was at Arya’s barging into his life, he spotted the makings of another public scolding for his little sister and corrected himself quickly.

“A jest mother, a poor one.” He shrugged before gesturing to the horses and the men ready to ride them. “Father knows we’re going for a ride and we wanted to be gone some time ago...”

Robb wanted to be gone at first light, in truth. When Lord Stark had declared the king’s visit to Winterfell and subsequent journey to the Wall, Robb had been ecstatic. He had hope the Starks would be calling their banners, raising a force to march to Castle Black alongside the king, Robb ready to join them.

“This is our chance Jon!” Robb had clapped him on the shoulder, smiling as he bid Domeric to join in. “For all of us. We go forth to battle against the King-beyond-the-Wall! Like the Starks of old did against Raymund Redbeard and Bael the Bard!”

“Lord Willam Stark was killed fighting Redbeard.” Domeric had offered, his finger touching his chin in thought. “That’s how his younger brother Artos the Implacable became Lord of Winterfell.”

“A Stark still killed him! I remember the lessons too Dom... Fine then! How about the bard’s story then? King Brandon cut off the wildling’s head and brought it back for all to see that the Starks were victorious!”

“And he was later killed by the Boltons.” Jon added, to the surprise of both his friends.

For he called Domeric friend just as Robb did, yet it was hard at times to forget how Roose Bolton sent chills through his body. The last time he’d seen the Lord of the Dreadfort, the man had stared at Jon with a cold cunning much like Tywin Lannister’s. As if the lord could gaze right through Jon’s skin to find all his weaknesses.

The discussion had all been for naught anyways. Uncle Eddard had crushed Robb’s hopes soon after, declaring that if he was to march to the Wall, his son would stay as acting Lord of Winterfell. Robb was disappointed of course, so was Jon, for he figured it likely that he’d be joining his father’s party on the way to the Wall. Domeric had told Jon privately that if Lord Stark called upon the support of House Bolton as well, he would likely ride with them.

Neither of them had been eager to share their beliefs with Robb, for he had been content in thinking that the three of them would hold Winterfell together. Preparing to act a lord and protecting the Stark lands was what today’s ride and the last few had all been about. The deserter who’d lost his head had been trying to get south and Robb had had the idea that they should be on guard for any others attempting the same.

They would ride out, scouting the lands themselves for more men who’d forsaken their vows and wildling raiders as well. Jon doubted they would find anything personally but it made Robb happy, so he went along with it.

Robb was only a cousin to Jon, like Arya, but he was the brother Jon chose.

All of that appeared moot now though, as it seemed the Stark ladies were set on delaying them from riding out before day’s end.

“I promise to ride well and to keep an eye on Ser Oswell.” Robb tossed a jest towards the Kingsguard knight. “I’ll protect the protector.”

“Oh yes, take after Benjen and jape at me.” The knight scowled, climbing upon his horse. “It reminds me of why I disliked the man so.”

Jon couldn’t let that one go for he knew better of his sworn protector.

“It’s not chivalrous to lie, ser. I’ve heard you call my uncle honorable and a good man. Even a friend…”

“You do better at eavesdropping than acting a squire. Just because I name him a friend doesn’t mean I like him. Most of my friends despise me.” Oswell threw his white cloak over his shoulder. “Are we to begin this pleasure ride or not?”

“It is a patrol!” Robb corrected him as he made to bow to Lady Catelyn and the girls. “And we are leaving. Good day mother, dear ladies. I will…”

“You will wait just a few moments longer.” Lady Catelyn put in before waving at the master of horse, who stood watching at the stable doors. “Hullen, please prepare Lady Sansa and Jeyne’s mounts. They’ll be joining the ride about the grounds.”

“That’s not fair!” Arya protested, glaring at Sansa and Jeyne who were all smiles. “Get my horse ready too! I want to go!”

“You’re not dressed for it.” Sansa turned up her nose at her sister. “Not for a ride with lords and ladies and knights…”

“It’s a patrol!” Robb raised his voice almost to the point of shouting. “We can’t be taking them with us if we are to hunt the Wolfswood for wildlings!”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Aunt Catelyn said with a hard look towards all three of her children. “So your father has asked that you put off your search to act a proper escort to your sister. If you truly believe there are wildlings about, then young maidens riding in our lands should have guardians.”

Jon thought that reasonable enough, yet he still found it strange that Sansa and Jeyne even wished a ride today. The sky above them was grey and it was likely to rain, if not snow, in the next few hours. Not particularly fine weather for a pleasure ride.

Robb continued to protest, trying any reasoning he could think of so they could continue on without the girls.

“Let me go ask Jory then, he can find some men to watch Sansa so we can-”

“Robb.” Lady Catelyn spoke sharply, waving her son towards her. “Join me for a moment.”

Robb’s face now burned with embarrassment while he did as his mother commanded. The two walked away some, speaking in hushed voices while Arya continued to bicker with Sansa and Jeyne. Domeric walked up next to him then, scratching his head at the behavior of the Starks.

“Was the Dreadfort a more peaceful place?” Jon asked and the older youth shot him a surprised look at the comment.

“My father’s lands are quiet… the people peaceful. As he likes them.” Domeric did not sound altogether pleased to say so. “But Barrowton is like this sometimes. My Aunt Barbrey ordered us all about much more than Lady Stark does. At least Robb’s mother has the sense to lead him away to do such. I can’t count the number of times my aunt tongued lashed me for riding about the Rills in front of the entire castle. Especially when I would take Roddy out with me.”

Roderick Dustin was Lord Willam’s heir, a couple years younger than Jon and Robb and still shy of manhood. He had been part of the party escorting Domeric to Winterfell and Jon had thought him nice enough. The lordling’s horse had impressed him more though, for the youth had ridden a fine red stallion, of a kind with his father’s.

“How about the Red Keep?” Domeric asked, pulling at the reins of his own horse and stroking the beast’s nose. “Are princes ordered about like us young lordlings are?”

No, they are ordered away.

Jon didn’t get a chance to give a proper answer, for Robb was now ordering Hullen to hurry with the ladies’ mounts. He still bore a look of disappointment yet it was tempered with an almost sly smile that he offered Jon as he returned.

“We’ll patrol tomorrow. Today we get to enjoy the company of my beautiful sister and friend.” Robb then shouted the rest at Oswell. “Who I’ll defend as fiercely as I do the knight!”

“Keep it up lad and I’ll be naming you a friend as well.” Oswell frowned.

Arya, of course, continued to protest when Lady Catelyn denied her the right to join them, forcibly guiding the downtrodden girl back towards the keep. When the ladies’ ponies were brought out, Domeric waved the stableboy off to offer Jeyne his help in gaining her horse. The act itself was a spectacle. The way the young lady blushed and giggled made it even more so.

Sansa watched this before turning to Jon, and he believed she expected him to order Domeric to do the same for her. He was a prince but he didn’t order people around, Winterfell wasn’t his castle after all. Robb nudged him forward then, inclining his head towards Sansa as if Jon was acting a fool.

Gods, I’ll just get her on the horse myself then.

It’ll be quicker than figuring out what the hell is going on.

“My lady, if you would allow me?” He said, taking hold of the horse’s reins and offering his hand to Sansa.

“Your grace is kind.” She broke out into a wide smile, curtsying before him as if they were at a feast. “Am I worthy of a prince doing such?”

“Um… yes? Yes, of course.” Jon felt foolish standing there with his hand still outstretched, oddly aware that Lady Catelyn had turned back to watch them as Robb did. “You’re a lady of House Stark. I’d always honor such a family.”

Sufficiently pleased with his answer, Sansa finally placed her hand in his, as gently as she handled her direwolf pup. She let it linger there for a moment longer, leaving Jon perplexed as to what else he could do to help her, before finally moving to take her horse.

Robb was giving him a strange smile when Jon climbed upon his own mount. Before he could ask what that was all about, his cousin gave a yell and they were off. They rode out the Hunter’s Gate like they had planned but that was the only part of Robb’s original planning that they had kept to.

For rather than seeking the Wolfswood, they swung around to ride towards the Acorn Water, the small river that ran through the Stark lands. Nor was Jon riding alongside Domeric and Robb, as he’d expected. Instead Domeric was back in the line beside Jeyne, enduring her tittering and unending chatter in his quiet, smiling manner. Robb rode close to Jon but not nearly as close as Sansa did, with Ser Oswell following just after.

Despite the strangeness of everyone’s behavior, he still rather enjoyed himself. The lands they rode through were perfect for horses and the landscape was the embodiment of the North. The rolling lands around him were rippled with small hills and dotted with bare rock and boulders. The dull green coloring of the lands came from the wispy grass which blanketed the ground, decorated here and there with wildflowers. The Acorn Water ran lazily astride their route, its waters flowing over smooth dark rocks where some youths were fishing, the boys quickly standing tall to wave as the party passed by.

Jon waved back and watched as one lad waved all the harder upon seeing him do so, giving a cry to his friends as if accomplishing some great feat. In the south the smallfolk would lower their heads or kneel as highborns rode by, but in his uncle Eddard’s lands, they had every reason to smile and welcome the coming of the Starks.

The south can keep its rich lands and cowed people, he thought, for all its hardships, the north is beautiful.

Beautiful and worthy to be called so.

He smiled at the thought without paying attention to where his eyes had fallen. By accident he’d founded himself staring in Sansa’s direction, who now smiled back at him before dropping her eyes in an almost demure way. She had a pretty flush to her face, though Jon didn’t understand why. They’d ridden together before, not as much as he had with Arya or Robb, but more than a few times.

Gods she’s been acting strangely lately, is she nervous about my father coming?

Sansa always acted far more formally towards Jon than the other Starks. While Robb and Arya had quickly grown to calling him Jon, Sansa would still refer to him as ‘Prince’ or ‘your grace’ despite Jon’s insistence that she hadn’t needed to. He cared for Sansa, but they had little in common truthfully. Most of the time they had together was spent doing things that Sansa enjoyed and Jon simply endured, such as dancing, or listening to music, or playing courtly games such as Come-Into-My-Castle.

Still, a part of Jon was glad to have the attention of such a beautiful highborn lady.

The attractive ladies at court had usually been browbeaten by Rhaenys or Cersei into scorning him in favor of Aegon or Joffrey. He’d learned long ago not to attempt asking those ladies to dance at celebrations. At Winterfell, Jon had danced often with serving girls and young noblewomen who visited, though his frequent partner had always been Sansa.

When they had been dancing a few moons past, Sansa had asked if he had ever done such with other ladies in the capital and Jon had tried explaining his difficulties to her. Sansa had disappointed him with her disbelief in his tales.

“I thought you said Queen Cersei and Princess Rhaenys were beautiful and well-liked in the capital?” Sansa had been confused by his tales. “Surely they can’t act so foully and be so well-liked. You’re rather shy for a prince Jon, it would not do to blame a queen and princess because you’re not bold enough to ask a lady to dance.”

He hadn’t cared for that, but Jon remembered how young and innocent Sansa could act, even more so than Bran at times, so he’d forced his anger away. He liked Sansa truly, her smile and lively eyes always warmed him some. He had even begun to enjoy dancing, though Jon knew if he admitted it that Sansa would never let him have a night off to practice at swords. Jon preferred the rare moments when Sansa would forget about being a lady, just for a little while, and would join Robb and Arya and him in playing tricks on Jory and the guards or in having snow fights in the godswood.

Recently something had changed though and she had become a bit of a terror to be around.

She’d been particularly haughty to Arya and Jon couldn’t understand why. He remembered before how they would argue, sometimes humorously, but at the end of the day they’d still act as sisters.

All of that had gone away of late.

Now Sansa always found a reason to speak poorly of Arya, insisting that Jon agree with her on how terrible her sister could behave. Jon worked hard to defend Arya and reason with Sansa that the girl was not truly a terror. Once he’d even told Sansa to be kinder to Arya, but that seemed to only set her off even more. The next day Arya had told Jon that Sansa and the other girls of the castle had taken to shunning her and he’d been as confused by it as he had been livid.

Almost as bad as her sudden mistreatment of Arya was Sansa’s constant nattering about the capital. She had always been in awe of King’s Landing, and Jon had thought it best to not ruin it for her. He carefully avoided saying anything that might have hurt her vision of the place but his patience had been waning. Sansa had seemed fine with leaving well-enough alone for the past five years, but now he couldn’t be near the girl without her asking about life at court.

I’m as far away from life at court as I can be now and Sansa’s acting just fine.

Lady Catelyn tells me to smile more and here I am looking for reasons to be dour.

He tried to enjoy the ride after that, taking in the scenery which included the rare glance to how Sansa’s hair did look quite pretty as it flew in the wind. They rode for some hours more until a light rain began to fall upon the party. Robb had led them to a sparse collection of great elms where they all broke into smaller groups, to seek shelter beneath the leaves.

Robb joined Domeric and Jeyne beneath one tree while Jon was left at the base of a far smaller one with only Sansa at his side. Oswell did not even bother joining him, the knight scorning the shelter to dismount and let his horse graze amongst the grass.

“Your armor will rust!” Jon called out to him.

“It might.” Oswell shrugged. “That’s a concern for my squire though. I imagine he has some hard work ahead of him.”

He wasn’t thrilled at the idea of spending hours later scouring the man’s armor. It just gave him another reason to try and get the knight out of the rain, to break the awkwardness of being alone with Sansa.

“Come on out of the rain ser! Be warm and dry!”

“Too late for the dry part.” Oswell looked up the sky and opened his mouth to collect some water. “And I haven’t been warm in five years. Besides I can guard you from out here just fine your grace so you just worry about guarding that tree…”

“He guards me in truth ser!” Sansa called back, shooting a glance to Jeyne and Robb, both of whom were smiling.

Oswell grumbled something at that yet was clearly done with the conversation. Sansa, on the other hand, was intent on striking one up with her guardian.

“I saw that you forgave Arya, your grace. That was very benevolent of you.” She said with a smile and an upturned nose.

“Arya meant no harm, she never does. When you care for someone, you allow them the chance to make up for their mistakes.” Jon said evenly and he could see that Sansa was disappointed by what he said.

“Still… to intrude in your room… that’s a very, um… unattractive quality, wouldn’t you say?” She asked, looking away from him.

“Unattractive? Well, I guess so but I don’t really think of Arya…” Jon said slowly, unsure of what she wanted from him. “Well, Arya learned her lesson, so I’m sure she won’t do it again.”

Sansa stayed silent for a moment after, but when she turned back to Jon, her face was bright and charming once more. Jon was glad for it and hoped they could change the topic somehow.

Then regretted her choice immediately.

“When King Rhaegar comes, do you think there will minstrels in his party?” She asked hopefully. “Domeric plays the harp well enough, but he only knows so many songs, not nearly enough for dancing…”

“There might be some… there weren’t any he kept about him from what I remember.”

“Of course! How silly of me.” Sansa laughed at a joke he didn’t hear. “Why would he need a minstrel? The king plays the high harp, does he not?”

“He does, very well in fact…”

The sound of his father’s harp was one of the few things he missed from the Red Keep. For as distant as the king acted towards him, the music he played, which filtered throughout the castle, always managed to make Jon feel closer to his father. No matter the tune, no matter how sad it sounded, he would close his eyes and pretend his father was playing for him.

Jon had become lost in thought over the rare, warm memories he had of his father and realized he was staring at Sansa again. Their eyes locked and the sweet blue of her eyes only added to the good cheer he had all of sudden. They had such a power over him it took him several moments to realize how foolish he was acting. His face reddening he looked away, which in turn caused Sansa to blush as well.

“All, um, all say the king plays beautifully.” She struggled. “My mother told me of how well he did so at the Tourney of Harrenhal. She said ladies and fair maidens alike were almost brought to tears, that your mother-”

At that Sansa paused, as if the mention of Jon’s mother was some foul topic of conversation.

“My mother wept to hear him play.” He continued. “She fell in love with my father while he was playing his harp…”

“It’s such a beautiful story, the prince and the fair lady.” Sansa interrupted. “Winning her heart, winning the tourney, naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty…”

Sansa put a hand to her chest and sighed as she gazed off into the distance dreamily.

“Worthy of a song… a beautiful song.” Her smile began to fade though, the dreamy look disappearing as well. “It’s so sad how improper it all was. If only the king had not been married already and Aunt Lyanna remained unpromised, the song would’ve been perfect…”

“And thousands would not have died.” Jon finished for her, angry at Sansa’s view of things. “My mother would still be alive... and so would Princess Elia. I would rather that than a song.”

Sansa stared at him in shock, clearly taken aback at how plainly he’d just spoken to her and Jon was surprised himself. He couldn’t help it though. Enough people blamed him for Princess Elia’s death that sometimes Jon felt like he had truly caused it. Almost as much as his father had.

As Aerys had ordered.

“I didn’t mean… you misunderstand.” Sansa shook her head. “I only meant that it would be lovely if all those things hadn’t happened. I wish it was so! For you would have been born from a great tale of love and-”

“I’d rather have not been born at all, if it meant all those people still lived.”

It was strange hearing himself admit to that. For most of his life he had struggled against Rhaenys arguing the same thing to his face. He wondered what she would say now to hear him admit such.

“Your grace… that’s a horrid thing to say.” Sansa appeared at a loss. “I for one am very thankful that you were born.”

He felt heartened to hear her say such a thing, it almost caused him to forget what point he was trying to make. Yet when he opened his mouth to press his point Sansa was waiting.

“It’s not polite to disagree with a lady my prince.” She teased and Jon actually laughed some at that.

“Thank you Sansa, sometimes you know just-”

“If you weren’t born, then you wouldn’t be a prince!” Sansa continued, apparently having not heard him. “You wouldn’t have come to Winterfell, we wouldn’t have met... can you imagine how different the castle would be? We are-I mean I am so lucky to have a prince within our walls. Anyone would be! It all turned out alright in the end I would say.”

“I suppose so…”

Jon couldn’t help where his mind went then. In his opinion, the North had suffered much from what princes had brought them. Because of him, so many had been lost. So many people would never come home. So many had died. Sansa said it had all turned out alright but Jon didn’t feel that way at all.

Ser Mark and Martyn Cassel didn’t get to come home because of me.

Neither did my mother.

“One day you’ll ride in jousts just as your father did.” Sansa did not sense the foul turn that Jon’s thoughts had taken. “You will win tourneys and name your own Queen of Love and Beauty. Perhaps the king will even declare one here at Winterfell! Then you could joust and I could watch with the others and you-”

“My father doesn’t hold tourneys.” He held out his hand to let some water dripping down from the tree fall against his hand. “If he’s invited he’ll attend, he might give gold to allow others to hold them in his stead, but the king won’t call any in his name.”

After the Greyjoy Rebellion, many had said that King Rhaegar should have celebrated their victory over the Iron Islands with a tourney at Lannisport. Instead his father had used the money to throw days of feasting for the common folk in Lannisport, Oldtown, and King’s Landing, to honor those who’d done great deeds during the battles. In the capital they’d called it the Dragon’s Fare, and uncle Benjen claimed that nine moons later the population in the cities doubled from all the new babes planted during the feasting.

Of course it hadn’t been as popular among the highborn. Jon had heard some call it the Dragon’s Folly instead. After he told Sansa the tale she appeared to agree with that description.

“It’s important to treat the smallfolk well, but to deny knights the chance for glory and meeting beautiful maidens is horrible. You should ask the king to hold a tourney here!” Sansa clapped her hands together as if the idea was brilliant. “He can hold it in honor of his coming to the North! It would be an occasion to announce-”

“I’m sorry Sansa, I won’t ask him for that.” He spoke truthfully and Sansa’s enthusiasm died away.

“Please Jon, oh please! I’ve never been to a tourney. Winterfell is drab and boring and such a thing would be so sweet. Could you do it for me? Surely your father would grant it if you asked.”

“No, my lady.” He tried to not let his irritation show, for surely this was why Sansa had been acting so strangely lately.

She just wants me to throw a great tourney where she can dress up.

So she can draw the eye of the true princes.

He had no idea if Aegon or Joffrey were coming north alongside his father. The thought of Sansa fawning over the heir to the Iron Throne or the golden prince bothered him a little but not nearly as much as who else could be coming to Winterfell.

For the idea of Rhaenys and Cersei arriving at his adopted home terrified him. He worried that they would find a way to taint it just as they had done with the capital. Already he imagined Cersei staring down her nose at him but it was the thought of Rhaenys turning the Starks against Jon that bothered him most of all. She had worked hard to do so with most of the court and part of Jon would die if the Starks thought ill of him as well.

Sansa’s the one most awestruck with royalty… if I wasn’t the only person of royal blood in Winterfell how quickly would she turn from me?

Surely she’d prefer a prince without such a pall hanging over his head by her side…

Would she bother with me? Would any of them?

Rhaenys had always held Jon to blame for the murder of her mother and had convinced many others of it as well over the years.

“If my father hadn’t left to go and plant you in that Stark woman, the rebellion would never have happened.” Rhaenys had hissed at him countless times, often in the presence of Aegon or others. “My mother would still be alive… I wouldn’t have watched her die… all because of a bastard.”

He’d tried to apologize countless times for that crime, but the only thing the princess wanted was her mother back. Jon couldn’t remember his own mother and he often wondered how he would’ve felt if he had any memories of her. How hurt he might have been if one of them was of her dying. That thought always kept him from completely hating Rhaenys.

For Elia’s death was the last memory Rhaenys claimed to have of her mother. After their father had won over most of the rebels to his side and consolidated his hold over the royal forces, his eyes turned south. To the Red Keep where Mad King Aerys still sat the Iron Throne, a seat Rhaegar was intent on taking from him. Jon had been told the march to King’s Landing had been slow and deliberate, the army’s outriders doing all they could to keep word of its true purpose quiet.

An effort to buy time and get a message to the Red Keep in secret. For men loyal to Rhaegar to safely see Princess Elia and their children away from the Mad King.

The arrival of the Lannisters had changed all of that. Lord Tywin Lannister, informed of Rhaegar’s intentions to depose Aerys, had decided to bestir himself and join the prince’s rebellion. The Lannister host marched quickly, bringing ten thousand men outside the gates of the city, openly calling for Aerys’s capitulation.

In the name of King Rhaegar.

Lord Tywin later claimed ignorance of Rhaegar’s intent for his rebellion to remain secret, assuming that the prince had already secured the freedom of his family. The Lannisters assumed Elia would do as Queen Rhaella had, flee the capital when no word of victory came from the Trident.

“A tragedy, a cruel tragedy.” Queen Cersei called it. “How was my father to know? How could he have ever foreseen that the Mad King would turn his vengeance upon his own good daughter?”

The story of Elia Martell’s death was a whispered one within the Red Keep. For only three living witnesses remained to the act and neither Rhaenys nor Ser Jaime Lannister were eager to speak on it. Aegon was too young to remember, something Jon thought his brother was thankful for.

The tale most told was how Aerys, in his rage at learning of his son’s betrayal, had commanded Ser Jaime to bring Elia and her children before him. How the blame for the war, for the conspiracies, for the Defiance of Duskendale itself, was laid at Elia’s feet. The princess would try and protest as the pyromancers bound her to the stake, many claiming that Ser Jaime protested the whole time as Rhaenys held her infant brother crying.

Jon didn’t like to picture such a scene. Nor how it would have felt to watch your own mother burn before you. Rhaenys must have been terrified when the mad king fixed his gaze upon Aegon and her next. When the pyromancers came for them.

The killers never reached the screaming children though, for Ser Jaime had done what the Kingsguard were meant to. He’d defended the royal family. After slaying the pyromancers, the knight continued on to break his oaths, slaying the king with a golden sword.

Profaning his blade and sword hand with the blood of his king.

The only man with a worse reputation in the capital than me.

Yet my father keeps him close.

“You won’t even try?” Sansa asked then, sounding heartbroken. “Tell the king it’s for a true and noble purpose. To honor brave men who go forth to fight savage monsters! He’ll be moved by that, I’m sure…”

“I’ve never met whatever king you’re speaking of.” Jon said darkly. “My father does what he wills. He is not moved by what is right… what is honorable…”

“It would be kind of you to try…” Sansa sniffed then and he marvelled at the fact that she looked ready to weep. “A prince would do so for a princess.”

He felt bewildered by Sansa then.

Jon had wanted this conversation to end but not with Sansa in tears. Her blue Tully eyes glistened, she was wringing her hands in a way that he recognized and Jon knew such a disaster was almost upon them. As uncomfortable of a sight as it was, a part of him couldn’t help but think of how nice it would be to hold her.

That wouldn’t be proper so Jon struggled for any kind word or excuse he could offer instead. When he came up empty Jon spoke to the first fool thing that came to mind.

“I mean I would do so for a princess… but I don’t even know if Daenerys is coming…”

With that Sansa let out a sob and the tears came forth, falling down her face as the rain fell around them. The young lady kicked at her pony and rode out into the rain. Robb gave a shout and shot Jon a confused look before riding off after his sister. Jeyne following soon after, with Domeric and all the others also giving chase.

Until the only ones who remained were Oswell and himself.

“Fine work your grace.” Oswell smiled, hopping back upon his horse and riding over to join him under the tree. “Did you learn charm from that stableboy, what’s his name? Hodar?”

“Hodor.”

“Quoting him won’t help you now.” The knight shook the damp from his hair. “You could’ve just said you’d ask and not done so. She’s pretty that one, likely to be a beauty. You’d have to be thick as this tree to not want to be in her good graces.”

“I won’t lie to her.” He protested. “And how was I to know she’d ride off…”

“You might have remembered that she’s a Stark. Figured you more than any would know the fondness Stark ladies have for riding off. Usually it’s to be with a prince though rather than getting away from one.”  

He almost saw red at that. The knight had gone too far in throwing that in his face. So Jon jerked at his own reins and set off into the rain as well. He’d rather get wet and apologize to Sansa for telling the truth than deal with Oswell’s foolishness.

Lying to Sansa had never been an option for him. She deserved better from him. The Starks deserved better from him. For all the shame the Targaryens had brought to House Stark, he aimed to be the dragon that honored them.

As the rain fell against his face, he resolved to do as Sansa asked, even if it was for naught. Jon didn’t think he could give the lady a tourney but she was right, he could at least try. To let Sansa dream of being a princess if that’s what she wanted.

He owed the Starks that much at least.

Chapter 3

Summary:

The dragons come calling, reunions both sour and sweet while past passions and future matches are revealed.

BRAN

 

“Down! Down!”

Bran tried pushing his direwolf pup away from biting at his legs but the pup merely yipped and growled playfully.

All of the direwolves were the size of hounds now, and Farlen had said that they would probably get bigger still. Yet despite their quick growth, much of the wolves still acted like pups and Bran didn’t have to time play with his unnamed one at the moment.

Not with a Kingsguard inspecting his work.

Ser Oswell ignored their battle, his gaze set upon the batwing helm in his hands. The knight’s chambers used to feel like some forbidden, hallowed ground to Bran as Ser Oswell had allowed few to enter. Only Jon and the servants who tended the rooms had been within them and, even though all said that there was nothing of note inside, he’d been jealous. Now that Bran visited his chambers regularly, he found the rumors disappointingly true.

The awe of even being permitted within more than made up for the meagre nature of the room though. A large tapestry bearing the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen hung upon the wall, the only furnishing besides a bed and a single large chest to the corner of the room.  Truly, the most interesting sight had been the knight’s white cloak and armor that hung off poles on the far wall.

The ser was now carefully inspecting said armor. Bran felt heartened at the grunts of approval that came forth as he took in the state of the gauntlets, greaves, and heavy chest plate. His famous helm was the last part to be inspected and the part Bran was most nervous about. The helm had been given the most thorough care though, as Bran knew it was the piece of armor that most took notice of first.

His hands were tired and sore from the hours of work, the sun was already at midmorning, and he’d been up before first light. This had been his life for weeks now, ever since his parents told him he’d be squiring for Ser Oswell.

Next to finding the direwolves that day had been the best of his life. When Bran had cried out in joy at the news the knight had frowned at his enthusiasm.

“A child happy because of me… stranger things have happened. Well boy it is indeed an honor to squire for a knight of the Kingsguard. Enjoy it now for I intend to make you earn it. Perhaps even regret it.”

Bran had wanted to shout out that he’d do whatever it took when Ser Oswell had raised a hand to silence him. Jerking a thumb back to his father and mother the knight had grunted.

“This is your father’s castle and I am in service to your cousin the prince, but from now on you serve me. I tell you when to sleep, when to take your meals, your lessons, seven hells, I’m going to make you nervous to take a piss without my leave. You are my squire and I will do my best to shape you from the soft lordling you are into a man worthy of knighthood, although I fear it a lost cause.”

His father had been displeased at the knight’s words and mother had wrung her hands in worry the whole while. Of course Bran had felt the opposite. His heart had been pounding in his chest and he thought his face would break from smiling so hard. Even when Oswell yanked his hands up in front of his face and inspected them as he did his armor, Bran had been elated.

“These are a lordling’s hands to be sure, soft and ignorant of real work. Some blood and cuts will serve them well.”

Blood and cuts had come sure enough but if it was all to serve well, then it was worth it. Truly he didn’t mind. Every hour he spent doing as the ser bid was another hour he served the finest knight in the north.

Another hour I come closer to becoming a knight myself.

After the ser knights me, I shall be the finest knight in the North.

When he’d pledged much the same his father had nodded to hear him say so, gripping Bran’s shoulder tightly and lifting his chin so their eyes met.

“I could not be prouder to have such a knight as a son.” Father had said before becoming somber again. “You must understand Bran, should Ser Oswell ever be called upon to leave Winterfell, you would have to go with him. Whether it is tomorrow or five years from now… after today, there could be no balking at doing so. Not without grave dishonor. So consider that and the thought of being away from your mother, your brothers and sisters, and even me.”

“If that worries you Bran we will not blame you.” Mother had come forward, running her hand along his back gently as she embraced him. “Should you wish to change your mind I… we will understand. There is no shame in wanting to be-”

“I want to be a squire.” Bran had said firmly. “I will be a knight and a hero! I’ll go as far as I need to and become one!”

I won’t cry and be afraid like they think, he thought, riding away with the ser would be a great adventure.

A brave knight and his strong squire. Friends and heroes both.

“You’re a lazy boy. “ The ser grunted, shoving the helm back at him. “There’s a smudge on the left wing. Do you see?”

“I see it ser.” Bran lied. He saw no smudge but he held the helm high to keep the pup’s leaps from adding any more filth.

Stupid, you should have polished it once last time, you knew you should’ve…

The knight let out a wry laugh then, slapping his knee and causing the pup to yip excitedly.

“Bah, I lied better as a squire than you ever will. That smudge came from mine own thumb lad. Let me see those hands.” Ser Oswell snatched the helm back as Bran held his hands up. As the man’s own calloused fingers began poking and squeezing at them Oswell gave a small smile.

“Still a lordling’s hands but better than they were. Good work today little wolf, you’re not the worst squire I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you ser!”

The pup took his excitement as reason to leap up and lick at Ser Oswell’s hands.

“No! Stop! I’m sorry ser.” Bran pulled his direwolf back to his side.

“You can’t blame the beast for acting as he does. I’d be a right terror if I had no name for people to curse.” The knight began pet the wolf himself. “Even that babe Rickon has named his beast. Is yours to be called ‘Come here’ or ‘Stop’ for the rest of his days?”

“No ser, I just have thousands in my head… and I can’t pick just the one.”  He spoke the truth, for he didn’t want to make the mistake of naming his direwolf something foolish like Shaggydog or Lady. “I just want to make the right choice.”

“Don’t we all.” Ser Oswell said with an air of wisdom. “Now help me ready myself. I would look as much a knight of the Kingsguard as I did the last time His Grace saw me.”

With that Ser Oswell stripped off his training tunic and pulled a clean white one on before gesturing to the armor arranged next to him.

“His herald said the king’s party was only a few hours away and your parents will want you cleaned up as well. Get on with it boy.”

Bran pushed away the pup and set to his task. He fumbled a few things here and there as he helped the knight armor himself, more because of excitement at seeing the king soon than anything else. The weeks of waiting had been a torture. Bran had dreamt half a dozen childish dreams of the king himself knighting him as soon as he arrived.

At times he felt like the only one who was excited for the visit. Jon never wanted to talk about it and Robb would always wave Bran away whenever he tried to press their cousin on the matter. Arya was little better. She’d even punched him once when he’d asked her to guess which princes and princesses might be on their way. Mother had been too busy with preparations and his father was the same, save for sending ravens and riders out to seek counsel from the lords on a possible war against the wildlings.

Only Sansa spared any time to join him in feeling wonderment at the coming of the Targaryens.

“Oh Bran, you must be so happy!” Sansa had kissed the top of his head when he’d come to tell her that he would be squiring for Ser Oswell.

Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole had smiled to hear the news yet their joy was paltry compared to Sansa’s.

“My little brother, squiring for the Kingsguard! There is no greater honor!”

Sansa had kissed him again before pushing him forward for Beth and Jeyne to gaze at in awe, as if they hadn’t all grown up together.

“Now when I go to the capital, I shall have family there! I will be able to say, ‘There goes my younger brother, the next Aemon the Dragonknight or Ser Arthur Dayne!’” She gripped his shoulders tightly as her voice took on a dreamy tone. “Ser Brandon Stark!”

“Ser Brandon the Direknight!” Beth offered then and Bran had liked the sound of it.

“How wonderful Sansa!” Jeyne had clapped, standing up to offer her hand to Bran. “My good ser.”

“My lady.” Bran had taken her hand and bowed to the laughter of all three girls.

That was when he realized what Sansa had been saying. He wondered why Sansa would be going to the capital at all.

His sister hadn’t bothered to explain though. Instead she had bid him to sit down beside her while they watched Lady and his pup play together. From there she’d tested him on what he remembered of the royal court and its great stories. Sansa was kind though and asked him only questions of knights and the Kingsguard itself rather than her usual stories of ladies and romance.

“Which Lord-Commander was so beloved by his king that the royal heir was named after him?”

“Ser Duncan the Tall!”

“And which Kingsguard battled the pretender, Daemon Blackfyre, for hours during the Blackfyre rebellion?”

That one Bran had had to think on, Sansa silently urging him on with a smile the whole time. When the answer came to him she’d begun to clap before he even spoke.

“Ser Gwayne Corbray!”

“Marvelous! Splendid my little knight, absolutely splendid!” Sansa had laughed before ushering him away so the girls could go back to their talk.

He’d happily done so, for his sister’s enthusiasm had left him beaming for the rest of the day. As he’d left though, Bran had caught the beginning of a conversation which he was still curious about.

“Perhaps one day Bran will act as your Kingsguard knight.” Jeyne had said and Sansa had sighed happily.

“It would be such a magical thing, I just know he will prove himself worthy of such a thing, and I know… I hope Jon would ask for it, if only as a favor to his princess…”

Bran still had no idea what princess Sansa was speaking of but it nonetheless heartened him to hear that she truly believed he could be a Kingsguard one day.

As he helped Ser Oswell dress, he wondered if such a fate would ever truly come to pass. If he could ever look as fine a knight as the man before him. For when his dressing was finished, Ser Oswell stood in his suit of white enamel and silver fastenings, polished so brightly that it glimmered even in the weak light of the chamber, looking like he had stepped out of a legend.

Forget being a prince or a lord. Let my brother be the Stark in Winterfell…

I want to be a knight… a legend… a hero…

The last hero.

Soon after the knight sent Bran on his way for he had his own dressing to see to.

Bran sprinted back to his chambers, bumping into a servant or two along the way. The whole castle seemed to be moving. They’d had moons to prepare for the king’s coming and still people were rushing about, just like him, to see to the last touches before the royal party was upon them.

He laughed as he passed Robb teasing Domeric over the new haircuts that mother had forced them to get. Arya was being scolded by Septa Mordane in the corridor for the state of her hair and he barely dodged a smack from his sister as he passed. Bran smiled to see Sansa spinning about in her new gown alongside Jeyne in front of a looking glass, both ladies laughing and looking quite pretty.

Bran didn’t have to do half of what the others did to prepare, thankfully. In his chamber he found a bowl of water waiting for his wash and clean clothes laid out. In a whirlwind, his dressings were off, the water was splashed upon his face and hair, and he was dressed once more.

Moments later, face damp and shirt barely over his head, Brad was running again. His direwolf pup running after and nipping at his heels.

“Bran!” Maester Luwin called to him as he straightened his chain. “Your father and mother have called for the entire household to assemble in the courtyard…”

“I know maester!”

“Then slow down before you break a leg!” Maester Luwin scolded. “Try walking to the courtyard like everyone else!”

Bran slowed some at the old man’s request but not by much, for he needed to be somewhere. Unfortunately it wasn’t where his parents or the maester wished him to be. He fully intended to meet the others in the courtyard before the royal party arrived.

Only after I see the king first.

He ran from the Great Keep and headed straight to the walls. Bran smiled as he climbed the stairs up and up, his plan having always been to see the king before anyone else. None of the others would be able to say the same and Bran could only imagine how jealous his siblings would react. Guards and men-at-arms called out greetings or curses as he flew by them and he thought Arya and Robb would have worse for him if they knew what he was up to.

Arya would be jealous for sure but that’s what she deserved for always beating him at horse races. Bran was still running along the ramparts, picturing his sister’s jealous face when he heard the shout.

“Bran!”

When his eyes caught hold of who was shouting he cursed at himself quietly. For someone else had stolen his idea and beaten him to it, standing at the very guard turret Bran had thought to watch from.

“Bran!” Jon called again, shaking his head. “I see you!”

“I see you too?” Bran answered back as he shuffled forward towards his cousin. Jon was dressed all in black with Ghost at his side, his arms crossing as Bran approached.

You idiot, he thought, it was Jon who used to bring you up here to watch the sun rise.

Of course he’s up here, it’s his father who comes.

“You should be with the others.” Jon sighed, patting his head. “Your mother will be angry with you.”

“No she won’t! I’ll be in the courtyard with plenty of time!” He smiled as he pushed at Jon and pet Ghost. “And if you’re so worried about mother, why are you here? She’ll yell at you too.”

“That she would.” Jon gazed out over the walls towards the road. “But I’ll be in the courtyard with plenty of time.”

That made Bran laugh for he knew no matter what, his mother wouldn’t yell at Jon. He couldn’t remember ever hearing her do so, and Jon was always at his best behavior around her. Not like Bran with his climbing. The thought made him smile as he jumped up onto the wall and sat upon the ledge, his legs hanging off into nothingness. Jon reached to steady him but he waved the hands away.

“I climb towers! I can sit on a bloody wall.”

The direwolves wouldn’t be kept in place either, for Ghost and Bran’s pup had begun playing together, the pair running the battlements across, giving chase to one another. Jon was content enough to allow Bran his seat upon the ledge but kept a firm grip on his shoulders.

“Walls can be as dangerous as towers.” Jon lectured. “And watch your mouth.”

“Robb says it all the time.”

“And when you’re too big for your mother to pull your ear you can too.”

Hopefully that would be soon, though that dream fell away as he looked out over the countryside. For off in the distance he saw the party Winterfell had been expecting for weeks. A long column of riders was coming down the trail that broke off from the Kingsroad and led to the East Gate. Bran guessed there were hundreds in the party at least and he’d never seen so many men garbed so magnificently.

If the sky had not been so grey, he believed the scores of armored men would be gleaming in the sunlight, so bright that they could be seen leagues away. As he took it all in, he saw what appeared to be a black blemish riding at the center of the column. Most of the riders there were dressed in black and red, with the banners around them just as dark. Here and there he spotted other riders in a deep crimson, but it was the giant gold and red wheelhouse that caught his eye. For the grandeur of the clambering thing was exactly what Bran had expected of a royal party.

When he glanced back at Jon, it looked like the wheelhouse had caught his cousin’s eye as well, but instead of being full of wonder Jon’s face had a frown to it.

“He brought her.” Jon sighed.  “Of course he would bring her…”

“Brought who?”

Jon leaned against the rampart and shook his head, his fists resting upon the stone.

“His wife… he brought the Queen.”

“Queen Cersei?” Bran whipped his head around to gaze down at the party once more. “No one told me she was coming!”

“No one told me either.” Jon said glumly yet Bran couldn’t be worried about that.

A king and a queen, coming here, he thought, what other surprises do they bring?

Perhaps Uncle Benjen is with them as well!

As he searched the coming men for an uncle he barely remembered, Bran glimpsed a few white-cloaked riders among the party. In his excitement he’d forgotten what having a king and queen travelling to Winterfell would mean. Of the kind of escort they would bring.

“Jon! There’s more Kingsguard! I can see them!” He yelled happily. “I think there are two… yes, I see two! Who do you think it is? Arthur Dayne?”

“There are three.” Jon corrected him, pointing out a rider at the far end of the column who also bore a white cloak and shield. “You might be right though cousin, my father rarely travels anywhere without Ser Arthur.”

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning!

At Winterfell!

Jon had told him many grand tales of Ser Arthur, and the knight’s chivalry and skill-at-arms was one of the few things Bran’s father and Ser Oswell agreed on. Bran knew they didn’t care much for each other but the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard was one person they both clearly admired.

“Why do they bring so many?” He asked. “There are hundreds of them…”

“Maybe two hundred riders and a few score knights. My father means to ride on to the Wall and I doubt he will bring the Queen along with him, Bran. Castle Black is no place for a woman as stuck-up as-”

“What’s that got to do with having so many men though?”

The prince gestured back within the castle.

“If my father intends to leave the queen behind she will need guards… let us hope that he means for her to travel back alone rather than staying here.”

“Is she truly that terrible?” Bran asked.

He knew Jon didn’t care much for his stepmother, which was strange since his cousin tolerated most things.

Jon looked to struggle with the question, his eyes still glued on the advancing party. That was a rare thing to see for Jon, along with Robb and Domeric, acted with a confidence in most things that Bran greatly admired.

Robb could speak with just about anyone on any subject, usually able to win over most with a smile and a jest. Bran was jealous how easy he made everything look at times. Dom was different but equally charming. The Bolton heir had a way of looking at people while they talked, like he hung on their every word, making them feel like they could share anything with him. He had a talent for never breaking a stare and Bran had lost countless contests with him.

Jon’s quiet brooding ways were different from the two, acting like a wall against whatever hardships came his way. Much like Bran’s father and Ser Oswell. Little appeared to shake his cousin and it made everyone want to try harder to reach him. When Jon made his rare jests or smiled, the room would always feel brighter for it.

Yet Jon was not smiling now, nor did Bran expect a jest from his cousin. The prince was clearly shaken by the coming of the king and queen. He almost appeared unhappy at their arrival but Bran knew that couldn’t be right. He figured his cousin was probably just nervous to see the king after all these years.

If I hadn’t seen my father for years, I’d be nervous to see him again but happier more than anything.

And my father isn’t even a king!

They watched the approach of the royal party a little while longer in silence. A group of armored men had ridden ahead to stand in two parallel lines before the gate. From farther back, a white-cloaked rider was leading a score of others, with a dark rider at their front, riding towards the gate between the two lines. Bran tried to squint to see who the men protected when Jon tapped his shoulder.

“You’ve been betrayed.” The prince was now staring down the battlements, from the way Bran had come.

He saw his direwolf bounding towards them, whining in eagerness to have found him again. Bran almost cursed when he saw what Jon had meant, for the pup was leading his mother straight to them. Ghost followed along at her heels and it occurred him then that even with two direwolves about, he feared the scolding of his lady mother more.

“Brandon Stark!” Mother snapped, making no move to come any further and glaring at the pair from where she stood. “Get off of that ledge right now before you break your foolish neck!”

“I climb towers all the time! I won’t fall…”

“Good point, bad timing coz.” Jon cut him off, lifting him from the wall and onto his feet on the stone walkway.

Bran cupped his ears protectively as the two made their way to mother, who watched their coming with a stern gaze and hands upon her hips. She was wearing one her finest gowns, the dark blue one with lace chasing the neckline and sleeves. He thought to say how pretty it was, or that her long braided hair looked splendid, before her scolding crushed that escape plan.

“We have the whole castle arranged in the courtyard to welcome the king. All of my children are dressed and arrayed properly, save for my son. The very boy who we permitted the honor of squiring for a Kingsguard…” Mother turned her attention to Jon then. “And the king’s own son. What a truly respectable display that would be!”

“Sorry mother, we were going to come before they got here-”

“It is my fault Lady Stark…”

“Lady Catelyn!” Mother corrected just as a series of trumpet blasts came from without the castle, causing her to jump. Afterwards a hand went to her forehead, like it would when Arya was being extra bothersome. “Please, just save your apologies for later. Get to the courtyard as quickly as you can. Perhaps if you surprise me by acting like the noblemen I know you to be, I will forget this nonsense.”

“Yes mother.” Bran lowered his head and went to do as she said. As he shuffled by, he thought Jon would follow right behind him.

Instead his cousin had stopped and was staring off at the party who would soon be entering the gates. Once again the strange expression was borne across Jon’s face and mother must have seen it too, as she put a hand on the prince’s shoulder and said something too quiet for Bran to hear.

Jon heard it of course, turning away from the sight beyond the walls.

“I’m sorry my lady... I know you’d prefer I say it later but I will apologize anyway.” Jon spoke like he did when they were in real trouble, and it didn’t feel quite right for this mild scolding. “For my foolishness here… for everything else.”

“I would argue on how little apology you truly owe but we’ve not the time, come your grace… we must not keep your father waiting. We would show him the good courtesy you’ve been raised with.”

Mother guided him onward but Jon stopped again, and now Bran truly feared for his cousin’s ears.

“Then I would show that good courtesy now.” With that Jon offered his arm to mother, like father would do when his parents walked the walls together. “May I escort you to the courtyard Lady Catelyn?”

Mother opened her mouth to say something but whatever words she meant to speak did not come forth. After a moment she gave Jon a small smile before taking his arm, the three of them leaving the walls together, the pups chasing after them.

Bran was still confused though.

Why is Jon always apologizing lately? What else did he do?

When Bran arrived in the courtyard, he thought it looked like the entire castle was gathered there, or along its walls looking down. He pressed and pushed his way through the gathered castle folk, the two direwolves running about his legs as he did so. After emerging from the press, he found his family all arrayed at the front of their household, all watching the gate the king was to enter through.

Father and Robb were wearing their heavy furs cloaks, and attires of the darkest grey wool. Rickon wore a fur cloak as well but it was much too big for him and Bran thought he looked more like a direwolf pup than his little brother. Sansa and Arya were dressed finer than he’d ever seen them. They both wore gowns of blue, a shade brighter than their mother’s. While Sansa had a lightly colored grey cloak over her shoulders, Arya’s was as dark as a stormy sky.

As Bran took this all in, Robb gave out a laugh and pointed to him.

“There’s the missing pup! Oh, and he brought the direwolves too!”

Father wasn’t laughing though and Bran quickly ran to take his place by Arya, Sansa shaking her head as he did so.

“What if the king had come before you got here?” She hissed. “Do you know how embarrassing that would have been?”

“I would’ve been here with loads of time! I swear!” He argued, earning a kick to his leg from Arya when he came close enough.

“Stupid, you were climbing again.” Arya smiled as he winced at the slight pain there.

“I wasn’t!” He wanted to kick her right back until he thought of how father might react to that. “I was watching the king ride in on the battlements. With the Queen and three Kingsguard! I saw them and hundreds more!”

Bran took pride at how surprised the others all were by his words, and also a great joy in the jealous look that flashed across Arya’s face.

“How do you know it was the Queen son?” Father asked as horns began to sound from atop the gate.

“Jon told me! He recognized her wheelhouse!” He pointed to where mother and Jon were making their way through the crowd.

“Prince Jon.” Sansa corrected him gently. “With the king coming, we cannot be so familiar. Father told us that many times.”

“He’s still Jon. The king doesn’t change that.” Arya mumbled, so low that only Bran heard it.

The crowd of people behind him suddenly parted and Ser Oswell emerged, all in white, his helm shining as brightly as Bran had dreamed. The knight walked forward as Jon led mother to father’s side, and then the prince and his knight took their honored stations beside the lord and lady of the castle. Even some of the direwolf pups began to act at attention. Lady and Grey Wind both sat watching the gate at the end of their party while Ghost hid behind Jon’s legs. The other three pups were busy playing off to the side of the courtyard, near the gate, and only rushed back when the sound of hooves grew louder.

Bran smiled as a group of men came riding into the courtyard, flying black banners with blood red dragons.

Two of the Kingsguard he’d seen from the road came next, their faces hidden behind fine helms, and Bran didn’t have time to guess their identities when another spectacle presented itself. The wheelhouse had arrived, clattering and shaking as it came to a slow stop before the assembled household. Bran’s heart beat all the harder when several men jumped in action, laying steps at its gold trimmed door.

Before it opened though, more riders appeared through the gate, galloping around the great carriage and once again stealing his attention. For he saw the third Kingsguard knight riding in then, a greatsword slung across his back and a five pointed star engraved upon his helm. Bran could’ve marveled at his splendor for hours if not for the man riding by his side. 

This rider’s scarlet cloak flowed down from his shoulders as his pale, almost white hair flew in the air around his neck. His clothes were as black as the beautiful stallion beneath him. The only difference was the bright red stitching about the man’s chest and sleeves.

Upon his head sat a slender gold band, which Bran had thought so simple compared to the man’s magnificence, that it took a moment for him to realize it was a crown. His face was a handsome one, marred only by a small scar across his cheek. When he saw his eyes, Bran was sure of the rider’s identity, for they were a startling purple color. A kind he’d never before seen in any normal person.

They surprised Bran so he reached out for Arya’s sleeve.

“That’s the king…”

Arya hushed him as apparently no one else needed to be told who this man was. Yet a herald came forth, as the king was helped down from his horse, and did his loud duty nonetheless.

“All hail his grace, Rhaegar of the House Targaryen!” The man roared in a voice that was comically loud for his small size. “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!”

At that his father dropped to a knee, his mother following suit until his entire family, including Bran, were on their knees before the king. The entire castle followed in kneeling with their heads down low, and if Bran hadn’t stolen a look to his side, he would’ve missed Jon standing tall.

His face blank.

“Rise Lord Stark. All rise.” King Rhaegar’s words came in iron tones.

Bran followed their command without a second thought. The king came to stand in front of father as the Kingsguard knight he’d rode in with kept watch close by.

“My lord, it has been many years.” King Rhaegar said simply as the two men regarded one another, not a flicker of warmth between them.

“It has your grace.” Father replied. “Winterfell welcomes you within its walls and I offer you its safety and hospitality.”

“I accept it with thanks.” King Rhaegar turned slightly towards mother then, offering a small nod of his head. “My lady when I last saw your brother, he asked that I send you his regards.”

“I am honored that you do so.”

Mother curtsied yet the man’s attention had already drifted away. King Rhaegar regarded Jon now, whose eyes had faltered and were now staring at the ground while his father gazed upon him.

“Jon. It does me well to see you again.” The king’s voice softened some and Bran thought he moved slightly, as if to embrace Jon.

Yet no such thing happened. The king paused just before he did so, his arms falling back to his sides as his head dropped some as well.

“It appears I owe Lord Stark a great debt. I sent him a boy and he presents me a man. My son has become strong and handsome it seems. A true prince…”

“There are none more true than the Starks your grace.” Jon nodded, his face as expressionless as ever.

A creaking from the direction of the wheelhouse pulled Bran’s eyes away to take notice of someone emerging. A beautiful woman now stood at the foot of its steps, dressed in the same gold and crimson of her carriage, yet all the jewels upon her clothing was nothing compared to her hair. The long, flowing lochs of spun gold curled with a lazy grace around her and caused her brilliant green eyes to sparkle like emeralds he’d seen once.

“May I present my wife, Queen Cersei.” King Rhaegar held out a hand and the queen grasped it tenderly, her chin slightly upturned as she took in Bran’s family. Her nose scrunched up some as she beheld the direwolf pups playing nearby.

Bran thought for sure that his parents would choose now to present him to the king and queen. He’d be introduced as Ser Oswell’s squire and he hoped King Rhaegar would know how important that was.

Then more movement came from back towards the wheelhouse and someone else was climbing down the steps. The young woman who emerged pushed all his other thoughts to some far-forgotten place. For if he believed the queen beautiful, than this girl was of such heart-stopping loveliness, that Bran’s mind turned to mud.

He didn’t think there was even a word capable of describing her startling elegance.

Her gown was black, with silver dragons adorning it here and there, and upon her shoulders she wore a white fox-fur cloak. Like the king, it was her hair and eyes which drew Bran in. The silver-white of her hair cascaded like silk past her shoulders and her eyes, a softer purple than the kings, had an inhuman beauty to them. Her face was prettier than any he had ever seen, her skin pale but in a way that set off her eyes even more.

Bran was still gaping at her when her face broke into a wide smile.

That was the moment he fell in love.

 

JON

 

Their eyes met and Jon knew nothing had changed.

For Cersei’s gaze bored into him menacingly, those cold green jewels shining in disdain as she took in the sight of him. He suddenly felt a little boy again, backed into a corner as this fierce lioness gazed down at him, her golden son laughing behind her at Jon’s fear.

While Jon struggled to escape from those memories, the queen was brought before the Starks, as beautiful and proper as ever. He wondered if they could tell that her smile was false, as cold and stiff as the golden crown about her head. The way she looked down her nose at the family who loved him, of how her eyes narrowed in disapproval at the direwolves, made his blood boil. It tempted him to rage right there in front of everyone.

You’re a golden cow! You’re not worth an ounce of what these people are!

If you say one thing against them I’ll-

Jon stopped himself there, for he would hold his temper. Whenever he’d acted out in the past, the blame always fell on him, and he doubted that would ever change. So he tried to reason with himself as Cersei was paraded before the Starks.

He had to bring her. She’s his wife after all.

It doesn’t matter that she’s always hated me… it shouldn’t matter…

Why doesn’t it matter father?

To ask such a question of the king was beyond Jon, for he was still struck by how different his father looked. Jon had noticed it as soon as the king rode into the courtyard, shocked at how aged and drained he appeared. King Rhaegar had always been a handsome man, some even called him beautiful, yet his face had become creased with worry, almost gaunt. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and while his father’s gaze had always been a sad one, the way they looked now could only be described as mournful.

He should be mourning, Jon thought, he should suffer when coming to the home of my mother.

To see the son he exiled here.

Once again Jon pushed those thoughts away, for he was still ashamed at how he hadn’t been able to meet his father’s gaze at first. He’d even thought of embracing the man, but after seeing how tense things were between Uncle Eddard and his father, he couldn’t find the strength, especially when father made no move to embrace him either.

Uncle Eddard would have embraced Jon. He’d done so several times when Jon had had need of it. Yet his father could not be bothered to do so even after all these years apart it seemed. That the king reached out to take Cersei’s hand so easily made it all the worse.

He was still fuming over it when a voice cried out.

“Jon!”

He jerked his head back towards the wheelhouse and what he saw there made his breath catch.

She’s changed too… by the gods, she was just a little girl when I last saw her…

It had been almost five years since their farewell at Maidenpool. Five years since the princess had been a shy, fearful girl, crying to see him sail away north. That girl was only a memory now, a pale shade that had been burned away at the sight of this beautiful maiden stepping down from the wheelhouse.

“Jon!” Daenerys called again, a wide smile shining across her face.

The princess began to run towards him, her long hair flying wild and unchecked as she did so. With one hand clutching at her cloak and the other holding at her skirts, Daenerys seemed set on a collision with him. So it fell to Jon to soften her arrival, opening his own arms to welcome her.

“It snowed Jon!” Daenerys laughed again as his arms wrapped around her. “I saw it snow in summer and now I see you again! So magical! It’s perfect!”

Her own hands settling upon his chest and gripping his tunic tightly. For all the excitement and impropriety she was inspiring, Jon couldn’t help but notice how small Dany felt in his arms, a full head shorter than him and a lithe thing beyond that. Even though Dany was older she was shorter than Sansa as well, which didn’t take away from her beauty in the least.

A part of him wanted to lift her up and pull her petite form into his chest forever.

“Oh Jon! To see you again! You had all my letters? If you sent me one after my last I didn’t get it. We left the capital-”

“I- I did I… it’s good to see you Dany.”

While he faltered with his words his face did not fail him, for he felt a grin break out across it. Dany’s violet eyes had always held warmth for him. They were the safe haven he could seek whenever some fresh hurt took hold of him in the Red Keep. The compassion and love he’d sought all those years ago was still there, save now her eyes also held an intensity he hadn’t been prepared for. The pretty smile that beamed forth from Dany made him feel drunken, propriety a forgotten concept.

Whenever Jon’s mind had turned to Dany over the years, he’d imagined her looking older some yet remaining the scared girl he’d always known. Still bearing the unseen scars from all that he had been unable to protect her from. This beauty before him showed no signs of distress though. Instead she carried an air of strength and a fire in her eyes, a fire that burned as bright and warm as her body did in his arms.

“You’re like a dream…” He said without thinking. Her presence made him feel like they were the only two people in the entire world.

As Dany blushed at his words, making Jon reel even more from her loveliness, he heard someone clear their throat. Thus he remembered that they were, in fact, not alone. Far from it.

Oswell had been the one to make the noise, yet all eyes in the courtyard were locked on the two of them. Cersei jerked her head and said something quickly to his father while Lady Catelyn grabbed at his uncle’s arm, both of them clearly shocked at his atrocious behavior. Robb positively gaped while Sansa and Arya joined with Bran in sharing looks of betrayal. They had all been practicing their courtesies for weeks, the girls most of all, to make sure and not offend the royal family, or him.

Now he had slashed all that work to ribbons in moments.

You’re shaming them. After all they’ve done for you and you shame them!

You selfish idiot!

The thought spurred Jon into action, stepping back while gently urging Dany away to put some space between them.

“I welcome you to Winterfell princess.” He bowed slightly, trying to ignore how her smile fell as the distance between them grew. With great effort he focused instead on meeting the gaze of his stepmother.

“And you as well Queen Cersei. I hope your journey was free of hardship.”

“Long journeys are rarely free of hardships my son.” His father held out his hand to collect Daenerys away from him and she numbly let him do so, her mood having been visibly shaken. “Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn, allow me to introduce my sister, the Princess Daenerys.”

“Princess.” Uncle Eddard offered, Lady Catelyn echoing his sentiment with a wary smile. “I would have you meet my own family. This is my eldest son and the heir to Winterfell, Robb.”

With that the lord began to gesture to each of Jon’s cousins. Robb did as he promised he would if the king brought any women of note to the castle, kissing each of their hands and smiling his warmest at both Cersei and Dany. Sometimes his cousin shamed Jon in how easily he handled women, both in wit and manner. Sansa was the picture of elegance as well. However much he’d embarrassed her, it didn’t harm the girl’s courtesies any as she curtsied before the royal family.

Little Rickon had begun to fuss, clearly wishing to play with the pups rather than take part in the pleasantries, so Lady Catelyn had to hold him to her skirts. Bran was the opposite, standing so straight that Jon feared his back would break.

It was when Uncle Eddard began to introduce the lad, Oswell finally broke his silence.

“I’ve taken young Brandon as my squire your grace.” Oswell boomed through his helm as he gestured to boy. “He’s the reason I look as handsome as you remember.”

A rumbling laugh burst forth from the Kingsguard just behind father as he lifted his own helm free off his head.

“You do him a disservice ser. You look better than I remember Whent.”

“Your memory slips in your old age Dayne.”

Oswell stepped forward and shook Ser Arthur Dayne’s outstretched hand. The Lord-Commander of his father’s Kingsguard looked just as Jon remembered. His jaw jutted out powerfully and the air about him was confident, assuring all in his presence that they were safe in his care. His pale blond hair was cut short about his ears, his eyes so blue that they almost seemed Targaryen purple.

Jon smiled to see Bran gape in awe when Rhaegar announced his oldest friend. He’d recognized Ser Arthur while they were on the ramparts but had wanted Bran to be surprised all the same. In truth, he had been able to name all three of the Kingsguard before they reached the courtyard. Ser Barristan Selmy, or Barristan the Bold as they’d all called him at court, was soon introduced as well. The older knight had his helm in hand and kept a guarded manner as he gazed upon Jon’s uncle.

The last Kingsguard was just as famous as the other two but for fouler reasons.

With Cersei here, Jon hadn’t doubted that the Kingslayer would be among the party. People said that once it had been Ser Jaime Lannister’s golden hair and armor that caught everyone’s attention… yet for as long Jon could remember, it was the knight’s  golden hand that drew the eye. The story behind how Ser Jaime lost his hand was a dark one, which spoke volumes considering all the foul stories to come from the capital.

“No good deed goes unpunished boy.” Ser Jaime had told Jon once, after Cersei had him confined him to his chambers for taking a servant’s side against Joffrey. The Kingslayer had stood at his post in front of Jon’s chamber door and lifted the golden hand so that the torch light set it to a glow between them.

“Not in this life at least.”

Not in my father’s realm.

“And who is this beauty?” Father asked, his eyes settling upon Arya, who had been staring at the Kingslayer’s golden hand.

“I’m Arya Stark.” She answered before anyone else could, and then pointed to the wolf pup that came running towards her. “And this is Nymeria!”

Robb stifled a laugh while Sansa’s face twisted into obvious horror. His uncle grunted his own criticism and his wife’s disapproving gaze made Jon suspect that another scolding was in his cousin’s future. Father showed no sign of taking insult though. Instead he gave a weak smile while staring down at Arya.

“You would be a Stark, of course. You’d have to be.” His father said softly. “The pup’s name is Nymeria? After the Rhoynar warrior queen?”

Arya beamed at the king’s reaction, reaching down to pick Nymeria up and push her towards his father.

“Yes! She’s strong and fast, she’ll be a warrior too! Don’t worry though, you can pet her. She won’t bite unless I want her to…”

“Then I will have to be sure not to displease you.” Father smiled before surprising all again by kneeling himself to pet the direwolf pup. “I imagine one day she will grow to be a beauty herself.”

The king was speaking about the pup, yet Jon still caught the quick glance he shot to Arya and the twinge of pain that followed.

Does he see what Uncle Benjen saw?

Does he see my mother?

“Mine’s Shaggydog!” Rickon called out from his mother’s skirts and this time Jon joined Robb in laughing.

“How… interesting.” Cersei said absently. “Is it safe to allow such beasts within the castle walls?”

“If I remember correctly, there are lions kept at Casterly Rock.” Jon spoke in as even a tone as he could, for Cersei’s veiled insult was not lost on him. “Beasts just as dangerous as direwolves your grace.”

“Why yes there are. They are kept in cages of course. For the safety of all.”

“A good place for lions.” He added, despite knowing that the slight was not so well-hidden. Cersei narrowed her eyes at him and Dany looked shocked.

“You show good memory Jon.” His father nodded as his eyes searched the castle grounds. “I’ll be interested to see what else you remember of the south… at a later time of course. For I have matters to discuss with Lord Stark. May I ask for my wife and sister to be shown to their accommodations?”

“It would be my pleasure your grace.” Lady Catelyn waved at Vayon Poole, who had his stewards begin to run to and fro about the royal party, preparing to move their belongings within the Guest House.

“Husband.” Cersei moved closer to father then, her face bearing a softer expression. “It has been a long journey, rest is surely needed, and by you most of all. Join us within and do not tax yourself. I’m certain the lord can speak with you at your leisure…”

“It cannot wait.” The king took Cersei’s hand in his own, pulling it towards his face to place a light kiss upon it. “I will join you shortly my wife. I hope to find you at rest when I do so.”

The queen protested a little more yet his father remained firm so that soon Lady Catelyn was permitted to lead the royal women within the keep. Dany was escorted personally by Sansa and Arya, the younger girl already asking whether the princess had a dragon’s egg of her own. Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan followed the royal women, while Ser Arthur stayed by his father. Both Dany and Sansa shot Jon parting looks of disappointment as they walked away, yet it was his uncle’s sharp intake of breath which caught Jon’s attention.

Cersei and Dany had brought attendants of their own it seemed, some of which were now being led by stewards towards the Guest House behind the knights. Two of them were young ladies, neither of whom Jon recognized. The shorter of the two was a pretty young woman with brown hair so long that it reached her waist. She was a shy thing though, keeping her eyes lowered as she passed by. That likely caused her to miss how Robb watched after the lady.

Uncle Eddard was also following their passing with interest. His eyes however, were fixed upon the other lady, his face paling to see her.

The second young woman was far more striking than the first and almost as tall as Robb. Her skin was pale while her hair was as dark as the black cloak she wore. The mysterious lady’s face was comely and high boned in a familiar way, and her eyes were a deeper shade of violet than Jon had ever seen. She was also bolder than her companion, for her gaze did not linger on the ground, instead looking about the castle in wonderment.

From her style of dress, Jon guessed perhaps that she was Dornish. While admittedly very pretty, he didn’t think his uncle was gazing at her lustfully. The lord appeared pained when the lady followed the others deeper within the castle. She turned in their direction only once, scanning each of their faces before landing upon Ser Arthur, who nodded and waved her onwards.

Whatever his uncle was thinking, his father had thoughts of his own.

“My lord, I was once told about the crypts beneath your castle.” His father’s powerful tone had returned, his eyes setting upon Jon’s uncle. “Where the Starks have been interned for thousands of years. Is that where my late wife is laid to rest?”

“It is.” Uncle Eddard’s tone had a power all its own, one which could freeze you with its coldness. “Lyanna rests with my father and brother…”

Jon knew this tone well. He had heard it whenever his uncle commanded men as a lord, or condemned others in the same manner.

Gods father, don’t remind them of what you’ve done.

Please…

“I’d like to visit them, to pay my respects.” His father put forward, making Jon’s prayers for naught.

“We were to speak on important matters, were we not? There are things I’d have you know, perhaps such can wait-”

“I have waited fifteen years.” The king cut off Uncle Eddard’s words so abruptly that Jon was not the only one who appeared shocked. “I cannot wait any longer.”

The awkwardness of the silence which followed bore down on the courtyard. His father had been in the castle barely long enough to take a piss and already his mother’s death was thrown in the faces of her family. Robb whispered something to Bran and pushed at him, causing the boy to walk away while uncle Eddard’s face darkened.

“Of course your grace, if you’d follow me…”

“No.” Jon spoke as evenly as he could, stepping between the two men. “Uncle, I beg leave to take my father into the crypts. I know the way and it has been too long since I offered my own respects.”

“A thoughtful offer Jon.” His father’s words were wind to him, for it was his uncle that Jon wished to hear from now.

For a moment, Jon thought he had presumed too much as well. That he’d angered this man he loved and respected, as he had in the godswood moons ago. Eddard Stark’s dark grey eyes betrayed no anger though and in truth they appeared to soften. The lord’s nod was short and quick, his words just as brief.

“You do her proud.”

I’d rather do you proud.

The last months had been hard on Jon, for all anyone could speak of in his presence was the coming of his family. Their impending arrival had hung over his head like a dark cloud, with few rays of light to help him through such a time. His cousins had been his saving grace in that regard.

Since acting so rudely to Sansa on their ride, Jon had strived to keep his feelings in check more carefully. Others didn’t need to be burdened with his problems when they had worries of their own, he’d reasoned.

Sansa had made him work for her forgiveness too, although to call it work was a strange thing. After the ride, it was not in him to reject her requests to take a walk through the godswood or try out new dance steps as Domeric played in the hall. With each passing day they spent more time together, grew a little more comfortable with each other he felt. Though Sansa still clung to her courtesies around him she appeared to be trying to call him by his name rather than titles of late.

After a few weeks, he had forgotten what it was like to be in Winterfell without having daily moments with the young lady. He had even begun seeking Sansa out himself for more dancing lessons, so eager had he become to spend time with her. For something had changed in Sansa, something that he liked much better than before.

Whereas once she only ever seemed to care about feasts, gowns, and tales of chivalry, she had recently begun showing interest in the things that he liked to do as well. Shockingly she had attended a few archery rounds, riding lessons, and even sword practices. When Jon would spar with Dom and Robb, Sansa would be there, asking him questions about why some men preferred shortswords to longswords, or whether he found Dom or Robb a fiercer opponent.

“Fiercer? Well that would be Robb for sure.” He’d said, causing Sansa to smile and him as well, for he enjoyed talking about such things. “Domeric is a threat of a different kind. He learns quickly and is patient, very patient. He strikes when I don’t expect him to.”

“You do well against both from what I can tell.” Sansa had spoken bashfully. “You’re much quicker than Robb. You move so gracefully.”

“Well I didn’t feel very graceful last night.” He had offered her some apologies then for having stepped upon her foot during their last dance. “If dancing was sparing you’d have the run of the yard. Stumbling boys would have no greater foe than you Sansa.”

“Partners your gr- Jon, we are partners when dancing.” Sansa had laughed prettily, displaying her foot so he could see that it was unharmed. “And I am fine, we all make mistakes… even princes. I’m not hobbled.”

“That is good. If you were, I’d have no choice but to offer my services carrying you about the castle.”

Sansa had flushed some at that and snapped her foot back down to the ground. She smoothed her skirts down, as if she worried that it had wrinkled while displaying her leg.

The thought of carrying Sansa around the castle had struck Jon as a pleasant idea. She’d likely laugh, and her laugh was a musical one, pretty like her eyes and her smile. Nor was the rest of Sansa’s beauty to be forgotten and the idea of touching her almost made him flush. Taking notice of his impure thoughts had made him feel ashamed. The Starks had taken him in, given him shelter and love, and leering at their daughter was not how they deserved to be repaid.

“I’d rather you pick up your sword and carry your own sorry royal arse back up here for another bout!” Robb had intervened in that exchange, waving him on onward to continue sparring.

“I beg your leave my lady.” Jon had bowed, causing Sansa to smile again, which emboldened him to push further with her. “And to make up for my folly last night, I ask you for another dance this evening.”

“You have my leave my prince.” Sansa had curtsied and begun to walk away before turning back demurely. “For a dance as well.”

That evening he had not stepped on Sansa’s feet and even found himself laughing with her at one point. Of course he’d brought Arya out for a twirl as well, for she was far shyer with her dancing than the other girls and only trusted Robb and him as partners. It was a pity because in some ways he thought that Arya could one day be the finest dancer of them all, as nimble and quick as she was. Were they in the training yard, he thought she’d outpace them all.

With a proper sword in her hand she’d be a right terror.

The idea had stuck with him, for once it had been Arya and not Sansa that followed him about the castle. It used to be his young, wild cousin watching his matches and strolling about the godswood with him. Lately though Arya had been too entranced with her direwolf pup to bother visiting the training yard. He forgave her that of course, for Arya was the only person who didn’t pester him about the arrival of his family.

Still, he missed her company at times. So on the pretense of allowing their pups to play, Jon had lured Arya before the weirwood. Ghost and Nymeria had indeed taken to playing, while he had picked up a branch and swung it through the air.

“Little wolf, you haven’t been attending the training yard.”

“I can’t… mother and Septa Mordane have been making me practice courtesies more than ever.” Arya had pouted. “Whenever I talk about going to watch you boys practice they set me off on something else. They barely give me any time for Nymeria…”

“Well they gave you time for prayer did they not?” He asked, tossing a branch to her which she caught deftly. “What if we brought the training yard here?”

With that he’d taken a fighting pose, wielding the branch like a sword, waving the girl on. Arya had hesitated for a moment before letting out a cry of joy and coming at him. He’d been surprised at the time how she didn’t attack straight on, choosing instead to try and get around to his sides. With most young boys, attacking head on was first thing they did so it proved to him that Arya had been paying attention all those times she’d watched them practice.

They danced around together at least a few times a week, Jon teaching Arya all he could with only branches to practice with. Making his cousin cry out and laugh had helped drive away his worries for a time, and Jon was thankful for that in a way he would never be able to express. Arya had improved quickly too. Once she’d somehow gotten behind him and swatted his arse with her branch like a switch.

“Oh, is that how it is?” He’d winced, before pointing his branch at her. “You’d best run now, little wolf!”

“Starks don’t run!” Arya had said defiantly, before shrieking and taking off as he gave chase.

The girl had led him all about the godswood before he’d finally caught her, scorning the use of his branch to instead drive her to the ground with his tickling hands.

“Dragons… don’t…ah!” Arya had squirmed beneath him, gasping with laughter. “They don’t tickle!”

“And I thought Starks didn’t run!”

Even as he’d spoken the words, he realized how false they truly were. For the only reason he was there to enjoy his time with Arya was because his mother had run away once. She’d run all the way to his father, all the way to her doom.

That happy memory with Arya came back as they passed the spot where he had tickled the sweet girl. Jon was leading his father and their small escort through the godswood on the way to the crypts. This route was far from the quickest but it was surely the most discreet way, which his father had requested, since Cersei was clearly meant to be kept ignorant of this.

Jon and his father spoke not a word to each other during that journey, not like how Ser Arthur and Oswell did as they followed closely behind. The reunion of the two sworn brothers was clearly a warmer one than for the father and son.

When they reached the crypts, Oswell waited without as the other three took the stone steps descending into the darkness. They could be treacherous at times but neither father nor the knight faltered and Jon had made this trip countless times himself. He found the torches which were lit everyday for those wishing to visit, handing one to the ser before taking one for himself. The group travelled by the carved likenesses of the past Lords of Winterfell and Kings in the North, all in silence while the flickering light made the stone faces cringe at the three men interrupting their slumber.

When they neared the tomb of his mother, Ser Arthur stayed back, the light of his torch the only company the knight had while the other two continued on. Father must have asked this of his friend before they’d arrived, for no words had passed between them since entering the crypts.

That’s a decent thing to do, Jon thought, even some of the Starks can’t stay down here by themselves.

Kinder still that father asked it of him. It should just be the two of us now.

Yet when they arrived before Lyanna’s statue, Jon stayed against the wall. Uncle Eddard had done the same the first time he’d brought Jon down here when he was a young lad.

“Lyanna is used to my visits.” Uncle Eddard had gently urged him toward his mother’s likeness. “I’d allow her some time to get to know you.”

Since this was his father’s first time visiting, Jon followed his uncle’s example. He was content to lean against the wall, holding the torch and allowing his father this privacy.

The king obviously meant to have it.

For his father spoke not a word and uttered no sounds of grief or loss. He merely stood quietly staring up at the stone features of Lyanna Stark, the only face Jon could imagine when he thought of his mother. Jon had never come to terms with thinking of his mother as some stone statue in the darkness, yet that was all he knew of her.

It didn’t seem right. Sometimes he even thought to stop visiting because of it.

Still, he came.

And when his father lowered his gaze to the base of the statue, he saw the evidence of Jon’s visits.

“Winter roses?”

The king bent down to inspect one of the many dried flowers collected about the base of the tomb. There were far too many to count and over the years they’d become a kind of grim bouquet. Father almost touched one before staying his hand, hovering just over the dead thing.

“This was you?” The king asked.

“It was. They grow in the glass gardens and you told me once that they were her favorite. I never come down here without bringing one.”

Except for now, he thought sourly, all I brought was you.

“In my dreams I saw her bathed in these blue roses she so loved.” His father’s voice wavered some at that. “I gave her one at the tourney when I first saw her… Lya would say that she couldn’t choose which had been the sweeter gift, that flower or the song I played for her… but you’ve heard that story before. ”

Father rose and gave him the smallest of smiles, like the ones he used to give Jon when they were alone and Jon pretended all was well at court. Long after he’d learned not to bring such troubles to his father, or to beg him for tales of his mother.

“I’m glad you remembered they were her favorite.” His father took a step towards him but Jon couldn’t let that pass.

“Of course I remembered. You speak so little of her that there was little to forget.”

His father’s smile disappeared quickly after that and the shadows seemed to grow darker around them. When Jon was a boy, he would never have spoken so to his father. He’d begun to fear that boy was still in him, for how sheepishly he’d reacted under his father’s gaze in the courtyard. Jon willed that boy to be gone, left behind in the south, for in the North he’d become a man, and he wanted the king to see that.

To see me. To see his son.

His father indeed saw him, his lilac eyes searching Jon’s face before shaking his head.

“After so many years apart… is this how you choose things to be? Or can there be peace between us before I set out for the Wall?”

That reminded Jon of how strange this whole journey was, for as far as uncle Eddard could say, only two kings had ever visited the Wall. Jon himself could not remember his father ever speaking of the Watch, besides acknowledging its existence. So he decided to seek the truth of the matter rather than delving into the problems between father and son. If he learned anything he could report it back to his uncle if needed.

“Why the Wall father?” He asked. “So soon and with so little notice. Why now?”

“You sound like the small council.” King Rhaegar sighed. “For years the state of the Night’s Watch has been deplored in Castle Black’s reports to the capital. Each one gave a worse account, always asking for more men, more gold, more everything. Even during my father’s reign it was known that the once respected order was falling into darkness. I aim to be the kind of king who maintains his realm rather than letting it fall into disrepair.”

His father paused, his lilac eyes flashing in the torchlight.

“That is what I told the small council at least. Yet I shall tell Lord Stark and you a little more.” His father continued. “Beyond seeing to the troubles of the Night’s Watch, there is a man who serves as a sworn brother that I wish to speak to on issues of great importance. My coming to the Wall, and addressing its problems, was his price for allowing me to do so.”

One sworn brother brought my father all the way here…

What kind of man could give the king terms?

There were few men Jon could think of with the power behind them to challenge King Rhaegar, and only one was at the Wall. Stannis Baratheon was the Lord-Commander and with his brother still warring across the Narrow Sea, Jon thought it likely that it was Stannis the king sought out.

“Lord Stark has grown concerned about the Wall as well.” Jon spoke up then, wondering if word had reached the royal party of such. “The North fears the Night’s Watch too weak to deal with the wildling King-Beyond-the-Wall. Your visit might lead to war father… my uncle will ride with you to Castle Black to see for himself…”

“I expected as much.” The king nodded while taking note of Jon’s surprise. “I understand the North better than you think and know more of Lord Stark than he would like. The Lord of Winterfell acts as a strong and responsible man in this, if he was not planning to join me it would mark him as a different man than I remember. I welcome his assistance and company on this endeavor.”

“Father, if my uncle and you are to go to the Wall together, I would join you…”

“No.” The king held his hand up and closed his eyes. “I do not need you by my side for this.”

“But I know these lands! I’ve served the Starks well and I could be of use to you!”

“I have told you my mind on this. Accept that our paths are different and that my plans for you do not include joining this undertaking.”

Jon was preparing a long list of arguments for why he didn’t care what his father’s plans were, and how he could be of assistance, when the king continued on as if nothing more needed to be said on the matter.

“Besides, while I travel on to the Wall, Cersei and Daenerys will remain here some time more. The journey was hard and a long respite needed. I thought you’d welcome the opportunity to spend time with my sister. Your reunion was… warmer than I’d anticipated.” His father raised an eyebrow at the last part, as if it was a rare thing for such to happen. “You’ve only had letters between the two of you for years now, what could you write about that would inspire her to act in such a way?”

“Many things.” Jon shrugged. His words with Dany were no concern of his father’s. “She asks of my life here and I of hers in the capital. Why?”

“Some felt the number of letters between you was improper.”

"Who?” He didn’t really expect an answer, the list probably being longer than his arm.

“The same people who took notice of how little word passed between you and your own siblings. By my count, besides your correspondence with Daenerys and Benjen Stark, there’s been but a handful of letters from you to any of the others.”

It was true of course. Aegon and he had exchanged a few letters over the years, Myrcella some as well. Sad as it was to think on, Jon realized that Tyrion Lannister was the person he’d heard the most from, besides his aunt and uncle.

“We’re all as different as our mothers, it’s nothing new.”

“No, it is not new. Nor should it be surprising that a young princess and prince acting so familiar might cause problems.” Father’s face softened some but his tone stayed the same. “When you are a prince every act is watched and searched for meaning, I thought that a lesson you’d remember.”

Jon knew he should hold his tongue but the rage burned its way through whatever control he held.

“If you wanted me to remember your lessons, then maybe you should have written me yourself.” He snapped, taking a step forward to challenge his father. “Should Dany have done as you did? Gone five years without any word, without any attempt to know me? If writing so often gives people a foul impression, then I imagine going five years without must make you look a fine father.”

The king frowned then, making to turn away but Jon stayed with him, stepping back into the man’s gaze, causing his father to sigh.

“I did not come here to argue. I’d hoped your uncle’s influence would calm the anger in you-”

“I’ve been calm! For years now I’ve had a family that welcomed me and a man who treated me like a son!”

He moved within a step of his father. Jon was not as tall as him, so he glared up into the king’s eyes. He would not look away as he said what needed to be spoken to.

“I’ve learned honor at his side and seen justice done by his hand. He would have no other show me in his stead. So for that I thank you your grace, I thank you for giving me a true father.”

Jon hadn’t expected the years of anger to boil over so quickly. He had steeled himself for weeks in preparation for this day. As ashamed of his father and all his failings as he was, Uncle Eddard had bid him to act respectfully. Barely an hour into the king’s visit and Jon had failed at that task miserably. Yet what shame he felt paled in comparison to the relief he felt for finally having said what he knew to be true.

For in his heart he wished Eddard Stark had been his father. Not the man who, rather than facing his son and all his troubles, closed his eyes and showed Jon his back.

Just like he always did.

“I believe that’s enough talk for now Jon.” The king’s voice was hard and verged on anger. “I wish to mourn your mother and to do so in peace. If you would not allow me that, then you can leave us.”

“I told my uncle that I would act as an escort to you. I do not abandon my duties… I am not like you.”

“No.” His father answered in a tone that broached on contentment.

“No you are not.”

 

EDDARD

   

“Yes you are. You must.”

Ned frowned at his wife’s protest while he paced within his solar. He’d not truly meant for his question to be answered.

“So you think I am expected to wait around here all day until he deigns to call on me?” He repeated before throwing his hands up in defeat, for Cat looked ready to repeat herself as well. “Never mind, you need not say it again.”

“Trust me Ned, I’d much rather have been up here waiting with you than listening to that Lannister woman complain about her chambers.” Cat shook her head angrily. “We gave over three rooms for Rhaegar and her to use, and still she was displeased not to have four!”

He was not surprised to hear that in the least, Cersei Lannister was known as a woman of extravagance, something Winterfell offered little of. Hearing Cat speak of such annoyances helped distract him from his own irritation at Rhaegar.

“What of Princess Daenerys? Were her chambers wanting as well?”

“When I came calling I heard no complaints from the young princess, nor from our daughters, who were eager to help her settle in.” Cat smiled some at that. “A rare thing Ned, to see our daughters united in anything. I had to shoo them both away so the girl could rest.”

He was surprised by that. Sansa’s zeal to be by a princess’s side was understandable, yet he had often heard Arya complaining about Daenerys’s letters to Jon. He wondered what had changed, that Arya was now suddenly so intrigued by the princess.

Daenerys was more than intrigued by the prince. That was plain to all.

Was I mistaken in not reading her letters when they came?

Are Cat and I set to propose a folly?

“Did you happen to see Daenerys’s two ladies-in-waiting?” Cat asked then. “There’s two I’m sure of it, but I only met the one. Imagine my shock to learn she was a Frey! The Lady Roslin, daughter of Late Walder Frey himself… I could not have guessed it from her looks. Lord Walder must be over the moon that his daughter keeps company with the royal family…”

“I saw them in the yard but only briefly… the Frey girl, was she the one with the long brown hair?”

Cat nodded and Ned felt his heart fall, he’d half hoped he’d been wrong in guessing the other lady’s identity. For when he’d caught sight of her, it had been like seeing a ghost. Save for the mysterious girl’s eyes and the paleness of her skin, she’d been the very image of a lady he’d last seen in Dorne. One he could not think of without immense shame and guilt rising up within him.

“They’ll share the room next to the princess.” Cat continued. “I believe it lucky that Ser Barristan stands watch over Daenerys. With young ladies as pretty as these about, I have half a mind to suggest setting guards outside their chambers. I fear nothing less would keep our young noblemen at bay from such beauties!”

She might not be wrong on that count.

He remembered catching Robb watching after the young Frey girl with a look that reminded Ned of his brother Brandon. It wasn’t kind to think of the dead in a foul light, but that look had worried him, for Brandon often leered after women in such a way before he began a quest to bed them.

Which brought dishonor on him and on the poor ladies who fell to his charm.

And on you for never stopping such a thing.

“I will speak to Robb about what is expected of Stark men.” He spoke firmly.

“Oh Ned, Robb will act a gentleman, I was only jesting…” She came forward to give him a kiss. It was a warm, welcome thing, his lips responding quickly to her soft, pliant ones.

This was an even better way to set his mind at ease, for his wife was Ned’s greatest joy. Cat shared more than his bed, she shared in his heart, in his hopes and his dreams themselves. She’d borne him five beautiful children and had hinted at wanting to welcome more to their castle one day.

Laying with her is a joy no matter the reason, but to give her another babe to fawn over…

Gods was there a woman as beautiful and loving as my Cat?

Ever since he’d first glimpsed Cat at the Tourney of Harrenhal, he’d loved her. Her hair had been like a fierce blaze that lit the entire field and her smile had been even brighter. So lost in his worship of her, Ned had not realized who Cat truly was at first. Brandon had noticed the state of him and such was how the devastating truth came to light.

“Who?” Brandon had laughed, jostling Ned about. “Which fair maiden has melted my brother’s icy heart?”

“Her.” He’d done his best to point discreetly at Cat as she laughed with some other ladies. “Gods Brandon… I’ve never seen a lady like her… there are no ladies like her.”

Brandon’s smiled disappeared then, in fact his brother had cursed and clapped his back as if in apology.

“Oh Ned.” Brandon had lowered his gaze. “I wish it could be so, I truly do. As happy as I am to finally see you smitten, I must be honest… I’m glad you approve of her. That’s Catelyn Tully brother… my betrothed.”

He remembered feeling as if a great pit opened within him at those words. For he’d already been envisioning working up the courage to ask the lady to dance. He hated dancing, Robert and Brandon being far better at it, as well as being much better with women. All Ned could ever think to do with women was stare at them.

Still, if dancing made the fiery lady smile, he’d been thinking to try and ask her for a round anyway. At Brandon’s news, all he had wished for then was to crawl under a rock, for Cat was meant for his brother, and he knew then there was no hope for him. Brandon was better than him in every way, the gods had chosen well in making him the first born and Eddard the second.

“I’m sorry Brandon… I did not mean…”

“Nonsense little brother.” Brandon had smirked before laughing. “I guess I can count you in for the bedding then! And you know what? Since my future wife has awakened such passion in you, I’m going to make it my business you get to use that lust!”

Ned had tried to argue against that but for most of the tournament Brandon tried pushing different ladies towards him. Lysa Tully was still but a young girl and reminded him too much of the woman he truly wanted. Ravella Swann was kind at first, yet was all too eager to leave his side for some harp player. When Brandon convinced Ashara Dayne to dance with him, it had been almost a cruel joke, for as beautiful as the lady was, he could not help but watch Brandon spin about the woman he truly wished to dance with.

“Is it true you ward at the Eyrie?” Ashara had asked, bringing his attention back to her haunting violet eyes. Her purple gown brought out the color even more than her dark hair.  “I’ve heard it a wondrous castle, though dangerous to ascend.”

“It is both my lady. I’ve made the climb up and down several times and I’m not sure which I fear more.”

Ashara had laughed to hear him say so, the Dornish lady kindly ignoring how he trampled her feet. She merely kept him moving as if nothing happened.

“How honest of you. That’s a rare thing to find in young men. Most would have me believe them fearless.”

“The Starks follow the old ways.” He’d felt heartened to point that out. “Honor comes as much from truth as it does bravery and strength, we hold all as dearly as we do our furs when winter comes.”

“The blood of the First Men flows through House Dayne as well.” Ashara had smiled and placed a hand to her chest. “Yet in Dorne the truth shifts as quickly as the sands. I can’t say why, but I trust what you say about your family, I can’t see one as earnest as you lying.”

“Not even if my life depended on it.”

He had enjoyed his dance with Ashara, for she told him much of Dorne and her home, Starfall. The castle was located on an island, and Ashara swore the view from one tower, the Palestone Sword she’d named it, was so beautiful that it had made some weep.

“When the moonlight hits the waters you almost want to throw yourself into it, for surely nothing so lovely could let you come to harm.”

When their dance had ended, Ned had remained heartbroken yet the lady’s grace had eased some of it away. Brandon had come over then with goblets of wine in his hands but Ned had decided to retire for the night, wanting to check on the injured crannogman in his tent.

Brandon did not follow, nor did he return to the Stark tent until the early hours of the morning. Ned had awoken to find his brother drunk, disheveled and full of smiles.

“Oh dear brother… why did you ever leave?” Brandon had slurred, patting his cheek and hushing himself so as not to wake the slumbering Benjen and Lyanna. “I sent Ashara over for you… those Dornish women… there’s a reason there’s songs about them…”

“She was kind, I thank you for that.”

“No I thank you, such an occasion as this is not one to go without sheathing one’s sword…” Brandon had chuckled some. “My dear betrothed… despite the wickedness of her body… those tits of hers… well she is too proper to offer her sheath before our wedding night… Ashara however…”

“What are you saying?” Ned had pushed away from his brother, who laughed again.

“I’m saying I must thank you! You made quite the impression… ‘We Starks are honest, the truth is winter…’ or something like that… I swore to her that I’d never seen a fairer lady… that I’d left my betrothed to be with her…” Brandon laughed again before stumbling. “That was true though! I left Cat at her tent so I could go back and find a proper sheath for my sword! Oh Ned, I’ve never seen a woman’s legs spread so wide… I shall call my cock the Sword of Moaning now…”

Ned’s rage had consumed him in that moment, for his brother had not only dishonored the Lady Ashara and laughed about it, he’d betrayed the woman he was set to marry. A fine woman, a beautiful woman, a woman Ned would’ve marched straight into any hell for if she asked him to.

Brandon hadn’t been expecting the blow. He’d always been taller and quicker than his younger brother but Ned had been stronger for some time. His fist caught Brandon square in the chin and almost lifted him from the ground. Even as his brother had been staggering the second blow followed, catching Brandon across the eye and sending him to his knees.

“Ned stop!” Lyanna had jumped between them, pushing back as he made to rain more blows upon their brother. “He deserves it, but stop!”

“How could you?” Ned had yelled. “How could you do such a thing? What kind of a man are you?”

“A living breathing one… not some frozen fool…” Brandon had laughed again, touching his bloody lip. “Feel better? You’ve defended the honor of my future wife and a woman you couldn’t even bother to pursue. How fucking noble of you…”

“You disgust me.” He had said, meaning it with all his heart. “I fear for Winterfell to have a lord such as you one day.”

“And I weep for whatever woman our father condemns to a life with you Ned, you solemn, sulking fool…”

“Shut up Brandon!” Lyanna had yelled but Ned did not stay to hear more.

Nor did Brandon and he speak again during the rest of the tourney. Benjen and Lyanna tried to mend the fence between them but it was all for naught. For every time he saw Cat smiling by Brandon’s side, the sight of Ashara Dayne’s teary-eyed gaze the next morning came forth to his mind.

At the time he’d felt no shame in leaving the tourney with his last words to his brother being an insult, for he’d had no idea that they would never see each other again.

Ned had returned to the Eyrie and Brandon had ridden back North, to make final preparations before going to Riverrun. By the time the wedding date had come close, Ned’s temper had cooled, and he had been ready to hear Brandon’s apologies if he attempted any. They would settle their differences at the wedding and stand together as brothers should. No jealousy that Ned held, or foul act that Brandon committed, would ever break their bond. Brandon could be a hurtful fool sometimes but he was blood and Ned loved him all the same, and he vowed to tell him such.

Yet they never saw each other again.

You proud, ignorant fool, you pretended you had the luxury to want such things.

As if life was some summer where all wrongs would be righted, you forgot winter was coming.

“Ned? My love?” Cat broke their kiss and put a hand upon his chest. “Is something amiss? You were far away for a moment there.”

“I think I was.” He admitted, kissing her forehead to ease her mind. “I was just reflecting on how I ever came to be blessed with a wife like you.”

He followed that with a kiss against her cheek, then a lingering one against her lips. A kiss that had Cat grasping at his arms and breathing heavily when they parted.

“You, my lord, had best seek my chambers tonight after the feast.”

Cat pressed herself against him then, and even in his foul mood he felt his manhood stirring. There was no shame to lust after one’s own wife, yet he did not wish to at this moment. Not with Brandon alive again in his memory and the image of Ashara Dayne’s sad eyes as she left the tourney, seared into his mind.

He couldn’t even bring himself to think of when they’d met again during his travels to Starfall, after the Tower of Joy.

Yet I may be forced to soon.

For I fear the ghost of a past wrong has come to Winterfell.

Not long after, the king finally arrived within the solar. Rhaegar appeared quite drained from his journey to the crypts and, as pale as he looked, it made the scar upon his cheek stand out more. It was a foul thing to be proud of, giving the king such a mark, yet Ned could not deny feeling so. Nor could he ignore that while Arthur Dayne had joined them, Jon had not come as well.

“I did not want Jon here for this.” Rhaegar spoke firmly, as if he did not want to expand on his reasoning, which caused Ned to tense.

You did not want Jon in the capital either and he almost died because of it.

“Perhaps I should take my leave as well then.” Cat began and before he could tell her that her presence was welcome, Rhaegar shook his head.

“Please my lady, this is your home. I would not force you from any of its rooms.” He offered her a small smile. “I trust my wife was not too demanding of you.”

“Not at all, the Queen was quite understanding of our limited space-”

“I apologize she complained.” Rhaegar interrupted Cat’s lie. “I’m certain whatever rooms you have set aside will be more than enough. I will tell her such was my decision to spare you any more of her… concerns.”

“I’m sure Cersei will find other things to be concerned about.” Ser Arthur jested as he offered Ned his hand. “Lord Stark, Ser Oswell has told me of how well you cared after Prince Jon and I’m sure you know how rare a compliment from Whent is.”

Ned shook the knight’s powerful hand as Cat looked bemused at the whole situation. Rhaegar taking the blame for his wife’s behavior and Oswell paying him a compliment were both unexpected but pleasant developments. He did take notice however that it was The Lord-Commander thanking them, and not Jon’s father.

“I was surprised to find no army assembled, awaiting our coming.” Rhaegar said softly as he looked about the room, stopping where Ice sat on its mantle, eyeing the Valyrian blade with interest. “You do intend to march with one against the wildlings, do you not?”

“I have given thought to the matter. The threat of the wildling king can no longer be ignored. Yet I would learn more of the state of the Wall with my own eyes before I call the banners.”

“Besides, if my husband’s bannermen were all here, we’d have even less space to share with your party.” Cat smiled. “And the Queen would have more reason to be… concerned.”

Rhaegar and Arthur laughed at that while his thoughts turned to how many of his lords had spoken in favor of war already. The Manderlys and Hornwoods had been lukewarm to the idea, yet he did not doubt they would answer the call if it came. Willam Dustin had already promised to lead a couple thousand men from the barrowlands and the Rills within a matter of weeks if need to be. The Greatjon had offered Last Hearth as a rallying point, yet Ned had not accepted the offer yet until he knew Lord-Commander Baratheon’s mind on all this.

Stannis will not welcome me, his pride will not allow it.

Twice now I’ll have come to relieve a command of his from some threat.

That irks him more than my siding against Robert…

“Am I wrong in assuming you will be escorting us to Castle Black?” Rhaegar asked and Ned nodded.

“We will, although I’m still unsure on when exactly that journey will begin.”

“After such a long trip here, I’d thought perhaps several weeks rest before setting out again. It would be good to show my wife and sister the wonders of the North before I leave their side. That is, if my plans are not too much of an inconvenience to you Lord Stark.”

A bloody month with Rhaegar and Cersei within my walls.

I could not think of a worse inconvenience.

“It gives us ample time to prepare.” Ned said simply and Cat shot him a withering look for his lack of enthusiasm.

“Speaking of preparations.” Cat jumped in. “Your grace, we have arranged a feast tonight in your honor, if you’re not too weary to attend.”

“I would be happy to share a meal with my hosts. As I’m sure the gallant Ser Arthur will be happy to dance with any young maidens who are without partners.”

“My king jests, and at times they are even funny.” The knight grinned at Rhaegar before tapping his head as if remembering something. “We have a bard! One joined our march here in the North and he plays reasonably well. If you’d spare me from the dancing, I’d gladly impress him into your service.”

Cat welcomed that news, for it freed Domeric from having to provide the entertainment and they both wished his ward freedom to enjoy the festivities. Sometimes the Bolton heir acted so warmly with Robb and the rest of his family that Ned felt guilty about why he had accepted Domeric’s presence in his household in the first place.

Even Willam eyes Roose Bolton warily, and they are goodbrothers by marriage.

“Trust me Ned. You’d be better off having Roose’s heir in your keeping than having no hold over the man at all.” Willam had said when they’d discussed Domeric’s move to Winterfell. “If you offer to do so, Roose is too cagey to refuse, and Domeric’s a good lad in truth. My boy Roddy is quite angry with me for even proposing this to you…”

Willam had always been a true and loyal friend to him, so he’d accepted his advice and Domeric as a ward. So far the young man had proven himself worthy of such an honor and he felt Domeric deserved a night to simply enjoy himself.

“I’m sure our daughters will welcome a bard playing at the feast, Sansa does love to dance.” Cat shared a knowing look with him. “Prince Jon and her do so often…”

So it is to be now.

I imagine there would be no finer time to propose it considering Rhaegar and I have not come to fists yet.

“My son dancing?” Rhaegar sounded surprised. “He did so very rarely in the capital, I’m happy to hear that’s changed. You have done well by him Lord Stark, he appears to have grown into the honorable young man I’d hoped he would.”

“We were happy to take him in. We’ve never regretted doing so.” He spoke truthfully before bracing himself for what would come next. “Your grace, we are as proud of Jon as you are. I’m happy to call him kin, as are my children-”

“As is his wife.” Cat added. “Jon has never disappointed us.”

“For these reasons I would, well we would, beg your leave to one day call Jon something more than just kin.” He reached out to grasp Cat’s hand which she did so eagerly. “We’d ask to one day call him a son as well.”

The proposal had been moons in the making, Cat herself having thought of it one night while watching Jon dance with Sansa in the hall to Domeric’s harp-playing.

“Imagine if they had the chance to so as husband and wife.” She’d whispered to him. “Our daughter married to a prince, a boy you already think of as a son…”

It had not taken much thought for him to support the idea. He’d already begun thinking of possible lands he could offer Jon, to build a castle of his own in the North. Sansa had always imagined herself a princess one day yet he’d not wanted to get her hopes up. In that Cat had disappointed him. In her urging to push Sansa and Jon closer together, she’d not only let their plans be known to Sansa, but Robb as well.

Should Rhaegar reject the match, Ned had not wanted to see his daughter weeping for weeks, nor for Robb to somehow feel any foul feeling towards Jon on behalf of his sister.

Rhaegar’s reaction did not fill him with confidence. For the king sat silently at their proposal, his face a blank slate. Ser Arthur’s brow was furrowed in thought and he began to feel annoyed that Sansa inspired so little good cheer among these men. She was pretty, sure to be beautiful one day, with polished courtesies and a loving heart.

Do they think my daughter unfit? Many of my bannermen have clamored for her hand for their sons.

She’s the jewel of my eye, of the North itself.

What more could they want for Jon?

“She is a lovely young lady your grace.” Cat kept on, obviously sharing his worries. “We’ve raised her in the ways of the olds gods and the Faith. Sansa excels in her courtesies and the maester calls her a bright mind. When she flowers I believe her to become a striking beauty any man would be proud to-”

“Forgive me my lady. My thoughts are not on whether I think your daughter worthy…” Rhaegar looked to his knight then who smirked some.

“You called me a fool for thinking they’d accept him.” Arthur began to smile widely. “There was a damned in there as well, I believe.”

“I had reason to doubt it ser.” Rhaegar touched the scar on his cheek and the knight’s smile fell away. The king then turned back to them, Cat and himself both sharing a look of confusion. “To be honest, I had come here hoping to propose a marriage between our two houses, just as you do now, yet I had not considered Jon a suitable option...”

What kind of a man would not consider his own son a suitable option?

What is it about Jon that he despises so? Is it his faith in the old gods?

That Jon takes after the Starks?

“What match were you to propose then?” Cat asked, always managing to stay more level-headed than he did when it came to the matter of matches for their children.

“I had thought to offer my daughter Myrcella to your heir.” Rhaegar answered. “As a way to bind our houses together…”

That surprised Ned. He hadn’t considered Rhaegar thinking of a marriage between House Stark and the Iron Throne. None of the other royal offspring were promised as far as he knew, and offering them a princess was a great honor.

Yet it conflicted with other plans they had for Robb, for even now there were several options of possible matches for his eldest son. There were a few of considerable note, Bethany Locke and Eddara Tallhart being two northern matches they’d discussed, yet for some time now they’d been more inclined to the idea of asking Bronze Yohn Royce for his daughter Ysilla. An alliance between Runestone and Winterfell was not something Ned could easily ignore.

Nor could he ignore what Rhaegar had just proposed

“We are honored.” Ned struggled to envision two of his children bound to House Targaryen.

“Greatly so my king.” Cat picked up his slack. “Jon has always had… kind things to say of the princess.”

“Myrcella is a sweet child with a sharp mind, I would not offer her to just anyone.” Rhaegar nodded. “Yet I must caution, if you truly wish a match between Jon and your daughter Sansa, I can no longer propose a union between Myrcella and Robb… other matches would need to be considered you understand, to shore up our strength to the south and within the royal family…”

So I must choose between Robb marrying a princess and Sansa having a prince?

He knew which match he preferred already. Jon he knew and loved, Ned could be confident that Sansa would be happy with such a husband. Even though Jon had called Princess Myrcella pretty and sweet natured, Ned could not picture her without thinking of Cersei’s upturned nose. If the daughter took after her mother in any way, he did not want to force such a wife upon his son, nor Winterfell such a lady.

“I don’t wish to speak for us both…” He began, glancing to Cat and finding her already gazing at him, her hand squeezing his gently, a sign of trust between them. “Yet if I must choose… then I ask again for Prince Jon and my Sansa to be promised. A finer goodson I could not ask for.”

Rhaegar, in what Ned believed to be one of the few moments he could ever say so, actually made him happy then. For the king nodded his assent, Cat almost breaking his hand in her own glee.

“My son, your daughter, let it be so.” Rhaegar said in his iron tones and Ser Arthur placed a hand of congratulations on his king’s shoulder.

“There’s a worry off your mind old friend.” The knight chuckled. “Only a thousand more left to go.”

“My king… Rhaegar, I thank you. Jon will be very happy with my daughter, I promise.” He shocked himself by offering the king his hand, and shocked the rest with his words. “I think Lyanna would approve of this, truly.”

“High praise indeed Eddard.” Rhaegar took his hand and Ned did his best to not try and overpower his grip. “I believe she would as well.”

After that the specifics of the betrothal were laid out. Sansa was not yet a woman, and though Cat was confident that she was close to flowering, clearly a wedding could not occur until that happened. Cat also suggested that they wait for a few years after, to allow the two to grow used to the idea of being betrothed, like it had been done for her betrothal to Brandon.

Rhaegar quickly acceded to his request that the union take place before a weirwood, which was a relief, as he’d been prepared to argue that point for some time and was thankful to not have to. Ned had also asked that the wedding not occur until Jon had lands of his own, which Rhaegar agreed to once again, yet for different reasons than he liked.

“I would not have him married before his castle is ready.” The king said. “That will be two years from now at least…”

“A castle in two years?” Ned asked. “I was under the impression that Jon had no lands or titles. I was already preparing to set aside some lands here in the North.”

“Absolutely not.” Rhaegar’s tone hardened so quickly that Cat jerked in her seat. “My son’s future is in the south. When Aegon and Jon have reached the age of majority, I intend for them to begin taking a more active role in the affairs of the realm. The dragon must have three heads and they shall be two of them, acting together to keep harmony in the Seven Kingdoms.”

The quick rejection of his offer caused Ned’s blood to boil for a moment. It helped to remind himself that they were arranging the details of a marriage he wanted dearly for his daughter. Curiosity came after he calmed, for as far as Ned knew, the Targaryens held no castles save the Red Keep and Dragonstone.

Neither appealed much to him as a future home for Jon and Sansa, nor as a place to raise his grandchildren. When he pointed out the two castles he knew of, Rhaegar shook his head.

“There is a third, and I see now how right I was in trusting Benjen’s discretion in these matters, for he has clearly not shared this with you…”

“My brother? What does he have to do with this?” He asked. “And what third castle?”

“By the seven.” Cat put a hand to her mouth. “Do you mean… but it’s a ruin…”

“Not for long my lady.” Rhaegar answered. “And Benjen Stark has much to do with this endeavor, for it was him I tasked with the rebuilding of that long abandoned place. A castle that I would see Jon bring life to once more.”

For a moment Ned struggled to think of a Targaryen ruin, and then almost struck his head for his ignorance. To forget the foul stories of that place was unforgivable, for the whole realm knew the tale by heart. Of a castle destroyed, and a good part of the royal family lost within it, to flames and folly.

The Tragedy of Summerhall.

“Summerhall? You’d have Jon and Sansa live in such an ill-omened…”

“One day my lord, when the castle is rebuilt and quite ready to receive the prince and princess. Summerhall was home to peace and song far longer than it has sat a ruin. The lands about it are rich, and I’ve already made decrees returning those lands to the purview of that castle. The lords who held them until now gave them up faithfully, thanks in no small part to the diplomatic efforts of your brother Benjen, whom I’ve had knighted for his services. Ser Benjen oversees repairs to the castle even as we speak.”

Summerhall was not the castle Ned wanted for Jon and Sansa yet Rhaegar would not waver from his desire to see it restored, having clearly planned this for some time.

“Jon himself has been to my birthplace before. I took my eldest three children to Summerhall when the boys were about your Rickon’s age. I decided then it would be Jon’s home one day. Ten years ago that vision came to me and the seeds it planted have grown ever since. I believe Jon will be the one to usher light back into that castle, to bring hope where there is darkness. As only a Stark could.”

Despite his annoyance at Rhaegar’s cryptic ways Ned couldn’t think of a good reason to argue against what the king was offering.

Restoring a ruined castle would take less time than raising a new one here in the North. With Summerhall bordering both the Reach and the Stormlands whatever lands Ned could offer Jon would pale in comparison to such bounty. The king was also funding the restoration entirely from the royal coffers, which would save the North significant cost. Benjen had even sent word to Rhaegar that he would improve upon the castle’s original design, changing it from a summer stay-castle, to a formidable seat akin to any neighboring marcher lords’.

So he was forced to accept that Sansa would be the Lady of Summerhall.

She was born a daughter of winter. Now she is to be a princess of summer.

Can I truly stand in the way of such a thing?

While it disappointed him to think that Jon and Sansa would not live in the North, having this match agreed to at all had been anything from sure, so he counted his blessings on that at least.

The hour of the feast was fast approaching and Cat had to excuse herself, to see to the last minute arrangements. He swore she was glowing as she left and Ned decided then that he would indeed seek her chambers tonight. As hot as he found them, celebrating such an accomplishment would be well worth it.

Rhaegar and his knight stayed behind to share the king’s true reason for journeying to Castle Black. While never actually naming Stannis, Ned could not see anyone else of import bringing the king to the Wall. If Rhaegar truly believed Stannis Baratheon could break his oath to the Night’s Watch and join in Robert’s continued rebellion, he would let the man go forth in his folly. For Stannis did not break oaths. The man himself would break before he ever did so.

Thinking their audience at an end, Rhaegar and Ser Arthur stood to leave yet there were other matters Ned was still curious about.

“Why did you think we would not welcome Jon as a match?” He asked, for he was truly confused at that. “You sent him to ward with us after all…”

Rhaegar frowned at the question, as if it was foolish.

“Asking you to protect my son was one thing, asking you to accept giving a Stark girl over to a Targaryen prince…” Rhaegar touched his scar once again. “Must I explain my hesitation about such?”

Jon is not you. I’ve done all I can to make sure he never would be.

He will always be more a Stark. He will always act honorably…

He didn’t question Rhaegar’s reasoning though, for he wondered how he would have reacted if the match was proposed by the king rather than his wife. If Jon had been a stranger to him he might’ve rejected it, yet he’d had five years to get to know the man his nephew was becoming. A prince Ned could trust with a Stark lady.

When the pair turned to leave once more he hailed them again, this time coming in close, as if to whisper a conspiracy to them.

“Your grace, my lord, I must ask about someone I saw today. A lovely young lady, who I believe acts a handmaiden to Princess Daenerys… she had dark hair and eyes like… well, she reminded me of…”

He paused as Arthur’s expression darkened some at his words. The knight’s straight stance always made him a tall man yet he now made to tower over Ned.

“Who is she?” Ned asked nonetheless and Rhaegar placed a hand upon Ser Arthur’s chest as he answered in his stead.

“She is the Lady Elara Dayne.”

Elara Dayne...

That’s her name but who is she really?

“May I ask, who are her parents?”

He had pressed his luck in this for Arthur’s usually tranquil nature changed into one Ned had seen once long ago, one of barely contained violence.

“She is my niece, daughter of my beloved sister Ashara.” The knight growled but a hair’s breath from his face. “And you know damned well who her father is.”

“Ser, my lord, enough.” Rhaegar commanded then and Ned was struck so speechless that he offered no argument as the king led his knight from the solar. The king did pause at the door though, turning back to gaze at Ned again.

“The young lady will be at the feast Lord Stark, and while I have legitimized her as a Dayne, it would good of her father’s family to show her some courtesy…”

Ned could say nothing to those words, shocked to realize the depth of Rhaegar’s understanding of the situation.

As he grappled with that his mind was drifting back to a time when he was still grieving horribly for his sister. When Ser Arthur had brought them to Starfall, a safe harbor until Rhaegar could send a ship for Ned and his infant nephew. Ned had been clutching Jon to his chest, his tears falling upon the babe’s bundled form as he remembered his sister’s dying request to him.

When he’d gone to seek Wylla, his nephew’s wetnurse, he’d heard the cry of another babe. Why he followed that sound he could not say, something simply bid him to do so. He found the crying babe in a small chamber overlooking the river below. In the arms of a woman he knew all too well, a woman he felt ashamed to barge in on.

“Hello Eddard.” Ashara said softly as she made comforting sounds to the babe in her arms. “Have you come to see your niece?”

“My niece?” He’d asked numbly, going forth as if in a dream.

The babe Ashara held was red faced and wailing when he first saw it, so when her eyes finally opened and found his, he had not been prepared for it. For they were similar to Ashara’s yet darker in a way, as if some of his own Stark grey had been added to them.

“What’s his name?” Ashara had asked coldly, looking upon the babe he held.

“Jon… Lyanna asked me to name him and I chose Jon.”

“Jon Targaryen… Arthur told me the truth, of how Rhaegar and your sister married so this child can be a trueborn son to his father.” Ashara had glared at him then. “Tell me Eddard, with your Stark honesty, what name will my daughter have? What name did her father leave for her?”

Ned had felt the shame of Harrenhal falling down upon him like an avalanche, the tears of his crying niece glistening from the light outside.

“I named her for my dear friend Elia… but I can’t call her what she deserves to be, can I?” Ashara had turned away from him then. “Bastards are not allotted such things…”

“Ashara… I’m so sorry. My brother should have never-”

“Spare me your Stark words Eddard. They will help my daughter little. Whatever shame you feel because of her, never speak a word of the man who shamed us both. I love her… and I want Brandon’s vile ways to have no claim on my sweet girl… so leave us please… just as her father did…”

He’d done as Ashara had asked, finding Arthur waiting without the room, plainly having heard all that passed between them. His face had been dark and full of violence.

“It was your brother? He was the lord who lied to her? Who bedded her and swore to leave his betrothed to marry her? I ought to strike you down right-”

Arthur only stopped his threatening advance when Jon cried out in his arms, the knight lowering his fists and staring back into the room where their niece still cried.

“Were he not dead already I would have killed him myself.” Ser Arthur spoke coldly before walking to his sister’s side, joining her in comforting the babe.

A babe who had grown into the very image of her mother. A woman who now walked within the castle of her father. While she might have been born a Sand and legitimized as a Dayne, Eddard Stark could not deny what his heart wanted to call her.

A Stark.

A Stark born of a lie.

A Stark not meant to be.

Chapter 4

Summary:

The past, present and future all come together as the Targaryens join the Starks to feast.

There’s too much truth out there to be seen and heard with one's eyes and ears. Being ignorant is no shield against what might come

DAENERYS

 

“They weren’t in the crypts for much time your grace and they parted ways not long after…”

Her maid trailed off, glancing nervously towards the door of Dany’s chambers here in Winterfell. It was only the four of them in the room and no matter their statuses, all were part of Dany’s inner circle. Jacqeline was unaccustomed to having someone at the door when she’d share secrets with them all. Yet the maid was being overly cautious, for Dany knew who stood without the chamber.

A valiant protector. One she trusted with her life.

“Do not fret Jackie.” Dany eased the girl on. “Ser Barristan keeps a careful ear but he does not eavesdrop. I trust him as much as all of you. Go on please.”

The handmaiden nodded, smoothing her simple skirts before putting her back to the door and leaning forward to whisper.

“Well when they left the crypts neither looked too happy. I don’t want to be misunderstood princess, the king wasn’t acting unhappy in his usual way… I think perhaps he was… um...”

“They were visiting the tomb of the prince’s mother.” Roslin offered as she ran the brush down the length of Dany’s hair. “Surely that was a sad thing to do. King Rhaegar was likely grieving.”

“I don’t think so my lady.”

Jackie shook her head at that and Dany trusted her judgement. For the servant had been her eyes and ears during the royal party’s journey to Winterfell and in the Red Keep for years before that. Varys and Cersei had countless spies in their employ, and Rhaenys had advised Dany to make use of a spy herself.

‘There’s too much truth out there for you to see and hear with only your eyes and ears. Being ignorant is no shield against what might come Daenerys.’

“There was more your grace.” Jackie continued. “I followed them into the keep after. I was staying far behind of course, but Prince Jon nearly knocked me down the stairs when the king sent him away. He didn’t mean it mind you, he was just in a hurry and very angry. I saw it clear when he helped to steady me. The prince looked just like Lord Benjen when he was wroth.”

Jon was never quick to temper, she thought, nor is Rhaegar.

They must have quarreled already. My prayers were wasted…

The way Jon and Rhaegar had spoken to each other in the courtyard still bothered her. When the Starks had helped Cersei and her move into their chambers, she’d ordered Jacqeline to stay behind and keep watch. It’s wasn’t a proper thing to do, having her family spied on, but over time she’d learned that Rhaenys was right. In the capital, it was always better to know what was going on and with who.

Roslin saw her unease and did her best to calm it, as she always did.

“Perhaps they both took notice of the queen? I mean she did act insulted when the king-”

“Cersei is always insulted.” Dany sighed before grasping Roslin’s hand. “She’s insulted that I am a princess as much as her daughter. Even more insulted that her princelings are only third and fourth sons. I imagine she’s insulted with the Starks for not raising a tower in her honor.”

I wish they had, she thought, a tall, drafty tower that kept her far away from me.

Enduring Cersei’s endless criticisms of her ladies-in-waiting during the northern trek had been draining. If Cersei was to be believed, the only people suitable for a princess to be seen consorting with were the queen’s own children and what nobles from the Westerlands she approved of.

Those hungry for favor styled Cersei’s children the Gilded Dragons, a silly name the queen likely thought up herself. The youngest of Rhaegar’s children were not as bad as their mother though. In truth Dany cared for Myrcella and Tommen, for they were both cut from a different cloth than Cersei and quite pleasant. Tommen was a dear boy and Myrcella made it easy to name her a friend. Unfortunately, spending time with them was to give Cersei an excuse for pushing Joffrey at her.

If there was anyone in the realm Dany hated more than Viserys, it was Joffrey Targaryen.

With Cersei herself coming in at a close third.

I hope her chambers are as horrible as she claims them to be.

Of her own chambers Dany had no complaints. The rooms the Starks had given over to her were the warmest they'd had since arriving in the North. Being comfortable and having a place to dress away from the queen had done wonders for all their spirits. Still, the lands north of the Neck had been colder and wilder than she’d expected. The travels here were the most trying she’d ever endured.

Truly she couldn’t tell whether the howling she heard outside came from the Stark wolves or the wind beyond. With each passing day they’d grown closer to Winterfell, she’d feared more and more the kind of place that Jon had been sent to. In her mind as child, she'd always pictured an icy prison. When she first glimpsed Winterfell, the large, grey castle had not appeared welcoming, yet inside it somehow felt different. However cold and gloomy the castle had looked from the outside, it was warm and full of life within.

A lot like Jon… or at least like he had been.

It still stung to think of how the prince had thrown off her embrace. For a few shining moments, Jon’s smile and his kind words had been an answer to all her hopes and dreams. He’d left the capital a solemn boy and now years later, she found a comely young man waiting for her with open arms.

A prince who showed more happiness than anger to see her again. That Jon made no move to blame her for his exile was an answer to her prayers.

“You did well Jackie, you may go and prepare for the feast. I’d not have you miss meeting a strapping young northman.” Dany smiled, dismissing her servant and closer friend than most at court would find appropriate.

She showed enough grace to wait until Jackie left before suggesting the same to one of her more highborn companions. When she turned to Roslin, Dany smiled her most wicked smile.

 

“That goes for you as well Ros. Robb Stark will surely be at this feast and I believe he is as handsome as he is unpromised. I plan on him noticing the same of you.”

“He’s an heir to a great house and I’m the daughter of a sixth wife… it’s not a likely match.” Roslin’s smile was as genuine as the blush upon her cheeks. “Besides, I’d finish your hair first. Some more braids perhaps?”

Roslin had already braided Dany’s hair along the back, leaving the rest to flow down along her shoulders. It was a very different style than she usually wore at court yet she liked it. The silvery blond strands added some color to her black gown, which was silk and smooth to the touch.

“Don’t be silly. It looks lovely as is. We’re in the North, and the northern way is to keep it down. Now go and get your gown and I’ll see to your dressing.”

“Princess please, it’s not proper! Truly my dress is such a simple thing … I’m almost embarrassed…”

“You’re my friend before anything else.” She cut Roslin off before folding her arms and glaring at the lady in the looking glass. “And as your princess I command it. So go.”

Roslin did as she commanded, just as the lady usually did. Dany sometimes worried that her friend was too pliant to the will of others. When Roslin Frey first came to court, almost three years ago, to most she’d be just one of the many daughters of Walder Frey. Shy and fearful of other highborns about her, Roslin had become an easy target for mockery and perhaps worse if things had gone on so.

Dany had seen much of her old self in the young lady.

Once she had been prey to the worst of the Targaryen court and too weak to change it. That was until such weakness had cost her dearly. Afterwards had cast away all parts of that scared little girl and made sure to become strong, to right a terrible wrong someday.

Thus she had taken pity on Roslin, embracing her as a new lady-in-waiting, and more importantly as a friend. Guiding Roslin through the harsher realities of life at court had been Dany’s own way of repaying a debt that she owed someone else. There were other ladies at court of higher status to take as companions but that didn't matter to her. In time Roslin had become one Dany’s closest confidantes despite the jealousy others bore her.

Yet Roslin was treated with reverence compared to Dany’s second companion, who many argued was not a lady at all.

Only a bit of Sand.

“I don’t know who holds Roslin back more, herself or that family of hers.” Elara’s voice drifted over from where the lady sat on a window ledge, staring down at the Stark grounds. “She’s too good a person to settle for anything but the best. It’s a sad thing for her to aspire to prance before some Stark boy…” 

Elara shook her head then, her long dark hair waving at the movement. None could argue against Elara’s beauty, for she had a woman’s form and her Dornish attire often accentuated it. Aegon had taken to calling her “The Night to Dany’s Day,” the prince meaning it as a compliment. The prince had been in the company of his closest friends when Dany first pressed him to explain such a thing.

“Don’t be jealous Daenerys.” Aegon had said. “Your beauty shines through everything, like the light of a new day…”

“All can bask in the truth of your radiance.” Renly Baratheon had added as Loras Tyrell offered him some wine, giving Aegon a chance to continue.

“Yet sometimes it’s night that offers a true adventure. Perhaps even some mystery” Aegon caused Robar Royce to grin. “And Elara’s darkness holds a mystery many a man lusts to solve…”

The men had all found that quite funny and many described Elara in the same vein. Despite their fondness for her looks, few would deign to be seen publicly with the dark beauty, for all at court knew her to be the natural daughter of Ashara Dayne. A child born of either a passionate affair or a foul act, depending on who told the story. Rhaegar had legitimized her as a Dayne as a boon to her uncle Arthur, but he brought Elara to court as a favor to Dany. He had hoped that she would fill the hole that Jon’s departure left in her life.

Nothing could have made that hurt disappear… but Elara did help.

Their friendship was a scandal to court, which was saying something, considering how many scandals it saw. Most were too fearful to demand that Elara be sent away, for defending the lady’s honor at all times was the greatsword Dawn, wielded by the finest knight in the realm. Ser Arthur’s powerful reputation couldn’t stop people’s whispering or foul looks though. Cersei acted even less restrained.

“A privy remade in gold is still a privy.” Cersei had said within hearing of both Elara and herself. “Its uses are the same in end.”

That insult rang in Dany’s head she went to Elara’s side, who had been oddly quiet since arriving at Winterfell.

“I do not think Roslin will prance before the Starks.” She smiled, trying to imagine Roslin prancing. “And even if she did, would it be so terrible? To see her happy and admired by fine young men?”

“Admiring is one thing but I’m more worried about what those men would want when their eyes have had their fill.” Elara spoke softly and turned to face Dany then, her friend’s deep, haunting violet eyes boring into her own. “Though it will be hard for anyone to take notice of Ros… what with you looking like that.”

“Do not try and lay such a charge at my feet when you outshine us all!”

Dany was not making a jest, for Elara was truly breathtaking. The gown she wore was akin to the lands of Dorne rather than the style of King’s Landing, let alone the North. It was light lavender, and sheer in places that Dany found herself staring upon. She could only imagine how men might react.

Such was how Elara liked to play with men’s baser instincts, for the lady would often dress provocatively and act enticing, yet she was not the harlot that people accused her of being. If the lords or knights who sought her favor thought only to do so in secret, Elara would not forgive the slight. Dany and Roslin had laughed over the secret meetings Elara would arrange with such suitors, only to leave the rowdy men waiting for hours in the cold.

A man must offer more than a smile and kind word, he must treat her honorably.

For my Dornish star will not fall for just any…

“The stars shine brightly here in the north.” Dany teased as she looked out the window to the dark sky above. The dark blanket was speckled with beautiful glowing lights and it made her gently take Elara's hand in her own.

“I think this star shines far brighter than most…”

“There are no bastards among the stars Daenerys.” Elara said sadly. “And we’ll see soon enough if the Starks will abide one in their hall.”

“Of course they will, for I cannot allow differently.” She pulled Elara away from the window, spinning her about in a dance until the lady began to smile. “You will be welcomed and you will dance and you will help me get by in this strange place.”

Elara laughed then as she often would, her whole body shaking as their hair flew about their faces.

“It’s not so strange! Merely a land fierce in its own customs and ways! Much like Dorne… save colder.”

Sounds like someone I know.

They had to stop their mummer's dance soon after, for Roslin returned and both of them moved to see to the lady's dressing. Doing such things were simple pleasures that Dany so enjoyed. Most would have thought that a princess dressing one of her ladies scandalous but she didn’t care. Her whole life, people had answered her every whim, such was the care afforded the king's sister. Everyone tried so hard for the sake of appearances, yet scoffed at allowing her to do things that actually made her happy.

Elara laced up Roslin’s dress while Dany finished braiding her hair so that it framed the lady’s pretty face and drew attention to her wide, earnest eyes. From what Dany had seen of the other Freys who’d come to court, Roslin was one of the rare few in her family who was different in both looks and nature. House Frey was known as a grasping, weasel-faced family whose loyalty was anything but sure.

Roslin went against that reputation yet was proven to be a liar in one regard. For she looked anything but plain when she had her gown on. She was radiant in the light brown dress, with golden embroidering about the neckline and billowing sleeves. Elara was teasingly playing at lowering the bust line and Roslin slapped at her hands when the knock came at the door.

The sound was the only warning they had before Barristan’s announcement almost rattled the door.

“Your grace, there are some young men here, asking to escort you and your ladies to the feast. Shall I tell them to settle in for a long wait?”

“Not at all ser!” She laughed. To others, the Kingsguard was battle hardened and imposing. With her, Barristan was always warm smiles and gentle banter. “We are quite ready!”

They’d expected an escort of course, yet she had no idea who the Starks would send. Whether there would be someone calling just for her, or if enough arms would be available for her ladies as well. Dany’s first thought had been a hopeful one, of who might be waiting outside the door.

Unlike in the courtyard, Jon didn’t disappoint her in this.

For he was indeed one of the escorts awaiting them, flanked by two other young men. Jon and the Stark heir stood side by side while a third young man, older than the others and with strange pale eyes, fidgeted some with his collar. All looked comely yet not in the southron manner. Jon and Robb were dressed humbly, scorning color and fine cloth in favor of darker grays and wool. The stranger wore much the same, save for a pink cloak draped over his shoulders.

“Your grace, my ladies. The Lord of Winterfell has given us the honor of escorting you to the feast.” Robb bowed and smiled, with the others following suit. “This is my father’s ward, Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort.”

“It is a pleasure your grace.” Domeric threw back his pink cloak and bowed. “Lord Stark asked that I escort the Lady Dayne down to the feast…”

Elara looked as surprised as Dany felt that Lord Stark had seen fit to give her a higborn escort. Most castles had not done her friend such courtesy, especially after learning she was bastard born. It marked the Lord of Winterfell a kind man despite his chilly demeanor.

No wonder Jon is so fond of him.

“This is Lady Elara.” She presented her friend and took notice how all three men let their gaze fall over the lady’s form. “My dear friend, and niece to the gallant Ser Arthur…”

All their eyes immediately shot back up. Domeric apparently found the ceiling quite interesting.

“My lady.” Domeric said far more shyly than Dany had expected of such a man.  “If you would permit me…”

“I would, for I have never seen a man wear pink so well.” Elara answered quickly, gazing at both Robb and Jon with a sort of wonder before turning back to the Bolton youth. “Many remark on my eyes being strange, yet I’ve never seen any like yours.”

“Thank you, though I would have words with any that called your own strange. Enchanting would be fair.”

Domeric took Elara’s arm on his while Robb acted bemused by the Bolton’s charm.

“I must apologize princess, to the Lady Roslin as well.” Robb smiled despite apologizing. “For your escorts are far more plain, with eyes of only blue and grey… though I might add that blue skies are far more welcoming than grey ones.”

“Just wait till I have you in the yard again Wolf.” Jon swatted the lordling on the shoulder, who then surprised both herself and Barristan by cuffing the prince right back.

“Any time Dragon.” Robb laughed before once again giving her and Roslin his full attention. “I’m to present the Lady Frey while Jon is to escort you princess. That is, if you’d have us.”

“After all his hospitality, I could not refuse Lord Stark’s offer.” She replied before gesturing to the knight. “If you’d accept having the good knight as a chaperone.”

“We expected as much.” Jon nodded. “Ser, stay as close as you deem necessary.”

“You know me too well my prince.” Barristan replied in a way that always pleased Dany, as if he was letting them get away with some secret mischief.

“Well then, my lady, it would be a pleasure.” Robb spoke softly as he offered his arm to Roslin. “My mother told me she knew your own from years past. She said you look very alike.”

“Thank you. I barely remember her. She died when I was young but my brothers have said the same. I like to think that I see her when I look in looking glass.”

Roslin stopped her rambling then, grasping Robb’s arm shyly and acting embarrassed at speaking so freely. Robb took it all in stride though.

“I imagine she was quite lovely then.”

Oh thank the Mother for Robb Stark.

Roslin deserves to be courted so well by a young man so comely.

Dany smiled as her friend blushed at the compliment. Elara’s face however darkened some at the Stark heir’s charm toward their friend.

“Princess.” Jon said, holding out an arm. “Shall we?”

Dany took hold of it and soon after they began their journey down the torch lit corridor. As they walked, she took notice of how Jon’s arm felt under her touch. It confirmed something she’d thought when she first saw him outside. During their years apart, he’d gone from being a scrawny boy to a lean, hard young man. While not as broad and strong looking as Robb Stark, Jon was taller and able bodied. His arm was sinewy with muscle and she blushed slightly at the promise of strength there.

They’d begun descending the stairs when Roslin’s stifled laugh made her turn. Her friend was giggling and Robb ended his jest, basking in the sweet sound. Elara was whispering something in Domeric’s ear, which prompted the lordling to hold three fingers. All this transpired while her own escort seemed content at being stone-faced and silent.

She wasn’t happy with that at all.

“Did I embarrass you earlier?”

“What? When?” Jon asked, feigning ignorance. He was never good at lying when they were children and it seemed that hadn't changed.

“You know when, I’m sorry if I did. I was just excited to see you.” Dany didn't need Cersei scolding her to know that she'd made a spectacle of their reunion.

She just wasn't able to help herself.

“It was no bother.” He shrugged.

“Don’t lie.” Dany caught hold of a memory then and attacked with it. “You made that same face when someone would catch us playing Florian and Jonquil in the gardens…” 

“Dany!’ He hissed. “Not so loud.”

She laughed, just as she would when a young Jon would dodge the eager kisses of a younger Daenerys.

“You’re still too shy. Don’t they play such games here in the North? I know they don’t lack for pretty ladies. Your cousin Sansa would surely made a fine Jonquil.”

“She probably could have. Sansa loves those stories as much as you did, but I gave up games and stories for swords long ago.” He gave a hint of a smile before leaning towards her and whispering softly. “Besides, I wasn’t looking for another Jonquil.”

Dany was teasing about the Stark girl yet a part of her was glad to hear him say something like that. Arriving to find a beautiful maiden among Lord Stark’s daughters had caused a worry to flutter up in her stomach. Jon’s words filled her with a more pleasant feeling, a hopeful one.

He said I looked like a dream. Now he’s calling me his Jonquil… dare I hope?

“Swords aren't all you’ve learned.” She exhaled the breath caught in her chest. “Someone has taught you charm.”

Dany must have spoken too loudly, for a laugh burst forth from behind them.

“You must say so to my mother princess.” Robb jumped in. “I swear she won’t believe it from me. You should hear her, telling Jon not to be so down all the time and to smile more. What did my mother say the other day Dom?”

“That Jon can stand tall against a foe with a blade but wilts to pay a lady a compliment.”

Poor Jon looked mortified while the rest of their party laughed loudly. Dany felt sorry for him but couldn’t help laughing as well. Elara and Roslin joined in and she even caught Barristan chuckling quietly to himself. It was a pleasant moment that she wished to go on forever.

“I will tell your mother just that! Lady Stark should know it’s in his blood though.”

“Do you mean Uncle Benjen?” Robb asked, a bemused expression on his face. “I never thought him shy but-”

“No, no, not his Stark blood.” Danny shook her head. “I’m speaking of my brother, his father! Jon has always been as solemn as Rhaegar. My brother rarely speaks to a lady’s charms, but when he does they all blush. Don’t they Roslin?”

Dany didn’t wait for a response before glancing to Jon, expecting him to smile at the words. Instead she found his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed, as if she'd wounded him with her words.

“I’m nothing like him.”

His tone sent a chill through her. The anger there was something she only saw in Jon once. It bordered on something else that she didn’t want to think of, something far worse. The good mood of their party melted away almost immediately.

“It was a compliment Jon.”

“If you say so.” He said dismissively.

“I don't just say so, it’s the truth. Rhaegar’s a good king and a better man.”

“Unless you’re married to him.”

Roslin gasped and Dany stopped midstride, forcing Jon to do so as well.

“You don’t mean that! Say you didn’t!” She tried to meet his eyes but his gaze was set upon the wall behind her. While Jon stayed silent, his cousin sighed loudly.

“Come on Jon… let it be.” Robb laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder, the prince’s feelings clearly no surprise to him. “There’s a feast on and people are waiting for us.”

Jon nodded, plainly keen to be on their way but she was having none of it.

“You’re right my lord.” She agreed, waving at the others. “Please continue on, we’ll follow behind shortly.”

The others began to argue against it but she insisted. Dany was not in a mood to arrive at the feast with Jon acting so foolishly, it went against all the hopes she had. The other two couples eventually walked off while Barristan remained, forever vigilant from a few steps away. Jon’s eyes followed the departing group, likely longing to be with them.

“We should go on Daenerys. People will talk.”

“Let them. What’s the matter with you? You haven’t seen your father for years, and when you do you speak nonsense about him.” She grabbed at his hands. “What happened to the little boy who wanted to follow Rhaegar wherever he went? Who got upset whenever his father would ride off from the capital without him?

“That boy was sent away.” Jon jerked away from her grasp. “My father sent me away for five years Daenerys. You really think he cares for me? If letters made fathers then Tyrion Lannister would be mine while the king is some... some stranger to me. He’s not what you think and you’re blind to it. Whoever loves him suffers, they even die for it.”

His mother, she realized, this is all about Lyanna Stark.

“Your mother’s death wasn’t his fault-”

“What happened to speaking truths? Fine, if you don’t hold him to blame for her death then what about Elia Martell? Or your father? Even your mother might have lived-”

“Stop!”

Dany had heard many others talk like this before, laying the blame for all those deaths at Rhaegar’s feet. Viserys had always been the worst of them, but never Jon.

“Rhaegar didn’t kill any of them. We’re more to blame for our mothers’ deaths than him.”

“It doesn’t change-”

“And we both know who killed Elia Martell and how the Kingslayer dealt with him. My brother is innocent.”

“Did he not lead my mother away from her family and to her death? Worse still he left his wife and children in the capital at the mercy of a mad man.” Jon paused then, as if he’d said something about her father that she'd never heard before. “The rebellion was Rhaegar’s fault which means all that sprung from it his fault as well. Maybe your mother might have lived if she’d stayed in the capital. Elia wouldn’t have been killed by your father… maybe even King Aerys could’ve-”

“Don’t be a fool. There was no hope for my father, not after all he did.” She had long accepted the crimes of the Mad King, just as Rhaegar accepted her as a sister. “If the Kingslayer hadn't done it than someone else would have. Lord Stark maybe.”

“Perhaps. He had reason.”

There was truth in that. Whatever deaths Jon laid at his father’s feet, they could not be compared to the crimes of her own father. Men burned alive, entire families wiped out, his own gooddaughter slain at his word. Such was the legacy of Aerys Targaryen. She always marveled at how kindly Rhaenys and Aegon treated the daughter of their mother’s killer, Rhaenys most of all.

Viserys would rage in defense of their father’s memory but she had no memories of the man to defend. Yet Dany always rose to defend the king who was as much a father to her as an elder brother could be.

She could never bring herself to hurt Jon, but anger bid her to shove him gently then. He looked at her in shock, like he did when they were ten years old.

“Rhaegar had plenty of reason to send me and Viserys away. Exile us on Dragonstone or-or lock us in some tower. Instead he treated us like family. He raised me alongside his own children. He allowed me to know you, and I love him for that.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond but nothing came forth. His tensed and drawn face began to relax.

“Oh? Did I find something you don’t fault him for?”

“Fine, in that he did well by you.” He said before rubbing his chin in thought. “But the idea of Viserys locked in a tower doesn’t sound too bad.”

“It would've been better for you if he had been.” Her words made Jon chuckle but she wasn’t making a jest.

For Viserys was the source of her greatest shame, the reason that Jon and she were even in Winterfell now.

It was only five years ago but it felt like they had both been far younger. Two small, lonely children living in the shadow of their fathers' past misdeeds. Playing at being other people in the gardens was always a happy escape for them. She still remembered that day, she’d been Queen Naerys and Jon had been Aemon the Dragonknight.

It was supposed to end with Aemon finally earning a kiss from his queen when a servant had arrived, saying that Dany had been called for a meal with the other princesses. Jon had looked confused at the time, for this woman had not been a familiar one, but Dany had not argued and was led away from.

Following after the woman down an empty corridor, things had become stranger. The servant walked much too briskly for Dany’s small legs, until she lost sight of her around a corner. When she rounded that corner someone had grabbed her from a shadow alcove. For a moment she’d feared it a monster or perhaps Rhaenys playing a jest.

Terror had filled her when saw who the culprit was.

For it was a monster she feared more than any.

“You little whore.” Viserys had hissed at her, his hands gripping her arms painfully. “I see you, debasing yourself with that bastard! The whole castle sees you!”

“I didn’t!” She’d protested, terribly scared because they were alone. She heard what Viserys did to servant girls when they were left alone with him.

“Liar! You woke the dragon you little lying whore!” Viserys tightened his grip and she'd cried out while his eyes narrowed, full of hate. “I told you who you’re meant to marry! The true heir to the throne, not some thief who betrayed our father!”

“Viserys please…” She’d begged instead of fighting back. “I’m sorry…”

He ignored her pleas before raising a hand to strike her. That was when Jon had come, tackling her much older and taller brother. She feared for Jon then yet did nothing.

“Monster!” Jon yelled, raining fists down upon Viserys. “You don’t touch her! Not her! Monster!”

Viserys had struggled to get Jon off of him while he continued his attack, their cries eventually drawing some of the castle guard to break up the assault. Dany had just stood there the whole time, a weak, crying, pathetic thing. She was little better when they brought her before Rhaegar and the rest of court, to speak to what had happened.

Under Viserys’s rage filled gaze, and the judgement of all gathered, her voice had fallen away. Dany barely nodded at the questions put before her. She had just wanted it to end, so that she and Jon could run away to the gardens again. If they made Viserys even angrier she knew he’d find her again. It was always best to just let him be, so his rage could die away safely from afar. So she had given in to her fears, lying that Viserys had never meant to strike her, that Jon had only defended her out of nobility.

“A tragic misunderstanding then.” Rhaegar had said sadly. “None are truly at fault then Daenerys?”

She quickly nodded, praying that it would just end.

Afterwards, when she'd heard that Viserys was being sent away, she was so joyful. Foolishly Dany had believed Jon and her torments would finally be at an end. That somehow by not speaking the truth, she'd given them a happy ending.

Cowards didn’t get happy endings though.

No one came to tell her that Jon was sent away as well until he was already gone. Brokenhearted and weeping, she’d gone to Rhaegar, admitting to the whole thing and hoping to bring Jon back. Yet Rhaegar could do nothing. By the time he’d thought to send for Jon, the attack at the God’s Eye had already happened and Jon was to go even farther away.

“It is not a punishment Daenerys, not for Jon or you.” Rhaegar had soothed her tears against his chest. “It is for his safety. I cannot bear the thought of anyone trying to harm my son and the Starks will do well by him. Let the distance between us protect him. For Jon’s own good, we must be strong now. We must let him go.”

She couldn’t just let him go though, not without a farewell. Rhaegar had allowed her that at least, and only her. He had impressed upon her the need that no one know which port that Jon left from. Which was why he had to remain at court while she went forth alone.

The memory of watching his ship sail away through the haze of her tears had burned itself into her memory forever. Whenever Dany felt threatened or scared, it was that ship she thought of. Instead of acting weak or hiding, she’d do as Rhaegar asked her.

She would be strong.

“Viserys kept up being a monster toward you, didn't he?” Jon asked. “Even after they brought him back to the capital… of course, my father rewards him with a tour of the Free Cities! I suppose that's justice in Rhaegar's eyes.”

“Oh Jon, that was just a story I had to tell you in my letter.” She said, keeping her voice as low as she could. “Viserys is not on some pleasure trip... he was exiled.”

“What?”

“Quietly.” She hissed. “Exiled, for five years. That story about Rhaegar funding him to travel east was to spare the court embarrassment...”

“Truly?” Jon’s mood improved suddenly. He stepped toward her, smiling when she nodded. “By the gods, how long did we pray for that? You at the sept and me at that bloody stump! I thought I needed a real weirwood and that’s why it never worked…

“It wasn’t prayers Jon, it was Rhaegar. Your father.”

In truth, Viserys was the real reason yet now wasn't the time for that story, not while Jon’s mood was starting to improve. Telling him more might ruin what progress she’d made with her solemn prince.

“Please, find it in your heart to see your father for who he truly is. I love you both too much to watch you quarrel.” She touched Jon’s cheek, her fingers tingling to find that his cold demeanor hid such warm skin.

“I have missed you so much… I’ve wanted this moment for so many years…”

“And I ruined it.” He scowled before gazing into her eyes with own dark grey ones, his face leaning slightly into her touch. “I missed you Dany, so badly that it hurt to think on… and what do I do? I push you away from me. The first chance we get to talk and I act monstrously toward you.”

“Jon…”

“You deserve better. You deserve to be told that you are a vision… the kind of beauty that men sing about. As true a princess as any story or song... instead you get some idiot who forgot to say all of this when it mattered.”

“No, this is the perfect time.” Dany moved even closer to him, willing him to forget what he thought she deserved and to see what she wanted. “This is the perfect moment.”

Their faces grew so close she knew the time was right.

Yet she was wrong.

For the moment was far from perfect. That moment would’ve had them alone, where the Dragonknight could have kissed his forbidden love. Instead of feeling a prince’s lips on her own Dany heard the sound of Ser Barristan clearing his throat. It was the knight’s little way of telling them that things were not as proper as they could be.

“Oh gods, we’re going to be the last ones to arrive.” Jon broke away from her, quickly taking her arm and placing it around his again. “If we’re late to the feast, Lady Catelyn will call me a poor escort and not much of a prince.”

“We don’t want to disappoint everyone.” She said as she let Jon continue leading them on. Deep down though, she didn’t care if they disappointed Lady Catelyn, the Starks, or even the entire realm. They could call Jon a poor escort and prince all they wanted.

As long as he was her prince.

 

CATELYN

 

The feast was well and truly on around her.

The sounds of laughter and shouts rang throughout the Great Hall. The music of their visiting bard was almost drowned in the merriment, yet the man played on. His chords rose just above the din, as the smoke from fires hung above the darkened rafters. The tables were full of roasted meat other fare, and nary a man raised a hand without a cup of wine or ale in it.

Not since the Bronze Yohn Royce and his son had visited on their way to the Wall had Winterfell seen such a celebration. Even her husband and the king were infected by the good cheer.

From her place at the high table she could see them both clearly. Ned and Rhaegar sat beside one another and, given the raucousness in the hall, both seemed out of place. She wondered how many would realize that Ned’s plain expression was a far cry from the grim, cold one he usually held around the king. Cat did not know Rhaegar well, yet the sorrowful king managed a smile now and again as he watched their two houses intermingle.

Jon and Sansa’s betrothal hasn't even been announced and look how things have improved already.

This is just a taste of what’s to come, some peace between Ned and Rhaegar.

Peace at last.

While the two fathers sat in reticent reflection, their children acted the opposite. Amidst an open space between the tables were a group of dancers, chief among them was her eldest child.

Robb had started the festivities by asking Princess Daenerys to dance, although the silver haired girl was not his first choice. She doubted that many had noticed Robb approaching the Frey lady first, but the poor thing had shied from his request. Becoming a spectacle proved too daunting for the lady.

But not for Princess Daenerys.

The entire hall had clapped as Robb and the princess descended the dais. Then they’d roared with laughter when the bard began to play the Bear and the Maiden Fair.

Once the laughter died down, the musician had quickly changed to a more suitable tune. Robb did not miss a step as he led the princess about, and she had to admit that they made a dashing couple. Cat though to remind Robb later of how he complained whenever she forced the boys to learn some dance steps. She hoped that when Jon finally worked up the courage to bring Sansa out to the floor that they would look half as handsome together.

As if hearing her thoughts, the Queen began to speak to her.

“He’s not yet promised?” Cersei asked from beside her. “Your eldest? I’d actually heard that none of your children are betrothed?”

“None your grace.”

The queen made a noncommittal sound to that.

“Handsome as the first two are, it would be a quick thing to find a match if they were in a less… isolated place. At court it would be a different matter altogether. Or even Riverrun. You must miss it.”

Cersei took the smallest sip of her wine, looking quite pleased with herself. Those insults disguised as compliments were becoming frequent, yet Cat knew better than to rise to the challenge. She was almost impressed that the Queen had stumbled upon the one barb that might prick Cat some. It was an accident of course.

There was no way Cersei could know how she had once despaired making Winterfell her home over bright and beautiful Riverrun. Her birthplace saw frequent visitors and feasts, it was warm where Winterfell was cold, the people already loving her while she had to earn the respect of the North. All these things had once bothered her greatly.

But no more.

“Oh, there’s been several offers, hardly a lord visits our castle without trying to make a match.” Cat smiled as widely as possible. “We’ve yet to decide on any so far. I’ve heard it's the same for your children as well? That none have had matches made?”

Cersei’s green eyes simmered with anger. Looking her up and down like a cat might regard a mouse. She wasn’t intimidated though. Others might fear the queen but Cat had been forced to earn the respect of northern lords who saw her as no more than a southron flower. However sharp-tongued Cersei was she could not compare to the fearsome Greatjon Umber or chilling Roose Bolton.

“My children shall be matched when the time is right.” Cersei turned from her to regard the children again. “It is a hard thing to find a husband or bride worthy of a royal match.”

Is that why Rhaegar married twice before finally settling for you?

Cat kept that question to herself as she turned to follow the queen’s gaze to the festivities. Robb and the princess had ended their dance, and while Jon simply watched before, the young prince now stirred. Much like Robb did, Jon made her proud by offering a dance to Sansa. She wanted to watch even more yet Robb had run forward, grabbing at Bran and pulling him forth so that Daenerys could have a dance with her sweet boy. Many clapped as Bran took the princess’s hands as if in a trance.

She would have clapped as well had Robb not sought Roslin Frey again. This time his urging finally bore fruit as the lady blushed and accepted his offer. As the three couples made their way to the dance floor, a fourth began to join them, Ser Arthur leading a lady that made Cat wary.

When the feast began Rhaegar had escorted Cat into the hall just as Ned did for the Cersei, so she’d already been seated at the high table when the children filtered in. Robb had been paired with Daenerys, Jon with Sansa, and Domeric with Roslin. While Arya leading Rickon was a sweet sight, the lady who held Bran’s hand almost caused Cat to spill her wine.

Her revealing attire aside, it was that girl’s face that startled Cat.

For the lady bore such a resemblance to Ashara Dayne that it could not be coincidence. Even in the North she’d heard the rumors that Ashara had become with child yet she'd never believed the whispers of who the father was.

Once she’d thought to question Ned on the rumors he’d gotten the great beauty Ashara Dayne with child. It was not unheard of for men to father bastards, many did so even after taking marriage vows, yet she never suspected such a thing of Ned. Still, a part of her had been driven to seek the truth when Robb had been but a babe.

“I’ve heard… I’ve heard that Lady Ashara and you were... close.... at the Tourney of Harrenhal.” She asked as they'd watched Robb slumber in his crib. “That perhaps, before we were married, you and her…”

“We danced Cat.” He’d taken her hands into his and looked at her with eyes that never lied to her. “Whatever you've heard, whatever you might think, I swear that you are the only woman I've ever loved, the only woman I’ve ever fathered a child with… yet you must never ask me of Ashara’s child again.”

“But if you are not the father-”

“Cat, please, never again.”

The memory rankled with what she believed was the truth. Her husband had been ashamed to leave his sister’s child behind in the south, surely such a man would not abandon his own daughter. Yet Ned’s need for secrecy bothered her, and while she saw no sign of him in the strange visiting lady, her pale complexion marked her as having Northern blood.

Cersei had been all too happy to point out her identity.

“That is Ashara Dayne’s bastard daughter, Elara Sand.” The queen had smiled. “Oh, forgive me, I forgot. Ser Arthur somehow convinced my husband to legitimize her. She’s Elara Dayne now, that’s a true lady your son escorts…”

Cat had been stricken by that. Learning that Ned had not told her of the girl’s arrival here was bad enough. Arranging for their son, her sweet Bran, to escort Elara to the feast, considering her status, felt like a slap to the face. With these feelings tormenting Ned acted troubled himself. He had watched Bran coming with his hands cupped together and pressed to his mouth, deep in thought.

What is happening here Ned? Who is this girl to you?

After Arthur and his mysterious niece ended their dance, others were inspired from around the hall to take part. When Rhaegar descended to dais for a dance with Daenerys it marked the point of the feast where it became less ceremony and more genuine celebration. She watched Domeric and Sansa pair up while Jon led the very eager Jeyne Poole in some steps.

Those relations mattered little to her though. For Robb and Roslin still had not separated, which gave her some pause.

As more songs were played and dances went on, that pause became a concern. While others switched partners, Robb and Roslin stayed together. Robb had not stopped smiling and the girl’s eyes rarely left his face.

“House Frey has risen greatly in little time.” Cersei said, reading her mind again. “I know Lady Roslin is the daughter of Lord Walder’s sixth wife, but I can’t rightly place what number daughter that makes her. No matter though. Your son seems quite taken with her.”

“You’re right of course, the Freys have risen high. There are few richer or stronger in the Riverlands, save House Tully of course.” She did not have to force a smile, for she only spoke the truth next. “No members of House Tully or Stark have ever joined with a Frey to my knowledge, though a Lannister has joined with a Frey if I remember correctly. Your aunt, Lord Tywin’s sister, she married Lord Walder’s second son did she not?”

“She did.” Cersei fingers tightened upon her goblet.

“Well, any house worthy of a match with House Lannister is suitable enough to dance with, at the very least, wouldn't you say?”

When Cersei did not so much as look her way, Cat imagined that was the end of that.

A round of cheers went up and stole her attention away again. The sight that everyone cheered warmed her heart, for Jon had chosen a new partner and it was someone she did not expect.

His choice made Cat unspeakably thankful.

Arya was staring up at the prince, her eyes wide and her steps awkward because of it. Cat spotted the girl’s foot tramping upon one of Jon’s, and Cat winced at the sight. Jon himself gave no sign that it happened. Instead he was speaking to Arya, and while Cat couldn’t hear the words, Arya nodded and smiled prettily. Jon was leading her through a simple dance, offering that rare smile of his own. He continued speaking, perhaps even joking with Arya. It all worked to put her daughter's mind at ease, and soon Arya's nervousness seemed to wash away.

May the Maiden bless him.

Ned was watching and smiling as well but Rhaegar's reaction was oddly different. His eyes followed Jon and Arya's dancing yet they seemed unfocused, as if the king was lost in thought.

I thought I saw the ghost of Ashara Dayne earlier. What ghost does he see?

Rhaegar suddenly snapped out of his distraction to wave one of his serving men forward. After some quick words, the man dashed away out of the hall. Cat returned to watching her children dancing and was surprised to see Jon coming towards her.

“Have you tired my prince?”

“No my lady.” Jon smiled up at her. “All the practice you had us do worked wonders.”

“You had little time to practice in the capital. Too business fighting princes, if I remember correctly.” Cersei swished her wine about. “It appears your distance from the royal family has been good for everyone.”

You spiteful bitch, you leave him be.

Cat’s anger almost got the better of her then, for she saw the hurt flash across Jon’s face. It was not in her to ignore such pain in a child that she took care of as her own for five years. Before she could give voice to her dark thoughts, Jon leaned forward.

“A dance aunt? I’d be honored if you would.”

Cersei was shocked by the offer, which pleased her to see, so Cat accepted all the quicker. She’d been the one to guide all her children through the proper steps during their lessons, so this would not be her first dance with Jon. Yet to her it felt special, for she knew that soon this young man would be her goodson. He grasped her hip and held her hand gently, and she prayed that Jon would treat Sansa so tenderly.

Ned was always gentle with her, so unlike the Stark she’d been meant to marry.

The wine and music caused turned her thoughts to Brandon then, and the last dance she had with her betrothed. It was not lost on her, that so many events of great significance had taken place at the Tourney of Harrenhal, but for Cat it would always be the place that she met Brandon for the first time. Ned she wouldn’t meet until long after, for while he was at the tourney she couldn’t remember seeing him there. Her youthful eyes were only for the handsome and newly-made Kingsguard Jaime Lannister, the beautiful Prince Rhaegar, and her dashing husband to be.

“Is it wrong to wish that this was our wedding celebration?” Brandon had asked as he gripped her tightly against himself, far closer than proper yet she yielded easily enough.

“Oh what I would give if tonight was our wedding night.”

“That would be splendid of course, though I think I should be better dressed on our wedding day.” She’d gestured down at her gown of green and satin, picturing the one of blue and crimson she kept back at Riverrun.

“Trust me my lady, this dress or any other, it doesn't matter. I prefer your gowns wrinkled on the floor of our rooms.”

The talk had been far bawdier than she was prepared for, but something about Brandon made it exciting. She’d played along for a time, allowing his rough caresses and enjoying the way he pressed against her, all while accepting that one day this would be her husband. They would lay together and she would bear his children.

Yet not that night, she made that clear to Brandon.

He took her rejection in stride, almost eager to see her back to her tent so that she would know he accepted her decision. Somehow Brandon had snatched some gallantry from an evening full of lusty advances, and she fell asleep that night thinking of what their wedding night might be like.

The next morning Brandon had been in a foul mood, bruised somewhat and evasive about his injuries. He still had nothing but kind words and jests for her, which made her laugh so hard that her sides hurt, yet a pall had come over him.

He'd acted so charming and gallant that she'd almost wished that she'd given in to his wants the night before. Cat had comforted herself with the thought that the lost opportunity with the handsome, bold man would come again when they were married.

Of course, her hopes had been for naught, for rather than the bold heir that she’d wanted, her father had ordered that she marry the solemn younger brother instead.

And I couldn’t be happier, I truly couldn’t.

Look at the life he has given me.

As Jon guided her through steps that she had taught him, she smiled up at her husband, who leaned back in his chair with a look in his eye that she knew quite well. The wine was taking hold at this point, and being spun about by a handsome young man only added to her eagerness for Ned to find her chambers. Whatever Brandon could’ve offered her was not meant to be. Meanwhile Ned’s lovemaking was more than she could ask.

While he might stumble to dance with her, Ned never fumbled with her laces, nor when he ran his hands and mouth against the parts of her that held the greatest need.

The thought actually made her blush some and she pushed it away, for her hand had begun to sweat within poor Jon’s grasp.

“Is all well?” He asked her, looking worried all of a sudden. “Is this the wrong step?”

“No, you’re doing well.” She smiled at him, taking the chance to free her hand for a moment to lay up his shoulder. “Quite well in fact, I must thank you for how well you led Sansa and Arya.”

“It’s actually easier with them.” Jon admitted. “Sansa’s just so practiced, and Arya... well she’s just a natural.”

“Arya?”

The prince nodded, taking her hand back in his and lifting it high so that she could turn about him, a move she was glad he remembered. In her mind though, Arya had never taken to her dancing lessons. Perhaps on the nights the young ones had Domeric play for them revealed something she did not see.

“I’m surprised to hear so, I just thought she’d scare you all away… too many stomped upon toes would mean young men missing time in the training yard.”

“Arya has never scared me!” Jon laughed. “I’m more scared of you than anyone.”

“Me?” She tried not to be insulted.

“I didn’t mean you’re scary!” He almost shouted and they faltered some in their steps. “No, not that at all… I only mean, well, dancing with the girls is for fun. Dancing with you is…”

“Not fun?”

“No… it’s important.” Jon’s grey eyes found hers and they were somehow softer than she remembered. “Everyone says my mother liked to dance…”

“Ned and Benjen told me the same.” She nodded. In truth, half the castle had probably shared a dance with Lyanna, for she impressed them all into her service. “I think she’d be proud of how well you do.”

“You taught me though… I’d make you proud.” Jon lowered his eyes then. “I’d rather you be-”

The prince could not finish his words, yet in her heart, she had heard what he meant to share, whether he spoke to it or not. This young man was not her blood, only a nephew through marriage, yet she could not deny loving him. As they danced, she realized how her heart filled with the same feeling that it did with Robb and Bran.

He is more than just some ward, she thought, he is to be my son…

 “I am proud of you Jon Targaryen.” She squeezed his hand and willed his eyes upward again. “Your mother would be too. Any mother would be happy with such a son.”

Jon met her eyes yet said no more, instead he spun her once again. She took the time to gaze upon the others around them. Robb had finally torn himself away from Roslin and was dancing with Arya, while Sansa was guiding Bran through some steps. None were squabbling, nor did any embarrass with missteps or foolish behavior. It was a truly magical moment, when peace and happiness reigned over the hall and all her children were united in it.

The song ended too quickly for her liking.

Jon bowed to her before another eager partner moved to take her place in his arms. The princess laughed as she almost leapt into Jon’s arms, much as she did in the courtyard. Doing her best not to show disdain for Daenery's behavior Cat couldn’t help but be reminded of Lysa when she chased after Petyr in their youth.

As the two danced, she had a notion they gazed upon each other as if there was no world beyond them. Jon appeared bemused while the girl’s smile was wide, her cheeks a bit flushed.

Did I look like that when Brandon danced with me?

“Mother?” Sansa broke in, wringing her hands as she watched the pair dancing as well. “Mother, I did all you said… I did all I could but… she’s a true princess…”

“What are you saying sweetling?”

She took Sansa’s shoulders and led her towards the table where Domeric and Jory Cassel were sharing an ale. One look from her made both men flee.

“When I was in her chambers helping her unpack, all she did was ask of Jon... Arya answered her every question like a fool and I couldn’t-”

“Hush, you know Jon and his aunt are close. They always have been.” Cat said, wishing to put her daughter’s mind at ease yet she would not disappoint Ned in sharing their arrangements once more.

“You saw her when they arrived! I’ve never run to Robb like that.” Sansa sounded as if she’d stamp her foot, her eyes beginning to glisten. “How can a prince want a silly northern girl like me when he can have a beautiful silver princess? I failed mother, I’m sorry…”

“Nonsense, Sansa stop this.” She chided her daughter. “I did not raise you to break down and weep in the middle of a feast, especially for such foolhardy reasons. Would a true princess act so?”

Sansa’s lip quivered but the scolding had succeeded in pushing back her tears for the moment. She couldn’t hold the girl’s fears against her though, not after weeks of pushing Sansa closer to Jon. Those efforts had led to her suggesting that Sansa speak with Arya about Jon’s interests since the two got along so well. Cat had liked the idea of her daughters bonding over something other than mutual dislike.

“They’re celebrating, not making love.” Another voice broke in and Cat frowned to see Ser Oswell listening in on their conversation.

“Has no one ever told you that it is rude to listen in on the private discussions of ladies?”

“Yes.” Oswell finished his ale before fixing his eyes on Sansa. “Fear not my lady, I don’t think your efforts have been wasted.”

“Efforts? I’m sorry ser, I-I don’t…”

“Had too much wine girl? I like you even more.” Oswell smirked before catching Cat's darkening look, for the she thought it high time that the knight excused himself. “I heard it from the prince myself, Daenerys told him of Prince Viserys being sent away from the capital again. Trust me, Jon and the princess have ample reason to celebrate that news. A man who wasn’t sworn to the Kingsguard might say good riddance to that foul-mouthed, maddening little shit…”

“You are sworn to the Kingsguard.” Sansa offered and Oswell mockingly grabbed hold of his cloak and widened his eyes.

“Well I guess I can’t say good riddance then!”

Cat was still annoyed with the ser's behavior, yet thought that Oswell’s words made some sense. She knew it was a fight with Viserys Targaryen that sent both him and Jon away from the capital in the first place. If this princess brought news of that man being banished, then all of Jon’s good cheer could be explained away.

Sansa however did not know such things and could not share in her relief.

“You two danced together, just as elegantly as he does now with his aunt if I do say so myself. Did he not ask you to dance first sweetling?” She asked, brushing aside a strand of her daughter’s beautiful hair. “Your father wants to see you and Jon married, don't you trust him to see it done?”

Sansa offered a weak nod and her heart went out to the poor girl. She blamed herself, for if she'd kept their plans secret like Ned had bid her, Sansa wouldn't have reason to worry now. It was cruel irony that Cat knew that her daughter's fears were toothless yet was unable to share such news with her.

Suddenly a shout of excitement went up from the back of the hall. More followed and Cat saw that Rhaegar’s man had returned, carrying something in his arms. As he neared the high table, she understood at once the reason for the uproar. For the object he carried was a silver harp, wrought in the shape of dragons and so polished it gleamed in the torchlight.

Rhaegar’s harp... the one he played at Harrenhal.

She wasn’t the only one to stop and take notice. The music silenced, all the dancers stopped and watched in awe until it seemed every eye in the hall was on the king. When the harp arrived before the dais Rhaegar did not take it, instead holding up a hand for all to see.

“Good people!” The king hailed them all, his voice ringing out like a hammer against iron. “Good people of Winterfell. Guests from other lands! Forgive me for interrupting Lord Stark’s gracious feast. To do so was difficult. I have great respect for the North and its peoples, even more for House Stark.”

Rhaegar gestured towards Ned then without looking at him. Her husband acted confused, and taking their lord's lead, the men began to murmur cautiously.

“Mother what is happening?”

“Quiet Sansa.” Cat smiled widely, for she was not as confused as Ned. There was no doubt in her mind what was about to happen. “Listen my love, just listen.”

“We’ve had our differences!” Rhaegar continued. “None can argue that. Our tragedies as well.”

Rhaegar paused and Ned shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She prayed that the king would not elaborate any further on the losses he spoke of.

“Yet those times are behind us! We fought together to drive the krakens back into the sea and made Lord Greyjoy bend the knee. I look forward to a time when battle need not bind us, to a time when none would ever question the friendship between House Targaryen and Stark. The bond between direwolf and dragon… ice and fire! Your lord has done much to bring that time closer at hand. He took my son to ward and from what I see of Prince Jon today... I know I chose wisely in that. My own words are poor praise though.”

The king waved at Jon, beckoning him forward. The prince looked as uncomfortable as Ned but left Daenerys’ side to stand before the high table. Others backed away as if expecting a thunderbolt to escape the king’s gaze and strike his son down. Instead the Rhaegar smiled and posed a question to Jon.

“My son, I ask you to tell me, what gods do you pray to?”

“I follow the old gods your grace.” Jon answered. “The gods of my mother and my uncles. Of the Starks who came before them.”

“And what would you tell me of Lord Eddard?”

Jon looked about uneasily then, finding all eyes on him, and she saw how he almost wilted under the weight of it. Yet the prince sought Ned out at the high table and found him watching as well. Something changed in the young man then. He straightened before her eyes, his head held high to call out his answer.

“Eddard Stark is a man of honor! Firm but fair to all in his care! Kind and knowing! My mother’s brother!” Jon was speaking directly to Ned then, ignoring his own father completely. “I’d tell him that he’s a great lord and a better man…”

“Hear hear!” She recognized Jory’s shout and more took up the cry, including Robb.

As uplifting as the cheers were, it was a shame that they'd drowned out the last parts of Jon’s speech. Words she'd heard clearly enough.

“A man I love…”

“Fine words, my son.” Rhaegar spoke the words as if to remind all that were present who Jon’s father was. “I expected to hear as much. The prince speaks of a great lord, the head of a great house, a house to which I owe a debt. That is why tonight, his lordship and I discussed a way for our houses could brought together. A way for House Targaryen and Stark to see their way through past hardships, to a brighter future…”

Rhaegar’s eyes searched the hall then, moving across the tables, the idle dancers, until they finally fell upon Cat and Sansa. The king’s lilac eyes were far warmer than she remembered, his smile a bright light that focused attention upon them.

“Lady Catelyn, would you bring your daughter forward?”

She did so, gently urging Sansa on as the girl moved as if in trance, her eyes locked upon the king looking down upon them. Robb whispered something to her as she passed while Jon kept moving his gaze back between his father and Sansa, at a seeming loss. When Cat had delivered Sansa to Jon’s side, Rhaegar clapped his hands together.

“This, these two below us, are how Targaryen and Stark shall find common ground again. From their union hope will spring forth. Let today be henceforth known as the day that Lord Eddard and I agreed for my son to wed his eldest daughter. For Prince Jon Targaryen and Lady Sansa Stark to be betrothed for marriage!”

Everything became silent then, not a sound could be heard in the entire hall save gasps of surprise and the crackling of fires.

“A dragon for my goodbrother?” Robb roared, pushing through all others to join Jon and Sansa before the dais. “This man is to marry my sister?”

Jon paled at Robb’s actions while her son looked about the hall full of surprised people, his face a stern mask that even she could not read. Until it broke into a smile and he turned to face Jon.

“How can I gain a brother when Jon was my brother all along?” Robb asked as he went forward to embrace both Sansa and Jon in his arms, pulling them together.

“Be you wolves or sheep?” Ser Oswell shouted. “Howl you bastards!” 

The knight’s vulgar words broke through the wall of silence in the hall.

Erupting all around her came a deafening chorus of shouts and applause among the revelers, all celebrating the announcement. Sansa was soon surrounded by ladies congratulating her, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel practically jumping up and down and screaming. Sansa was glowing from the praise and Cat was in wonder at how quickly she could go from being near tears, to smiling so widely that her cheeks would surely hurt tomorrow. Robb’s hands would surely hurt as well, for her son clapped hard and with great vigor.

Even Cersei had a smile plastered across her smug face at the announcement.

Everywhere Cat looked, she saw joy.

Everywhere except on the faces of the prince and the princess.

Daenerys had retreated to a corner of the room where she clasped the hands of both Roslin Frey and Elara Dayne. There was no grief or jealousy on the princess’s face, in fact all emotion appeared to have been drained away. Daenerys merely stared up at the king, like he was meant to say more but hadn’t done so yet. Roslin was speaking quietly to her while Elara met Cat’s gaze. Her dark, violet eyes were surprisingly fearsome in their wroth.

She had better things to worry about than the anger of some Dornish bastard though. For Jon acted little better than Daenerys in that moment. While others clapped his shoulders, calling out in good cheer, the prince appeared lost. He reminded her then of an abandoned fishing boat she’d once seen floating down the Red Fork, moving along with the current despite having no one to guide it.

Just like you felt when father brought Ned before you in the sept.

And look at all the happiness that sprung from that…

Yet Cat couldn’t shake the comparison so easily. For Ned had been but the replacement for the lord she was always meant to marry. The man she once dreamed of.

Is Sansa just a replacement as well?

Does Jon dream of someone else?

 

ARYA

 

“Arya move.”

Robb shoved her back, pushing until she was among the press of people staring at Jon and Sansa.

Everyone was jostling to give them the floor while still trying to get a good view of her cousin and sister. They were making space so the two could dance, which wasn’t fair.

Jon said he’d dance with me again after Princess Daenerys.

It’s not Sansa’s turn, it’s my turn.

“A song!” Jory called out and Ser Arthur joined him in shouting. “A song!”

Soon Robb and Jeyne were also crying out the same. Domeric was laughing with his hands on Bran’s shoulders, both shouting out as well. Soon the entire hall was yelling until the king held up his hand and the noise slowly died down. King Rhaegar’s eyes swept the room and Arya remembered thinking before that his eyes were too sad, which she didn’t like since he acted so kindly to her. Now she couldn't care less what he thought. He was the one ordering that Jon and Sansa marry.

Which was the worst joke that she’d ever heard.

So why is everyone laughing and smiling?

“Hear me!” The king's voice rang out. “Those who know me would tell you that I rarely play the harp for audiences.”

“So the bards of the realm would not go starving!” Ser Oswell shouted and many among the king's party laughed, the king himself nodding.

“I must apologize to the good minstrel who has entertained us tonight, for I must demand the right to play now.” The king said, taking the silly looking harp from a servant and running a hand down the strings. “To do honor by my son… and to my future gooddaughter… in return, I beg that they allow me to do so again when they are wed.”

Sansa had her hands across her chest and nodded happily while Jon only stared up at his father blankly. When the king ran his hands along the harp, the sound that came forth was pretty enough but it didn’t get rid of the sour taste in Arya's mouth as Sansa went to Jon. Her sister took Jon’s hand and that was when Arya hoped he would pull away and tell everyone that this was the bad joke she thought it was.

Instead Jon broke out of his spell, his pale face growing red as he took Sansa in his arms to lead her onto the dance floor. Everyone else was cheering or clapping happily, yet all Arya saw was how stiff he was moving. Jon was never stiff. He quick and able when they practiced in the godswood, always graceful.

He’s not happy, he can’t be happy.

Arya knew when Jon was happy. Everyone always said that he was cold and serious like father, but just because he didn’t smile all the time didn’t mean he was sad. When he crossed blades with Robb in the practice yard Jon didn’t smile yet he told her how much he loved doing so. While Domeric or Robb would shout or cheer during bouts, Jon’s silence could be seen as standoffish but truly he just liked to watch and learn from his opponents. Some thought his walks through the godswood were lonely ones, yet she knew he just liked being at peace with the trees.

Sansa didn’t know any of that… I had to tell her all of it…

“I don’t understand.” Sansa had said while she guided Arya’s hands through her stitching.

Huddled in the corner of the sewing room, the two sisters had begun work on a project dear to Arya. Her sister’s offer to help had been a surprise, still she’d only accepted it as long as Sansa let her do the work herself, merely acting as a helper. It had been frustrating to her how her sister managed to help while she kept on asking strange questions about Jon.

“If he just likes to watch when others practice, why would you speak with him then? Aren't you just bothering him?”

“No! When else could you ask him to explain what’s going on?” She’d shaken her head, trying her best to concentrate and figure out how Sansa moved her fingers so nimbly. “Jon likes teaching Bran and me about what the others are learning, he’s nice like that. He’ll tell us who has the better guard, why they strike low instead of high, anything we ask.”

“Talk to him during practice about practice…” Sansa said softly to herself, as if committing it to memory. “And walks in the godswood… quiet walks… that could be nice.”

“Why do you care anyways?” She’d asked. “What’s with you lately?”

She'd still been confused why Sansa offered to help her with needlework in the first place. Or why Sansa was suddenly making Jeyne and the other girls treat her nicely. Her confusion only grew when Sansa said it was all for the sake of Jon.

“Jon’s a prince Arya… to me he’s always been a prince, I could never speak to him so plainly or play with him like Robb and Bran do… and he never asked me to try, not like you. I’m just sad at how little I-I know of him. With his family coming…”

Her sister had spoken haltingly, as if ashamed to be saying what she did. That was before Sansa made a calming sound when Arya moved too quickly at finishing a stitch.

“Easy, easy, pull slowly on the thread or it might go crooked…”

“Oh, thank you.” Arya said, noticing how easy the stitching seemed to be with Sansa's help. “Huh, this isn't so bad now.”

“See? The key is just patience.” Sansa smiled before continuing. “As I was saying, it would be nice to learn more about Jon. For him to see that I care about what he cares about. When his family comes, I’d like him to say that I acted a lady.”

“Oh.”

She figured that made sense. Sansa wanting some king and queen to like her sounded pretty normal for her sister. Letting her be nice to Jon didn’t seem so bad either. If Arya could help her sister treat him well, she would.

With Sansa doing so well by her lately, Arya didn’t find hard to treat her well too.

“Just be like you are now.” She’d shrugged, prompting Sansa to move a hand to her shoulder to steady the movement of the needle. “I’ve got it, don’t worry… oh, about Jon. Just be like how you’ve been to me lately and he will like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Acting nice, listening and not telling me what I should be saying or doing… not making me feel bad all the time.”

“I don’t do that!” Sansa stopped helping then and turned Arya’s face with her finger so that they looked at each other. “We argue sometimes but you shouldn’t say-”

“That.” Arya slapped her sister’s finger lightly. “Telling me what I should be saying! Just try listening for once. Maybe if you let me finish sometimes you’ll like what I say. The same goes for Jon. Patience, remember?”

Sansa had gazed at her a little longer after that, which surprised Arya because she thought her sister would snap at her for being so honest. The tongue lashing never came though, and the two just went back to their work. Sansa’s hands had returned to hers, once again helping her with the stitching.

Septa Mordane had gasped when Arya showed her the completed work, not in horror or disappointment, but in gleeful approval. Hearing praise from the shrewish woman only added to how proud she felt in what Sansa had helped her make. For it wasn’t like Sansa had stitched it for her, they'd made it together.

She’d even brought the cloth here tonight, for it was to be a gift. A grey wolf on white, with several red weirwood leaves decorating the fabric. Sansa had helped the most with those, but the direwolf had been the part that Arya most wanted to get right. It was meant as a thank you to Jon for his lessons with her in the godswood, to remind him that the Starks cared for him.

As Jon and Sansa danced before her, Arya pulled the piece from where she’d stashed it up her sleeve. Staring down at it, she ran her thumbs over the grey wolf that Sansa had guided her fingers into making.

Now Sansa had Jon and all Arya had was this stupid cloth. All of a sudden she hated what they’d made. The direwolf’s head seemed too big and the legs too thin. The whole thing looked as bad as her stitching ever did. It was stupid and ugly like her and she couldn’t give such a thing to Jon who deserved so much, so much more than Sansa.

“Jon deserves better…”

“What did you say?” Jeyne asked from her place beside her. Several other people must have heard her too, for they were all looking at Arya with disapproval. She barely saw them through the tears that began welling up in her eyes.

“I said he deserves better!” She snapped, tossing the cloth at Jeyne before shoving at the people behind her.

She needed to get out of here. The stupid harp music mingled in with the curses and grunts as she pushed people aside and stepped on toes. Through her tears she saw little of it, even tripping and falling at one point among the tables, landing below the feet of people watching the dancing.

“Careful there m’lady!” Hullen laughed as he offered her his hand. “Arya Underfoot is likely to become Arya Trampledunderfoot if you aren’t careful.”

Others laughed at the stablemaster’s joke even as she slapped his hand away and leapt to her feet, breaking out into a run.

Arya ran and ran until she wasn’t even in the hall anymore, escaping into the cool night air. She didn’t stop running until the voices of others were far away and she was next to the wooden sheds where the hunters strung up game they brought from the Wolfswood.

The moon was bright above her, not quite full but bright enough for Arya to see the direwolf pup running after her. As much as she thought she wanted to be alone, seeing that Nymeria had followed helped calm her sobs. Bending down to wrap her arms around the wolf helped her all the more, for Nymeria didn’t try to play or bowl her over. She just let Arya hold her and pet her until the tears stopped.

When she finally pulled her face from Nymeria’s fur, the wolf began to lick at her face, cleaning what tears were left there. Arya let it do so for a time before it began to tickle and she laughed, pushing Nymeria back and giggling.

“Thank you.” Arya wiped at her face with the back of her hand before allowing Nymeria to lick at that as well.

Except her friend didn’t do so, instead the direwolf turned back towards the hall, her ears perking up. A moment later the wolf lowered her head and growled some, for a dark shape was approaching them out of the night. The castle grounds were brighter than they could be yet Arya couldn’t make out the person’s features.

She worried that it might be her father or mother coming to punish her or someone they’d sent from the hall in their stead. Deep down she hoped maybe that it was Jon coming to tell her that it was all a mistake.

Yet it was Arya who was wrong, for it wasn’t Jon or her father. It wasn’t even anyone she knew.

The man was not the tallest she’d ever met, yet he was long-legged and lean, his chest broader than his frame should’ve allowed. In the moonlight, the man’s sharp features cast strange shadows across his face, which was partially hidden by strands of long brown hair going grey around the edges.

“Who goes there?” She asked as Nymeria growled again. “Who are you?”

“Oh the curse of my life!” The man chuckled, slowing his steps but coming on all the same. “I suppose I cannot blame you for not knowing me. I’m only supposed to watch, not take part in any of the fun.”

“That’s not an answer.” Arya stared at him, slowly realizing that he did seem somewhat familiar.

“And that’s not a normal wolf.” The stranger smiled, finally stopping a short distance from her, pointing at Nymeria who still growled. “Nor are you a normal lady. It could  only be a Stark of Winterfell who would seek the company of a direwolf rather than listen to a dragon king play.”

“I’m Arya Stark.” She said proudly, still bothered that she couldn’t place his face. “I don’t care about the king’s playing. He doesn’t sound any better than the other bard!”

The stranger laughed again, putting a hand to his chest while the other stayed hidden beneath his fur cloak.

“The she-wolf does me a great honor, to hear that I play as well as a king. Why, it almost makes me want a crown myself.”

That’s who he is! Of course, I saw him in the corner all night!

How was I supposed to recognize him without his harp?

This man was the bard that had come with the king’s party, the one who’d been entertaining them throughout the feast. Sansa had something about it being strange there was a northern bard they hadn't heard before, for the minstrel was clearly a Northman.

What does Sansa know?

There could be an army of men like the bard out there somewhere and she'd be too stupid to know it.

“You’re the singer.” Arya frowned, reaching down to pet Nymeria to make her stop acting so poorly. When she looked back to the bard, he looked to have taken another step forward.

“What’s your name?”

“Bael.” The man smiled in a strange way. “Bael the Bard.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry the king made you stop playing.”

“Oh that’s no bother. If he hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have seen you run from the hall. You looked quite upset.”

“I’m fine.” Arya lied, rising to stand again and brushing off her skirts as best she could, it was then that she noticed how dirty she'd gotten in her fall. “Bloody hell… my mother is going to be so mad when she sees my dress-”

She covered her mouth quickly, for as mad as her mother would be over the state of her dress, hearing that she’d cursed in front of this man would be worse. Bael didn’t look offended though. Instead his eyes kept moving from Nymeria and around the deserted area they were in.

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t curse.” She said with barely remembered courtesy.

“For that?” Bael laughed. “That’s hardly cursing young she-wolf. Where I come from the women curse far better than that.”

“Women are allowed to curse?”

“Oh yes, nor do they care much if their gowns get dirty, if they even bother with gowns. Most prefer leathers and furs, much easier to strap swords and daggers to. Where I’m from, girls can run around all they want, they’re a free people. As able riders as they are warriors. If ever a man wants a girl, he has to steal her!”

“Truly?”

Arya was enthralled, for wherever Bael was from sounded like a magical place. A land where girls like Sansa and Jeyne would be lost while Arya and Nymeria would be true queens. The last part gave her pause though.

“What do you mean steal her? What if the girl doesn’t want to be stolen?”

“Why, she’d fight back!” Bael brushed some hair from his face. “Sometimes though, being stolen isn’t so bad. Being taken to someplace far away that you don’t know, being thrown into a whole different and strange world, it can make for a grand adventure! I believe the only true freedom that can still be had in this world are in the places not yet known to lords and ladies… ”

“What about kings?” She asked, thinking of Rhaegar standing up high as he forced Jon to marry Sansa.

Bael didn’t answer that question, his smile widening all the more as he moved closer, reaching within his cloak to pull something out. She was shocked to see that it was a bright, blue flower.

A winter rose.

That’s strange, the only place I’ve seen winter roses are in the glass garden.

Did he steal one?

“This is for you Lady Stark. I thought to offer it to your sister, or perhaps the princess, but that was before I met a pretty lady in the moonlight.”

Bael held the rose out to her, his other hand folding back beneath his cloak. The flower was just out reach so she took a step forward but Nymeria moved to block her way. She scowled, pushing at the wolf. She wanted that winter rose. If Sansa was to have Jon, Arya wanted at least this flower.

“I’d tell you a tale if you’d let me, a rather long one... but I think we have time. There was another Bael the from long ago, do you know his story?”

“No, tell me… Nymeria stop!”

Arya was getting frustrated at how rude Nymeria was being, using her leg to push wolf behind her as she reached towards the rose.

Why doesn’t he just bring it closer?

Bael watched her efforts eagerly, yet made no move to hand her the rose, instead his other hand looked to be digging beneath his cloak for something. Nymeria was struggling so Arya tried to move quicker to get her gift before it was stolen away.

“It’s a fine tale for a pretty lady." Bael enticed her onward.

"About a great king who stole the heart of a beautiful young maiden… a deed worthy of a song…”

“Then perhaps you should go and sing it.”

The new voice caused Arya to jump, which meant she was thrown off balance and fell back upon the ground. Nymeria leapt over her sprawled form, snarling and snapping at Bael so that the already surprised man backed further away. All while another figure came forward from the shadows.

A handsome man who wore golden armor over white chainmail. The mail matched the long white cloak affixed to his shoulders while the armor matched the shining gold color of his hair.

And his hand.

Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.

“Good ser!” Bael almost snarled as he backed away from Nymeria. “You startled the lady!”

“If a fall is the foulest thing that befalls her on this night then she is a fortunate girl indeed.” Jaime Lannister barely spared her a glance as his eyes moved over Bael. “Tell me, what kind of bard leaves his harp behind in a hall full of drunken men thirsty for song? You left all that, for what? A weeping she-wolf?”

“I’m not weeping!” Arya yelled as she climbed to her feet. “And we were talking! This is my castle! I’m allowed to talk!”

“You’re also allowed to be silent, practice that for a moment would you?” The Kingslayer still kept his gaze on Bael, much as Nymeria did.

“The king had things well in hand.” Bael’s tone had changed to one of anger. “I only feared for the young lady’s safety.”

“How noble of you. Perhaps you worried that she would come across some rogue in her father’s castle who might mean her harm? Should that be a concern I share?”

Bael narrowed his eyes at the knight, his one hand still hidden beneath his cloak. His eyes flickered down to the Kingslayer’s side, where the knight had moved his normal hand to the lion’s head pommel of his sword. Nymeria advanced forward yet again, but not towards the Kingslayer like Arya wanted. Instead the direwolf moved against Bael.

The bard retreated away from her while raising both hands up and grinning.

“I’m not going to pretend to be a better protector than a knight of the Kingsguard. I’ll just return to what I came here to do, play my harp and enjoy the fine company.” Bael continued to back away towards the hall, shooting Arya a final wink as he did so. “I think you would’ve liked the tale of Bael the Bard young she-wolf. I would’ve enjoyed sharing it with you.”

Arya waved at him numbly while the Kingslayer and Nymeria kept wary eyes upon the singer's retreat. When the bard was but a shape in the darkness, the knight began to laugh, his eyes now on Arya standing there, covered in dirt. Which was exactly what Sansa would’ve done if she was here with her friends. That made Arya even angrier that the Kingslayer had chased away her new friend.

“Why did you make him go away? He was going to tell me a tale!”

“I had finished taking a piss and figured, 'There looks like two people enjoying the moonlit night, why not ruin it?'” Ser Jaime smirked then, pointing his golden hand at Nymeria. “Are you going to ask the wolf her reasons next?”

“Direwolves can’t talk.” She muttered, crossing her arms as she began to wonder herself why Nymeria wasn’t growling at the knight.

“It seems this one can think though, a rare enough thing for direwolves.” The knight laughed at his own jest. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. It might be your castle but darkness and shadows are friends to no ladies.”

“I’m not alone, I have Nymeria.” She forced herself to laugh at that, seizing on another thing to take the knight to task for. “And you’re the only one jumping out of shadows.”

“Didn’t realize I jumped. Thought I announced myself quite clearly.” Ser Jaime shrugged. “And just because you don’t hide in the shadows, doesn’t mean others won’t be there waiting. It’s a good place to be if you want to surprise someone.”

“Why would I want to surprise anyone?”

“Seven hells...” He sighed, pressing two fingers to the sides of his nose. “You probably wouldn’t. Someone who fights would. Your father or your brothers maybe.”

“My father doesn’t need to sneak up on anyone. He can beat anyone in a fair fight.”

“That’s exactly why I wouldn’t fight fair.” The knight spoke slowly, as if she was simple.

Arya tried to picture her father with Ice in his grasp, using the greatsword to wipe the disdainful look off the Kingslayer’s face. She almost wished she had a branch in her hand now so she could do it herself. Nymeria was irritating her by sniffing about the knight’s legs, acting much friendlier towards the rude man than she had Bael.

“I saw this beast’s sister in the hall, Lady it’s called I think. A handsomer thing than many so-called ladies I’ve met.” Ser Jaime pointed at her then, taking a few steps forward. “Speaking of, why aren’t you in the hall where little ladies belong?”

“This is my castle, I can go where I want!” She waved her arm about, as if he had missed Winterfell itself. “Why aren’t you at the feast?”

“No one really cares where I go.” He shrugged. “Most are happy enough for me to be elsewhere.” “

That sounded familiar. Arya had thought the same about herself some days when Septa Mordane yelled at her one too many times. When she’d try ignoring Sansa and Jeyne to try and make them act kinder to her, only to find that they hadn't even noticed.

The Kingslayer was taking notice of her though, circling about while rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“Has anyone ever told you how much you look like Eddard Stark’s-”

“Why does no one care where you go?” She asked quickly. “Is it because you’re the Kingslayer?”

She almost clapped her hand over her mouth and cursed her stupidity. Mother had told her many times not to speak about that in front of the Queen and her twin. Even in the dark, Arya thought the knight flinched as she said it.

“My my, the septa of this castle has certainly done well with you.”

“She said she tries her best.”

At that the Kingslayer laughed, and it didn’t sound like his earlier ones, all dismissive and mean. This one actually sounded genuine, and it was actually a nice, handsome laugh. When he folded his arms before him, his golden hand gleamed in the moonlight.

The hand he killed the Mad King with.

The one they took off.

She was still looking when he jerked it up into the air between them, rotating it back and forth in front of her. His face was stern and his gaze even harder, for he had caught her staring. Arya forced her eyes downward, angry at herself that she’d not only called him Kingslayer but was just caught gaping at his fake hand.

“What’s the matter Stark?” The knight asked gruffly. “I thought I’d give you a better view, it’s only polite.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Trust me girl, better people gape it at worse than you. My brother doesn’t know which attracts more attention for worse reasons, the fact that he’s a dwarf or that I adorn myself with this golden monstrosity.” The Kingslayer swung it through the air. “It’s about as useful to me as your septa’s lessons have been to you. Tell me, what tales have you heard of my expensive decoration?”

Arya hesitated to answer that, for she'd heard many stories about the Kingslayer’s golden hand. Most weren’t supposed to be repeated to the knight himself, she knew that much. Whenever father or Jon had heard others speak to those tales they’d been wroth. Ser Oswell was the worst. Any who sought his opinion on the Kingslayer were given a glare so full of threat that even grown men fled his presence. Much like how Bael had fled moments before.

“No stories then?” Ser Jaime asked. “So the North is as cut off and backwards as everyone says?”

“They say you were given a choice!” She snapped. “That the king gave you a choice.”

“Which king? And what choice do you speak of?”

“King Rhaegar… and... and there were two...”

The tale came forth from her as the Kingslayer’s green eyes bore into her own, like they were forcing the words out of her mouth with his strength of will alone. After Rhaegar had returned to the capital, he’d found his queen murdered by his own father and his father killed by Ser Jaime.

“A Kingsguard who slew the king he swore to protect.” Father had said.

“He committed treason, that much is true.” Jon’s voice came back to her. “But it was to spare the lives of innocents.”

“A man who followed his own code rather than a command…” Domeric had whispered to Robb. “My father would not have been as kind as Rhaegar.”

“He could have confessed his treason and joined the Night’s Watch.” The Greatjon laughed between ales. “Golden fool couldn’t do that! He scorned trading in gold and white for the black of a sworn brother, the southron dandy he is!”

“After letting that poor woman be murdered justice should have been meted out.” Lord Yohn Royce grumbled. “A trial by combat it was supposed to be, the Kingslayer against one of the other Kingsguard, a duel of white cloaks. Coward knew better than to chance his luck against Barristan the Bold or the Sword of Morning…”

Whether to fight the Kingsguard to defend his honor or take the black and save it, those were the choices the king had offered the Kingslayer. As she spoke to it, Ser Jaime’s eyes narrowed on her, his remaining hand tapping upon the golden one held before him.

“Honor she says, let’s not talk of honor.” He almost spat the word out like it was something foul. “If those were my choices, then how did this come to pass girl? Did my hand fall off out of shame? Was it lost to some captor’s cruelty?”

“You asked the king for a third option.” She answered. “You wouldn’t travel to the Wall, you said you’d stay in King’s Landing…”

“Far better food in the capital, your northern fare leaves much to be desired.”

“And you wouldn’t fight a Kingsguard because you’d stay one yourself…”

“I do look good in white, no matter how much my father would prefer me in Lannister crimson.” The Kingslayer smiled. “Go on then, you’re doing quite well.”

“You wanted to stay a Kingsguard, to keep protecting the royal family like you’d sworn to. The king wouldn’t let you, not with the blood of... of a king upon your hand…”

With that the Kingslayer began to clap. The sound of his gloved hand upon his golden one made it sound more like the thudding of horse hooves against stone than clapping. The praise it offered felt as cold and fake as his sword hand.

“And there we have it.” Ser Jaime bowed to her. “To strike or kick a member of the royal family, you lose a hand or a foot. Since it was my sword that did the deed, King Rhaegar saw fit to have it melted down, but as for the hand that wielded it? Well, a common punishment for a most uncommon crime.”

Arya was surprised by how much sympathy she felt then for the knight. It didn’t seem quite fair to her. He’d saved the king’s children and killed a mad murderer who’d earned so much hatred his own son rose in rebellion against his rule. In return, people called Ser Jaime an oathbreaker, a traitor, and a coward.

The father of the children he’d saved hadn’t rewarded him, instead the king had cut his hand off.

“Why?” Arya asked. “Why did you want to stay the king’s knight if he’d let someone do that to you? You saved the royal family. You did what a knight should do. You kept your honor if you ask me.”

“I thought I said that I did not wish to speak of honor.” The Kingslayer shot back. “Kingsguard serve for life, do you understand? Not until they get lonely and want a wife, not until they grow too old to wield a sword, they serve until the heart they swore their oath with stops beating.”

The knight touched his chest plate with the golden hand, a metallic clanking sounding out in the dark.

“Still beating, still serving.”

The hall was still ringing with celebration, for some departing had left the doors open and some light and noise appeared in the night. She could hear harp music drifting out from the hall and some laughter and shouting as well. The feast still went on without Arya or Ser Jaime. No one had come to search for them.

“People don’t want me around either.” Arya whispered then, kneeling down to pull Nymeria close. “They call me bad names too.”

“I’m sure they must be horrible insults indeed.” The knight attempted to sound mocking yet, even in darkness, she thought his face softened some. He inclined his head towards Nymeria then. “That beast there, if I called her an ugly thing, smelling of shit and as stupid as a sack of rocks, would it change what she was? Do you think she’d become any weaker? Do my words make her any less a wolf? Do they change what she is?”

 

“No, she’s a direwolf. She wouldn’t care and it wouldn’t change her one bit.”

“Well then, I suggest you take after the Stark sigil and your furry companion.” Ser Jaime walked towards the open door of the hall then, stopping only to turn his face back once more. “If you let people chase you away enough, who knows when you’ll stop running? Words are wind Stark, remember that. It’s how we act that matters. It’s when we’re at our weakest that we find strength, our true strength, and fight our way forward. Even if only to spite everyone who would seek to call us less.”

His words hung in the air as Nymeria joined her in gazing upon the white-cloaked knight. He was planning on going back into the hall and she didn’t want to join him, out of fear for all she might see.

Jon and Sansa dancing happily, the king and the others smiling and clapping. Then she pictured Ser Jaime entering the hall and coming before the king who’d maimed him and it shamed her something fierce.

You’ve still got both your hands you coward.

If he can serve the man who took his hand, you can watch some fools dance.

Ser Jaime stopped and looked at her until she rose up to her feet and began to follow behind. The light from the Great Hall cut across the darkened grounds like a great sword, and the knight walked straight into that glowing blade. Arya watched in awe as his white armor and cloak became as bright as the moon above, his hair a mane of gold.

For the smallest of moments, Jaime Lannister looked like the truest knight that had ever lived.

Chapter 5

Summary:

A betrothal has been declared but no so much goes unsaid. Secrets are kept with love as their binding. Grand news is tainted by the darkest of truths.

EDDARD

   

The feast was over.

Drunken revelers were spilling out into the night, singing and laughing.

His daughter was betrothed to a prince, set to wed a young man that Ned already loved like a son.

Yet somehow that joy felt soured. Jory and Harwin drunkenly hailed him but he could barely spare them a nod. The night air felt bracing and Ned welcomed it against his burning face.

Not long ago he was basking in the sight of his children dancing and doing him proud. His beautiful Cat had looked breathtaking while she danced with Jon, then Robb, and even Rhaegar at one point.

All of those good feelings had melted away. Now there was only shame and anger, so much so that he wished he could take to the yard with a sword or lance like a younger man might, or perhaps seek some of that fine southron wine that the Targaryens had brought north with them.

Instead he sought Cat’s chambers, as she asked of him before departing the feast. Her eyes had been glistening with wine, her voice thick with desire.

“Do not linger my lord.” She’d whispered in his ear. “My husband has duties this night.”

“I will be along shortly my lady.” He’d smiled, glad to be sitting as the effects of her hot breath took hold of him. “You have my solemn vow.”

“Not so solemn.” Cat had run a hand gently down his face. “Not for me.”

Unfortunately his presence at the feast had lasted longer than he wished, time enough for things to turn ugly. Ned had no desire to subject Cat to his wroth but he also didn’t feel right disappointing her. He would seek her chambers for a proper good night before lying alone with his demons and regrets.

She deserves that much at least, she deserves a man who keeps his word.

One who treats her right, who raises her children right.

To honor her as deeply he loves her.

“Uncle.”

He was surprised to hear Jon’s voice out here at the late hour. There the prince stood though, near the entrance to the keep, as if he’d been waiting. Ned feared the young man drunk for a moment, although Jon’s steady strides towards him did not mark him so.

“Jon… I imagined Robb and Domeric would have you in your cups by now.”

“I didn’t, well, they tried but I’d not…” Jon fumbled his words some. “I had no thirst for it my lord.”

I’ve never had much of a taste for drunkenness myself, Benjen and Lya enjoyed it more often.

Brandon was always the worst of us… brother I’m sorry but it’s the truth… part of it at least.

“You show great restraint Jon, most often I’d praise you for it.” He said, coming to his nephew’s side and glancing back towards the drunken people behind. “There’s a time for self control nephew and then there’s the need to celebrate. You and my dear daughter are matched now, what better reason to drink than that?”

“Why?” Jon asked, his voice strained. “Why did you never speak to me of it? Not once uncle… Sansa can have any so why ask me…”

“You’re the son of a king Jon, your marriage is a matter for the crown to decide, not you and I alone. We did not want to get your hopes up.” He held back a comment on how often Rhaegar could ruin the hopes of others. “Believe this, a hundred times over I wanted to tell you how pleased this match makes me. I’ve been honored to give you a home in Winterfell these last five years, I pray the home you and Sansa make together makes you half as happy as mine has made me…

“My lord… uncle… I’m not worthy.” The young man shook his head. “My father shamed the Starks when he took one to wife. I have… forgive me but-”

“Enough. You are not your father.” Ned cut him off, angry to have to be repeating these words again. “Whatever you think of yourself, I trust you. My daughter will be in good hands, under the care of a prince who understands the consequences of dishonor. I put great faith in you, my son. You’ll surely earn it.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped and he looked ready to argue further but Ned’s patience was at an end. All this talk of fathers and honor made his mood as black as the night around them. He grabbed Jon’s arms and gave the young man a tight squeeze.

“Heed my words, but do so in the morning. Your aunt is expecting me and if I keep her waiting much longer I might be forced to tell her why.”

Whatever else Jon wished to say fell away as the prince nodded and backed out of Ned’s path. He steeled himself against anything else that could keep him from Cat’s side, for he’d been a poor enough husband to her already.

The steps of the Great Keep were haunted by the memory of all his failings as a husband. How it had fallen to others to dance with Cat, so she need not be hindered by his clumsy feet. He was happy that Jon danced so well with Sansa, for Ned would not want to burden his darling sweet girl with a solemn, cold man like her mother had been.

When he tapped lightly upon his wife’s chamber door, her soft voice drifted out like the lyrics of a gentle song.

Walking within, the first thing that struck him was how uncomfortably warm Cat’s room always was. Ned could not bear being fully dressed in this room for the shortest of times. More often than not he would open a window to bring in some of the cool night air.

He burned even hotter at the sight of what his wife was wearing. Cat was brushing the long, auburn hair he loved so much as he shut the door behind him. That hair cascaded down one shoulder, which was bare save what the two thin straps of her shift covered.

She wore it… she knows how I love her in that thing.

“Husband.” Cat smiled as she rose from her dressing table. “I’ve been waiting.”

Standing as she was, the full magnificence of his wife’s beauty was displayed to him. The shift was one she’d brought with her from Riverrun all those years ago. A modest white color, it nonetheless set his blood to burning for it hid less than it could. His wife’s shoulders and the tops of her full breasts were there for his eyes to feast on and it hugged her body in a way that Ned desperately wished to do with his own hands. Her legs were bare just above her knees and to gaze at the lace along the hem for too long would risk urges of slipping it above her thighs.

Cat took a tentative step backward, pulling at her hair.

“So much time had passed that I worried you’d forgotten me.”

“Never.” He almost growled. “I could never.”

“The hour is late and the air was chilly tonight my love.” She made a face of mock concern as she glanced to her robe next to the dressing table. “Perhaps I should bundle up?”

“Do not torment me so.”

“Torment the great lord of Winterfell?” Cat reached for her robe. “Surely I’ve erred. Let me dress and-”

Ned crossed the space between them and had Cat in his arms in the blink of an eye. He snatched her hand away from the robe and pulled it up to the side of his face as he pulled her lips to his own.

“Oh Ned.” She moaned as their bodies pressed together and they kissed hungrily. “My dear Ned…”

Her lips tasted of wine and her kisses were fervent. Soon enough her hands were fumbling at his cloak and breeches while his own roamed over Cat’s body. A moan escaped her mouth when he gently cupped her breast. Even through the thin fabric of her shift, he could feel her nipple harden as his thumb ran across it. His free hand roamed up her leg, over her back and up into her hair. Running his fingers through it, pulling with care, he controlled how and when their lips locked and their tongues touched.

His cloak fell away and his breeches slipped low while her fingers scrambled to grasp at him with a heavy gasp. He groaned to feel her fingers wrapping around him, stroking the length of his manhood. That broke his control enough to pull back from the kiss and press his wife back onto her bed. She splayed across the furs, her arms hanging above her head and her legs slightly parted.

“Hurry my love.” Cat whispered. Her lips were full and moist, her eyes drifting below to his waist.

His tunic and under shirt were gone in a flurry of wool and cloth. His already sweaty chest was bared, which set his wife to biting her lip. Kicking his boots free, he swore that his breeches might have ripped as tore them down. When he made for the bed, Cat spread her legs to welcome him and moaned when his hands grabbed at her hips, pushing the shift upwards.

“Off with this.” He grunted as he stared down at the lovely red thatch above her sex. “I want all of you, to see all of you.”

Cat sighed with want as she rose up to help him, forcing her shift up along her body until her breasts were bare. Her movements were quick and awkward though and soon the shift became tangled about her arms, covering her face as well.

“My lord, I’m stuck.” She giggled, struggling to free herself. “I need some strong hands to-oh!”

Blinded as she was, Cat wasn’t prepared for when his mouth met her sex. His lips had only lightly kissed her mound when she cried out. The heat and dampness there drove him forward, his tongue slipping through her hair and tasting. This was the essence of the woman he loved so much.

“Oh! Ned!” Cat writhed and struggled with her hands bound above her. “Again?! My lord- ah!”

Her words died away and became gasps and groans when he continued to kiss and dip his tongue within her. When his hands slid up to her breasts, to touch, caress and tease, she began to buck wildly. His pulse raced to hear Cat whispering curses beneath her breath while her feet began to beat against his back.

“Ned now! Please!”

Now he was eager to oblige, for he could resist her no longer.

With that he climbed up and away to press his cock against her. Laying one hand upon the bed to steady himself, he used the other to pull the shift away from Cat’s arms and face. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wild as they gazed up into his. She lunged upwards to kiss him just as he thrust forward.

Gods, every time.

It is still this good every time.

They both shouted when his manhood plunged inside her, the tight warmth of his wife’s sex matching the desperate want of the kiss she took of him. There was no finesse to this part. Whatever patience either of them feigned to have was long gone. What came next was rough and driven only by passion and need. He grabbed at Cat’s leg as he pounded himself within her. The feel of her nails scrambling up his back and her feet striking his arse made his need grow stronger.

Harder and harder.

Between their grunts and moans came curses, words of love. Ned growling her name, Cat whimpering his.

Ned collapsed, his sweaty chest rubbing against her perfect breasts as his final thrust spilled his seed within her. Cat cried out so loud that she had to stifle it by biting his shoulder, her hips arching to force him even deeper.

They stayed like that for a few glorious moments longer. His brow rested against hers, their hot breath coming out in great heaves, their hips slowing against one another gently.

When he rolled away, laying back and spreading out upon the bed, Cat followed. She curled up beside him, resting her head upon his chest. Acting with a mind of its own, Ned’s arm went about her shoulders and his hand began running softly through her hair, like it always did for the past fifteen wonderful years.

This… a thousands times this…

Who could ever want anything more than this moment?

What man could ever want more than this woman in his arms?

“I love you Ned.” Cat kissed his chest. “So much… so very much…”

“As I love you Cat.” He kissed the top of her head before falling back with a sigh. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never. You could never. If it aches tomorrow it will be a good ache.” Cat smiled up at him. “I don’t know if you could tell… but I might have had one cup too many this evening.”

“I wondered how a fool like me ended up in bed with such a beauty.”

“Stop.” She laughed as her hand slapped lightly against his chest. “I am embarrassed. I spent so much time tonight keeping watch that our children did not drink too much, and in my joy I lost count of my own cups. I’m a poor lady to be receiving royalty.”

“Trust me Cat, no one noticed. I daresay half the castle is happy with drink as we speak.”

“Not you though, not my dutiful lord.” Cat shifted to press more of her body against him. He saw the goose pimples forming on her bare skin and reached to pull a fur over her, yet left himself uncovered to endure the heat of these rooms.

“There he is again.” She looked up at him with earnest eyes, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek. “Such care, such love from such a stern face. Oh Ned, I cannot say how happy I am. With you. With our family. The children did so well tonight, Sansa most of all… our girl is to be a princess Ned.”

He smiled to remember how happy Sansa looked when Rhaegar had made the announcement. It was always the king’s right to declare the betrothal between Jon and Sansa, yet a small part of him had felt envious, annoyed that Rhaegar was the one to make his daughter so joyful. Still he had smiled to see Jon look so surprised. He hoped to smile that much on their wedding day.

“I’ll ask Vayon to secure me a new cloak and tunic.” He glanced over at the clothes crumpled across the floor. “To lead a future princess before the heart tree, her father must be better dressed.”

“Oh that reminds me!” Cat laughed again. “The first thing Jeyne and little Beth Cassel asked Sansa was what her bridal gown would look like. I know the northern way is to be modest, and the wedding is still a long ways off, but I want to send for a seamstress at White Harbor. One who does fine gowns and can make our girl look a princess. Sansa kept going on and on about the dresses she’d seen among Princess Daenerys and her ladies…”

Ned felt the change then, for Cat had tensed in his arms all of a sudden and her expression shifted from joyful and carefree to something darker.

Doubt and perhaps even hurt.

“Cat? What is it?”

“I did have too much wine.” She said as she pulled the furs over her chest and left his side, moving to sit against the headboard. “Do you know who that lady was that you had Bran escort into the hall?”

Oh gods… how could I not expect this?

Bran was so excited to lead a girl not of his sisters that I didn’t expect him to ask.

But of course Cat would want to know.

“Her name is Elara Dayne.” He answered as climbed off the bed to fetch his clothing. “She is Arthur’s niece.”

“And was born a bastard.” There was a quiver to her voice. “You had Bran lead a natural born woman into our hall. He could’ve escorted Arya or Sansa, anyone else. Yet you had him lead her. You know what people say about you and Ashara!”

Towards the end, Cat’s face was flush with anger and Ned felt his own face growing uncomfortably hot as he pulled up his smallclothes and breeches.

“Words are wind.” He said curtly. “We have spoken on this before. The only children I have in this world are yours Cat.”

“Then why have one on the arm of that girl?” She leapt off the bed, clutching the furs tightly about her. “We’ve had lords visit with their bastards before and you’ve never done them such an honor.”

“She was legitimized.” Ned turned away only to have Cat grab his shoulder and pull him back.

“Then why am I forbidden to ask of her father?” Her voice was thick with accusation, her eyes glistening. “You say that you’ve only fathered our children yet you refuse me knowledge that you know would put my mind at ease! Anyone who knows the rumors will think as I do! That you honor a secret daughter by having my sweet Bran lead that bastard about-”

“Elara!” He barked so loudly that Cat jumped back. “Her name is Elara Dayne and I will speak of this no more!”

I cannot speak of this.

I made a promise.

This argument was precisely the reason he should have gone straight back to his chambers after the feast. The girl they were discussing had been the cause of his foul mood beforehand and now it was returning. All those feelings came back in a wash, returning to him with Cat’s accusations.

Just as Brandon’s daughter had returned to her family’s home.

Cat had left the feast and most others had followed suit before Rhaegar and Cersei finished their last dance and took their leave as well. The soft kiss that the king placed upon his queen’s lips was missed by most but Ned had caught it. It was a rare moment when he spotted a genuine smile from Cersei. Perhaps even a hint of genuine warmth from Rhaegar.

With them on their way, and the bard swiftly gathered up his things and left the hall, acting like he’d been banished. Ned had thought that strange yet cared more that he was free to eagerly seek Cat’s chambers.

He was sorely mistaken.

While those still drinking and eating filled the hall with laughter and loud voices, the girl’s soft footfalls gave no warning to her approach until she was standing right beside him at the high table.

“Lord Stark.” Elara spoke with strained courtesy, gazing down upon him with her strange eyes. “May I have a word?”

“Lady Elara… yes of course, if it pleases you…” He’d asked, glancing hopefully about the hall and seeing none of the Kingsguard or the royal retinue left, save for some men-at-arms and Ser Richard Lonmouth who was in his cups.

“Does your uncle know you’re still here? Without escort?”

“My uncle trusts me to act properly on my own.” The young lady moved into a seat at his side.

“Quite the feat.” Ned said as he straightened in his chair. “I am impressed my lady. To earn the trust of such a man marks you as a cut above most.”

“I learned etiquette from my lady mother.” Elara’s eyes flashed with pride. “She made sure to instill in me the dangers of a young lady losing her good sense in this world. She taught me that there are people who would take advantage of such and lead good women to their ruin.”

While Ned had gaped at her meaning, the lady sipped of an abandoned cup of wine.

“Speaking of the Starks.” She continued. “I congratulate you on your daughter’s betrothal to Prince Jon. I hope this marriage is kinder to your daughter than the last marriage between your houses. May this prince have better fortune than the last one who took a Stark to wife.”

Whatever unease he felt at Elara’s presence, he could not allow two slights against his family’s honor slip by like that, especially in regards to his daughter. Nor to his nephew, for Ned now fondly recalled the kind words Jon had spoken of him before the announcement. He did not want this girl to taint such a memory by comparing Jon and Rhaegar.

“Sansa will be happy with him.” Ned had spoken coldly. “For Jon is nothing like his father.”

“Better he take after his father than the Starks I say.” Elara answered with a smile. As infuriating as the young woman was acting Ned did not want to rage at her, instead he wanted to lecture her, as he would one of his own children.

“I question your claim that Ashara taught you courtesy if you seek to insult me in my own hall.” He had said with a stern tone. “I knew your mother and I respected her. I would go as far to say I admired her greatly. I never found fault with her courtesies. Do not make me think differently of her daughter’s.”

“I beg your forgiveness my lord.” Elara did not sound as if she begged of anything. “I just thought, with the history between our two families, that the bounds of courtesy would be somewhat lax.”

Brazen and headstrong, almost arrogant, she already has me at my wit’s end.

What else could I expect from Brandon’s daughter?

“Did my son do wrongly by you earlier? I’d be surprised to hear so, since Bran was pleased when I set him to escorting you. Should I be disappointed in him?”

Elara looked taken aback at that and her cool demeanor cracked some.

“Bran… your son did well. He is a very kind boy, very sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as curious about Dorne or my uncle as him.” She gave a halting grin then. “He reminds me some of my cousin Edric. I thought to offer him a dance, but he was too busy asking whether Uncle Arthur could beat Ser Oswell in a duel.”

He and the lady shared a small laugh then and it brightened Ned’s mood considerably for a moment.

Sharing stories and laughter with this girl… like family should.

“Forgive him that, he’s become obsessed of late. Bran aspires to be a knight like young uncle Arthur, a noble dream as I see it. He wishes to be brave and honorable-”

“Then you named him poorly.” Elara snapped and Ned saw then a glimpse into something startling. “Unless you meant to honor your forebear, Brandon the Builder, rather than your brother, Brandon the Scoundrel… Brandon the Liar…”

“Enough.” Ned stopped her. “My brother was many things I didn’t always approve of… but he was my blood and I loved him dearly. He is dead now and I will not speak poorly of him.”

“And if he was alive and Lord of Winterfell, would I live here or be merely visiting?” Elara hands trembled despite her stern gaze. “Would I even be given that? I have heard that many bastards are simply banished from ever seeing the castles of their forebears, the shame of loving… acknowledging them being too great.”

“I cannot say what my brother would have allowed… but I can say what I wish he had done.” He struggled to put his thoughts to words then, for he’d been thinking on the matter since Bran and Elara first appeared in the hall, arm in arm.

Bran did not escort one of his sisters… yet she is family nonetheless.

“Your mother should have been treated with the respect and honor she deserved. If such had come to pass, I would be enjoying a conversation with a niece I’d know far better. Instead I sit with a lady barely known to me. A lady who deserves to have the home of her father open to her… as it shall be, for as long or as often as she may wish. I ask for little of this life, save to live honorably and to be allowed to care for my loved ones… my family...”

Elara’s gaze had fallen and Ned was tempted to reach for her small hand then. He held back though. He would not presume on a lady’s honor like Brandon might.

“I have a wife and children within these walls. My nephew, who I love as dearly as one of my own, calls this castle home. Lyanna’s son was denied me for so long, and I was thankful beyond words when he was returned to Winterfell. To have Brandon’s daughter returned to me as well-”

“No!” Elara shook her head violently, learning forward with bared teeth and a fierce look in her teary eyes. “No! No you cannot call me that! I am not that!”

“You are… you are my niece.” Ned felt pained to see the girl react so strongly to being called a Stark. “We are family. Elara, please, let me-”

“Whatever blood we share, Brandon Stark was never my father! My uncle is the only man that I would ever call such! Ser Arthur Dayne! The Sword of Morning!” Elara wiped at her eyes. “What girl would want a fool like Brandon Stark as her father when she could have a knight like my uncle…”

The lady had risen to her feet and did all she could to avoid his gaze. Ned felt a deep shame for his part in Elara’s pain but knew no way to ease it.

“I thank you for having Bran lead me through the hall.”

“That is not why you sought me out.” He ventured. “Elara, if there is anything you wish to ask of me, anything you want to know of your father or his family, your family, please know that you can. Your truth has gone unknown in this castle for far too long-”

“As it should be!” She hissed, leaning down to stare into his eyes like her father once had. “I want no one here to know the truth! One day people will speak of my own honor, my own strength and I never want that to happen in the same breath as Brandon Stark’s name. Never my lord. When your son offered me his arm, I feared you’d reveal such and I come here now to beg that you never do so.”

However strong the girl was acting, he saw the weakness she was trying to hide. In his mind’s eye, he saw the babe that he’d been forced to turn away from even though she was his last tie to the brother that he’d lost. In that moment he saw a young lady who was hurt and angry, who he very much wanted to help.

“I promise to keep whatever secret you’d have of me yet… I beg you to reconsider. Do you expect me to have you in my home and ignore our bond? There is wolfsblood in you Elara, I see it clearly now. It’s something that runs in us Starks. My sister had it, my brother had it-”

“I’m a Dayne, not a Stark.” Elara hid her tears as she turned away from him and walked out of his life once more. “And I expect the lord to do as you Starks do best. Pretend that I don’t exist.”

Watching the young lady leave, moving from a graceful walk to a full-on sprint from the hall, had turned many remaining eyes back to him. Under their gaze, the shame of what Brandon had done and Ned’s role in it thundered through his mind. He’d managed to bring Jon into the fold… but this girl wanted nothing more from him than to continue to denying her existence.

Something his honor could not reconcile with his promise to his niece.

Nor with his need to be honest with the woman he loved.

Cat stood naked save for the furs about her lovely form but the hurt on her face was hard for him to see.

“The husband I love… the one I cherish so…” Cat spoke with a deep sadness. “He is honest with me. He trusts me. The lord who built a sept for a fearful young wife in a strange castle, the man who was gentle and thoughtful rather than forceful and demanding, that’s who you are Ned. Not this man who denies me knowledge of who you welcome to our home.”

“I welcome the King of the Seven Kingdoms to Winterfell.” He answered. “I welcome his wife, the Kingsguard, the hundreds besides… and one girl whose uncle is the finest knight in the realm. I love you Cat. Let this be.”

“I love you!” She screamed, tears breaking free and falling down her cheeks as she pointed to the bed. “We were laying there! Right there, just now, and I was thinking how much I wanted another child made from our love! To give you a sixth babe that you could hold in your arms and smile down upon… and now I’m not sure if I believe you when you say that it would be your sixth… you make me doubt you Ned. Why? How can you let me doubt you?”

Everything in him wanted to go forth and hold Cat. To wipe away her tears and tell her that he was the Stark that had always been true to her. That it was Brandon who’d dishonored her and his brother’s child that he now shielded from her questions. Yet he’d made a promise to both mother and daughter to never speak to that. With what shame Brandon had already brought down upon the Daynes and poor Elara, he could not be the second Stark to add to it.

“You’ve no reason to doubt my word.” He grabbed up his shirt, pulling it over his head. “Save maybe the one too many cups of wine you’ve had. I’ll take my leave of you wife. Clearly I’m not welcome to share your bed tonight.”

He cursed himself to speak so harshly but what else was there to say?

Cat was clearly shocked at his words, for her tear-filled eyes became cold and angry soon after.

“Not tonight my lord.” She showed Ned her back. “Not with a man I cannot trust.”

“Good night Catelyn.” He grabbed up the rest of his clothes and moved to the door yet could not leave without saying one last thing. “You are and will always be the only woman I’ve ever loved. Since the moment I first saw you at Harrenhal, it’s always been you my love.”

He was walking out the door when her voice drifted out to him.

“I take that with a grain of sand.”

 

SANSA

 

“Did you see her stitching?” Jeyne hid her laughter behind a hand. “It’s barely better than Arya’s.”

Walking through the godswood with her friends, Sansa was inclined to laugh as well. Yet as Beth giggled away she kept her poise.

As a princess should.

“Don’t be so quick to judge Jeyne.” She spoke with an air of knowing, for her friend was but a steward’s daughter. “Princess Daenerys’s stitching may not be as practiced as ours but remember she lives in the capital. At the royal court she likely has better things to do than sewing, such as hawking, learning the high harp, perhaps even sailing on pleasure barges.”

Sansa guessed at the last part from a memory. Uncle Benjen had once regaled her with tales of the Reach from when he visited Highgarden itself, the year that King Rhaegar had taken his court there. As a young girl, she’d listened to those stories and dreamed of living in such a castle as that of House Tyrell.

Now I’ll be a princess with a castle of my very own.

A castle named after the most beautiful season of all, where fine and splendid things will be enjoyed by all my people.

Whenever my prince and I are there of course, for the royal court is where we would belong.

“I thought needlework was important for all ladies.” Beth added sheepishly. “Who else would sew favors for their husbands?”

“Why servants of course!” Jeyne smirked at the younger girl. “At least Daenerys would surely need them to.”

As her friends began debating the matter further, Sansa reflected on how well she’d managed the rather awkward and strained situation between the princess and herself. She had welcomed Daenerys and her ladies-in-waiting to join their sewing circle, graciously doing so in person. With patience, Sansa had ignored the insult when Lady Elara accepted the invitation on the princess’s behalf.

Everyone knows that Elara is bastard born and it’s scandalous for the princess to befriend such a girl.

The lady is likely the reason father and mother have been so curt with each other lately. It must be hard to endure such a stain on their honor.

For Sansa though, it was Princess Daenerys’s presence that was harder to endure. While she was once hopeful the king’s party would include highborn ladies who could share tales of the wonderful world beyond the North, Sansa hadn’t expected that one would try to steal away her chance of escaping Winterfell.

Perhaps escape is too harsh a word. I will my mother brushing my hair… the summer snows…

Yet she’d always dreamed of living in a magnificent castle in a warm land. Somewhere she could enjoy finer things like feasts and tourneys, music and mummer’s shows, where knights dueled for a lady’s favor and performed heroic deeds to prove their love and devotion. No matter how solemn Jon became whenever he spoke of the south, she knew it to be a marvelous land.

In some ways, the quiet prince who arrived Winterfell five years ago had been a disappointment. She’d hoped that Prince Jon would bring the golden world of the royal court to Winterfell. Instead he’d looked and acted just like another northern boy. When he’d shown more interest in running about with Robb and Arya, rather than acting a gallant prince in her make-believe games, she’d assumed it was due to her failings. That Jon saw the northern girl she was and found her paling in comparison to the ladies of southron court.

Not that he’d ever been unkind to her, truthfully he’d always acted quite proper. After a while, it became easy to simply think of him as another playmate in Winterfell. Nor was Jon ugly, for he was handsome in the dark, northern way. Sadly she’d lost interest over the years, perhaps because he’d shown none himself.

Hence her surprise when her mother had begun pushing Sansa to spend more time with the prince. The truth had come out when mother had acted so disappointed when she had not gone for walk with Jon after one evening meal.

“I don’t think he wants me interrupting his practices and rides.” Sansa had protested as mother brushed her hair. “Robb and Domeric were going to take him to the hot springs and I didn’t want to pull him away from his fun.”

“It is not about pulling or pushing him Sansa.” Mother had sighed, grasping her shoulders and bidding her to gaze into the silver looking glass carefully. “It is about having our dear prince take notice of the beautiful, kind young lady right in front of his eyes.”

“What? But Jon sees me everyday…”

“Jon sees a cousin. He sees a daughter of the lord who fosters him.” Mother had cupped her chin and smiled. “Let us help him see a princess too… for you would make such a fine one Sansa, and he would make a good husband for you.”

“Jon as my husband?” She’d been shocked into confusion at first, for she’d never pictured her future husband as looking or acting anything like Jon.

Save for being a prince.

“If all goes to plan, then yes Sansa, we would see you and the prince betrothed. This is a secret, but when the king arrives we plan on asking for the match. It would help if Jon spoke in favor of it… if he could tell his father that he cared for you already.”

She’d kept the secret close of course, only trusting Jeyne and Beth with the knowledge. It was an exciting time, plotting with her mother and friends on the best way to make Jon fall for her. Even Robb had tried helping at times!

Sansa began to see it all as a romantic tale, with Jon and her playing important roles. He was the young prince, inflicted with some curse that left him shy and solemn, keeping joy and love from his heart. She was the fair maiden who would save the prince from that curse through her beauty and pure ways. His love for her would overcome all and she would melt the ice in his heart and bring the summer.

Sadly the tale had not started off well.

While she did try and spend more time with Jon, little had changed from when they were younger. He still had little interest in doing courtly things it seemed. Even stranger, he seemed to enjoy being around Arya more than her, which pricked at Sansa’s pride some. Jeyne had suggested that they help him see just how unladylike her sister was, so Jon could notice Sansa all the more. Yet berating Arya had not endeared Jon to her at all. Instead he’d acted disappointed in her for doing so, and even she began think it unkind to point out her little sister’s faults.

During their ride together, things had gone so poorly that Jon had taken to speaking of another princess instead of her. That had been Sansa’s lowest point and her night had ended with in mother’s arms, weeping at her own failures.

“He doesn’t want me to be his princess.” She’d sobbed as mother made soothing sounds. “Princess Daenerys is the only one he thinks about… he cares for Arya more than me… I can’t tell if he even likes me…”

“Hush now, the princess is just family to him.” Mother had kissed her brow. “And Arya is the little sister he was never allowed to have… he’s said as much to me before. Jon does not see Arya as he might see you.”

“She knows him better than I ever will though.”

“Then perhaps it is time you sought some sisterly advice.” Mother had dried her eyes with a strangely playful grin on her face. “It is just like your needlework Sansa. You had to learn from Septa Mordane at first but now yours is the finest in the castle. If you’re worried about how little you understand our prince, then learn from those who know him best.”

She’d felt ashamed to seek Arya’s help at first. To think that her rude and tiresome sister could help her win the prince’s love… at first that didn’t sound like a good story at all! Surprisingly though, spending time with Arya was not as much of a trial as she’d feared. Her little sister actually did have some womanly talents once Sansa had taken the time to try and notice them. Why together they’d made a rather lovely direwolf favor, one she was proud to take part in.

In her own strange way, Arya had helped Sansa too. At first the insights her sister offered into Jon’s mind did not seem useful, for most were of swordplay and the like. So it was a shock to see the change in Jon’s behavior when she spoke with such knowledge, or merely showed curiosity in what young men got up to in the yard. The solemn prince yielded a smile or two that first time alone.

She had never noticed how handsome Jon’s smile was.

Soon enough it was Jon seeking her out, first for a ride, then for a dance in the hall, but more often they simply enjoyed walks together. One of the sweetest moments had been when the direwolves followed them through the godswood. Four of the pups had fallen upon each other in playful bouts of snarls and nipping while Ghost and Lady simply watched.

“I think there’s a reason that most three year olds don’t have direwolves for pets.” Jon had laughed, pointing at Shaggydog, who had gotten a hold of Grey Wind’s tail and was wrenching it about viciously. “Rickon’s just as fierce when he plays with his toys, so I wonder who takes after whom.”

“My brother was biting others long before the wolves came.” Sansa had smiled back at him. “Though I wish Rickon would take more care in training his pup. Just because Shaggydog is named terribly doesn’t mean he should act so. Grey Wind and Ghost are positively noblemen compared to their black brother.”

“Farlen says the pups all take after their masters.” Jon raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you saying I act a nobleman only when compared to Rickon?”

“Why no! Of course not!” Sansa had sought a way out of her unintended insult, latching on to how Grey Wind and Ghost now fought to get the upper hand over one another. “I don’t think I believe Farlen on this. I have seen you and Robb fight far more fiercely in the yard than these wolves.”

Jon had nodded at that before walking over to Lady and kneeling upon the ground next to her. As he pet Sansa’s beloved friend, her prince had looked back and offered a rare smile.

“Have to disagree with you there Sansa, for I think Farlen’s quite right. Lady is well-mannered, a pleasure to be around, and a beauty on top of it all. That reminds me very much of someone I know.”

Sansa remembered blushing fiercely at that, for no boy had ever said anything quite so sweet to her. Over time, the idea of marrying Jon had grown from more than just escaping Winterfell and living in the south. She didn’t just want to be a princess. She wanted to be his princess.

In her daydreaming Sansa saw herself and Jon together. She’d make him smile and laugh, bear him beautiful children, and he would cherish and protect her and say romantic things of her beauty and nature. It became a dream she wanted more than anything.

When we’re married he’ll say sweet things to me all the time.

I’ll make him the prince he’s meant to be and I’ll be the princess he needs me to be.

As she continued walking through the godswood with Jeyne and Beth, her cheeks flushed again at the memory. It was just as dear to her as the dance that she and Jon had shared while the king played his harp. The music had been so beautiful… she wished she could hear it right now.

Instead the sound of laughter drifted through the woods.

The laughter of women.

“That sounds like the princess.” Beth squinted through the trees to try and find the source. “Her ladies as well.”

“I thought they said they were seeking the sept for prayers.” Jeyne sniffed at the air. “If they finish so quickly, I doubt the Seven will look kindly on them.”

“Maybe they sought the Old Gods’ favor as well?” Beth asked and Sansa shook her head at the young girl’s naïve ways.

“Beth, the Targaryens follow the Faith of the Seven alone.”

“But Prince Jon keeps the Old Gods.”

“Well the princess does not.” She said quickly, embarrassed that she’d forgotten such an important thing about her betrothed, even if only for a moment.

The laughter came once again and Sansa was sure she recognized Daenerys’s voice now. During the royals arrival she’d heard the princess laugh in the same way, just before Daenerys had rushed into Jon’s arms. Or when they’d been dancing at the feast. Sansa had treated Daenerys kindly nonetheless, trying to act as a princess should, yet it still bothered her how happy Jon had looked in the older girl’s arms.

Or how easily Daenerys had stolen his attention away from her.

That doesn’t matter anymore. He’s promised to me now.

And soon Daenerys will be family so we must get along. It is the proper thing to do.

“Let’s see what the princess is enjoying so much.” Sansa suggested, striding in the direction of the laughter. “Surely whatever it is would be a pleasure to share with all of us.”

Her friends dutifully followed as they searched the small wood, which echoed with the laughter of not only the princess and another lady, but with the voice of a young boy as well.

A voice Sansa knew all too well.

She frowned at the scene they found. Among a group of the oldest and tallest ironwoods in the godswood stood Princess Daenerys and her Lady Elara. Ser Barristan was standing nearby as Bran’s pup kept to the princess’s side in a loyal way. Daenerys was petting the wolf as she and her friend went on laughing, gazing upwards into the branches of the tallest of the trees.

Where Sansa’s fool of a little brother was climbing to its highest height.

“Oh please stop Bran!” Daenerys called up, grabbing at Elara’s hand as they giggled. “I believe you now! Don’t you climb up another branch! I mean it!”

“I’m almost there!” Bran shouted back as he climbed up another branch. “I swore to reach the top! A knight would never break a vow to his princess!”

“But a squire might break his back!” Elara yelled up. “You’re a brave little wolf but please, enough! It’s for ravens to go so high!”

“You’re making me worry too lad!” Ser Barristan joined in. “I’m better with swordplay than catching falling lordlings!”

“I won’t fall! I never fall!”

“You cannot!” Daenerys waved her arm to try and catch Bran’s eye. “You come down the way you came! You’re scaring me!”

“And me!” Sansa added, striding forward and ignoring the ladies to squint up at her brother. “Brandon Stark! What did Ser Oswell forbid you from doing?”

“Climbing the towers and walls!” Bran’s answer came back somewhat fainter, for he likely heard the anger in her voice. He turned to gaze down at her and she swore he gripped the tree all the tighter.

“Well he surely meant trees as well!” She snapped, stamping her foot and pointing a finger to the ground. “Come down right now or mother and father will hear of this, and they will surely tell the good ser all about this!”

No answer came save the quiet breeze moving through the trees and Beth’s stifled snicker. She knew Bran heard her and was just being stubborn now so she made to follow through on her threat.

“Beth! Go fetch my parents, would you?”

“No! Don’t!” Bran called down, beginning to descend soon after. “I was almost there Sansa! It’s not even as tall as the First Keep!”

“That’s not the point! It’s high enough to get you hurt! What if-”

“Hey!” Her brother called out excitedly, pointing an arm out at something deeper in the wood. “I can see Robb! And Lady Roslin! Robb! Robb!”

“You said Ros was writing a letter to her father.” Elara whispered to Daenerys and Sansa caught an edge to her voice.

“Leave it be.” The princess answered, shooting a glance at Sansa as she listened. “Leave them be.”

Elara shook her head and jerked away from Daenerys’s hold, walking by Sansa and her friends with the most abrupt curtsy that Sansa had ever seen. After that the lady was off in the direction that Bran had pointed, leaving an awkward silence behind.

Daenerys and Sansa were facing one another but she was at a loss for what to say next. Such wasn’t the case for the princess though.

“Do not blame your brother my lady.” Daenerys put a hand to her chest. “He was showing us about your godswood and claimed to have climbed this tree to its top before. I fear we doubted him and he made to show the truth of his words and… well I didn’t mean for it to go so far.”

You often take things too far.

“It was quite the feat I must say.” The older knight put in, rubbing his chin as he watched Bran descend. “If he scales walls as nimbly as he does trees, I daresay that the squire might make a name for himself during some siege.”

“I thank you ser.” She felt heartened to hear praise for Bran in this embarrassing situation. “Though I beg you not to tell my brother such things. He’s been so good with not climbing lately and if Barristan the Bold were to praise him, it might cause him to take it up again.”

“It’s true.” Jeyne added. “Why he lights up when Prince Jon tells the tale of your actions at Duskendale! When you scaled the walls to rescue the Mad King and-”

Jeyne quieted immediately when Sansa shot her an admonishing look, for she’d just insulted the princess’s father to her face. Everyone called Aerys Targaryen mad or worse but she still considered it bad courtesy to say such things in front of the man’s daughter. Daenerys’s demeanor chilled some but no rebuke came from the princess as Bran leapt from the last branch, landing and bowing towards the group in one nimble movement.

“I could have reached the top Daenerys, I swear.” He ran up to the princess grinning.  “I just can’t have the ser angry at me or else I’ll be scouring armor until my hands fall off.”

“Well I wouldn’t want that.” Daenerys leaned forward and cupped a hand about Bran’s ear, whispering something that Sansa couldn’t hear.

Her little brother’s cheeks reddened as the princess spoke and when she pulled away he nodded numbly. With a bow towards Daenerys and Ser Barristan, but not a word to his own sister, Bran took off running in the direction Elara had gone.

“He’s such a sweet boy, your brother.” Daenerys spoke without looking at her. “So eager to please and always ready with a kind word. He reminds me of Jon when he was the same age.”

“Bran makes you think of Jon?” She asked, dumbfounded to hear the comparison. Bran was always talkative and adventurous; she could not picture Jon being so lively.

“Oh of course! Why, whenever we would play at being Florian and Jonquil or Aegon the Conqueror and his beloved Queen Rhaenys, he would always be dashing, romantic versions of their inspirations.” The princess acted shocked. “Has he never been your Florian my lady? Never acted your dashing hero? The Jon I knew would climb the highest towers and mount the most fearsome of dragons for the fair maiden who needed him.”

Suddenly everyone was staring at her and Sansa began to wring her hands in worry. All this was new to her, and it was horribly embarrassing to admit that she neither knew nor recognized the prince Daenerys spoke of.

“Well… we’ve played at games and such before of course.” She offered, remembering Come Into My Castle and other foolishness. “Yet the days of being children are far behind us and I think we all grew out of such things.”

“Grow out of romance?” Daenerys placed a hand on her mouth, as if in shock. “Leave imagination and dreams of doing great deeds behind? I can’t imagine my Jon without those things. Perhaps we’re speaking of different princes.”

She’s mocking me. Why is she mocking me?

I’ve been nothing but kind to her. She’s the one who acts so shameful with Jon!

“Jon is the only prince I know.” She said softly, fighting the tears of frustration she was feeling. “He’s the prince I will marry…”

“It will be grand wedding!” Jeyne added, coming up to take Sansa’s arm in hand and she was grateful for that. “The greatest the North has ever seen!”

“Sansa will have a fine gown too!” Beth joined their defense against the princess. “Lady Catelyn has already promised it.”

“Then surely it will be so!” A deep voice rang out from behind them.

Yet another group was emerging from the trees and this one bid Sansa and her two friends to curtsy and kneel as one. For King Rhaegar and Queen Cersei themselves walked forward, with Jon and Ser Jaime following as well. The king wore a deep violet doublet beneath a thick, black fur cloak, while the queen’s gown was a magnificent design of gold and black. Sansa was saddened to see that Jon still dressed in plain northern wools while his family appeared so radiant.

The Queen is all I pictured a queen being. Proud, beautiful, and regal in all things.

I hope to have half her grace when I am a princess.

“Lady Sansa, we’ve been looking for you.” The king reached for her. When she placed her hand in his grasp he gave it a polite kiss that almost made her swoon.

“We’ve been wandering about this wood for some time.” Cersei added with a disapproving look about them.

“Considering the young lady we sought, it was well worth it.” The king said and she found herself blushing beneath his handsome eyes. “I hope we find you well my future good-daughter.”

“Very well your grace.” She answered, taking notice of how Daenerys’s face had fallen at how the king titled Sansa.

The princess was now looking between Jon and Rhaegar with a heartbroken expression. Her prince would not meet the young woman’s gaze and Sansa felt heartened that he would act so on her behalf. King Rhaegar made to put a hand on Jon’s shoulder before seeming to think better of it, merely patting it instead.

“Jon, will you tell her or shall I?”

“You may father. It was your decision and Lord Eddard’s permission that allows this to happen. I did little in truth.”

“Quite honest of him.” Cersei said with a smile and Jon winced.

He’s likely embarrassed to be caught in a show of false modesty.

The Queen surely means well, it’s all in good fun.

“More humble I think.” The king kindly helped Jon out of his blunder. “Lady Sansa, when I announced your betrothal to my son, I offered a song as a gift. Did you enjoy it my dear?”

“It was marvelous! I’ve never heard more splendid playing in my life.” She said. “To dance with Jon- I-I mean the prince, during such a song… I cannot thank you enough.”

Sansa spoke truthfully, her words anything but idle praise. Many now said the king’s great skill with the harp had shamed the other bard, for that man had disappeared soon after the feast and none had seen him since. Who could ever hope to follow a player as good as the king?

“You flatter this old man too much. In truth, I see now that my gift was too little to mark such an occasion. I cannot declare my dear son’s betrothal and the rebuilding of Summerhall in such a beggar’s way. Fortunately, Jon has told me that Winterfell has never held a tourney before its walls…”

Oh Jon… oh you spoke to him of a tourney? I never thought you would…

My sweet, sweet prince…

Sansa’s heart fluttered, her hands going to her chest as the king smiled at her in a knowing way. Jon caught her hopeful glance and a small grin pulled at his lips while Cersei’s face had grown quite stern.

“No your grace.” Sansa felt her excitement building. “The North has never held such a thing, not even at White Harbor.”

“Well my son has convinced me that his betrothed is worthy of changing history.” King Rhaegar paused as an excited squeal escaped Jeyne’s mouth before she clamped her hands across it. “Those were his very own words to your lord father and I and it led us to an agreement of sorts. We have decided to hold a tourney here at Winterfell, in honor of the joining of our houses and the two young people who represent so much hope for our future.”

She was proud of herself for managing to suppress a cry of joy at that, fighting every instinct that she had to jump up and down with her friends at this fabulous news. Jeyne and Beth came to her instead, both clutching at her gown and babbling congratulations. Sansa felt herself beaming at it all.

My life has become a dream.

And it is all thanks to my beloved prince.

The king watched all this with a bemused expression while his queen had turned her nose upward as her green eyes glinted in the summer day.

“There are things you must know.” King Rhaegar held up his hand to calm them all. “I’m afraid I’ll only be postponing my departure to the Wall by one more month. So only those contestants and guests who can arrive in that time will be able to take part in the tourney. My own men will be free to do so of course, the Kingsguard as well.”

“The Kingsguard!?” Sansa could not keep that bottled up. “Knights of the Kingsguard will ride in a tourney at Winterfell? For Jon and I?”

“If it pleases you, my lady.” The king raised a knowing eyebrow at her, reminding her suddenly of Jon then.

“Oh yes. A hundred times yes. Thank you my king!”

“Rhaegar.” Daenerys’s voice broke into Sansa’s special moment, her eyes glistening. “How!? Rhaegar how can you-”

“Dear sister.” The king left his wife and son’s side to place Daenerys’s arm on his. “I had forgotten. There were things we were meant to discuss as well, were there not?”

“Y-yes…” The princess lowered her gaze as the king whispered something to her.

Whatever their matter is should not dampen this moment.

My prince asked for a tourney at my home… the only one of its kind… ever!

All for the love he holds for me.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the king made to lead his sister away, looking back at the rest with a smile.

“Cersei, please allow me to attend my sister, I must continue our stroll some time later. Jon, do me this favor and escort your stepmother back to her handmaidens.”

“Yes father.” Jon answered, looking strangely upset as he watched Daenerys being led away by his father.

While Sansa wanted him to look her way, to see her joy, Jon had no chance to do so. The queen was already striding away, her brother following after and Jon running to catch up. Ser Barristan had gone with the king, which left Sansa alone with her friends who began screaming and jumping riotously as soon as the royals were out of sight.

“A tourney! Here!” Jeyne squealed. “For you Sansa! People will tell this tale for ever and ever!”

“Think of it! The Kingsguard shall ride in a joust!” Beth’s eyes had a faraway look then. “The Sword of Morning could take up a lance! Barristan the Bold!”

“Perhaps even the king!” Jeyne gasped. “All know how accomplished a jouster he is!”

“King Rhaegar could not do so.” She tried to bring some sense of propriety back to their celebrations. “He is the king. None would ever properly raise a lance against his grace… my future goodfather.”

“What of Jon then?” Beth asked. “He rides so well, surely as a prince he might enter the lists.”

“He could win them! Then Jon would name you his Queen of Love and Beauty!” Jeyne positively swooned then, spinning and watching her skirts fly about. “My friend is to be a princess and a queen!”

Jon would have to win, of course he would! Our song could start with such a grand thing!

I would be Queen of Love and Beauty and he would be my beloved champion!

Those thoughts suddenly made her realize that while she had thanked the king for the tourney, she had not spoken one word of gratitude to her betrothed. Such was a horrible thing to think on considering all he had done for her. They’d been gone only a short while, so Sansa was sure she could catch up to them. To thank her betrothed and show him how much happiness he had brought her.

My Florian. He acts my Florian in all this.

Beth and Jeyne wanted to come with but this was something Sansa had to do alone. In truth, her friends had embarrassed her some with their girlish actions during the king’s announcement and she wanted this moment with Jon to be perfect. As she lifted her skirts and moved briskly through the sentinels and ironwoods, she wondered just how special this moment might be.

He looked so upset at how Daenerys was acting… it must hurt him that she is so improper.

Just as Arya shames me at times and we are not even royal blood!

She wanted to see Jon smile again. She wanted to have those moments of grand romance and daring with him that Daenerys had mocked her over. They were young to be sure but they were still betrothed. A kiss would be alright she reasoned, a kiss filled with the promise of so much more love to come. Sansa knew little of husband and wives but she knew her tales and songs well. A kiss between a hero and his maiden was always a grand thing.

Meant to drive away all foul feelings. All fears. All hurts.

Even the darkness itself.

If she found Jon and her heartfelt thanks bid him to kiss her lips she knew she would let him. Her mind was so set on that thought, picturing how perfect it could be, that she almost interrupted a fierce argument.

Ahead of her Queen Cersei was raging in front of Jon, red-faced and yelling, as her brother stood nearby, shaking his head.

“How? How?!” The Queen spat as Sansa crept behind the trunk of a great oak. “How did you get Lord Stark to convince my husband of this-this folly!? Why would he hold a tourney for you and that little northern slut!?”

“She is a lady of House Stark.” Jon answered in a tone that she had never heard from him before. It was cold and threatening and almost frightened her. “And it was my father who convinced Lord Stark to allow the tourney. I merely asked their blessing to hold it, to make Sansa happy.”

“That girl!? A child he barely knows?” Cersei hissed in Jon’s face, yanking his chin up to look into her eyes. “Rhaegar wouldn’t hold a tourney for Joffrey’s name day! Not even for his birth! Yet you wish me to believe that he would do such a thing for some backwater brat whose gowns reek of the filth these people wallow in.”

“Do not speak of them that way.” Jon’s fists clenched as he jerked his face free of the Queen’s grasp. “Winterfell smells far better than King’s Landing and Sansa is more deserving of this honor than Joffrey would ever be.”

“You dare? You? The son of a northern slut who was better suited to spreading her legs at a brothel than lying beside the finest man in the realm? You’re gutter trash. You’re a bastard in everything but name boy-”

“I’m not.” He took a step backwards. “You all say that but I’m not. My mother was a highborn lady and she wed my father before the eyes of the weirwoods. In the eyes of the old gods she was a queen.”

“She was a whore! A grasping, beguiling bitch who stole a married man away from his wife, that’s what she was!”

The queen followed Jon in his retreat and Sansa ducked even further behind the tree, shocked at seeing Queen Cersei treat her prince in such a way. It was absolutely horrid. She’d only ever heard such language between some of her father’s guardsmen, and even then only after they were drunk and began to fight. To hear a queen speaking in such a manner to the son of a king was beyond belief.

And Sansa’s head spun as it somehow became worse.

“One day my husband will see reason! He will heed my words and that of the High Septon and remove you from the line of succession. Then it won’t just be five years, no, he’ll exile you to these frozen lands forever! To the Wall if he sees just how tainted your bastard blood is. At least he kept that fool sister of his away from your disgusting hands. She acts like a camp follower around you now, but she’s meant for a true son! My golden prince!”

“Leave Daenerys be!”

“Shut your mouth! It’s a travesty to think that my sons come behind you should anything happen to Rhaegar or Elia’s pompous princeling. I pity the realm if it should suffer a bastard savage as its king and an uncivilized simpleton as its queen…”

“Sansa is a perfect lady!” Jon stopped his retreat then, glaring down at the Queen as he straightened up to his full height. “You may insult me but never her! She’s from a great house and noble parents. She would make ten times the queen you are! As would my moth-”

The slap came so fast, the sound so loud, that Sansa had to cover her mouth to hide her gasp.

Cersei’s strike across Jon’s face made his head jerk with the force of the blow. Just as Ser Jaime jerked to attention and came striding towards the pair.

“Do not touch me again.” Jon rasped as Cersei made to pull her hand back once more if not for the knight stepping between them.

“Enough Cersei.”

“Watch your mouth boy.” The queen rasped, rubbing her hand and stepping aside to keep her brother’s golden hand from touching her. “I am no Viserys. Cross me and you’ll pay. Far worse than that reward I just gave you for your glib tongue. Get me away from this bastard Jaime.”

Once more Cersei turned away from the others and made to depart the ugly scene. Ser Jaime looked at Jon with something between concern and pity before shaking his head and following after his rage filled twin.

That left Jon standing alone, his shoulders slumped and his hand reaching up to where a red mark blemished his face. Touching at his lips, his fingers drew back to reveal that there was blood upon them.

“I’m not a boy anymore.” Jon spoke quietly, his sad eyes looking up to the sky as if seeking some help from the gods.

Sansa stood there behind the tree and stared at the young man she was to wed. The only reason the finest knights of the land would soon be jousting in her honor. The prince who’d defended her good name, like Aemon the Dragonknight had once defended his beloved Queen Naerys, and now bled for it.

Jon had talked of foul things befalling him in the capital but Sansa never took his warnings to heart. Seeing it with her own eyes did not help her come to terms with the truth any easier.

No, no, it could not have been so horrible for him…

How could anyone treat him so… he’s so shy… he’s never been anything but kind…

As those foul thoughts tormented Sansa’s mind, her prince looked tormented by his own. His face was a mix of fear and hurt, darkening with each passing moment.

He needed her. He needed to be kissed.

Yet she stayed hidden, grasping the tree tightly, trying to comprehend how such a beautiful woman like Queen Cersei could act so ugly. How the queen could deny the great love story that Jon and Sansa were about to embark on.

As she struggled with this, Jon began to walk away, his steps slow and his look defeated.

And Sansa let him go.

Watching helplessly as her champion left the field.

Battered and shamed.

 

BRAN

   

“Shit!” Harwin swore as the lance smacked his head.

Bran felt the impact through his shoulder as the lance rested there, pointing up into the air behind him. Harwin was grumbling angrily now so Bran figured he wasn't hurt too badly.

“Sorry! ” Bran grunted, readjusting the lance's position.

“Watch where you’re going lad!” Harwin hissed, checking his head for blood. “What are you doing anyway?”

The only thing that exhausted Bran more than carrying the lance was having to explain why to every guardsman who asked. Stopping with the heavy thing was harder than just running with it across the battlements. Only after one complete length was he allowed to take a break.

The ser would say that stopping to answer questions is a break.

Oh no... what if he's watching from a guard tower?

“I can’t talk now!” He said, turning from Harwin and continuing on his way. “When I come back around I’ll explain!”

“When you come back?”

Balancing the long ironwood lance in a way that didn’t set his arms and shoulders to screaming. While he suffered, others were free to have fun without him. Before leaving on this task he’d been watching Robb, Jon, and Dom riding at the quintain, practicing for the upcoming jousts. Roddy Dustin would cheer every time his cousin scored a perfect strike against the target.

Lord Willam Dustin, one of his father’s closest friends, had arrived from Barrowton  with several men just yesterday. The lord and his son had ridden in on some of the finest horses that Bran had ever seen. It made him all the more excited for the other lords' arrival. Father said the Tallharts, Cerwyns, Hornwoods, and even the Manderlys would be attending the tourney celebrating Jon and Sansa's betrothal.

As he wheezed by another guard tower, Bran spotted builders busy at work in the fields outside of Winterfell. Stands and a tilt bar were being raised while ditches dug and rocks pulled up so the horses could run freely.

In his mind, he saw mounted warriors charging down the tilt with thousands of people cheering them on. At first Bran imagined Ser Arthur and King Rhaegar, but soon it was himself he pictured. He was larger than the other warriors of course, his armor brighter, and his fiery stallion was the envy of all the other riders.

I'll be the greatest knight who lived and Daenerys will cheer for me loudest of all.

Then I’d be the luckiest knight.

Those were silly dreams for now though. First he had to become a great squire, which was why Ser Oswell had him carrying the lance around.

“I don’t understand.” Bran had complained when the knight first dropped the heavy weapon in his arms. “I’m not allowed to joust, mother barely let Robb join the lists. He can’t even challenge the best because she made him swear to it.”

“Hey!” Robb had shouted from atop his horse. “Don’t be spreading that around!”

“It’s true though! You’re only allowed to ride against-”

“Shut up!”

“Don’t tell my squire to shut up.” The ser had barked before turning back to Bran. “Now shut up and do as I say. You might be too young to joust but I happen to be at my prime…”

Robb had started laughing then until Ser Oswell smacked his horse and made the beast buck so his brother nearly fell.

“Like I was saying, you’re squiring for one of the finest jousters in the realm. One who started as a skinny, weak boy, much like yourself, and I’ll have you spend your first tourney doing what I did. While I ride and break lances, my squire will be there to hand me new ones.”

The knight had squeezed Bran’s arm and made a disapproving sound.

“Soft as Mace Tyrell’s arse. You’ll need some muscle on those arms if you’re going to serve me properly in this tourney. Get up to the battlements, walk them twice with that in your arms, and perhaps you'll be ready in time.”

Bran tried to keep those words in his heart even as he started becoming bruised and sore.

Round and round he went, ignoring the aches that came with his training. He told himself this was just like learning how to scour armor. Sure it hurt at first but he just kept thinking how it would get better with time. That and how it was worth all the good that had come to Winterfell over the past few weeks.

King Rhaegar and father didn’t hate each other anymore. Robb was always smiling and laughing now, especially when Roslin was around. Sansa and Jon were going to get married, which meant his sister was going to be princess! Now her wish to see him become a Kingsguard made sense. Sansa wanted him to guard her one day.

And being a Kingsguard was his dream, but in those dreams, it wasn’t Sansa he served.

It was his silver princess.

Princess Daenerys was the sweetest, kindest, most perfect princess there could ever be. No wonder she was one of the few things that Jon missed about the capital. When the ser didn’t have him doing training, he’d run to Daenerys and her ladies, finding any excuse to be near her.

He would give any chance, any price, anything to see Daenerys's smile.

To see her unhappy was a horrible thing. When the king had first announced Jon and Sana’s betrothal, the entire hall was smiling and cheering. He’d watched the two like everyone else and when they finished, Bran thought to maybe ask Daenerys for another dance but couldn’t find her.

Pushing and fighting his way through laughing women and drunken men, he’d finally spotted Elara and Roslin at the doorway to the hall’s welcoming chamber. There’d been no sign of the princess until Ser Oswell barked at the ladies and went through the door. Shortly after Jon had come out with Daenerys following after. Both had looked flushed and upset, going their separate ways as they returned to the feast. It was a sad thing for him to see the princess in such a way, worse because he had no idea why she was so upset.

From now on her stay will be better, he’d sworn to himself, she’ll think of Winterfell and smile.

When he’d climbed the ironwood, it was all to make Daenerys happy, and it worked. The only downside had been Sansa catching him and getting angry. Embarrassed as he was at the time, that all went away when he found himself beside Daenerys again. She'd even made his mind swim when she leaned close to him and whispered softly in his ear.

“Go and get Elara would you? She’s gone to pester Roslin and Robb. Keeping her out of trouble is no easy thing, but for a squire who climbs as high as you, I have faith.”

His stomach had filled with butterflies when the princess’s breath touched his skin. Of course he’d done as she asked right away, running through the godswood in search of the missing Dayne.

Or Sand.

People didn’t tell Bran much but he’d heard that Elara was born a bastard. He didn’t think that should matter too much, what with Ser Arthur being her uncle and King Rhaegar making her a Dayne.

Mother didn’t like Elara though. Any time the lady was around, mother would grow tense, even angry. Especially with father, who'd thanked Bran for escorting Elara to the feast while mother snapped at him for talking about how much fun it was.

Elara had even smiled at him a few times.

As he turned from the northern wall to the eastern one, Bran wondered on that for a moment.

Roslin’s got a pretty smile but I think Elara's is prettier, he thought, Daenerys is still my silver princess though.

“Hey clumsy!” A voice called out.

Ahead his sister stood, leaning against a turret with a grin on her face. One he didn’t trust in the least. She looked like she'd been hiding behind the turret, which wasn’t strange really. Lately Arya was always running off on her own, and she couldn’t be around Sansa for more than a few moments before mocking her.

Though now Arya mocked him, pointing and laughing as she did so.

“I saw you hit Harwin!” Arya giggled. “You hit him with the right end of the lance but you're holding it the wrong way stupid.”

“Shut up!” He grunted, trying to quicken his pace past Arya, only for her to come alongside him. “Don’t try and trip me or anything. I’m practicing to be a knight.”

“Then you’re doing that wrong too. Knights wear armor, ride horses, and point their lances ahead of them.” Arya said. “They don’t walk around in sweaty clothes with the lance going-”

“What would you know?” He stuck out his tongue. “Go do some needlework like a lady should! Leave being a knight to me!”

“If I leave you be you’ll walk into one.” Arya warned, pointing his eyes ahead.

Bran was so focused on the lance and arguing with his sister that he hadn’t been paying attention to the path before them. There against the wall was King Rhaegar and two of his Kingsguard. the Sword of Morning and the Kingslayer were speaking while the king merely nodded, never breaking his gaze from where he stared out into the moors.

Turn around and go back, he thought, you look like a bloody fool.

“Hello Ser Jaime!” Arya called out happily, waving so that all three men turned towards them. “Bran’s learning how to joust! Tell him he’s not doing it right!”

“I hate you.” He whispered as Arya dragged him forward.

“Oh no.” Arthur began to laugh. “Oswell’s doing the lance thing again.”

The other two laughed as well while Bran's own face felt like it was on fire. His traitor of a sister led him before the king while she went to the Kingslayer, who eyed her with curiosity. Bran was trying to drop to his knee but was having some trouble doing so. When the Lord-Commander laughed all the harder, the king waved him off from doing so.

“Dear boy, do not worry about that.” King Rhaegar shook his head. “Squiring for Oswell offers enough worries of their own. He has done the same to many before you, my son included.”

“Only once or twice.” Arthur pointed out. “If I remember correctly, when you saw Jon walking about the Red Keep like this you sorted Oswell out fast enough.”

“He was too young to bear such a burden… like he has always been.” The king sighed. “How old are you Brandon?”

“Eight.” He did his best to stand tall. “And most call me Bran, your grace.”

“Bran, yes. Well, Jon was the same age when I asked Oswell to forego this little exercise. If I am to rule justly, I suppose I should command him to spare you from this as well-”

“Oh please don’t!” He pleaded. “The ser is going to make me into a great knight and-”

“Squire.” Ser Arthur spoke sternly. “You may be a great lord's son and serve a Kingsguard but you do not interrupt your king when he is speaking. It is discourteous and shows you prefer acting to thinking.”

“They named him well then.” The Kingslayer added. “The Brandon Stark I knew was much the same.”

“All the more reason he should be corrected, ser.” The Sword of the Morning barked. “Perhaps this one might be spared the follies his namesake.”

Bran felt close to tears, for this was the worst thing that could be happening. Standing filthy, weak, and acting poorly in front of the king and the knight he most admired was something out of a nightmare. He didn't want things to get worse so he summoned up the courage to speak then.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “Your grace, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Forgiven and forgotten.” The king nodded, stepping forward and making to take hold of the lance. “Might I see your weapon Bran?”

“I-I’m not supposed to put it down-”

“Then it shall not touch the ground, you have my word.”

King Rhaegar took the lance then, resting it in his hands with no strain at all. Moving it back and forth, the king looked to be testing the weapon’s weight before he gazed down its length, making an impressed sound. Bran and Arya stood in awe as he made to settle the lance against his hip and point it ahead, as if readying for a joust. The wind blowing over the walls set his silver blonde hair to flying lazily through the air, making it easy for Bran to imagine the king riding at a tilt.

“Remembering the glory days of youth?” Ser Arthur asked. “Miss it old friend?”

“You know I don’t.” The king said sadly. “More duty than glory in those days… things that had to be done whether they made me happy or not. I think the young squire here understands that. What say you Bran, do I have this lance returned to the ser or to your keeping?”

Bran stood there waiting, fearful that perhaps the king had not yet finished and mindful of the Lord-Commander watching. While he knew what King Rhaegar wanted, to tell Ser Oswell to end this practice, Bran couldn’t ignore what he felt when the lance had been taken from him. Arya widened her eyes and stamped her foot lightly, urging him to speak as everyone continued to stare at him.

“Might I have it back King Rhaegar?” He asked. “The ser wanted me to carry it and he’s trying to make me a knight. He warned me that it would be hard and painful but I begged to be his squire anyways. I’d do my duty… no matter how much it hurts.”

“You sound like a true knight.” The king smiled. “I’ve heard these fine men speak words very much like your own.”

While Ser Arthur offered a wink, Bran saw the Kingslayer rub at the wrist of his missing hand. Arya saw it too and her expression towards the king darkened some. King Rhaegar didn't seem to notice as he handed the lance back. Bran made sure to hide any signs of pain as he rested it on his shoulder.

“Is it to be around the entire castle?” Rhaegar asked and he nodded. “Then I shall join you squire. A walk on these walls is too good not to be shared.”

“I’d go and take up the guard of my sister then.” The Kingslayer bowed before strolling back the way Bran had come. To his surprise, Arya began to follow after the one-handed knight, the king watching this with bemusement.

“Lady Arya, you would not join us?”

“No thank you.” Arya said with a smile before Bran hissed at her, jerking his head towards the king. “Um, I mean, I beg your leave your grace.”

Her sister curtsied then and he was disappointed that Ser Arthur didn’t chide Arya for her courtesies. King Rhaegar let her leave with no argument and she rushed off after the Kingslayer. He watched long enough to see that they shared some words, the knight pressing the fingers of his real hand to the side of his head.

That wasn’t his problem though, so he joined the king to start their walk, Ser Arthur following closely behind. The lance didn’t weigh as much now, not with him walking the battlements next to the King of the Seven Kingdoms and the Sword of Morning.

A king, a knight, and a squire… sounds like a song that Sansa might like.

I hope her version gives me something better to hold than a lance.

It would be better if his direwolf was here, that'd be a good song lyric Bran thought, but the wolf had been missing all morning. That was until he followed the king’s gaze over the walls. He saw his pup clearly then, running alongside a party of women on a pleasure ride outside the castle.

His princess among them.

Daenerys’s hair made her easy to spot and as he watched it fly in the air he pictured her smiling. Roslin and Elara rode with her, with his wolf darting in and about their mounts. Lady was out there too, following behind Sansa and her friends. His sister’s bright hair stood out like the princess’s, yet he noticed that the two girls were riding apart from each other. Even though they rode in the same direction both led different groups of ladies.

The only ones riding together were the men escorting them, Barristan the Bold and Jory riding side by side at the head of the guards. They only drew his eye for a moment though, for Daenerys and Elara’s riding was too fun to watch. They liked jumping puddles and cheering each other on while Sansa and her friends simply rode, probably too scared of muddying their skirts.

Suddenly he realized how long he’d been staring. Embarrassed, he made to look away until King Rhaegar gestured for him to watch the girls again.

“Enjoy this sight squire. Soon it shall be armored men charging across that field with sword and lance, doing great violence to earn great acclaim. Seeking some strange idea of glory. Some would call it a handsome sight but to me, this is a far lovelier one. Beauty and grace, peace and friendship... If that is what tourneys were, I would call a hundred every year.”

That’s silly, who would want to watch girls riding about?

He cares as little for tourneys as my father does all say… but maybe Winterfell’s tourney will be so grand that it’ll change their minds.

“Sansa’s happy for the tourney your grace.” He said. “She would much rather watch the Kingsguard joust than ride about our lands.”

“She should cherish such simple things… Speaking of your sister, why did Arya not join Daenerys and the others? Jon has told me that she's an excellent rider.”

 “I don’t know.” He answered truthfully. “She thinks she’s ten times the rider that Sansa and the other girls are and she likes to show off about it. If it was Jon and Robb out there, Arya would be fighting for a horse. My mother would punish her but she’s always getting in trouble anyways. Father says it’s because of her wolfsblood.”

The king offered a hint of a smile but the sadness of his eyes made Bran think it was a grimace.

“Ah yes, the wolfsblood. Your aunt Lyanna talked about this, how it kept the Starks warm with the winter coming.” Rhaegar spoke in soft tones. “She told me tales of how the only riders who could match her skill were men. I believe my wife lied though, for she had no equal as far as I can tell.”

“Arya might be better than Robb one day.” Bran added, though he wasn’t about to admit that his sister could ride circles around him. “Domeric too.”

“Better than Jon?” The king asked but he didn't force Bran to speak to it. “My son takes after me in that. I am a decent rider in most ways but still his mother out shined me. My dreams were of flying and hers were of us riding together across the realm. She wanted to cross the realm and back on our horses, a grand tour where the people could see the king knowing the lands as they did. Her dream had us riding from Dorne to the Wall, where we would plant a winter rose in the ice…”

That was odd to hear, for Bran had dreams of the Wall too. Or at least what he thought was the Wall, as he’d never seen it himself. They were always strange dreams, of a great ice barrier that held back something far colder than itself. He remembered the sounds of ravens flying and crying out, of a weirwood... and a strange kind of singing.

He was more interested in the dreams that the king spoke of though.

“It’s not too late. I mean, you can take a winter rose from the glass gardens and bury it at the Wall when you and father go north.”

“I buried my winter rose some time ago, Bran.” The king clenched his fists. “Though I thank you for the idea, such a pretty thing would be a comfort for the journey ahead.”

“I bet the Night’s Watch is excited!” Bran beamed to have been thanked by the king. “Father told us stories about the Wall! He told us that the last time a Targaryen visited Castle Black, they came on dragons!”

“He speaks of the Old King, Jaehaerys the Wise and Good Queen Alysanne.” Rhaegar reached up to touch the scar on his cheek then. “I respect Lord Stark but he is wrong. There were others that went to the Wall after them. Not atop dragons for a mere visit but riding horses to begin their watch. Two of them, the sons of kings, as different as could be yet counted among the wisest in the realm during their time. From what I’ve heard, few could boast having as much knowledge about this world as those two do… or did I might say.”

“Targaryens taking the black?” He was stunned. “The sons of kings? That would make them princes… a Targaryen prince at the Wall? Um… I’ve never heard any stories of dragon princes in the Watch...”

“Yes, they are largely forgotten. Likely because one forswore his title, and the other was never offered his.” The king insisted, his tones becoming iron once more, hanging in the air as heavy as the lance did upon Bran’s shoulder.

“That such wisdom should be lost to us… all it could offer, what it might restore… madness. A folly to let such knowledge disappear and madder still that these men be forgotten. One rose up to be a Lord-Commander of the Watch itself and the other-”

“You grace!” Ser Arthur broke in, his face full of shock. “Watch your step there.”

He looked to the castle walk and saw no stones out of place or anything else that might trip them up. All the knight’s warning did was interrupt the king’s tale that Bran had found very interesting. He was tempted in a moment of madness to point out to the Lord-Commander that it was rude to interrupt the king.

“Thank you Arthur.” Rhaegar nodded. “The passion I hold for that tale nearly caused me to make a misstep.”

“Who was the Lord-Commander? Of the Night's Watch I mean?” Bran asked. “Which prince was he?”

The king considered his question a moment, looking between the knight and himself before tapping a bit on the lance.

“A strong weapon, able to cause great harm, but knowledge can be even more dangerous, remember that.” Rhaegar said. “The man we speak of was no prince, for he was no trueborn Targaryen. He was the natural born son of Aegon the Fourth, also called the Unworthy for good cause. Birthed by a lady of House Blackwood, Brynden Rivers was one of the Great Bastards during the age of the Blackfyre Rebellions. He served as Hand to two kings before being sent off to the Wall by a third.”

“Why?”

“That’s a tale for another day.” The king answered. “Lord Brynden was called Bloodraven by many but feared by more for his wisdom as much for his strategy. Some even claimed that he dabbled in sorcery… which I believe his bloodline lends credence too.”

“Being a bastard made him a sorcerer?” Bran asked in wonder.

“Let us say natural born.” The king stopped, bringing both knight and squire to a halt as well. Ser Arthur did not look pleased then. “Nor is that what I meant. Bloodraven was blood of the dragon and Old Valyria itself, a civilization to wield sorcery and bent dragons to their will. His mother was a Blackwood and blood of the First Men courses strongly through their veins.”

“Just like mine!”

“Yes, in fact Tyrion Lannister has studied just how often families with the ancient bloodlines intermarry to this day. Stark to Blackwood, Blackwood to Royce, Royce to Stark, even House Dayne all the way down in Dorne has kept it's bloodlines close to Houses of the First Men. Tales are told that those ancient people and the Children of the Forest may have mingled their lines, sharing a power long forgotten. Visions come to descendants of those families as they often come to my own… then there’s talk of men who could control beasts themselves. Have you ever heard this Bran?”

“You mean wargs?” He asked. “Old Nan told us stories about them. They wear the skins of animals and feast on human blood. She says that there are many beyond the Wall but Maester Luwin says she’s lying. He says most things like that, wargs, giants, the Children, they all died out years ago if they were ever real.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe they are both wrong.” Rhaegar looked within the castle, where Rickon and Shaggydog were running wildly in circles while mother tried to call to him to stop.

“My point was that those who hold the old bloodlines, their blood might hold a power that we have forgotten. Pure blood Targaryens, First Men, or mixtures of the two, I believe power flows through them.”

That the king was standing here and talking with Bran about magic should have rattled his mind enough. Yet with all this talk of bastards, bloodlines, and power, he glanced down to Shaggydog and Rickon again. For some reason he thought it odd now how the pup would go where his brother pointed and follow where he went, even though Rickon never properly trained the pup.

“No matter what people forget, the blood remembers Bran.” Rhaegar said and Bran saw his attention had turned towards the girls riding through the gates. Elara and his still unnamed wolf were at the lead, the pup actually chasing after the lady.

Just as Bran had done that day in the godswood. After Daenerys had sent him in search of Elara.

He’d found her of course, for Bran had been the one to spot Robb and Roslin from his place in the tree. From what he’d seen the couple had only been leaning against a tree and talking, but for some reason Elara wanted to stop that.

She’d gotten lost on her way though, acting quite confused when he caught up to her. When he’d called out, Elara had spun around with an angry expression, one that reminded him a bit of Arya.

“Shit! Bran!” Elara had hissed. “You don’t sneak up on people in the capital!”

“We’re not in the capital.” He laughed, pointing at Grey Wind and his pup playing nearby. “This is Winterfell remember? Where else can you find direwolves at play?”

“I’d better not find one at play with Roslin.” Elara had turned away, only to narrow her eyes when Bran blocked her path. “Move Bran, I mean it. Go and chase after Daenerys… you can play some games with her.”

“I can’t.” He shrugged. “I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble.”

“Me out of trouble? Roslin’s the one being led off by your brother! With his 'oh so kind words' and 'smiles as smooth as silk,' as Roslin puts it. It’s all lies. I can see what he really wants from her! The beast has her scent and-”

“Robb’s not a very good liar.” Bran had backed away as Elara took a few steps forward. “You shouldn’t be calling my brother bad names either, he'll be the Lord of Winterfell one day.”

“Names... don’t talk to me about bad names Brandon Stark.” Elara's hiss was followed by a finger pressed against her chest. “I’ve been called worse names than you can even imagine. Now get out of my way so I can spare Roslin some of that.”

Bran hadn’t moved though, for his princess had set him on a task. Instead he crossed his arms and acted as the squire of a Kingsguard, only feeling a little silly to be challenging a lady.

“Bran.” He declared. “No one calls me Brandon but my parents and that's only when they’re mad. You’ve no right to be angry with me unless it’s because of what you owe.”

“Owe?” Elara raised her eyebrow. “Are you a road agent now? Making ladies pay tolls to get where they need to go?”

“I climbed the tree when you said I couldn’t. I heard you. You told Daen- Princess Daenerys the day I climbed so high was the day you could bend a wolf to your will. Well I did it, and unless you can make our wolves listen to you, then I think you owe me.”

“Me owe you?”

Elara had gaped at that, and he felt proud for disarming the dark-haired lady. It was a rare thing to see her surprised but a moment later it was Bran's turn to be shocked, for Elara took up the challenge. With a swish of her skirts, she made to face the direwolves.

“Come!” She commanded, chin sticking up in the air. “You heard me! Come here!”

Grey Wind and Bran’s wolf stared at her a moment, their ears perked up and clearly confused. When Elara repeated her command she sounded hopeful, but it was for naught. Whatever interest Grey Wind had passed quickly, for he took off running away from Elara rather than toward her.

“Grey Breeze, run away!” Elara shouted, shooting Bran a sideways glance. “Yes that way! Um… stop and smell that tree!”

“Nice try.” He smiled. “And it’s Grey Wind.”

“Well that’s not fair! How can I order the one without a name?”

“My tree didn’t have a name.”

“I don’t care for you Stark.” Elara narrowed her eyes at him. “Not one bit.”

“Liar.” He’d teased, pointing back at the remaining wolf, who still stared at them. “Go on then, mine’s still here.”

“You’re a wolf not a raven! How was I supposed to know you could climb that high?” Elara grumbled before waving the pup on. “Come! Come here now! I’ve got food for you girl!”

“He’s a boy!”

“Come here boy!” She continued calling out. “Just come here and help me prove a Stark wrong! Come!”

Again and again she yelled and all the response his wolf gave her was to lay on the ground and stare. After a while, Elara’s face began to redden with embarrassment.

“Don’t worry my lady.” He’d laughed. “Father says that the direwolves are as noble as they are wild. They won’t heed just anyone. Only a Stark can order them.”

Feeling smug at the time, Bran had laughed again but Elara turned to look at him as if he’d slapped her. That's when she dropped to her knees, dirtying her skirts on the ground as she reached her palm out to the wolf.

“Come here! Please!” Elara said desperately. “Just this once! Come! Please!”

“Elara it’s okay.” He’d heard the tremble in her voice and swore that her eyes were glistening now. “I was just kidding...”

“No! He can come to me! The other one ran but this one will come!” Elara stretched the other hand out even farther. “Please come here. I won’t hurt you. If you come here I’ll be nice. I’ll pet you and love you… you’ll like me I swear. You don’t need to run… just come to me once… just once…”

Bran felt bad then. Elara's voice had sounded desperate and sad and pleading, and the look on her face only got worse when the wolf stood and began to walk away.

“No, please.” Elara choked out, wiping at her face. “I understand, it’s horrible to not have a name… you don’t have to run. Please… I’d like to know you… there's nothing wrong with me...”

Bran couldn't understand why this was so important to Elara, or why she acted close to bawling. The lady had always seemed tougher than Lady Roslin or even Princess Daenerys, too strong to cry. The sad display had surprised Bran. 

Yet the direwolf surprised him more, for it began to do as Elara asked. The pup ambled over moss and root to seek the lady’s hand, licking at her palm when it arrived. A single tear had escaped to run down Elara’s cheek but it didn’t catch his eye like her smile did. He’d thought Elara’s smiles were pretty ever since he first escorted her to the feast, yet something about them was always guarded. Like she was holding something back.

This smile was so wide and genuine that Bran marveled at how beautiful it was. Somehow being away from Daenerys made Elara stand out all the more. When the pup moved closer, the lady enveloped his wolf in a warm embrace, wiping her tear away against its fur. With the direwolf in her arms and the quiet woods encircling them both, something felt strangely right about the moment. The trees blocked out some of the sun but it didn’t hide any of Elara’s features.

The godswood is dark and beautiful at the same time, father said.

Just like her.

There hadn’t been much time to think on that, for soon Robb and Roslin had come upon them, holding hands. Elara’s face became a mix of anger and embarrassment when she saw the couple. Without a word she took Roslin in hand and led the lady away from Robb, who shot his brother a final meek smile.

Elara had given Bran a final look as well.

Her eyes had been sad, betraying a deep hurt that he didn’t understand.

The lady was smiling now though. Bran’s eyes wanted to take in Daenerys’s beauty, but for some reason he was drawn to looking at Elara instead as she dismounted her horse. His pup was waiting below, eager to jump up at her and the lady laughed to pet him.

 “The blood remembers.” Rhaegar repeated, the breeze moving over them both. “Trueborn or not, the blood remembers…”

Whatever the king meant Bran knew one thing for certain.

Direwolves don’t care if you’re a bastard or not.

They sense what we cannot.

They see more.

Chapter 6

Summary:

The Tourney of Winterfell.

Honor and glory are sought outside the walls of Winterfell. Some struggle to regain the honor they've lost. Others dream of love borne of some glory.

JON

 

“You look great!” Arya clapped and smiled at him. “Like a hero!”

“Thank you little sister.” He frowned, shifting about under his new plate and mail. “Though dressed like this, I feel more like the villain.”

Arya laughed as she ran forward to help him buckle a strap which had come loose from the pitch black suit of armor. The pair were inside a small tent that was set up beyond the walls of Winterfell where Jon could prepare for his first tilt. He could not stand still he was so nervous, especially in the new armor that his father had gifted him. This was not freshly forged steel however, this was a suit once worn by his father during marches and tourneys, before Jon was even born.

It wasn’t the ruby encrusted plate that the king wore to the Trident, though it was still grand in a way. The black steel was adorned with depictions of three dragons, roaring in flight and fury. There were small dents from years of service but it was still one of finest examples of armoring Jon had ever laid eyes upon.

He was glad that there were no jewels decorating it, for the northmen attending the tourney today would surely laugh to see him glittering like a lady’s gown. The only extravagant part of his new armor was the helm where a three-headed dragon perched, its wings spread wide. Jon grew displeased to look upon it, for the helm was identical to the one his father always wore.

I don’t want to be my father, he thought, I want to be a prince the North can cheer for.

“Arya, will you do me a favor?” He sighed, listening to excited calls and the sounds of people running without the tent. “Seek out Mikken. I think one of my father’s men traded in a black greathelm in payment for some of his work. Beg that I might make use of it and tell him that I’ll pay whatever price he asks come the morrow.”

“Okay... but you have a helm.” Arya made a face, pointing at the one in his grasp. “Right there. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just not mine.” He shook his head and waved at her. “Go on then, or I’ll reconsider letting you watch from my side. Your mother will surely welcome-”

“I’m going! I’m going!” The little girl was out like a flash. “Be back soon! Don’t ride without me!”

I won’t. Not with this helm.

Jon knew he was being petty but the weeks had not taken the sting of Cersei’s slap from his mind. While he never spoke a word of that day to anyone, not wishing a scene to be made in his uncle’s home, he still blamed his father for marrying the bitch in the first place.

Getting angry about Cersei didn’t help his nerves one bit so he made to distract himself. Setting the helm down on a table, he went to gaze through the tent flap at the spectacle the Targaryens had brought to Winterfell.

This was no great tourney. In fact it was one of the smallest he’d ever seen, yet to the North and its people, this was an event like no other. Three score tents were set up around the open field and the newly made tilt yard running through it. There were some pavilions representing the lords in attendance yet they were no magnificent things like you’d see in the south.

The northmen were humble rather than poor, for Jon knew some of the finest lords and warriors of the North were here. William Dustin had brought Rickard Ryswell and Ronnel Stout along with him to enter the lists. Out of Torrhen’s Square came Ser Helman Tallhart, his brother Leobald, and his son Benfred. Lord Halys Hornwood had arrived so that his heir Daryn could take part, alongside a knight in their service, Ser Calem Weirgrave. Though Wyman Manderly did not attend, he'd sent barges up the White Knife carrying his sons and granddaughters as well as some White Harbor knights who boasted of their chivalry as they entered the lists.   

The North at large lacked for knights and heavy horse so almost half the jousters taking part today would be from his father’s party. All four of the Kingsguard would be riding and Bran’s face was likely to crack from smiling, for he got to squire for Oswell during a tourney. His father’s old friend Ser Richard Lonmouth was also signed up, along with a few other household knights, though none from the Lannister entourage.

Two of the jousters Jon knew best were now riding toward his tent and he felt heartened enough to come out and greet them.

Robb and Domeric both whistled to see him in his new armor.

“How is that for fair!” Robb laughed. “You steal my sister, get a tourney in your name, and now you make me look a beggar.”

“Makes us both look poorly.” Dom added, shaking his head. “My blade may be sharp but my plate is rusty!”

Jon knew the two were jesting. Though they weren't outfitted in the gleaming armor of southron knights, neither would be riding out unprotected this day. Robb’s suit was a dark grey and obviously had pieces interchanged over the years, having been passed down the Stark line. The greaves and gauntlets were of a lighter shade, showing their later forging. Domeric’s suit was darker and he wore a blood red helm with a bright pink cloak hanging from his shoulders. While the Bolton might have been flashier, Jon thought that Robb’s shield drew the eye more. Carved from ironwood and studded with bronze and iron, the dark wood had been painted white with a grey direwolf head snarling in the center.

“You can jest but both of you will have the better of today.” Jon said, working his arms back and forth. “You’ve had years to get used to your suits and what you can do in them. This armor is new to me and a day of jousting is not the way I would choose to learn it.”

“Gods, he’ll never change.” Robb leaned forward on his horse and waved Jon forward, as if to whisper a secret. “Has no one told you? There’s a tourney happening at Winterfell! The first tourney in the North, ever! Father says that there's never been this many people in the Winter Town in his lifetime, even during the greatest of Harvest Feasts. And here you are, the brother I chose, set to marry the sister I love, complaining because he got a new set of armor.”

“I wasn’t complaining…”

“Robb’s right.” Domeric nodded. “Enjoy this Jon. In any other tourney would you be permitted to joust? Or Robb?”

“Father only let me because to hold me back while Jon was allowed to ride would shame me.” Robb smiled widely. “That’s what I told him at least. Barristan the Bold rode his first tourney when he was ten! We’re almost men now and no matter how much mother complains, father knows there is great honor in competing this day. I think there might be some glory to be found as well…”

“Heirs and untested knights Robb.” Jon reminded his cousin. “We are only to challenge young men and newly made knights. Your mother is nervous enough so let us please heed her in that.”

“Should we ever ride to battle, am I only to choose the weakest of opponents to ease my mother’s mind?”

Someone should ease her mind. The poor lady has looked unhappy for weeks now.

As has Uncle Eddard. They must have fought over something…

Jon remembered when his uncle gave Domeric and Robb his blessing to ride in the joust. Uncle Eddard had looked unhappy to do so but he'd already denied Robb a chance to march against the wildlings. Allowing his son to joust alongside Jon and the finest knights of the realm was not something the lord could forbid his heir. Lady Catelyn had begged them afterwards not to challenge any of the more seasoned warriors and they’d both agreed, though Robb was begrudged to do so.

After Arya returned with the helm he’d asked for, a squat dark thing that went well enough with his armor, it wasn’t long before he and Robb wore challenged. Jon could’ve begged the right to ride first as a son of the king, but Winterfell was playing host to the tourney and thus Robb was given the honor.

His cousin was tapping his helm in anticipation when a herald summoned the first two jousters to the lists.

“Benfred of House Tallhart, heir to Torrhen’s Square. Robb of House Stark, Heir to Winterfell. Come forth and prove your valor.”

Benfred Tallhart and Robb rode before the small stands raised up alongside the tilt to the cheers of crowd gathered to watch. Hundreds of smallfolk ringed the entire field but the stands offered the best view and thus were allotted to the highborn.

The highest seats were reserved for the most esteemed pairs at the tourney. His father and uncle sat together as their wives took places to either side of them. Surprisingly, Cersei actually looked eager for the day's events, as opposed to Lady Catelyn, who stared down at Robb nervously. Below them sat Sansa and Daenerys, with their ladies filling the spaces around them. Jon's eyes did not linger there, for he did not have the strength to face them just now.

He was happy when Robb distracted them all with his boldness.

“Lady Roslin!” Robb called out, riding right up to the stands with his helm under an arm. “My lady… I beg a favor from you for the day, something beautiful and true. Much like yourself!”

All eyes fell on the blushing young lady between Daenerys and Elara. Jon caught some whispers between Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly at Robb’s choice, while Eddara Tallhart openly glared at poor, shy Roslin. Elara shot a foul look back at the Tallhart girl while Daenerys smiled, pushing Roslin towards Robb. The lady then untied a ribbon from her hair, a bright red one that she placed a kiss upon before tying it to the end of Robb’s lance.

“Are you going to do that?” Arya asked then, watching the scene from her place beside his horse. She'd been serving as his squire of sorts, helping to armor him and fetching him whatever he requested. It was his price for allowing her to watch the jousts by his side instead of in the stands, though in truth he was glad for her presence.

“Well?” She crossed her arms. “Are you going to go over there and look a fool just to get a favor from Sansa?”

If I go over there seeking a favor, I know two beauties who would offer one.

As soon as I rode away, I'd leave a broken heart in my wake.

Like my father did at Harrenhal…

“Hey! Don’t ignore me!” Arya pouted. “I bet Sansa already has a stupid ribbon or scarf ready for you… maybe you should take one from Daenerys instead, she’s wearing so many.”

“They both look lovely.” He said truthfully. “I think I will leave them be for today. I already have a favor from a worthy lady.”

While Arya looked confused, Jon showed her the token he’d been keeping to himself for some time. A small bit of cloth, decorated with the stitched form of a grey direwolf bordered by weirwood leaves. Arya’s eyes widened to see it in his care, obviously surprised after she'd dropped it at the feast.

Everything had been a whirlwind after father announced that he and Sansa would be wed. As he’d led Sansa about in a dance, Jon had spotted Arya throwing aside the decorated cloth and fleeing. He wished he could do such a thing himself as a storm of thoughts and feelings had raged within him. At first Jon was fearful that the Starks had been forced into this arrangement, but Uncle Eddard and Lady Catelyn looked pleased as Jon and Sansa danced.

Then he felt guilt, for Sansa had always spoken of marrying a bright prince, a handsome man who was full of laughter. Now she was being forced to wed him instead. Yet Sansa had beamed under his gaze, her cheeks red and her hands clutching him tightly but also gentle in a way. For half a moment, he’d pictured her looking so beautiful before the heart tree, or on his arm in a wedding gown.

That dream had turned his stomach sour, less for how wonderful and tempting it was to grasp onto, and more because he’d already thought such a thing earlier that night.

About another young woman. One who watched them dance with a deep look of hurt on her face. There was a time when Jon would do anything to spare Daenerys such grief.

Now she suffered because of him.

After his dance with Sansa ended, he barely had time to snatch up Arya’s token when others came forward to offer congratulations and glasses of wine. Somehow he’d escaped it all to seek after Dany and her entourage.

He caught sight of the ladies as they fled within a side room of the hall, where the lord would sit in judgment or meet guests. As he slipped inside, Jon overheard a commotion of ladies voices filling the nearly empty chamber.

“Bloody Starks!” Elara had raged, making fists at her sides as Roslin held Dany close to her. “They ruin everything! You don’t deserve this Dany!”

“This couldn't have been planned.” Roslin spoke softly. “Surely your brother would have told you?”

“Or Jon.” Dany had a hand over her eyes. “He never said one thing to me earlier. I thought we had such a sweet moment, that he wanted-”

“Daenerys.” He’d interrupted, making his presence known. “Dany. You didn't know?”

All three ladies had turned to face him then, Dany freeing herself from Roslin's embrace and moving towards him before catching herself.

“No… I never had any idea. No one spoke to you either?”

“Not a word.” Jon admitted, suddenly angry to think on that. “Until my father actually made the announcement, none had ever spoken of Sansa and I together…”

“You don’t love her then?” Dany asked, taking another step forward and Jon felt embarrassed that they were not alone.

“She’s my cousin, of course I love her… but if you mean like-like love her as… as...”

“Elara, Ros, please leave us.” Dany commanded of her friends without pulling her eyes from him. “Guard the door beyond, we need just a few moments.”

The pair had moved quickly, Roslin offering a final touch on the princess’s arm in support while Elara gave Jon a withering look of warning. When they were gone, Dany moved to take his hands in hers, trembling some.

“I should be congratulating you. Sansa Stark is quite the lady.” She said, running her thumbs across his fingers. “She’s beautiful Jon and very sweet… she treated me with kindness. She dances well and I saw how happy you were to lead her… Sansa could make you happy. Her brothers probably never threaten you, and she would never lie and see you sent away and almost killed…”

“Dany…”

“You want this, don’t you?” Dany blinked her tears away and he cringed to see that. “This marriage to Sansa? How could you not? She gets you away from the capital, away from… all those games we played at and now you can have your real Jonquil…”

“I told you, I’m not looking for another Jonquil.” He pulled his hands free to cup her face, wiping away her tears and staring down into her violet eyes. The noises of the feast and the feelings in his head were a troubled sea, but it was Dany’s eyes that he'd drowned himself in.

“I can’t hear that story without thinking of you. I don’t know what I want… or what to think right now... but I can’t bear to see you cry Daenerys, not you.”

“You were my hero. Not Florian. Not the Dragonknight. You Jon.” Dany placed a hand on his cheek. “You always thought we were playing but I wasn’t… I’ve loved you since I was a little girl and I love you even more now. It might be wrong to say now but I can’t go another day without telling you so.”

With tears in her eyes and her touch against his face, Daenerys smiled then.

“Rhaegar wants you to marry that girl but all I want is you.”  

“I don’t care what my father wants.”

Then he kissed her.

Honor. Control. Courtesy. All of it was lost as Jon did what he'd dreamed of doing that day at Maindenpool for almost five years.

Save this time he wasn’t playing at being the Dragonknight. There was no grand adventure waiting or battle to be fought. Only Dany’s sweet lips as they gently caressed his own. At first it was clumsy and awkward, perhaps even painful as Dany had moved to meet him too quickly and the impact against his mouth pained him some.

Soon though it transformed into an act of love. His hands held her small face against his while hers ran through his hair. The image of Dany in his arms as they'd danced during the feast fed a hunger inside of him. The moment they'd had together before the feast, when he’d begun to feel the hints of what lay between them. Their kiss was full of promise, her lips betraying the chance of a love he wanted with all his heart.

He pictured Daenerys smiling and radiant, wearing a bridal gown and running to meet him before a heart tree.

That's when Sansa’s face flashed into his mind and everything had fallen apart.

“Oh no…” Jon rasped as he pulled away. “No Dany no… gods, what am I doing?”

“We’re being together.” Dany urged, sliding her fingers down his jaw. “Like we’re meant to be.”

“But we’re not!” He’d protested, jerking away while feeling sick to his stomach. “I’m in the Starks' hall! I’ve just been promised to their daughter and this is how I’m acting?”

“Loving me is not a crime!” Dany screamed then, clutching at her chest. “I asked if you wanted to marry her!”

“It’s not about what I want!” Jon shouted back. “It's never been about what I want or I would have never left your side!”

“Then why now? You’ve never listened to your father before! You don't have to marry this girl just because he says so, our love is stronger than that! You know this Jon… you must feel what I do right now. We should be together-”

“I bet he said the same thing.” Jon had felt a cold wave of understanding roll over him then. “My father probably won my mother over by saying the same thing… she betrayed her family- my family! That led to nothing but pain and suffering for the entire realm…”

“Jon, it doesn’t have to be like that.” Dany reached for him but he pulled away. “I’m not Lyanna Stark and you’re not Rhaegar.”

“I’ll never be him!” He declared, pointing at the door. “I’ll never shame the Starks like my parents did! I’ll never bring dishonor on their family like they did! Never! No matter how much I might love you I can’t do that! I can’t be my parents!”

Daenerys looked like she’d been slapped across the face when the door to the room burst open. Oswell stood there as Roslin quaked behind him and Elara fumed. The knight quickly took stock of both Jon and Dany before shaking his head.

“Shit.” Oswell ran a hand down his face. “A prince and a princess with Kingsguard knights at their beck and call… and you two have ladies guarding the door.”

“Ser if you could-” Dany began but Oswell held a hand up to stop her.

“I can escort my charge to join the Lady Stark, his future goodmother, for a dance. I expect that you'd rather that than she stumble upon this sight.”

Jon hated leaving Dany’s side then but having Lady Catelyn find him there would only add to his dishonor. For days afterwards he and Daenerys could barely look at each other yet when they did, he felt the same feeling from when they kissed.

Sansa had offered him plenty of distractions though. Pretty smiles, kind words, and long walks where she spoke happily of being matched with him. After some adjustment, Jon began to look at Sansa in the way that he was supposed to.

As his future wife.

Yet Daenerys would not fall away so easily. One morning they’d passed each other in the hall and rather than a sad glance, she’d offered a grin, a sly one that he knew from their childhood. It was the same look Dany had whenever she formed some plot for raiding the kitchens for sweets. Instead she’d stolen a touch of him that day, her fingers reaching out to quickly caress his own as they passed. To his shame, his hand had answered the desperate grasp and his heart had beat all the faster at their secret touches.

They did the same several times more before one day Jon came close to grabbing Dany and kissing her again in the middle of a corridor. Not doing so had been a battle between his good sense and every other part of him. After that Jon knew for sure that he was dishonoring both himself and Sansa. While he could not bring himself to admit to his failings to Sansa, he thought to do something else for her instead.

So he’d sought his father alone, save for Ser Arthur, upon the western wall a moon's past. To beg a boon of the king he did not want to be indebted to.

“A tourney?” His father had tapped his fingers upon the ledge. “The North does not hold tourneys my son, nor am I inclined to call one in my name.”

“Do not call it in your name then, do this for the Starks. Honor this family that’s sheltered me, the castle where my mother lays to rest. You owe them that.”

“I do not think a joust could ever do justice to how I honor your mother Jon.” His father had crossed his arms and looked towards the sunset. “Nor do I think you ask for such noble reasons. You might not think so, but I understand my children far better than you suspect. I cannot agree to such a thing unless you come to me with truth in your words.”

Jon hated that his father could see through him so easily. However much he believed the king owed to the Starks, Jon knew he asked for this tourney for selfish reasons. It was all to lift the weight of his own guilt.

“I want to do this for Sansa.” He’d admitted. “She’s always dreamed of a tourney and marrying a fine prince… since you’ve saddled her with me instead, I want to fulfill at least one of her dreams. Let us hold this tourney for my bride to be. I want to do right by her father… like you should’ve done right by my mother.”

The king had sighed at the last part and Ser Arthur looked disappointed in him but his father had wanted the truth so Jon had spoken to it. The king gave his assent after a few more moments of careful thought.

Jon could give Sansa her tourney.

He just couldn’t bring himself to face her right now, not with Daenerys sitting right beside her.

Arya was his way through the fog then, her bright smile guiding him from darkness.

“You found it?” Arya asked, gazing at the token. “I made that for you… I-I lost it during the feast.”

“Yet it found its way to me anyway.” He reached down to ruffle her hair some. “May I take this favor my lady? For good fortune?”

“Yes!” Arya said quickly before fumbling at her skirts and curtsying. “I mean, why yes, good ser.”

As she came up, one hand snatched away the cloth so quickly that he barely saw it end up in her next hand, which offered it back to him again. It was akin to a move that he’d shown her during their practices.

“Show off.” He winked.

“Robb’s starting.” Domeric hissed at them, pointing to where Benfred and Robb took up at opposite ends of the field. “Benfred’s an idiot. Challenging the heir to Winterfell in the first tilt? Robb’s at least as good of a rider as me…”

“Makes him ten times the rider I am then.” Jon added as the trumpets sounded.

His father stood up and held his hand high.

“The North breeds strong warriors and able riders!” The king shouted. “So I shall not keep them waiting! Let the Tourney of Winterfell begin!”

A great cheer went up from lowborn and highborn alike while the two challengers raised their lances. When the trumpet sounded, Benfred kicked at his horse and charged forth like a maniac, much to Domeric's amusement. Robb on the other hand led his mount on a slow trot before working up to a full charge. Benfred had sacrificed speed for sense, his lance jostling in his hold as he struggled to stay still on his speeding horse.

When the pair met, the Tallhart heir’s lance went wide while Robb’s hit square against the pine tree adorning Benfred’s shield. The lance forced the shield back, driving it in Benfred’s chest before driving him off his horse entirely.

Jon joined Domeric and Arya in cheering that was drowned out by the celebration coming from the rest of the field. Sansa and Daenerys were clapping and Roslin was doing all she could to catch Robb’s eye as he rode back by the stands. There was no need on her part, for Robb raised a gauntlet to show where he’d tied her favor around his wrist.

“Daryn of House Hornwood, heir to Castle Hornwood. Jon of House Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall. Come forth and prove your valor.”

With that he placed the helm over his head and left Arya’s side while she shouted good fortune. He was still coming to grips with the new title his father had bestowed upon him. Of Summerhall Jon knew little, save foul stories and a half remembered memory.

Once, when he and Aegon could not have been more than three, their father had taken them and Rhaenys to glimpse the ruins. Standing in the dark, abandoned hall and gazing at the stars shining high above through its destroyed roof, it had been frightening.

Aegon was scared too, he remembered that. At one point his brother grabbed Jon’s hand as they listened to their father’s words.

“The last time our house tried to revive the old strength, this was the cost.” Father had spoken softly, bidding Rhaenys and them to look about. “Next time it shall not be so. From all this sorrow came hope, for you three stand here now. The dragon must have three heads my loves. Your bloodlines are steeped with greatness, your leadership shall guide our kingdom into a new era, an era filled with promise… you all have such promise…”

Jon remembered little more, save the pain that came from Rhaenys pinching him cruelly when father’s back was turned and his tears ending their time together soon after.

That’s all that place is to me. Pain and tears.

That’s the home I offer my future bride. It’s up to me to spare her the worst of it.

With a sigh Jon rode on to the stands, where surely that bride would be waiting.

 

 

SANSA

 

“He looks splendid!” Jeyne gasped.

“Yes he does.” She smiled to say so, for Jon did truly look the part of a prince now.

As her betrothed rode towards the stands, she marveled at the sight of his new armor. The knights of songs usually wore suits of shining steel or perhaps gold, yet Jon’s dark black steel showed all that he was a true Targaryen prince.

Her prince.

The solemn prince was the best looking of all the challengers Sansa wagered, outside the Kingsguard of course. His horse was not so attractive as Lord Dustin’s fantastic red stallion, but Jon’s personal sigil, a white three-headed dragon on black, made his horse quite striking. 

With royalty and nobility all around her, and hundreds more watching among the small folk, Sansa prayed that Jon would ride as well as he looked. It was the only way to show the queen how wrong and horrible she was.

Glancing up behind her, Sansa saw Queen Cersei sitting beside the king, her golden hair and radiant crimson dress hiding the cruelty beneath. Being around the queen set Sansa’s skin to crawling ever since she witnessed the woman hitting Jon and saying such terrible things about him and her family.

Queens are supposed to as kind as they are beautiful…

Why doesn't Jon tell anyone about what she did to him?

I'm not even sure if I should mention it to him, surely it’s not my place...

The only thing she could do was cheer for him, joining many others in clapping as Daryn Hornwood and Jon arrived before the lists.

“He’s taken a sigil.” Daenerys said softly from her side.

There were two empty seats between the princess and herself yet her voice still carried. Princess Daenerys looked surprised and unsure of herself. Sansa knew it was petty and very unlady-like, but she just had to strike then.

“Oh yes! He decided on it some years ago, or hadn’t Jon told you?” She asked without taking her gaze off the field.

“He hadn’t.” The princess replied coolly. “There is only so much that can be put into letters.”

“Robb suggested a direwolf and a dragon sharing the field, but Jon did not want to usurp the Stark sigil, nor see wolves and dragons combatant, for they make such a wonderful match. I suggested changing the red dragon to white instead, to honor his mother.” Sansa let pride fill her voice as she showed her knowledge of both heraldry and her prince. “He was so happy to be called the white dragon, I don’t think there was a single person at Winterfell that he didn’t speak of it with. Perhaps you were right, you and I do know different princes.”

Sansa kept the smile from her face but Jeyne smirked behind a hand. The princess said nothing more after that, much to Sansa's satisfaction. The day was going magnificently so far. Robb had just defeated Benfred Tallhart handily, although his display with Roslin was a tad scandalous. Now Jon would surely beg a favor from her as well.

She had a ribbon at the ready, something special for this very day. Her mother had lent her a fine blue tie for the occasion that would surely look handsome on Jon’s person. Sansa tried not to notice that Daenerys wore several ribbons herself and was running her fingers along a violet one in a nervous manner.

Jon acted anything but nervous when he pulled his helm off, dark hair falling across his face in a comely way. For a fleeting moment, with the wind blowing through his hair and the sun shining down on his smile, Jon looked like a true knight. The song ended quickly when Jon started blowing the dark locks out of his face and fidgeted with his gorget awkwardly. Despite that display, a small secret part of Sansa found Jon's discomfort endearing, and she smiled hopefully as he raised his hand to the crowd.

“Good lords and ladies!” Jon shouted up into the stands. “I intended to beg a favor from a lovely maiden that might see me through all troubles to victory! Yet on my way here, I was struck down by the grace of a young lady who will be forever dear to my heart!”

Sansa’s heart dropped as Jon pulled forth a token not of her own. She barely caught a glimpse of it before Jon turned around to point at a row of pavilions. Several riders and other men were gathered there, including one young lady who knew better.

“I will always love her as a sister!” Jon hailed. “And I am honored that Lady Arya Stark has given me her favor this day! I hope to be worthy of it!”

“Oh Sansa.” Jeyne spoke in a hoarse whisper. “How could Arya do such a dreadful-”

“That’s our favor.” She realized suddenly. “Arya gave him our favor.”

Now she could see the token in Jon’s hand clearly and recognized it as the direwolf she and Arya had made together, when Arya gave her advice to win Jon's heart.

And now he’s to be mine… that token was fashioned out of hope…

Jon must know that I had a hand in it. Of course he does. He carries my favor in secret now.

As Jon offered a nod in her direction, Sansa indeed felt heartened. Arya had been so short with her lately for some reason, and her patience for the girl was beginning to come apart at the seams. Whether Jon had noticed or not was beyond her, yet plainly he was trying to set Arya’s mind at ease while honoring his betrothed at the same time.

“A truly kind gesture.” Mother spoke loudly. “Quite gallant.”

Mother led the applause then and Sansa followed suit, making sure that Jon saw her smiling and cheering for him. Daenerys smiled ignorantly and Sansa pitied her then, for the princess clearly didn't understand Jon as well as her. To her shock the queen acted pleased as Jon donned his helm and rode off.

“You did him an act of charity husband.” Cersei said to the king. “Lending your son that old suit of armor, he does not look as much a beggar anymore.”

“He is magnificent.” Sansa spoke without thinking, praying that none had heard her.

“Did you say something, young lady?”

The Queen looked down with annoyance and Sansa struggled to face the terrifying woman when Daenerys spoke first.

“She said Jon looks magnificent and I happen to agree with her.” The princess offered Sansa a nod. “If Jon rides as well as he looks, he’ll be a champion for sure.”

“Well said.” King Rhaegar agreed. “The both of you. Dear wife, you are mistaken in saying I lent Jon that suit, for I gifted it to him. It is his from this day forth.”

“A fine gift, though it pales to the grandness of your ruby plate.”

“True, but I shall miss that suit so. It was the armor I first wore when I was Jon’s age. Tried and true, it protected me when I was still ignorant of all the evils this world has to offer, not to mention a few falls from my horse.”

“Jon won’t fall.” She looked up to the king, pleading in a way. “He can’t, not today.”

“All men can fall Sansa.” Father answered, his face stern. “There is no shame in that.”

“Yet plenty of danger.” Mother added and her parents shared an awkward look for a moment. “Especially for men so young.”

“We were all young once.” The king leaned forward to address mother. “I spoke in favor of my son and your Robb taking part here today. Might I say, your son rode well my lady? Better than a certain young prince did during his first joust many years ago.”

“Let us see if this prince is so able.” Cersei smiled in a way that Sansa didn’t like, too much teeth and little enough warmth. “I hope he enjoys this day.”

I pray he wins this day. Then I can be named his Queen of Love and Beauty.

I was a frightened little girl when the Cersei struck Jon, all I could do was run away.

Becoming his queen, even for just a day... well surely I could find the courage to kiss away all his troubles after that.

Daryn and Jon were ready to begin their ride then. Sansa knew little of Daryn as a rider but heard from many that he had repute as a fighter, not to mention he was already a man grown. Her heart was beating fretfully in her chest when the trumpet sounded and both young men spurred their mounts.

Jon and Daryn both did as Robb had, leading their horses on a slow trot as they lowered their lances. She hoped the bull moose on Daryn’s shield made a decent target for Jon to aim his lance at. When he spurred his mount to a charge, Daryn followed soon after, and the men flew at each other while their horses kicked up earth in their wake.

She cried out when the lances struck, grabbing Jeyne’s hand in fear and excitement.

Both riders had broken lances against one another and neither had fallen, yet Jon struggled to stay on his horse which set Sansa's nerves to almost bursting. A moment later he'd steadied and she felt a hand on her shoulder, mother smiling down at her. The strain of his first pass barely behind her, Jon readied for his next. Bran was waiting with a new lance at the ready, which her prince took quickly with a nod.

“It was kind of Oswell to allow young Bran to aid Jon.” The king said, only for Rickon to pipe up from his place between her parents.

“Oswell told Bran to help Jon!” The boy yelled excitedly. “I heard him say it! He said Jon can use all the help he can get!”

“Delightful man.” Mother scowled as father grunted agreement.

“Truly.”

Sansa wished they would all be quiet, for Jon’s second tilt was underway. This one went much as the first had, with Jon and Daryn both breaking another set of lances. Yet as Jon continued to ride, Daryn could not steady himself nor his horse after the blow, and she cheered as the lordling fell from his horse.

This was not the end though, for Daryn recovered quickly from his fall and pulled his sword. Jeyne nearly crushed her hand when Jon climbed off his horse to give battle to the foe. Sansa was not so fearful, for she remembered watching Jon spar in the yard and ride at rings. Her betrothed was far more comfortable afoot than on a horse she'd noticed, letting Daryn come at him so the true fight could begin.

Daryn was older and likely stronger yet he was not trained by Ser Rodrick Cassel or Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard. A warm sense of pride flowed through her at how Jon moved within his armor, somehow finding a way to look graceful despite the heavy plate. They clashed again and again, steel against steel, sword against shield.

When Daryn overextended on a slash, Jon drove his shield across his foe’s helm, causing it to shift and blind the lordling. A flat-ended cut to his wrist made Daryn drop his sword and another blow from Jon's shield laid the warrior flat on his back.

“Yield?” Her prince’s voice echoed through his helm.

The fallen heir pulled his own half-helm off then, his face bloodied.

“I yield.” He nodded.

As Jon helped Daryn to his feet, applause exploded all around them. Sansa leapt to her feet, clapping as hard as she could. When she found Daenerys doing the same, she held her chin high and ignored the pain in her hands. She only sat after the princess did so at the urging of the king.

“A fine match.” The king spoke when the applause died away.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Sansa asked, rejoicing in Jon’s victory. “The heir to Hornwood was no easy foe to overcome.”

“Yet it still took two passes for him to do so.” Cersei pointed out, her teeth clenched. “I did not think it would take more than one to end their duel.”

“Robb did set a hard example to follow.” King Rhaegar said kindly. “One pass on his first joust, you must be proud Lord Stark.”

“I will always be proud of my children.” Father laid a hand on mother’s leg at that. “Of our children.”

Her mother stiffened then but Sansa couldn't think about that, for the king’s words betrayed a fear she'd had following Robb’s victory over Benfred. All saw how poorly the Tallhart man had ridden yet she worried that few would remember such details when telling tales of Robb’s first ride.

This is not supposed to be Robb’s day. Jon’s prowess and skill should be the only thing anyone speaks of.

We must show the queen how wrong she is.

The cry of the herald, calling forth Domeric and Ronnel Stout, caused all attention to fall to the next challengers, yet it did little to stop the silent prayer that Sansa spoke only to herself.

While she wanted Robb to have his share of glory on this day, it was Jon who deserved to win it all.

If either should fall, she prayed it would be Robb to do so. She prayed to the old gods and the new that it be her betrothed who carried this day.

To lift away all the terrible pain that she’d been ignorant of.

That was what she prayed for. 

 

ARYA

   

“I think you hurt him.”

Arya’s words were quiet compared to the praise that Robb and Roddy were shouting at Domeric. He’d just won his tilt against Ronnel Stout after four passes, even though the older, more experienced rider had broken three lances to Domeric’s one.

The last tilt had laid Ronnel flat upon the ground, the man needing the help of his friends to rise again. As he strode back to his tent, Arya saw him clutching his shoulder, with some blood running down the sides of his armor.

“Well it looked like it hurt.” Roddy laughed, holding his cousin’s had up like a champion. “Ronnel will be fine though. I’ve seen him take worse hits in the yard and my father says there are few men better.”

“He is named Stout for a reason.” Robb added. “I thought he had the better of you Dom.”

“So did he.” Domeric removed his helm and his pale eyes watched after Ronnel's tent as well. “He sits the saddle well. I could break a hundred lances against his shield and Ronnel would still win the day.”

“Then how’d you beat him?” She asked and Domeric became oddly calm then.

“I watched and learned. Ronnel did just as he practices in the yard I suspect. After each pass his shield dropped lower and lower, and more of his shoulder became exposed. Confidence breeds arrogance, weakness… sooner or later everyone leaves themselves open to attack.”

“You meant to hit his shoulder.” Arya flinched to see Ronnel’s men pulling away his armor to show a dark, gaping wound there. “That’s dangerous… the lance could’ve gone through his armor.”

“Aye Dom, that was risky.” Robb’s face fell some.

“There is always risk when you take up a lance, even in practice.” Domeric shrugged. “Ronnel Stout is no Benfred Tallhart. When you face real opponents Robb, when you seek true victory on the battlefield, you should do all it takes.”

“This isn’t a real battle Dom.” Robb reddened slightly. “I brought Benfred down in one pass. I didn’t hurt him and I didn’t need four chances to do so.”

“If this was a real battle, I would’ve taken Ronnel in my first pass.”

“How? You just said he sits his horse well.”

“Simple. I would’ve killed the horse.” Domeric’s eyes narrowed on Robb. “You’re the next Lord of Winterfell, you should understand such things without me having to explain them. Life will not follow your mother’s rules. Doing as you do now, you won’t even make the third round of this joust, all the easy pickings gone by then. I won’t speak to how that bodes for you ruling the North.”

“What the hell?” Robb cursed and shoved his friend. Domeric shoved him back, and as Roddy and she made to intervene, a horse trotted up to disperse them.

“Hey!” Oswell shouted. “Sort yourselves out! This is a tourney held in the king’s name, not some backwater brawl.”

Robb and Domeric glared at each other but Arya didn’t think this was the worst fight she’d ever seen between the two. Besides, she had more important things to focus on. At that moment, Ser Jaime had been challenged by the Hornwood knight, Calem Weirgrave.

After Robb and Jon’s matches, this was the one she was most excited to see, but it would be a while before that happened, for there were other challenges that had to be decided first. They all kind of blended together while Arya waited. Oswell had defeated Leobald Tallhart and Ser Kyle Condon took down a Follard knight. She thought it was about time that House Tallhart won a joust when Ser Helman beat Richard Lonmouth, but only after the knight took a splinter to the arm in their last tilt.

The whole time she’d been cheering for the northern riders but not now. It was finally time for Ser Jaime to answer the northern knight's challenge and Arya knew she wouldn't cheer for Weirgrave. However well any of the combatants rode, none could claim to be doing so while missing a hand, which was why Arya would be cheering for Jaime.

She hoped that Jaime would know she was doing so, just like he always seemed to sense when she was following him.

It had become a fun game for her, even if the knight never acted like he enjoyed it. Most times Jaime waved Arya off with a curse or mocked her for dragging her feet on the stone or something of the like.

The last time was just a day before the tourney, when the knight had sought the stables. She’d crawled, hands and knees through the hay and fodder, to try and glimpse what work he was doing in the stall that he shared with Jon.

With so many people and mounts at Winterfell, stable space had grown so scarce that many stalls housed two horses. She liked that Jon and Jaime’s horses were put together. It meant Arya could visit them both at once, saying that she was there for Jon while she watched the white knight at work.

Except it wasn’t work she heard when she crawled up to peer into his stall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jaime had shouted before she could glimpse between the boards. Another voice answered that she hadn’t recognized.

“Ser-ser- the queen set me to this… L-Lannister business. I did not expect you to-”

“I know what you fucking expected to happen!”

The man had stammered something more Arya couldn’t quite hear. Then the sounds of a scuffle came forth and the stranger cried out in pain.

“Get out of here before I shove my Lannister boot up your arse! Tell my sister that there’s no need for such work here!”

Arya had barely ducked behind a bale of hay before some crimson-clad groom stumbled away from the stall, holding a hand to his bloodied nose. She'd never seen the knight treat any smallfolk or servants so poorly, and Arya felt disappointed for a moment. When she risked pressing herself to the boards to look within, she saw Jaime throwing a saddle back against the wall and cursing in anger.

He began to pace back and forth when suddenly his head cocked to the side and his eyes moved her way. Once more Arya ducked down and held her breath, not really wanting to be caught by the knight when he was so angry.

Those wants were for naught. For Jaime appeared, standing above her, wrenching her up into the air by the scruff of her dress like she was a doll.

“I don’t understand it.” He growled. “There are bloody direwolves running around this castle without leashes yet you cause me more headaches than those beasts!”

“You have a headache? Hey!” She’d cried out as he pulled her back within the stall and pushed his golden hand into her belly. Pressed against the boards, she saw then how angry the knight truly was. His green eyes burned like torches and the horses must have sensed his fury, for they began to buck and whinny.

“I’m sorry! I was just looking for Jon-”

“Don’t lie to me girl. I’ve known better liars than you.” Jaime had rasped. “Tell me what you heard, all that you heard.”

“Nothing! I swear!” She whimpered, for a strange fear had crept up in her. Something in his eyes had scared her. “Why are you so mad at me? What did that man do?”

“What did you hear?!” Jaime had lifted her up higher and the cold metal of his hand began digging in and hurting her. “Tell me the truth!”

“Y-you were going t-to put a boot in his arse.” Arya had clutched at the golden hand desperately. “I-I just wanted to see what you were doing…”

Jaime’s eyes had moved then to where the horses were stamping their feet. Being in there was dangerous, Hullen always said to leave a stall when horses got like that, lest you be trampled. Those horses could grind them both to dust if they weren’t careful. The knight hadn’t even flinched in the face of their fury, nor did he move to calm the beasts.

Jaime had tensed, lifting her away from the wall a bit and taking a step towards the horses. It had been a foolish thing to do but she’d been more afraid of how upset the white knight was. The green of his eyes hidden as he clenched them shut.

“I'm sorry that I have to do this but I can’t let you… I can’t…” He shook his head. “Why follow me girl? Of all the monsters out there… Why me?”

“B-because of what you said…” Arya whispered. “That no one cares where you go.”

That was when she found the courage to touch the hand holding her collar, the one that was still warm with life pulsing through it. Not to scratch or fight, just to remind Jaime she was there.

“I care where you go… I swear…”

Jaime met her eyes after that. The anger melted away and those green eyes looked as sad as she felt. The horses were still riled up yet the knight kept his focus on her, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

“I didn’t mean to make you mad.” Arya continued, drawn to speak by those eyes. “It’s not my fault that man did it first… what did he say to make you so angry?”

“You heard nothing?” Jaime repeated slowly, his eyes burning into hers. “Swear to it. Swear on that wolf of yours.”

“I swear on Nymeria. I swear on my heart.” Arya took hold of his golden hand and tapped it lightly with her fingernail. “On my honor as a Stark.”

“You Starks do love your honor.” He growled through clenched teeth.

She’d stolen a glance at his golden hand then and the white cloak still draped around his shoulders. As angry and scared as she was by all this, she’d once heard a story about how a man faced losing his hand for doing the right thing.

“I think you do too.” Arya whispered. “I mean… you must love honor… in your own way.”

Jaime had tightened his hold for a time after that, before letting out a long sigh. Then he began lowering her down so she was on her feet again, forcing her back and away from the horses. Acting as if it was a struggle to do so, he released her, running his free hand through his hair and cursing softly.

“The things I do for love.” He said softly, running his good hand over the pommel of his sword. Father had once told her that men had to be careful doing such a thing, that it could be seen as a threat, but Arya knew she was safe around Ser Jaime.

“What?” She asked simply, confused as to what he meant.

“Leave.” He let go of his sword and pushed on her back to make her leave the stall. “Go on she-wolf. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

“About what? Don’t you want help calming the horses- hey!” She’d cried out as the knight kicked a nugget of horse shit at her. “Fine! See if I care!”

Deep down, she did care though. However angry she’d made Ser Jaime, he hadn’t hit her like he did the groom, and he hadn’t told her parents about her spying. Then there was what Jaime had said about love. She didn’t really understand what that meant, but it made her cheeks warm in a pleasant way whenever she thought of it.

Watching him ride up the stands, armored handsomely in his gold plate and white enamel, she thought Jaime made the king and queen themselves look like beggars.

When he and Calem parted to take their separate marks, Arya got a better look at the special hand that Jaime used to steady his lance. She hoped it would work, considering how big and imposing the Weirgrave knight looked. His shield was a slab of pine, painted with a white weirwood, and she wondered how Jaime could ever drive a man like that from his saddle.

“This is a rare treat.” A powerful voice came from beside her before an older sounding one answered from her other side.

“He hasn’t chanced the joust in years.”

To her left and right stood Arthur Dayne and Barristan the Bold, both holding their helms as they gazed at the joust.

“What say you my lady?” Barristan smiled down at her. “Would you put faith in your fellow northman or our sworn brother?”

“I think Ser Jaime will win.” She proclaimed confidently, annoyed when both men chuckled to hear so.

“Why’s that? Because he’s dressed prettier?” Arthur didn’t spare her a glance as the trumpets sounded.

Jaime and Calem started their ride against one another a moment later. While she couldn't see Jaime's face beneath the helm, Arya knew her reasoning wholeheartedly.

“He wants it more.” She answered. “You all have got two hands to help you. Ser Jaime fights harder because he has to. If he wants it bad enough, he’ll win.”

Arthur laughed again but Barristan offered a grunt that sounded like father whenever she said something he agreed with. Not only did Jaime score a square hit against his opponent, he stayed in his saddle as he did so.

“Yay! Ser Jaime!” She screamed, waving her arms happily. “The Lion of Lannister!”

The two Kingsguard soon took up her chant, Arya standing beside two of the finest knights in the realm as they all cheered for her favorite knight in all of Westeros. Few if any joined them. Most of the smallfolk and the stands were cheering for the Weirgrave man but Arya didn’t care. She could yell louder than any of them.

It took its toll though.

By the end she’d screamed herself hoarse, for the Kingsguard knight took Ser Calem to eight broken lances before Jaime finally felled the northman. His lance had driven the pine shield back and into Calem’s helm, knocking the man senseless. He hadn’t fallen but he couldn’t continue either and Arya beamed when her father declared Jaime the winner.

She spotted some among the stands clapping politely yet Sansa and Jeyne seemed more interesting in talking then paying Jaime the attention he deserved. Queen Cersei, the man’s own sister, acted almost bored with it all, sipping at a cup of wine with her nose upturned. At least Princess Daenerys smiled as she clapped.

That’s what a princess is, not my stupid, selfish sister.

Daenerys doesn’t give me foul looks. She laughs at my stories, she befriends anyone and everyone, and she never calls me horrid.

If Jon has to marry a princess, he's better off with someone like Daenerys.

“Well Arthur, it’s about that time.” Barristan waved two squires forward, both carrying the knights’ shields. “Who does the honor?”

“Far be it from me to steal your moniker but…”

With that Arthur reached out to tap Barristan’s shield before giving a laugh.

“This tourney could stand for a touch of boldness!” 

She was grateful then that Ser Jaime had gone first.

For Arya’s throat would surely not survive the cheering this match would demand.

 

 

DAENERYS

 

“Well, I’m about to lose a Kingsguard.” Rhaegar sighed at the sight of Barristan and Arthur preparing for their joust.

“That’s a tad dramatic your grace.” Lady Catelyn said. “These men are two of the most experienced knights of their time and old friends besides that I hear.”

“Friendly rivalry can still lead to harm.” Her brother answered. “Even the steadiest of aims can stray…”

“Yet you deemed it safe enough for our sons to take part.”

Daenerys eyed the Lady of Winterfell then, for she knew few who would dare to speak in such a manner to her brother. If Rhaegar meant to rebuke the lady he did not do so, for the sounding of trumpets signaled the start to what would surely be the finest match of the day.

“I’ll be cheering for my nuncle.” Elara smiled at her. “In hopes that your old knight falls on his arse.”

“I care too much for Ser Arthur to wish such a fate for him.” She replied. “May my dear Barristan merely cause your uncle to yield with honor.”

“Never, he'll never yield.” Elara said proudly.

“Now you sound like Bran!” Daenerys jested and she and Elara shared a laugh while Lady Stark seemed to flinch at the mention of her son.

That they cheered for different champions was to be expected. Arthur rode to the stands begging to wear the favor of his niece while Barristan had asked Dany for one of hers. Elara had handed over a sash of amber, which her uncle had tied about his muscular arm. Dany had untied a ribbon of a light purple shade for her protector to lace about his wrist.

The ribbon she’d meant for Jon to take was still firmly in her grasp, just as he stayed in her thoughts.

The frequent glances he’d sent her way made Dany feel sure who Jon truly wished to beg a favor of. When he’d declared that he was taking Arya’s instead it had hurt some, worse than it should’ve, before she realized the ruse that Jon had played on all of them.

It was a ploy worthy of Rhaenys herself. All would have expected Jon to beg Sansa’s favor yet to do so would have continued the mummery that he actually cared for the lady. Dany was at a loss for finding a way out of insulting the Starks but not her prince. His choice of Arya’s token had been clever. He avoided slight to their hosts by honoring one daughter over the other.

While also giving Dany clear sign where his heart truly lay.

All Sansa Stark can lay claim to are words spoken between Rhaegar and Lord Stark.

And words are wind… for I have his love.

Before Jon’s ploy, she’d a foolishly hoped that he would ask for her favor over Sansa’s. Dany had steeled herself for such a thing, ready for whatever Sansa's reaction might be. Such was not a terrifying prospect. When compared to Cersei or Rhaenys, or even old Olenna Tyrell, the eldest Stark girl was as intimidating as a kitten.

Not that she would take pride in hurting Sansa. Before the betrothal had been announced, Sansa had acted sweet and good-natured toward her. After the announcement, she couldn’t say much had changed in the lady's behavior, save that Sansa walked with a touch more pride and a few glances of disdain Elara’s way.

The Stark girl was ignorant of her true crime, stealing away a dream that Dany had nurtured for years.

At her lowest, just after Rhaegar’s announcement, Jon had come to her and did as he always had. He brought light to the darkness.

When they kissed it was all she’d hoped it would be. The years she spent imagining it paled to the beauty of when their lips finally met. Jon loved her. His eyes, his words, and his lips spoke the truth of that. It was Sansa that ruined that precious moment, for Jon was too damn honorable to follow his heart’s desire and offer insult to the Starks.

The hurt of his rejection had plagued her for days after. Elara and Roslin finally interceded after days of moping and guided her back on the true path.

“A betrothal is not a marriage.” Elara had argued. “No one can force a man to marry. A betrothal can be set aside if duty or love bids it… a good man would do so if there is reason for it.”

“He must love you Daenerys.” Roslin agreed. “I saw how Prince Jon looked when you danced together… Robb was getting annoyed because of it. I think he knew of the match before the prince did.”

When Dany tried to argue, Elara had taken to brushing her hair and forcing her to look at her reflection in the looking glass.

“Look at you! Jon was promised only moments before and he couldn’t stay away from you. If you love him, then don’t just let some Tull-er, Stark girl steal him from you. Fight for him Daenerys. Be strong. Like I know you to be.”

Looking back, Dany felt ashamed that she’d weakened so much. It spat on the vow she’d made to be stronger after Jon’s departure.

Emboldened, she’d done all she could to remind Jon of their kiss. Perhaps even to tempt him into a new one. Their stolen glances and touches of one another had felt wicked but she could tell that Jon hated keeping their love secret as well. Those private moments caused her less guilt than teasing Sansa about her lack of knowledge on Jon.

Truly she didn’t want to hurt Sansa… Viserys and Joffrey enjoyed such things, not her.

Yet it was tempting after she continued to be slighted again and again. That Rhaegar and Jon decided to hold a tourney for the lady had nearly broken Daenerys in front of Cersei and Sansa of all people. Speaking with Rhaegar afterwards hadn’t calmed her like it usually would.

For her pleas had fallen on deaf ears, her brother was resolute in the path he’d set forward for all of them.

A grand plan I’m set on tearing asunder.

Hold a hundred tourneys, swear a thousand vows, it won’t matter.

If I’m as strong as I need to be, none of that will keep me from what’s mine.

“Keep your eyes on the match Dany!” Elara hissed, yanking on her arm as yet another explosion of wood and splinters erupted between the dueling knights.

Both Arthur and Barristan rode on by, the roar of the crowd drowning out the sounds of their horses. The older knight’s shield was ruined and his squire ran forth with a new one as Arthur hefted up yet another lance.

“How many is that now?” Dany asked, surprised that she’d lost count of the fierce competition.

“Ten!” Roslin cried breathlessly, her friend as into the performance as everyone else was. “Ten broken lances and they’re still going!”

“My uncle is just biding his time!” Elara shouted as they all took up cheering again as the knights charged forth.

Once more both men broke their lances and all were elated by this epic battle. The Tourney of Winterfell might be a small one, yet Dany had seen few matches as magnificent as this. Sansa was positively beside herself with joy at the spectacle and both Lord and Lady Stark held the hands of their youngest son as he jumped up and down between them.

While Cersei appeared somewhat anxious, Dany was heartened to see her brother smiling, for it was such a rare sight. As angry as she was at him of late, it was good to see Rhaegar happy. She might begrudge the reasoning for this tourney, but not the high spirits of her friends and family.

So when the knights broke their twelfth lances and Barristan fell from his horse, Daenerys did not mope to see her champion fall. She leapt up with her friends to join in applause for the fine duel. The older knight did not begrudge his loss. He rose from the ground laughing heartily as Arthur came back around to offer his hand.

“To the victor!” Barristan shouted, raising his friend’s hand high.

“To the bold!” Arthur answered.

Smallfolk, highborn, even the king himself was swept up in the gallantry and grandness of the moment. Elara was ruining her voice with how loudly she shouted her uncle’s name, so Dany moved to spare the lady.

“My praise to your uncle.” She hugged Elara and kissed her cheek. “If my dear Barristan must lose he could not have lost to better.”

“There is no better.” Elara laughed before whispering in her ear. “And you’ve still got one champion left in the lists.”

Her friend kissed her cheek then before turning around to take Roslin’s arm and give the lady a shake.

“As does Ros!”

Daenerys had forgotten for a moment that Robb and Jon still had second tilts to ride. With the roar of the crowd dying away, soon the next round would begin and the victors would seek new challengers. She’d have to pay closer attention to those matches than this last one, swearing to keep her worries at bay.

Yet now it was Roslin who was distracted, for Elara’s shaking of her arm went barely noticed by the lady. As Roslin shook her head and put her hands to her chest, a loud gasp erupted from Lady Catelyn.

Then Dany saw what had shocked them all.

All were now pointing and murmuring at what was unfolding among the champions' ranks. One bold victor had ridden forth and tapped the shield of another.

Oswell Whent had been gone from the capital for five years now but she remembered him well enough to say that he’d never acted more off put. The Kingsguard lowered his shield as if it would somehow erase the challenge that was just laid upon it.

From the sounds of those around her, few others could believe it as well. Ser Oswell was without a doubt one of the finest jousters in the realm, let alone this tourney.

Yet the young lordling who’d just tapped his shield rode away laughing, like he had no cares in the world. He held up Roslin’s favor for all to see, as if it would spare him the folly of what he’d done.

Roslin shook her head and pleaded silently into her hands.

“Oh Robb… not a Kingsguard.”

 

JON

 

I could challenge Robb next but I’d rather not beat Sansa’s own brother during her tourney.

Nor would he let me forget it if I lost to him… perhaps Alyn or one of those White Harbor men…

“Oh fuck.”

Dom’s curse interrupted Jon’s thoughts. It was a rare thing to hear Domeric speak so, rarer still to see him acting so worried.

“No… no he can’t.” Dom hissed as he put his hands to his head. “What is he doing?”

“What? Who?” Jon followed the man's gaze and his heart fell.

Jon could scarcely believe his eyes as Robb rode up to where Oswell stood talking with Jory, tapping the knight’s shield before any could speak sense to him.

It’s a jest… it has to be a jest…

Oswell's a Kingsguard, one of the finest knights of realm… the man’s ridden in battle for gods' sakes…

He's killed men with his lance.

If this was a jest, only Robb found it funny. Jon was clearly not alone in his fears, or his shock. The field and the stands became deathly quiet and he swore he could hear Lady Catelyn’s gasp all the way here.

He and Domeric shared a glance for a moment before they both left their places at once. Often the two of them speaking as one could convince Robb of something he didn’t want to hear. He hoped now they could make him see sense.

When they came upon Robb, he was already collecting a lance and smiling to see them approaching.

“Come to wish me luck?”

“Are you mad?” Jon asked, fighting to keep his tone level. “Untested knights and lordlings! Not bloody knights of the Kingsguard!”

“There’s no honor in that!” Robb laughed, gesturing at Domeric. “I heard the truth of that from our friend here. I figured I could find some honor in a grand defeat though. We just watched Barristan the Bold lose and look at how everyone cheered him! Same with Ser Calem against the Kingslayer! Not a one of us is going to win this tourney, isn’t that right Dom?”

Domeric’s eyes narrowed and he appeared frustrated at Robb’s words. Ignoring the question, Domeric pressed the point.

“Looking a fool and winning glory are not the same things-”

“Then I’ll have to do one better than the other. I’ve got a beauty in those stands I want to make proud of me.” Robb grinned to look back at Roslin, who now held both Dany and Elara’s hands in fear. “If can make two passes against Oswell… I’ll have earned her favor. If I cower behind my mother’s skirts that will never happen.”

“Look at your mother Robb.” Jon urged. “Look at Lady Roslin. They’re both terrified for you.”

“Then they should take lessons from our fathers.” Robb called attention to how the two men glared down at them, neither looked pleased yet they made no move to halt the joust. “This is a matter of honor and pride now. It’ll shame us all if they call this off. Perhaps they even trust me to do well. I wish I could say the same of my best friends.”

If that was meant to sting, it didn’t, but part of it rang true. Robb had been accepted as a combatant in the lists, and there was no way for the king or Uncle Eddard to intercede without shaming both Robb and House Stark. Their aunt's pleas had no standing truly, for were no rules against who Robb could challenge.

Jon had worried about something like this happening in truth. He’d headed to the stables that morning, earlier than most, hoping to catch Robb there. If they could have a moment alone, he figured on making his cousin swear a blood oath to him that they would stick to Lady Catelyn’s terms.

That his cousin’s stall had been empty, Robb already gone to see the field, should have been a warning of just how zealous he'd become. Jon’s worries had been thrown aside then, for he was knocked back violently by a Lannister groom running out of the stables.

Such things were not that odd a spectacle though, not after sharing the berth with Ser Jaime for days now. The horses got along well enough but the air between Jon and the Kingsguard was chilly at best. Jon knew most of that came down to his own embarrassment that the man had witnessed the queen striking him. Truly the worst to come from the arrangement were the sneers of Lannister men who cared for the knight’s horse.

Yet the groom who had run into him acted more fearful than dismissive, muttering apologies as he made to leave. Ghost had snarled in his silent way, but Jon hadn’t been inclined to punish the groom any. In fact, once he looked within the stall, his mood had improved. He’d found his horse already saddled and ready for the day and Jon decided to gift Hullen with a skin of wine later for his diligence.

With the tourney awaiting him Jon had allowed his worries for Robb to drift away, but clearly that was a mistake.

For neither Domeric nor Jon could find a way to convince Robb to abandon this folly.

They tried again and again to make him see reason but Robb wasn’t having any of it. So he quickly sought his sworn protector, hoping somehow Oswell could be convinced to forfeit the match completely.

Bran was helping the Kingsguard mount his horse when Jon found them, Oswell shaking his head angrily as he neared.

“I won’t kill the fool. I bloody well want to but I won’t.” Oswell spat. “If only to spare the tourney grounds. As thick as his head is, I fear for the earth below.”

“Ser, Robb will not abandon this challenge… but you need not rise to it.” He paused to think on giving a command that would anger Robb. “If I should order you to…”

“My prince, do not ask me to throw the match or pull my lance.” Oswell scowled. “I am not a sellsword or a man who throws away his valor so easily. The lordling made the challenge, let him meet it. Besides, your cousin watches as you speak to me now. If I did any such thing, do you think Robb would not see right through it?”

Indeed, Robb was glaring at him during his talk with Oswell and Jon saw no way of doing this without angering his adopted brother. Nor was the herald willing to wait any longer to call both men to their marks.

“Oswell of House Whent, Knight of the Kingsguard. Robb of House Stark, Heir to Winterfell. Come forth and prove your valor.”

“Oh that sounds evenly matched.” Oswell grumbled as he placed his batwing helm upon his head and Bran begrudgingly handed a lance up to him. “Wish me luck.”

“I hope you fall.” Jon answered. “And fall quickly.”

“My father told me much the same when I took my first step.”

He could do nothing but watch as the two riders rode before the stands. When Robb made his pass, Lady Catelyn paled, grasping desperately at her husband's hand. Uncle Eddard was red-faced in fury but he could do no more than Jon could. Amazingly, Robb ignored all of this, smiling and waving to the cheering crowds of smallfolk and earning the adoring gaze of many a highborn maiden, including Roslin.

Jon moved to stand by his own horse, seeking the comfort of the mount’s presence during this foolishness. Just as Arya came to his side, they watched Robb and Oswell take their marks.

“Can he win?” She asked nervously. “Robb against Oswell? I mean he rode really well earlier.”

“Perhaps.” He lied as he pet his horse’s snout. “He has a better chance than I would.”

“That’s good right? Robb’s a good rider… not as good as me but-”

Arya’s words were cut off as the trumpet sounded.

Robb and Oswell trotted their horses forward, his cousin appearing far calmer than Jon felt himself. The two men both rode well, confidently bringing their lances across the top of their horses’ heads, aiming them at the shield of the other. The thunder of the hooves became the only noise in the whole yard, save the pounding in Jon's ears and chest.

When Robb and Oswell came together, Arya gave a cry and it was hard for him keep watching. Especially when Oswell’s lance struck Robb’s shield cleanly, shattering into a thousand shards.

It was even harder not to scream like a little boy to see Robb’s lance do the same against Oswell’s shield. Arya could be forgiven for doing so, for not only had Robb broken a lance against a Kingsguard, he’d survived to make a second pass.

“Winterfell!” Robb screamed as he threw his ruined lance away.

“Winterfell!” Jon shouted, joining Arya and hundreds more in meeting Robb’s cry.

Oswell was already securing his next lance when Robb rode by the stands, waving at Roslin who on her feet cheering. When the two took their marks again, Robb’s shield was chipped and damaged, yet the direwolf still snarled in defiance.

And when trumpet sounded, Robb charged once more.

Jon held his breath as the galloping hoses brought the lances closer and closer. Arya jumped up and down fretfully and even his horse began to whinny in anticipation.

Then the champions met.

And the lances broke again.

Oswell kept riding, ridding himself of his ruined weapon. Robb was trying to do the same but his horse was not going where he bid. While his cousin stayed firmly in his saddle, the mount was favoring one of its front hooves. Bellowing its discontent, the destrier refused to budge and a mix of excited and worried murmuring wafted over the field.

Arya spotted the problem before he did.

“It’s thrown a shoe! Look!” She shouted. “It can’t ride without a new one!”

Good, that means this is at an end.

Robb got his two passes and the gods saw fit to stop it at that.

Unfortunately, Robb refused to let it end. He plainly noticed his horse’s ailment, and when Hullen and some others ran forth to help, Robb climbed off of his horse to come rushing towards him.

“Jon! Jon! Your horse! Let me use your horse!”

“My horse?” He looked between the dark beast and Robb. “It’s a fine mount but surely there are better-”

“Yes but I don’t know them!” Robb said. “We’ve traded horses before! Please Jon, I need to continue! Quickly! I’ve got the wind at my back!”

“Two broken lances Robb.” He gazed at Oswell waiting at his mark, the knight looking quite foreboding. “You said you’d be honored to break two.”

“I can have three!” Robb urged. “Or four! Jon, come on, this whole tourney is for you. You’re getting a new castle and my little sister! My father’s going to earn great honor fighting the wildlings! Let me have this!”

It wasn’t a desire to keep his horse ready for the next match that held him back. He truly didn’t care whether he won today or not. His thoughts were on Lady Catelyn, still wracked by worry, watching all this with a tenseness he hated to see. He loved the lady deeply.

Almost as much as he loved Robb.

And only one of them was now begging something of Jon.

“Don’t shame me Jon.” Robb pleaded. “Please. Your horse.”

I've already shamed you, your sister… I shamed your whole family with one kiss…

Is my horse too much to give him after that?

“Fine.” Jon gave in, offering his mount’s reins. “Three lances Wolf.”

“Four lances then we’ll talk Dragon!” Robb enveloped him in an embrace.

After they’d broken apart, he helped his cousin onto the horse and the crowd began to cheer. It grew all the louder when Robb took his mark once more. Jon wondered if his rested mount could get his cousin to a fourth lance.

It would be good to have helped him in such a thing.

Perhaps it would do the Starks enough honor to wipe away some stolen caresses…

And one kiss… a wonderful kiss…

The trumpet sounded. Off they went once more.

The Kingsguard who’d guarded him most of his life against the best friend that Jon had waited most of his whole life to find. There was no greater feeling than to see Robb’s lance break against Oswell’s shield again. When the force of Oswell’s blow failed to drive Robb from his saddle, he readied to shout his cousin’s favor.

Then everything became terrible all at once.

Robb had been galloping on when suddenly he shifted drastically in his saddle. At first he thought it was Robb slipping before he saw that it was the saddle itself sliding off the horse’s back.  Robb threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck as the saddle dropped away down its side. When it fell low enough, the horse’s back legs became tripped up and the poor beast pitched sideways.

The horse’s scream mixed in with those of hundreds of women as both rider and horse fell to the ground. Lady Catelyn's cry was surely the worst noise that Jon had ever heard, until the sound of Robb's own shriek of pain broke through the din.

His scream tearing a hole in Jon’s soul.

As far as he was from the fall, Jon could still hear the chilling sound of snapping bones.

“Robb!” He screamed. “Robb no!”

Before he knew it, his legs were taking him across the field at a run and many were doing the same. None ran as fast as Arya, her skirts flying behind her. The poor girl was the first one at Robb’s side as he screamed in agony from beneath the horse. The beast made matters worse as it continued to buck and jolt atop Robb’s trapped leg.

When Jon arrived, he saw that the horse’s leg was broken, its pain forcing it to panic, causing Robb even more agony. Arya made to soothe the animal, so it would stop hurting Robb when Domeric pushed by Jon.

“It's okay, it's okay, shh, shh...” Arya whispered before Domeric shoved her violently away.

Without a word he sliced the horse's neck clear through with his sword, spraying Arya's face and chest in the creature's blood. The horse stopped moving and screaming then.

So Robb’s pain could be heard by all. Uncle Eddard’s roar followed soon after.

“Get it off him!” The lord bellowed as he fell to Robb’s side, wrapping his arms around his son’s chest.

Jon joined Domeric, Harwin, and Jory in grabbing at the horse’s body as Uncle Eddard tightened his grip on Robb’s struggling form.

“Lift!” He roared.

They moved all at once, Jon using all the strength he could to save his cousin. With the body raised, his uncle pulled Robb free from beneath, cradling his son’s weeping face against his own. Jon’s eyes fell to Robb’s leg despite his better judgement.

It was a smashed and brutalized mess. He saw at least two bones sticking out and Arya began to retch at the sight. Lady Catelyn and Roslin both arrived afterwards, tears streaming down their faces as a wagon was brought forth. All haste was made to place Robb in the wagon and bring Robb straight to Winterfell.

Jon almost bowled over Ser Jaime as the man stood staring down at the saddle that had fallen free of the horse. Somewhere inside his manic thoughts, Jon grew upset at how the knight knelt to pay more attention to the broken saddle rather than the broken person right before him.

Yet he couldn’t care about that now.

All he cared about was helping Robb.

Jon was among the men who helped carry Robb up to the chamber where Maester Luwin awaited with his tools and potions. His cousin passed out during the journey, and Jon was terrified at how little Robb was moving. Only his uncle and aunt were allowed to attend the maester at his work so Jon was left standing without, covered in Robb's blood.

Others waited as well, all grieving and praying for Robb.

Roslin continued to sob while Dany tried to comfort her. Arya and Bran were supporting one another as they fought Jory’s attempts to lead them away. Jon stood apart from all of them, just as Sansa did.

She kept her place in the middle of the corridor, white as a sheet, wringing her hands and gazing at the ground. While everyone else offered words of support and love to one another, Sansa remained quiet and alone. Jon knew he should say something to comfort here, but what? What words could he offer her? This tourney, Robb’s third ride, all this suffering, it was all because of him.

Robb’s voice rose where Jon’s could not, for his cousin began screaming again. A high-pitched, screeching sound of agony, interspersed with pleas and calls for the maester to stop.

Jon would’ve fallen to his knees at the sound had Sansa not collapsed then. In a haze, he rushed forward and caught her before she pitched headfirst into a wall. Others made to help, but he shook them away as he carried Sansa in his arms.

“I can’t!” She wept. “I can’t bear it! I can’t!”

Neither could he, so he used what strength he had left to spirit Sansa away, away from all the pain and madness and blood. She had not fully lost her wits, for she wrapped her arms about his neck and wept into his chest. With each footstep, the sounds of his retreat grew louder as the cries grew fainter.

In the silence of the corridor, the sound of Jon's shame grew.

It was your horse! If you’d just refused him this wouldn’t have happened!

If you’d ordered Oswell to lose, Robb would still be riding… if you’d not shamed yourself in the first place there wouldn’t have been a tourney…

“I-I’m so s-sorry.” Sansa sobbed, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”

“For what?” He rasped as they rounded a corner, their words echoing off the empty walls. “This is my fau-”

“No! I did this!” Sansa suddenly fought against his hold, struggling to gain her feet again but stumbling to do so. “I did this! I’m horrible! I’m a monster!”

“Sansa, it wasn’t!” He reached to help her up but she slapped his hands away, climbing up the wall, her fingernails scrabbling against the stone. “It was me! I let him use my horse!”

“I cursed him!” She wept, pounding her small fists against the wall. “He was beating a Kingsguard! All the eyes were on him! He was stealing your glory! So I cursed him!”

“Sansa... I’ve no idea what you’re saying. Please, let me get you to your chambers.”

“I wanted you to look the best.” She shook her head wildly. “You did so well but all anyone kept talking about was Robb… the third time he went against Ser Oswell, I prayed that he would fall! I prayed for it!”

And hundreds prayed he wouldn’t… that’s no curse…

“Sansa… That had nothing to do with it.” Jon tried to help her see the foolishness of her guilt. “Nothing at all… words are wind so your thoughts must be less, don't you-”

“The tourney was for me!” Sansa looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, tears staining her cheeks. “You did this all for the love you bear me and look what has happened. I wanted you both to look so gallant… I wanted you to show the queen the true prince I know you to be… now Robb’s dying… I don’t want him to die…”

“He won’t die.” Jon said, hoping against hope that he was right. Bending down, he pulled Sansa up into his arms even as she struggled against him. “This isn’t your fault. Trust me. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Sansa continued to cry, her bright blue eyes filled with a sadness that he never wanted to see again. They were beautiful eyes and he couldn’t bear to see her in such a way.

“What if he dies?” She asked fearfully. “I can’t lose him… he’s my big brother…”

“We won’t lose him. Robb’s too strong. He fought a Kingsguard and he almost won.”

He was trying to convince himself as much as her. As he held her, Sansa’s arms went around his back, holding onto him as if her life depended on it. Her trembling form was weak from grief yet found the strength to hold him tightly. Jon knew then that she needed him more than anyone else.

Deep down, he needed her too.

“Let me get you to your chambers…” He tried to find the courage to do what needed to be done. “I want to go back… I need to go back for him. To keep a vigil.”

“We should go back… of course we should… we left Bran and Arya alone. They’re probably listening t-to those sc-screams right now.” Sansa sobbed as he brushed the hair away from her eyes. “It hurts my heart to hear it but we should be there… if you go with me I can. I’m so afraid Jon… I need you.”

Sansa was being more honest than he’d ever seen her. There were no courtesies or gowns that could hide what she truly felt now. During their months of growing closer, he’d wanted to see the true Sansa for so long... but not like this.

Not when she was so wracked by the worst of things.

By hurt and fear, bathed in the darkness.

Her face turned upwards, seeking solace from him. Those blue eyes glistening as her lips parted.

“Jon…”

He kissed her then.

A soft kiss. A gentle kiss.  One filled with love rather than lust. He willed his care and hope for Sansa to travel through that kiss.

To drive away the tears. To spare her some pain.

To beat the darkness back for a little longer.

Chapter 7

Summary:

The suffering of the past, present and future are laid out to Catelyn. Daenerys offers glimpses in the prophecies and plans of her brother, while secretly plotting her own way forward.

Stuck between two choices, Jon takes a third option.

Farewells, new beginnings, and different fates.

CATELYN  

“Leave me.”

Robb’s words were a muttered command, he did not even look at her to speak them. 

Her beautiful boy’s face was turned towards the window, staring at the empty sky as his fingers tightened about his linens. While they were fresh and clean she disdained to see how closely Robb’s pallor matched his sheets. Nor was he as neatly maintained, his hair hung about his face in an unkempt manner and he was in dire need of a shave.  

My son is in dire need… he needs me…

A glance to the heavily bandaged and splinted mass that had been Robb’s left leg bore the truth of that. It was raised up on several pillows and the bandages were clean so she could take comfort no foul humors were leaking through anymore. Days had passed since Robb broke free of the feverish state he’d suffered through after his fall.

When that horse had crashed down on him it had felt like someone had driven a knife through her stomach. A twisted dirk, forged of the fear she’d just lost her first born. 

Her first babe. 

While she’d been spared such a tragedy it was hard to say Robb had been returned to her. The son she’d watched ride that day had been strong and confident, full of life and laughter. Now the wounded young man lying before her had been sapped of all that, his body as weak and broken as his spirit. 

Maester Luwin had managed to save Robb’s leg but could not spare his parents any worrying beyond that. Their son had still burned with fever when the maester had filled Ned and Cat with both hope and dread. 

“One day he may walk again. Though not upon that leg, not without use of a walking stick or something to steady him.” 

“What of riding?” Ned had asked, wiping at Robb’s sweaty brow. “He loves to ride… if he cannot be a warrior afoot then…” 

“Perhaps my lord.” The maester acted grim as the sounds of the direwolves howling outside the keep had wafted within the room. They’d done so every night during Robb’s fever.

“Even if he can ever take to a horse I fear Robb will never be the rider he was. We must be thankful that he still lives at all. His leg could have festered or his head could have cracked upon the ground.” 

“I should never have let him joust.” Ned’s hand shook, his eyes closed. “Whatever pride I took was in how well Robb rode I was a fool not to put a stop to things when he challenged Whent.” 

“My lord, it was the saddle, not the opponent that caused your son’s fall. Many saw it drop away from the steed, if it hadn’t been lost in the chaos that followed Hullen could’ve pointed to its faults. Alas, accidents happen in such contests. As to allowing the joust, that was a decision I beg you to remain confident in. All would have seen the Lord of Winterfell pulling his heir from a match due to fear for his abilities… your bannermen would not ignore such a thing…” 

“I’d rather that than this.” Ned pressed his forehead against Robb’s. “I’m sorry son.” 

Cat had been too numb with grief to debate this and that at the time. Her strength had been for Robb then, sitting to his other side and holding his hand tightly. Somehow she’d managed to find the sense to reach across and lay a hand on Ned who had been wracked with his own pain. 

Lately the husband and wife had endured rough times yet there was no place for harsh feelings between them then. The terror of nearly losing their son had driven it away. 

Ned had needed her as much as she had needed him. The two shoring up their strength to be there for Robb. 

United in love for their child.

Yet Ned was not here now and Robb wanted little of her.

“Leave me.” Robb repeated quietly. “Just go.”

“Robb, I think it's long past time you had a shave.” She ignored his words, laying the tray down upon a side table. “A bowl of hot water, a looking glass I can hold for you, and a blade you can wield yourself.”

He was always a fine swordsman. I always watched him with pride.

“Mother…”

“When you’re finished I can send for your brothers and sisters. They’re all eager to see how well you’re doing.”

“I don't want to shave.” Robb’s voice was like ice now, his fists clenching at his sides. “Please leave and don’t bring them here… they can’t see me.”

“They can and will. After you’ve shaved. One day I’ll have to accept you growing a beard like your father, but for now I would have you present yourself accordingly. We cannot have the heir to Winterfell looking so shabby-”

“GET OUT!” Robb roared, jerking his face around and glaring at her with eyes full of fury. “LEAVE ME BE!”

Cat took a step back in fear at such venom.

“What do I care about shaving? I’m crippled mother!” Robb pointed to his ruined leg. “Who am I to impress with my hobbling? You want me to use the razor? Why? Because it’s the only blade I will ever wield again ably?”

“Of course not-”

“How about a meat knife? Or are others to cut my food for me now?” Robb pressed his fists to the side of his head. “I can’t ride, I can’t fight, I can’t even walk as a man anymore! Why do you want me to act as one?”

“Please don’t say such things.” Cat went to him, trying to find a way to embrace her babe to her. “I only want you to be yourself. Your brothers and sisters miss you so-”

“Keep them away!” He yelled , slapping her touch away from his neck and knocking her back. “Don’t touch me! Leave me! Just leave me be! You should’ve let me die!”

“No!” She reached for him but her son fought against her touch. “No! You’re my son! My first son! I would rather die than you!”

“I'm already dead! I’ve nothing left!” He wept.  “You son is gone! He’s gone…”

No, you’re right in front of me… just let me hold you…

When you were a babe you loved to be held.

Her struggles with Robb caused her to stumble against the bed, jarring it sharply. The shaking of the headboard caused Robb's leg to shift position, making him shriek in agony. Cat moved back, fearing that she might hurt him again.

The door to the chamber flew open then and Catelyn thought perhaps it would be Jon. The prince had been at Robb’s side throughout his fever. He often fell asleep in the chair next to Robb's bed, keeping watch over her boy. Once she had drifted off herself, only to wake up and find herself blanketed with his cloak and a pillow beneath her head, the solemn prince awake by Robb's side.

Still keeping watch.

Until Robb awoke and sent Jon away, just like he is trying to do to me.

The prince obeyed where I cannot.

Unfortunately it appeared that Jon continued to respect Robb’s wishes, for it was not him standing in the open doorway. This intruder was an affront to all good sense, a presence in Winterfell that was an insult not only to her family but to Cat herself.

Elara Dayne stood frozen in the doorway, dressed in a black gown far more modest than her usual garb. Her clothing mattered little to Cat in this moment though, for the bastard had just barged in on a dreadful scene with her beloved boy.

“You dare?” She asked, feeling her anger build. “You dare to burst in here as if you’ve any right?”

“We heard shouting.” The girl met her gaze, a bit of anger forming there as well. “And someone crying in pain.”

“Get out!” Robb shouted, covering his face with his hands. “Gods please! Get the hell out!”

“You heard him.” Cat said, striding towards Elara, her hand itching to grab the girl by an ear and yank the bastard from the room. “You don’t belong here!”

The girl took a step back yet continued to defy her, tensing as if to strike a blow.

“I don’t want to be here.” Elara acted put out then and Cat saw red.

“Robb?”

A quiet voice broke in as another young lady appeared from behind the bastard. Roslin Frey was trembling, looking almost as pale as Robb with dark circles etched beneath her eyes. The lady was holding a bouquet of wildflowers in her hands, though a few were broken from the poor girl's shaking.

Her son’s hands had fallen away from his face at the sound of Lady Roslin’s voice, his eyes still wet with tears.

“Roslin? Roslin no, you can’t… you mustn’t be here.”

“My lord… I’m sorry, but I needed to… to be here” Roslin’s voice fell away as she began to cry. “I had to see you. I needed to see you my lord.”

“He does not want to be seen.” Cat snapped grabbing at the door and making to shut it, only to find Elara stopping her.

“I said leave!” She jerked at the door and felt the bastard girl giving ground when Robb gave a shout.

“Wait no!” He wiped at his eyes. “No… Roslin, don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you cry my lady.”

“I cannot help it.” Roslin sniffled. “I heard your pain but when I saw you again…awake and moving I… well I was so happy…”

“I told you all of this.” Cat said, her anger now focused on the lady Frey. “I told you before that my son needs rest. His own family has not even seen him-”

“Enough mother.” Robb interrupted. Her boy made to straighten up some before gasping in pain.

“Robb!”

Cat was shocked that the desperate cry was not her own, for Roslin pushed by Elara and flew into the room. The girl fell to the side of Robb’s bed as if to aid him. Before Roslin could so, his hand shot out and took the lady’s own in his grasp. No one spoke a word as the two held and gazed at one another. Roslin pressed the flowers against her chest with her free hand, while Robb enfolded her fingers in both hands.

She was about to lose her temper at this display when Robb smiled.

For the first time in days, her son smiled.

The Robb she loved so much shined in that moment.

That he did so for this girl should have bothered Cat more. The Tallharts had brought young Eddara to the tourney to catch Robb’s eye yet his eyes were only for Roslin. She was embarrassed of the spectacle he'd made when begging the lady’s favor, an insult that the Tallharts had not taken well. While Rhaegar had ended the tourney following Robb’s injury, she doubted Ser Helman would’ve remained at any rate. His son was defeated by Robb in a poor display of riding, his daughter rejected in favor of a Frey with few prospects.

At the time, Cat had resolved to drive a wedge between Robb and Roslin, for the sake of both of them. Young love could be a dangerous thing, luring those under its spell to rashness.

Yet Robb now lay inflicted with a very real wound, shrouded in a woe that Cat could not pull him free from. As helpless as that made her feel it buoyed her some to see Robb freeing himself from his dark mood, if only to seek Roslin. The pair only had eyes for one another, leaving Cat and Elara to watch in awkwardness. After a moment, Robb did spare a glance to his mother but not to share his smile with her.

For his wants remained the same as before.

“Mother, Lady Elara, I beg your leave to speak with Lady Roslin.” He spoke firmly. “I haven't been able for some time… I haven't wanted company until now…”

Maybe it was his tone, or perhaps it was the shock of seeing her boy smile again. Whatever it was, Cat nodded numbly, content for the moment to see Robb free of pain and anger.

As she closed the door on the young couple, her anger swelled once more at the bastard's lack of grace. Elara set herself against the wall outside Robb's chamber, as if to keep watch.

“What do you think you are doing?” Cat asked.

“Waiting for my friend.” Elara answered with a shrug. “It is not proper to leave a young lady alone with a strange man.”

She is right but everything else about her is wrong.

“You would lecture me on propriety? You of all people?” Cat strode up and took hold of the girl’s arm, yanking her from the wall. “I have suffered enough recently! I will not suffer you to insult my son’s honor-”

“The honor of a Stark!” Elara wrenched free of Cat’s grasp, grabbing at her own wrist with a strange fear.

Even stranger was to hear someone question the honor of House Stark. Cat had heard many slights against the house in her lifetime. In the south, some called the great house of the North a family of ungodly savages. Half-frozen barbarians, left over from a bygone era. More recently whispers had decried that they had too strong a love for dragons.

Yet she could never speak to someone questioning their honor.

Save yourself… for you’ve questioned Ned’s honor ever since this girl came to our home.

Her wine fuelled anger had largely died away the morning after the feast, yet the hurt had remained. Not the good ache between her legs from their lovemaking, but the pain of knowing that Ned was keeping something from her. It hurt all the more because she loved him still. She even prayed that their night together had left her with child again. Despite the fight that had followed, it would be a gift from the Mother above to bring another child into this world whom Ned could dote on.

They’d argued a few more times over the weeks, but never as fiercely as the night of the feast. Even as things remained cool between them, Cat found it hard to be apart from Ned, nor could he keep away from her for long.

Twice her husband had come to her chambers and she’d never once turned him away. Neither time did Ned seek her solely to make love. The first visit was to apologize for the fight yet he still stood firm on his refusal to speak of Elara and they’d fallen into bickering again.

Until the discussion turned to future arrangements.

“Enough talk of the Lady Dayne.” Ned had shaken his head. “Nothing will change my mind in that regard yet soon things will be changing here. Robb will be the Stark in Winterfell. I need you here helping, guiding, for when the banners need to be called.”

“You don’t trust him to do his duty?” She’d asked. “Robb can send ravens and win over lords! If you would just give him the chance.”

“Of course I trust him. I just trust my wife as well.” Her husband had sounded pained then. “You may put little faith in me Cat but I put much faith in you. Robb will do well, I know that, and with you guiding him I know that Winterfell will remain in good hands when I am gone.”

“You mean until you return.” She questioned, worried by his tone.

“I plan to return Cat… but should war come against the wildlings… we both know how fragile our fates can be in such times. I can face those battles bravely if I know my children are well cared for, sure that their paths will never waiver… for they’ve been raised by a fine mother. A good woman, better than I deserve….”

He’d faltered then and made to take his leave of her. At that moment though, the idea of Ned leaving had done something to her. Like a girl besotted, she’d gone to him.

“You will not leave Winterfell for some time yet my lord.” Cat had taken hold of his arm, bringing her body against his. “And while I have faith that you will return to me, there’s little need to go from my chambers now. I’d have you stay some time longer. If only to discuss such arrangements…”

Ned had stayed, they had talked of other matters, and as she’d desired, one thing led to another. Though after their passion was sated and Ned rolled away from her, she did not ask him to stay the night.

Beyond the love and satisfaction she felt for Ned, the anger over Elara had still lingered.

The second visit had come after Jon and Rhaegar proposed the tourney to Ned. At first she thought it a splendid idea, until the men had shown their foolishness by allowing Jon and Robb to join the lists. That argument had been waged in her chambers as well thankfully. She did not want Robb and Jon thinking that she doubted them and wound their pride.

“My son is one of the finest riders in the North.” Ned had spoken gruffly. “I will never apologize for taking pride in that. My wife gave me the kind of son that every lord prays for, a son I hope I am worthy of and who I believe is capable enough to joust alongside his friends. Let him make you as proud as he makes me everyday.”

Hearing Ned defend Robb’s abilities so passionately had been a fine thing. Praising the fine son she gave him had touched her. The more Ned spoke, the more she wanted his touch.

Despite her protests, even Cat felt a desire to see Robb ride so well. Even if it was just against young lordlings and hedge knights, she had held hope that Robb would earn respect from those northern lords who once lamented the southron flower that Ned had taken as a wife.

Were I weak and selfish, it would be easy to blame Ned for what’s befallen Robb.

Once I might have, but the North has changed me. I am a lady of House Stark now.

I claim their strength and honor as my own.

And she would not have this girl question that honor now.

Despite the Elara’s resistance, Cat had forced her down the corridor, away from the door, but that was where the girl made her stand.

“I won’t let your son use her!” Elara's voice was like a whip. “I don’t care how hurt he is! Roslin won't end up with a swollen belly and shame to her good name!”

“You’ve no right to accuse my son of anything!” Cat answered back. “He was born with a good name and better sense while you clearly entered this world lacking both!”

She pointed towards the stairs at the end of the corridor then, willing the girl to fly down them.

“You may be niece to a great knight, friend to a princess, but that gives you no right to act so bold in my presence. I care not who your father might be for he has not claimed you… nor would it matter if he did! My children are the only ones he loves!”

“What?” Elara’s face fell some at the last part.

“Did I speak too softly? Do you truly think my husband could ever love you? That he would ever look at you like he does the children born from our marriage bed?”

“You think Lord Stark is my father?” Elara said, her eyes somewhere else all of a sudden. “You truly think Eddard Stark sired me… you of all people? The lady that kept my father from us in the first place?”

The girl stifled a laugh then, bringing her hand up to her mouth as her body shook some more. Cat was speechless at this reaction. She knew that sense had already left her, but the bastard's laughter at her pain only stoked the fires of Cat's rage.

“He didn’t tell you…” Elara spoke in disbelief. “With all your glares, I figured he had. A slight to your Tully honor, to have your dutiful direwolf stray and shame your family. I’m as surprised as you to learn there’s one Stark who keeps his word, who remembers honor.”

“Insult my husband again and I will have you thrown from the gates by my own hands.”

“I just paid him a compliment!” Elara bared her teeth. Somehow, in a haze of pain, Catelyn thought of Arya then. “Lord Stark swore to say nothing of the fool who dishonored my mother and clearly he kept his word. Fear not my lady, the man you married is not my father.”

He’s not? This girl is not Ned’s bastard?

Oh thank the Mother… Ned… my dear foolish Ned, why couldn’t you just say so?

“I don’t understand.” She spoke truthfully, stumbling back at Elara's words. “Why would he swear to keep a secret for you? If you’re not his blood-”

“Oh, I am his blood. Though I’d rather not be. I said the man you married is not my father. The man- sorry, the drunken fool you were meant to marry, that’s who you have to blame for this bastard gracing your castle. Just as you are to blame for why my mother was cast aside like so much chattel, a fate I’d spare my friend from!”

Elara’s words took a few moments to sink in. When she realized the truth, Cat felt like she'd been struck. The girl did not wait for her to recover, pushing by and returning to her place outside Robb’s door, crossing her arms and staring at it in anger.

Whatever Elara felt was nothing compared to Cat's own indignity. She needed to see Ned then, to understand and quell this rage inside of her.

He let me rage at him… he let me think the worst of him…

For some bastard niece? For a man who went behind my back?

“Eddard Stark!” She shouted, throwing open the door of her husband’s solar.

Ned jumped up from the chair behind his work table as she slammed the door behind her. She strode forward and slapped her hands down in front of him.

“How could you allow this?!”

“What? What’s happened?” Ned asked, grasping at his heart and looking unsteady. “Oh gods no… Robb… no Cat, don’t say it…”

She cringed at that. The pain in her husband's eyes was horrible to see.

“No, Robb is awake and well.” She shook her head. “I’m here because of Elara Dayne! You remember her, don’t you? The girl you let me think was your bastard when she was actually Brandon’s all along?”

“What- Cat how…” Ned’s eyes filled with confusion as he glanced behind her. “My lady,  let’s not-”

“It was at Harrenhal wasn’t it? He bedded Ashara then? For a whole night he danced with me, tried to bring me to bed, what a dashing heir I thought!” Her feelings came forth. “All this time, he was just a randy sot! Brandon went to Ashara after I refused him, didn’t he? He acted a scoundrel and you never told me! You let me think all this time that you could father that bastard-”

“My lady!” A loud voice boomed from behind her.

As she turned, she realized in horror that Ned was not alone in his solar. The door had hid the pair from her sight, but now Rhaegar and Arthur Dayne stood behind her. The king was clearly embarrassed to be present for this while Ser Arthur flushed with anger.

“My niece has suffered enough of this world! I will not allow you to speak of her in such a way!”

“Do not raise your voice at her Arthur.” Ned warned, rounding the table. “Not in my home, not ever.”

The knight took a step forward and things began to look even more dire until both she and Rhaegar interceded.

“Ned!” She took his arm in hers. “I spoke too freely in such company.”

“You should not speak so at all.” Arthur did not break his gaze from Ned’s face. “At least not of Elara. Feel free to curse that fool Brandon Stark all you want-”

“Do not tell my wife what she can and cannot say in this castle!” Ned tensed in her grip and Rhaegar pushed back on his knight until there was some breathing room between the two men.

“For such sensible men you are acting poorly now.” The king lamented. “Arthur, Elara has been treated with great courtesy here at Winterfell and we have Lord Stark to thank for that. This was a mishap and clearly a private matter between the lord and his lady, I ask you to wait without and allow tempers to cool.”

When Arthur made to protest, Rhaegar’s demeanor changed into a colder one.

“My request has failed, so now I command you ser. Go.”

She was thankful that Arthur took his leave then. Any chance of bloodshed between Ned and the knight because of her foolishness seemed forgone. Rhaegar passed a hand down his face and she took notice of how weary the king looked. He was almost as haggard as her husband despite his own son being healthy and hale.

“My lady, I seek your forgiveness. Arthur can stand vigil for days without rest, face down any foe with unbreakable resolve, yet to insult his niece… well, it is not just my word that protects Elara’s good name in the capital.”

“The Lord-Commander's anger was no slight, yet you must understand my concern.” She gave voice to a worry she suddenly had. “If Elara is Brandon’s daughter and you’ve legitimized her, that gives her claim to Winterfell... a claim over our children's, even Ned's own.”

“It doesn’t.” Rhaegar waved the thought away. “This is something I considered long ago which is why I made Elara a Dayne, not a Stark. I want no effort made to usurp Lord Stark’s rule here in the North. Elara may be the daughter of Brandon Stark but she is a natural born one. By law she has no rights to inherit here in Winterfell. More than that, her mother wanted this. She wished her daughter to have a proper name, to be a Dayne of Starfall, for the girl to take after the parent who loved her.”

She felt oddly comforted to hear this. That the king gave royal assurances of her children’s claim to Winterfell was kind of him. Still, Rhaegar had not shown good sense to leave alongside his knight. There were a hundred things she wanted to say to Ned now, and none were proper with the king present.

“I thank you your grace. Now, I came here intending to speak my husband alone-”

“Of course, but as it happens, your arrival is quite fortuitous.” Rhaegar gestured to some parchments arrayed on Ned’s table.

She spotted the broken seal of the King’s Hand, Lord Jon Connington.

“There is trouble to the south.” Ned frowned. “In the Stormlands… and the Riverlands.”

“My father’s domain?” She was surprised.

To hear of trouble in the Stormlands was not uncommon. Those lords were frequently ill at ease ever since the failed rebellion. That Robert Baratheon still lived was likely part of it, yet she knew the decision to name Jon Connington as lord paramount of the Stormlands had also proved unpopular. Ned had once told her that if any man could match Stannis Baratheon in rigidness, it was the Lord of Griffin's Roost. Every few years or so, some stormlords would band together demanding this and that until the king either heard them out or his Hand was sent to beat them down.

Meanwhile Riverlands had been at peace since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Her father’s hold on the lands was secure and his loyalty to Rhaegar had not wavered once in fifteen years. In fact, many of Rhaegar's closest advisors came from Houses Darry and Mooton, bannermen of her father.

So what has changed?

Rhaegar waved her forth as he pointed to a map that Ned had splayed across his desk.

“The Stormlands are the greater concern. Apparently the castles Rain House, Mistwood, and Greenstone have been trading with pirates operating in the Stepstones, going so far as to aid them in piracy. We’ve suspected such for some time yet now there are worries Lord Selwyn, the Evenstar, joins them. That is a grave matter indeed, for he has never given me reason to doubt his fealty. Thus the Hand has left King’s Landing to deal with these matters and he has my trust in that. Of course as soon as he left court, some new issue regarding Renly Baratheon’s marriage-”

“Your grace, my father’s lands.” Cat pressed, for she’d caught the sympathetic look that Ned was giving her. It caused her to fear for her family, a father and brother she had not seen in so long.

“Yes, of course.” Rhaegar nodded grimly. “There’s some quarrel brewing between the Blackwoods and the Brackens. They’re both claiming that the other has been violating their lands and war might be brewing.”

“That’s not new.” She felt relieved to say. “Those lords have never cared for each other and their rivalry runs deep. My father will make them see reason.”

“Cat.” Ned spoke softly. “It’s not likely that Hoster will be able to, not from Riverrun at least.”

“Then he’ll ride to Raventree or Stone Hedge himself.”

“I doubt that very much my lady.” Rhaegar broke in. “This is information I’ve had for some time but which your father has tried to keep hidden from all. I did not think it was my place to share it with you until your husband bid me-”

“Hoster is ill my love.” Ned put a hand to the small of her back. “Gravely ill. The king only just told me but I would not keep it from you.”

My father sick? He was always so strong…

Dark wings, dark words.

She felt dazed then, holding Ned’s hands for comfort at the news. It was a strange thing to think on, that she’d come to rage at him for keeping things from her and now she was upset because of what he’d shared.

After a few moments, she found the sense to suggest that her uncle Brynden or her brother Edmure could see to these matters. Rhaegar shamed her again by having a far greater knowledge of House Tully than she. Apparently the Blackfish had left Riverrun half a year ago, spending much of his time in the capital. Ser Barristan claimed to have seen him last, her uncle speaking of visiting Duskendale or perhaps even the Vale.

Hearing that both her father and uncle were absent from Riverrun’s affairs gave her pause. For Edmure had always been good-hearted yet hot-blooded as well, never quite earning her father’s confidence as a future lord. Clearly Rhaegar held similar concerns.

“I thought to task Jon Arryn with this matter but he’s busy in the capital, dealing with a dispute between the Iron Bank and some truculent merchants. My son Aegon rules in my stead, with the small council’s guidance, yet he’s always been quite fond of Edmure… I fear that he may be placing too much faith in your brother to prevent a war.”

“A minor one.” Ned offered, squeezing her hands. “Between only two houses…”

“War between the Blackwoods and Brackens would draw in others.” She sighed. “Feuds between those families always do. Should it come to that, my family would appear weak... vulnerable. Should my father die…”

“Let us pray that that does not come to pass.” Rhaegar said, gazing over at where Ice laid sheathed upon Ned's mantle. “Fear not my lady. I am giving thought to which men I might send to settle this dispute discreetly. One in particular who I hope can- well nevermind. The strength of House Tully is a pillar on which peace in the realm rests. I would not see it fall.”

Rhaegar’s words did not ease her worries but he helped in another way. After some parting words on needing to arrange some meeting with the Kingsguard the king left the solar.

His departure allowed Cat to ease into Ned’s embrace. She needed to do such since first hearing of her father’s health.

“Cat, I’m sorry. Hoster is a good man…”

“He always was. Father raised me well, he always came home, no matter where he rode off to… he gave me to you.” She pressed herself tighter to Ned then. “I was so angry at him for that once, forcing me to marry you after Brandon died. I thought I lost a good man for a husband and gained a worse one instead, but I was foolish girl. You were always the good one weren’t you?”

She looked up to see Ned’s stern face full of worry.

“I’m so angry with you Ned… but I’m relieved too. Now that I know you’ve always been as honorable as I thought. You protected Elara’s secret for the same reason you sheltered Jon here, didn’t you?”

His grey eyes were sad then, as sad as she’d ever seen them. When Ned nodded, he ran his fingers softly through her hair.

“They are my family.”

“And you’ll always protect your family.” She trembled in his arms. “Our son Ned… Robb has been brought so low. With my own ears, I heard Robb say that he wished he had died. You have to speak with him. He has to know that he’s still strong in your eyes. We have to protect him.”

“Robb is and will always be my son. When I am gone, he will be the Stark in Winterfell. Men in our family have lost eyes, arms, even legs before, and still managed to rule the North well. I still have faith in him. That’s what I’ll tell him. He will know what’s in my heart.”

“I want to know what’s in your heart.” She begged of him. “You’re not Brandon… I thank the gods for that, but no more secrets between us Ned… can you swear that to me?”

I know a promise from you is one I can depend on.

You’d keep your word to any, even to a bastard girl.

“I can. I gladly do… if you’d have it.” Ned’s voice was full of emotion.

Her kiss was much the same, for it was the answer she wanted to give. The hurt, the anger, the fear, for one sweet moment as his lips met hers, they all fell away.

“There’s much we need to discuss my love.” Ned continued, holding her hand to his face. “Rhaegar did not share all his thoughts with you but I will. I have some worries of what this damned tourney cost us beyond poor Robb’s leg. We will not remain here at Winterfell much longer and things are moving so quickly-”

“First, let us seek your son.” Cat pulled away and made to lead her husband to the door. “Where you can help him find his way, perhaps even convince him to let his brothers and sisters visit him…”

Pausing, she gave him a knowing look.

“Then we can retire to my chambers and we can speak on all the rest.” Cat said, squeezing his hand. “And then we’ll take to my bed and you’ll stay with me this night. If we are to be separated soon, let us not waste what time we have left together.”

Brandon Stark had once danced with her. He had laid a claim to her heart, her childish dreams, and had even come close to her maidenhead once or twice. Yet the wool was pulled from her eyes. Whatever romantic notions Brandon might still lay claim to in her memories were falling away as she thought of the angry, abandoned girl wandering the halls of Winterfell.

Pushing that aside, she took the chance to enjoy walking those same halls with this honest, loving man at her side. The father of her children. A man she had once thought to be a sliver of Brandon’s worth.

Time and time again he had proven himself to be her true love.

So, walking hand in hand, Cat strode beside her beloved to go and comfort their first born.

Praying he could take solace in the love that had brought him into this world.

 

 

DAENERYS  

 

“Do you know where they’re kept? The dragon’s eggs?”

Arya Stark’s question was followed by a gasp from her younger brother. Bran shook his head as he whispered something to Arya, who made a face back at him.

Their bickering seemed out of place here in Winterfell’s glass gardens, which were peaceful otherwise. At first it had been an annoyance that the Stark siblings followed her here. She’d come to the gardens to seek Jon, for Jackie had overheard him saying he planned on stopping here before visiting Winterfell’s crypts.

If having a moment alone together meant Dany had to surprise him she would, for they’d not had one in weeks now. Having Arya and Bran follow her had not been part of the plan but since there was no sign of Jon yet she forgave the young Starks their fascination with her. In truth they reminded her of Myrcella and Tommen, two sweet children in their own right.

“Jon told us to stop bothering him about his dragon egg!” Bran chided his sister who shrugged in response.

“That’s why I’m asking Daenerys about all of them. Stupid.” Arya smiled innocently over to her. “You can tell us where the eggs are, we won’t tell.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know Arya.” She answered. “That’s a closely guarded secret of my brother’s. Only Arthur Dayne and Archmaester Marwyn know the truth of it.”

Arya wasn’t happy with that yet there was little more she could offer. Truthfully the girl was not alone in her disappointment for many in the realm begrudged this secret. She’d heard Gormon Tyrell bitterly complaining to Rhaegar on several occasions about this very thing. The Grand Maester could accept the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard as a keeper of the secret yet could not fathom why Marwyn, one of his lessers, was privileged with information he wasn’t.

Years of complaints had not won her brother over on the matter though something had changed before they’d left the capital.

To the bewilderment of many Marwyn had departed from court weeks earlier, an exit she’d witnessed with her own eyes. His short, squat body had moved purposefully across the yard, his strong jaw held high. To Marwyn’s side had followed what appeared to be a pyromancer from the Alchemists’ Guild and a knight she couldn’t place. A short man wearing two swords and a bronze colored tunic adorned with two black blades, crossed over one another.

Marwyn the Mage had always kept odd company yet she knew him to be one of Rhaegar’s closest confidants. So little had been said of the maester’s reason for leaving that it had been the talk of court for days after. Even Elara knew nothing of the old man’s whereabouts, and she was Marwyn’s prized student.

I was a constant disappointment yet here I stand knowing more than Elara.

More than the Grand Maester even…

“He wrote a book!” Bran piped up, displaying his own knowledge. “Maester Luwin was talking about it! He said Marwyn’s book had as much wisdom as Old Nan. I don’t think he meant it kindly though…”

To that Arya rolled her eyes.

“We’re talking about dragons not old people!”

Daenerys laughed as she continued to wander about the flowerbeds. The glass gardens and their rows of fruits, vegetables and flowers had been an escape for her. Heated by hot springs the moist warmth of this nursery had reminded her of the deepest caverns of Dragonstone.

As a little girl Rhaegar had often taken Dany on visits to her birthplace. When they’d go into the caves he would put her upon his shoulders, acting as a mount during their explorations of those rarely visited places.

“These caverns were carved out by our ancestors dear sister.” Rhaegar spoke softly to her, holding her knees in a way that made Dany feel safe. “Why they ever sought to dig out these parts of the Dragonmont few agree on. Deep and neverending, these mysteries call to me...”

“Me too.” She’d said, full of childish need to be loved by her older brother. “I’m like you Rhaegar… aren’t I?”

“Sweet Daenerys, I pray that you will be better than me. I wish you to be a happy girl, to grow into woman who loves life dearly. Nevertheless, we are both dragons, and whilst our forefathers did dig so deep, our true place lies far above us. In the skies themselves, amongst the clouds and storms. As dragonriders.”

“I’m riding a dragon.” She remembered giggling and running her hands through Rhaegar’s soft hair.

Now her fingers traced along the petals of a winter rose. As the Starks bickered over the merits of their maester and Old Nan, she sniffed of the flower. Most roses smelt of a summer’s day yet this scent was as sharp as it was sweet. It reminded her of the snows she’d seen during her journey north, wonderful yet harsh all at once.

Much like my visit to Winterfell.

“Would you like one?” Bran asked, eyeing her fingers on the blue rose.

“No lady could ever say no to such a pretty gift.” Dany said. “These gardens are as warm and lush as the south. Summer here in the North is so different, I’ve begun to miss my home and its roses.”

With a smile she’d turned to Bran and nodded.

“If a certain squire was to offer any lady such a favor, she’d surely accept.”

The sweet boy blushed something horrible then, just like Jon would whenever she kissed his cheek during their childhood games. She didn’t need Elara to point out that Bran was taken with her. The way he followed her about, doing all he could to please her, it was touching.

“No one needs to give you a rose. You can just take one yourself.” Arya pushed by Bran to grab a pair of shears on a table nearby. “My father won’t mind. He lets Jon take them all the time for his mother’s tomb.”

“She wants someone to give her the rose!” Bran tried to get the shears from his sister but Arya batted away his hand in a swift, fluid motion.

Impressed by the girl’s skill, Dany found herself enjoying the little duel the two began to fight. Bran was doing his best to get a hold of the shears, Arya dodging his hands to keep them. Red in the face, Bran chased his sister all about the glass gardens, jostling plants and tables as they went.

If we could get Myrcella and Tommen away from Joffrey’s cruelty, surely they would be so happy.

Despite their feuding, the siblings seemed happy enough at their play.

Until Arya ran into Jon.

None had noticed him entering the gardens, least of all Arya, for the force of her impact caused them both to grunt in surprise. Before anyone could stop it, Bran was colliding into them as well, driving Arya once more into Jon's chest. This time, rather than grunt, her prince gave a sharp cry before clutching at his side.

The first thing Dany saw were the reddened shears in Arya’s hand. Then she saw where they had cut through Jon’s clothing, leaving a bloody gash along his side.

“No!” Arya shouted in alarm. “I’m sorry! It was an accident!”

“Jon!” Dany rushed forward, steadying her shocked prince as he pulled a bloody hand from his side.

“It’s not deep.” He winced. “It hurts worse than it looks.”

“Then it must be agony.” She hissed at how much blood was seeping from the cut. Quickly untying the sash about her waist, she pressed the cloth there before turning to the startled squire nearby.

“Bran, go seek your maester, quickly now.”

“I can walk to Maester Luwin myself.” Jon began to protest as Bran rushed by them to the door.

“And make this worse? Sit down. Now.” She gently urged Jon back to sit upon a stool. She wanted to believe Jon's words, that this wound was not too bad, but a glance to the bloody shears in Arya’s trembling hands worried her.

Filthy things to begin with. I’ve heard tales of men getting the smallest cuts, only to die from them festering.

I once prayed that such a thing would happen to another prince… a brother…

Arya whimpered then, tears shining in her eyes as she looked at Jon's wound.

“Arya. Arya, it’s alright.” Jon reached for his cousin, beckoning the girl to him. “Don’t cry, it’s just a scratch.”

“I didn’t mean it… I was just practicing our lessons with Bran and… and…”

“This was an accident.” Jon grimaced as Dany pressed the cloth harder. “I’ve had worse from the practice yard.”

“Stop fidgeting.” Dany warned. Jon kept reaching for the girl and she worried that he was opening his wound even more by moving so much.

“Will your father take my hand?” Arya sniffed. “For hurting you? Will the king cut off my hand like he did Ser Jaime’s?”

“Of course not!” Dany snapped angrily. “Rhaegar would never do such a thing no matter how foolishly you were acting! Now be of use or get out!”

“Dany!”

Jon need not have protested. She regretted her harsh words soon after speaking them. There was no chance to apologize though, for Arya sobbed and threw down the shears before she ran from the gardens. Dany felt guilty then, for it wasn't Arya's fault that this happened. The girl could be excitable and combative, but she didn't deserve Dany's venom.

The sight of blood and a blade had simply taken her mind back to a place that Dany didn't like to think on. The night that Viserys had finally gone too far. Rhaegar had been visiting Rosby, leaving Aegon to take his seat on the small council and hear petitions in his absence. Usually Jon Connington would do so yet Rhaegar had wanted Aegon to test his hand at ruling, if only for a few days.

Of course Viserys had been wroth, for he always argued that with Rhaegar gone, he should rightly rule in his stead. Not the Hand, not the heir, no, her mad brother always thirsted for even the smallest taste of power.

She had heard later how Rhaenys summoned Viserys before the Iron Throne, apparently thinking that he deserved an audience before Aegon, to air grievances publicly that he usually nurtured in private. All said that Viserys had been furious when Aegon and Rhaenys made a mockery of him. Rhaenys had suggested that if he disliked how Aegon ran King’s Landing, he should seek Oldtown again. When Aegon dismissed Viserys, her brother had stood his ground defiantly and Roslin had cringed to repeat the heir’s threat when reporting it to Dany.

“I’m quite done with you uncle so please leave my sight, lest I have my guards drag you away.” Aegon had warned. “For a man once felled by a ten year old boy, I would suggest that you not press your luck. Winterfell might be too far for Jon to be a threat to you, but there are dragons far closer.”

Viserys had heeded Aegon’s words, both in leaving the throne room and realizing there were other dragons he could contend with. Ones he believed far weaker.

Dany and Elara had been in the gardens, enjoying the night sky and some spring wine. How Viserys had known where to find them was a mystery to her, for they’d escaped Barristan not long before. It was fun to do so sometimes, especially when Elara had new tales to tell of foolish suitors.

Their fun had died when Viserys found them, as drunk with wine as he was with fury. He'd come upon them when they were giggling over different names Elara was giving to the stars.

“Thinking of that northern bastard?” Viserys had sneered. “What is it about this garden, that I must always find bastards about?”

“What do you want?” Dany had sensed the danger immediately, grabbing at Elara and rising to her feet. “Where are your minders?”

“Minders? I’ve no need for the false king’s spies. Yet my men are near enough.”

Viserys had snapped his fingers and two shapes appeared from the darkness. Ser Boros Blount was fat and slow, but the sword on his belt marked him a threat. He was a jest though compared to the large, imposing figure of Ser Godry Farring, who leered at Elara’s presence. They were among the newest of Viserys’s sad little cabal of preeners and social climbers. .

Dany had made to lead Elara away and found Boros blocking her path, Viserys laughing at her movement.

“All those years at Oldtown, I didn’t forget where we left off. What we are meant to be sister.” Viserys flicked his silver-blonde hair away from his eyes, gazing at her in a sickening way. “Rhaegar leaves the capital and puts that little Dornish brat of his on the throne... my throne…”

“That’s treason. Shut your mouth now and no one will hear of it.” Dany had warned as Elara tried to block her from Viserys's wrath.

“Any different and all will hear of it, my prince.” Elara spat. “Aegon. My uncle Arthur. Your brother the king.”

“I want them all to know.” Viserys moved towards them. “We’ll be in Lys by then, I have a ship waiting for us. With a pureblood bride and all that is right on my side, soon the realm will rise up to return my crown to me.”

“The crown is Rhaegar’s!” Dany had snapped. “Aegon is after him and then Jon! All of them better than you! By the Seven Viserys, I wish you had never come back. Jon deserved to return more than you ever did! You disgust me!”

Boros had made to quiet her then, actually daring to lay hands upon her. The man was without his armor though, so her knee to his groin had driven him to the ground. Viserys had moved against Elara and Godry was making to grab Dany once more when her brother gasped.

Elara had freed the dagger she hid upon her person, pressing it against Viserys’s throat in deadly threat.

“One move Farring and your precious prince is dead.” Elara had threatened.

“I am blood of the dragon you piece of trash.” Viserys gulped. “Unhand me now or I’ll have the life choked out of you! I’ll have you burned alive!”

“You are your father’s son.” Elara whispered, blood seeping down Viserys's neck from the point of her knife. “Marwyn says that it’s a shame to waste kingsblood, but I think it’s wasted on you anyway.”

“Stop… Dany, please…” Viserys pleaded with her. She still thought of that look in his eyes sometimes. “You can be my queen…”

The years had changed much. Once it had been her pleading with Viserys to be spared the worst of his wrath. As much as she hated him, Dany did not wish to see him die, nor for Elara to bear the burden of murdering someone.

After she'd shouted some, Barristan and some guardsmen came upon them, foiling this foolish kidnapping plot by Viserys and his lackeys. Aegon had to be talked down from taking their heads, locking them in the Black Cells until Rhaegar returned. The king was furious, banishing Boros and Godry for life yet something within him could not condemn Viserys to the same. Instead Viserys was banished to the Free Cities for only five years, with no more gold for the journey save one pouch of dragons and no escorts save his fools.

“Five years living without my care, without the crown’s favor… I hope it rights all the wrongs within you brother.” Rhaegar had spoken in his hardest of tones. “I fear for you Viserys, I always have, but I cannot let you harm those I love most. Find humility, learn good sense, and your fate may not be as dark as I fear.”

When they led him away Viserys, had glared at her with all the venom that he could muster. Rhaegar had been unable to meet her gaze though, nor any others for several days after, confining himself to his solar and playing the saddest music she’d ever heard.

Jon played no music yet acted much like his father now, ignoring her pleading looks and rising to his feet. His face was a mix of pain and disappointment.

“How could you speak to Arya like that?” Jon rasped as he began to walk to the door. “She suffers enough from others! She doesn’t need it from a princess as well.”

“I acted as foolishly as you do now!” Dany moved to block his path. “Sit and wait for the maester!”

Jon refused to meet her gaze but she watched as a shadow passed over his face. The scraping of boots behind caused her to take notice then that others had arrived, namely Barristan and Ser Oswell.

“The girl wasn’t lying then.” Oswell scowled as he glanced down to Jon’s side. “How badly did she gut you?”

“She didn’t gut me.”

Jon swatted aside his sworn shield's attempt to see to the wound. Ever since the tourney, Dany had sensed a souring between the knight and Jon, though she could not say who was behind it.

“Your grace.” Barristan dropped to a knee near the cut. “May I look? I’ve seen my share of cuts and scrapes and it might set the princess’s mind at ease.”

Whether it was the combination of Oswell and her anger, or Barristan’s kindly urging, something bid Jon to uncover his wound then. The white-haired knight touched at it cautiously, shaking his head at what bleeding came forth. When he bid Jon to sit again the prince did not argue.

“Best to wait for the maester my prince. I fear for the bleeding I see and it would be best to get that bandaged straight away.” Barristan put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I cannot lie to you Prince Jon. I imagine there will be some boiled wine before the day is out.”

“That’s the last time I listen to you.” Oswell spoke angrily. “'Just going in to grab a flower, Oswell. Have a talk with Barristan, Oswell. I’ll be fine, Oswell.' Well now my charge is all cut up, in a garden of all places.”

“It would be better if you listened to me more often.” Jon answered back, shaking his head. “Where did Arya go?”

“After she found us she took off again.” Barristan frowned. “Poor girl was weeping.”

Dany felt all the worse then and wanted Jon to know it, for he was plainly displeased with her. Summoning her strength, she asked the two Kingsguard to wait without for the maester, for surely Jon felt crowded with all three of them about him. After, for the first time since the tourney, they were alone together. Robb’s accident kept Jon at his cousin’s bedside, and after he was rarely seen without Sansa at his side.

“Do not fret for your cousin. I will apologize to Arya, for I was surely wrong.”

She ran her fingers through Jon’s hair, relishing the feel of it. She remembered doing the same during their first kiss.

“That would be good of you.” He answered before moving back to escape her touch. “Please, Dany… don’t…”

“Why not? No one can see us, and I haven’t had a moment alone with you in so long.” She pulled on her skirts so she could kneel at his unhurt side, placing a hand overtop the one he rested on his knee. “I wanted to do this for you when Robb was hurt. As upset as Ros was, I could only imagine how you felt. I should’ve gone to you but being discreet is important, at least until we can get Rhaegar to set aside the betrothal-”

“That won’t happen.” Jon shook his head but made no effort to move her hand. “Lord Stark asked for Sansa and I to be matched. My uncle wants me to marry her… if father broke a betrothal after stealing my mother away… no, that's too great an insult.”

“Your mother was not stolen, she went to him. Lyanna and Rhaegar wed for love, they broke a betrothal and a marriage to do so. Rhaegar will see how unfair it is, asking you to deny your heart. I just need to speak with Aegon. He will help spur your father into letting us be together.”

“What? Aegon?” He finally met her gaze, their faces closer than they had been in weeks. “What does my brother have to do with this? Why would Aegon care?”

You can’t tell him yet. Telling Jon would only make this worse.

“Just trust me. If all three of us unite in this, Rhaegar will let you and I be together.  Summerhall will still be yours and when it’s done, I could go there too. You’d still be promised to wed but to me instead.”

His brow furrowed and Jon closed his eyes, grey eyes that she longed to look into. She prayed that he was picturing things as she did. The two of them, returning to a restored Summerhall, walking hand in hand through halls far more majestic than the Red Keep’s, warmer and brighter than Dragonstone could ever hope to be. Sharing such a future with Jon, even sharing the same vision of it, was something that Dany wanted desperately. She had to make him see.

With his face so close, her lips went to his and Dany once again stole a kiss of her prince. This time was different than the first, for she knew what to do now. The first touch was an invitation for him to join, the movement of her lips melting away whatever hesitation he still felt.

For a few wonderful moments, their kiss was perfect.

Until Jon ruined it by pulling away.

“Don’t.” She begged. “We get so few moments like this…”

Their lips met again. This time he found her first and their love was restored. This was all she needed from the world. Some sign that he had hope for them. That the future she dreamed of would come to pass.

Before Jon shattered her dreams once again.

“I can’t Daenerys.” Jon stiffened, wincing at the effort. “It’s not right. This isn't fair to Sansa or you.”

“How can it be wrong?” She asked. “I’m the one you love. I’m the one asking you to marry me. It can’t be wrong when it feels so right. Just kiss me Jon-”

“I kissed her.” Jon pulled his hand away. “This is wrong because I kissed Sansa as well.”

No you didn’t… You wouldn’t.

“What do you mean?” She asked, drawing back some. “Before I came to Winterfell? Before we kissed surely… something innocent… you-you love me.”

“It was after.” He said softly though his face was stern. “After Robb was hurt… Sansa was so upset.  She was scared for her brother and I’ve never seen her like that... I’d never seen the girl underneath all the courtesies. It was pretty and sad, she was in need and I just wanted to help her and before I knew it I-”

“You kissed her… you kissed another...”

She stood up and glared down at him, his betrayal ringing in her ears. All this time she’d thought of him as being trapped by this betrothal, forced to endure it and keep his distance from her. Now it turned out that Jon was kissing Sansa behind her back.

His lips were not hers alone.

“I love you… I love you! You love me! It’s always been like that! How could you go to her instead?”

“She is to be my wife.”

“So you shame us both?” She asked hotly. “Will you seek her lips again for what we just shared? To make things even? I’m trying to fight for us and you’re giving up! I’m being strong for you and you’re being weak!”

“I have been weak. I have dishonored you both.” Jon nodded. “My heart tells me different things at every other moment and… no. There’s no excuse. I won’t make any. All I know for certain is the longer I’m around you both, the worse I act.”

He pulled away her sash then with a hiss and held it out to her, his side bleeding anew.

“Jon! Don’t!”

“No more.” Jon shook his head. “I’d rather feel this hurt a hundred times over and bleed until my last drop than sully you or Sansa like I have this cloth. I’m ending this Daenerys… I have to.”

She was at a loss for what Jon was ending, though she feared she knew. Her horrible thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Maester Luwin. Sadly he was not alone, for following at his heels came not only Bran but Arya and Sansa as well.

Sansa gave a small cry to see Jon bleeding while the maester began tending to him in a much calmer fashion.

“Oh Jon, I imagined the worst!” Sansa stood behind the maester and dabbed at her eyes with her sleeves. “Arya said the shears cut you horribly and I feared-”

“Arya was mistaken and there’s nothing to fear.” Jon waved away the lady’s worries to address Arya and Bran directly. “I thank you both for being so quick about this. Next time I’ll think better of sneaking up on dueling direwolves. Wouldn’t want to get scratched again-”

“Jon, that’s not funny.” Sansa chided him, her eyes drifting to Dany and the bloody sash in her hand. “I thank you for tending to my betrothed, princess. Be assured, I will have the washerwomen see to your garment as soon as possible. I’m sure Bran would gladly take you to them now.”

Dany wanted to scream then.

Tending to your betrothed? Jon and I were taking care of each years before you met him!

I have more claim to him than you ever will!

“Some stitches will be needed.” Maester Luwin sighed, pulling out a cloth bandage from his cloak. “Press this against your side my prince. Let us return to my tower, I will have to prepare some boiling wine.”

“That will hurt, won’t it?” Sansa asked in a worried tone. “I would be with him then, to ease your pain Jon.”

“Sansa, you don’t have to.” Jon tried to wave it away yet it still infuriated Dany that Sansa was trying to swoop in and care for her love in Dany's place.

He’s mine! Not yours.

No matter how confused he’s become, I will show him that.

Seeing red, Dany took a few strides and snatched up the shears that Arya had dropped upon the ground. As Jon and everyone else gaped wide-eyed at Dany’s action, she stuck her chin in the air before clipping a winter rose free from its stem. With the beautiful token in hand, she returned to Jon’s side, pressing the rose into his grasp.

“I believe you came here seeking a rose, Jon. I would not have you leaving without such a lovely thing. Forgetting what you truly want, why that would be terrible indeed.”

She stared into his eyes, willing him to take her meaning.

“I hope this takes away the sting some… that you’ll be strong… as I know you to be…”

“Thank you Daenerys.” Jon spoke as if in a daze, only breaking away from her when Sansa and the maester bid him away.

Arya did not linger, so a chance to apologize was lost for the moment. Daenerys had larger concerns though. Knowing now how confused Jon was, she feared for every day that this betrothal stood and pushed her beloved prince away from her.

Something Rhaegar seemed perfectly happy to allow. After proclaiming the Tourney of Winterfell, her brother had stolen her away for a walk about the godswood.

“Let the Stark girl have her tourney!” Dany had pleaded. “Let her have ten! Give her gold, horses, the finest knights of the realm, but please Rhaegar, don’t give her Jon.”

“Sansa Stark is precisely the type of bride that my son needs.” Rhaegar had sighed, dabbing at her wet eyes. “You are besotted with him, as you have been since you were children… I had hoped with time that those feelings would pass…”

“Never. They never will.”

She was hurt to hear that Rhaegar knew of her feelings for Jon yet still arranged another marriage for him. Her brother usually took great consideration of her well-being in most things.

“Do not think me heartless Daenerys, for it pains me to deny you this.” Rhaegar continued. “These arrangements have been years in the making… while the identity of Jon’s future wife was never clear to me, there was no doubt in my mind that it couldn’t be you.”

“Why? What have I done? Is it because of Elara and Roslin? I don’t care what others say! They are my best friends and they’ve kept me safe! You stay friends with that strange old Marwyn and Tyrion Lannister.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. If it was possible, I would allow my beloved son and only sister to marry for the love that they obviously share, yet that is not in the stars Dany.” He’d looked to the sky then. “Much must be done for the darkness to be thrown aside and a golden age to fall upon the realm. The seers that Marwyn has consulted have foretold many things. They speak of a son of winter, bringing light to a summer castle, a family of dragons rising up around him.”

“That family could be our children!” She’d urged. “I could live there with him!”

“I’m afraid not Daenerys… for Marwyn’s guides have spoken of you as well. Of a stormborn beauty, wed to a throne of swords, a mother who makes a rookery of Dragonstone, where young dragons fly all about her.” Rhaegar had pulled her forward to lay a kiss upon her brow. “Before me stands a princess, yet one day I’d have you be more. Viserys believes he should be king yet it was always you that deserved the crown. In the coming years, you shall be a queen in your own right Daenerys. To bring all of this to pass, I will allow Jon to wed Lady Sansa and in turn, promise you to my heir, Aegon.”

Struck speechless at the time, her mind had flashed to an image of Aegon wearing a crown, with her at his side. It lasted only a moment before Rhaenys came to stand beside them. Even in her imagination she couldn't picture Aegon without Rhaenys lording over him. She loved them both to be sure but there was no doubt in her mind. If she married Aegon and he became king, Rhaenys would be the true queen.

Besides, Aegon was not the prince she loved.

“But I don’t want Aegon and Marwyn could be wrong! You sent him away from the capital for a reason!”

“Yes, many likely believe that Marwyn is out of favor, travelling in such company. Those rumors aid him in his task. It was all misdirection Daenerys. Even as a king I must be wary of those who might upset my plans so I keep them looking elsewhere-”

“I don’t care! Rhaegar, please! You let me have Roslin and Elara as friends and look how happy they’ve made me. I never needed anyone with higher status. I don’t want an heir! Just let me have Jon and someone else can be queen… I’ll even be happy for them, I swear.”

“We share a curse my sister… all of our father’s children do. Our passions are our undoing. My love for Lyanna led to her death and fifteen years of grief for our realm. Viserys’s desire for vengeance and power forced me to exile him, and I fear that your love for Jon could be your weakness.”

“It’s not a curse! Viserys was mad, just like father!” She spoke far more freely of their father than she usually would. “Don’t let them ruin this! Jon won’t be my undoing because we’ll be happy together! Just like you and Lyanna were… I know you were… why can’t you let Jon and I have that?”

Rhaegar had stiffened at that and she swore some life returned to him. It was the same whenever Myrcella and Tommen would hop on his knees and tell him tales of their adventures throughout the day. The same as when he had led her about in a dance during the feast here at Winterfell. Or when he had her tell him of Jon’s letters from Winterfell.

When her brother finally spoke, he even offered that rare, handsome smile of his.

“I was happy with Lyanna. She filled my soul with such peace… a calm beauty, much like the godswood we wed in. I’ve never loved anyone like I loved her, nor as deeply, save perhaps for my children and you Daenerys. Such might be a different kind of love, but it leaves me desperate to protect you all nonetheless. You think it is easy for me to deny you Jon? To keep the son I hold most dear away from the girl who loves him just as much as I?”

Rhaegar gestured about the godswood.

“I never wanted Jon so far from me. To keep him beside me, to shower my son with the love like his mother wanted, would be to put him in danger. It was foretold that one day Jon would lead a key battle for the sake of the realm, to be a man of grave importance. Yet even as a babe he inspired hatred and envy in others, so I did all I could to spare him the worst that my favor might bring him. If any knew of his importance, of how dear he was to me… well, what happened at the God’s Eye was nowhere near the worst of it.”

“I don’t understand.” She’d wept. “Rhaegar, I don’t want Aegon…”

“I didn’t want Cersei, yet I’ve learned to love her in a way.” He’d kissed her cheeks then. “Forgive me. As I made her a queen against my will, I must make you a queen against yours.”

Even now those options flew through her mind like a flock of birds. To be powerful or to be happy. To be a queen or a princess. To have Aegon or to have Jon.

“Princess?” Bran’s voice wafted over to her.

She saw then that while others had left the glass gardens, the young squire still remained. In one hand he held the shears, in the other a bright red rose.

“You were talking about the Winter Roses so much I just… well I thought you should know… I think the south is beautiful too.”

“Have you ever seen the South Bran?” She asked, coming to him and touching the rose petals. “During a summer?”

“No…” He shrugged, yet his bright eyes would not leave hers. “But I always think of it when I see red roses... now I want it to be you princess. When I think of summer, I want only to think of you. You’re so pretty and warm and… well… just because you’re in the North, doesn’t mean you should forget the summer.”

Such a sweet boy… how does he know just what to say?

Taking the rose in hand, she inhaled deeply of its aroma. The smell brought her back to the gardens of the Red Keep, where the flowers had blossomed like her love for Jon.

“You’re right Bran.” She sighed. “We shouldn’t forget the summer. It is beauty. It is hope. The promise of all there is to come.”

That was when Dany knew for sure she was right in her path. Jon and Rhaegar were confused but she wasn’t. She didn’t care about betrothals or prophecies. Her future was borne of a promise, one she made to herself right now.

To be Aegon’s wife, to be a queen, that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted her prince.

The prince that was promised to another.

 

JON

 

“You’re certain of this?”

His uncle's tone was quiet and carefully neutral, despite them being alone in the lord’s solar. Lord Stark came around his table to grip Jon’s shoulder firmly.

“There’s no need for you to leave Winterfell Jon. We spoke about this months ago and I assured that you could stay... you can stay.”

The lord was dressed for his journey, soon to be departing for the Wall, yet even with such a daunting trek facing him, Eddard Stark took the time to worry after Jon.

“Rhaegar did not command this of you? Did he? I can speak with him if-”

“No my lord.” Jon managed to keep his strength. “I was the one who asked my father for this task. Trust that this is my idea to leave Winterfell, not the king’s. My father merely gave his blessing… as I ask you to do now.”

His uncle’s grip weakened some and he looked as pained as when he’d pulled Robb free from the horse.

“If this is what you and Rhaegar want I have no say over it. Your status as a prince comes before acting as my ward, though our shared blood will always matter the most to me. You do not need my permission in this.”

“I want it though.” Jon lifted his chin up. “I have to leave Winterfell… I see that now. You taught me honor, gave me a glimpse of the kind of man I want to be some day. Please don’t ask why, but it’s clear to me now that I can’t do that here. If all the years I’ve spent in this castle are to mean anything, I have to live my life honorably.”

He paused to grab at his uncle’s powerful arm, squeezing it back.

“I have to be worthy of all that Winterfell and the Starks have given me. To deserve the family- the true family, that embraced me.”

Most called Eddard Stark a stern, cold man. Harsh in look and lifestyle, matching the great expanse of the North itself. Yet Jon had called these lands home for five years now. He had developed a deep love and respect for them.

Much like he had for his uncle, the man who nodded and smiled at him.

“Then let me give you my blessing.” His uncle gave his shoulder a pull. “And embrace the nephew I love as a son.”

Jon let the lord enfold him in his arms, his own moving quickly around the man’s broad shoulders. For a few moments, he remembered a scared little boy, new to Winterfell and worried at how he might disappoint this lord and kin. This embrace felt like the first that his uncle had ever given him in the crypts, when Jon had wept to see the statue of his mother. This time he did not cry. Jon did his best to keep his tears at bay, so that when they pulled apart, Lord Stark could see a man standing before him.

“Thank you uncle.” He offered his hand. “If I cannot ride with you and make war, I hope I can at least help prevent one in Lady Catelyn's lands.”

As Uncle Eddard shook his hand, Jon’s mind turned how this had all come about. How he’d come to ask to leave the home he loved.

What he’d done to Daenerys in the glass gardens had much to do with it. Yet truly this had been building since Robb’s fall and all that sprang from it.

Robb had lost the use of his leg and Oswell’s role in that led to Jon losing a protector, mentor and friend.

The knight had called a private audience on that very issue. Only the four Kingsguard here at Winterfell, the king, and Jon were present. A meeting Oswell began by putting his sheathed sword on the table.

“I cannot stay here.” Oswell had declared in a grave manner. “The Stark heir was crippled in a joust against me. Already Winterfell men that I have spent years living among have begun to curse my name.”

“Men always curse your name.” Arthur had tried to jest while Barristan attempted reason.

“There’s no rightful charge against you Oswell. The saddle was faulty was it not?”

“It was.” Ser Jaime had answered. “I saw it with my own eyes. I wanted it brought back to the castle but apparently some thieves made off with it… bloody fools…”

“That makes no difference.” Oswell had slapped the table angrily. “Saddle or not, the Starks have been good to the prince and me. To keep me here would be a slap in their face, an insult done to a great house by a knight in service to the crown. I will not be responsible for more bad blood than I usually am, no matter how much pride I have taken in my post… or charge…”

His mentor had looked to Jon then but he could not return Oswell's gaze. Deep down, he was angry with the knight for not simply letting Robb win. In truth Jon was angrier at himself for not commanding Oswell to do so.

The knight grunted to see Jon’s eyes fall away.

“I cannot stay here. I beg you my king, Rhaegar, send me elsewhere. For the good of us all.”

They had all looked to father then. The king folded his hands below his chin and looked deep in thought.

“You stayed loyal to me even when I did treason against my own father. I cannot ignore your request, nor the wisdom you show in making it.” Father had sighed. “Let it be so. Ser Oswell, you are relieved of your guardianship over my son Jon. When the royal party departs so shall you.”

“What about Bran?” Jon had asked. “He’s squiring for the ser and must be relieved as well. We can’t take Bran away from Lady Catelyn after everything else that's happened.”

“The boy made his choice.” Oswell spoke harshly. “In front of his parents, after his father warned him of such a thing. Leaving might even be good for the lad. Give him a chance to spread his wings… I know new lands did wonders for a boy I brought here years ago.”

Jon’s protests mattered little for the king made clear that his decision was final. It was decreed that when the Queen’s half of the royal party departed Winterfell, Oswell and Bran would be joining.

Which meant Jon would be getting a new protector.

When father named Ser Jaime as Oswell’s replacement he had not welcomed it. Despite Jon’s sympathy for him Jaime Lannister was an oathbreaker in the eyes of many and was little loved here in the North. The Lannister’s continued presence in Winterfell would only lead to further dishonor for the Starks and Jon would spare them anymore suffering.

When Jon sought to make the king see reason he’d interrupted his father in a private discussion with Richard Lonmouth. Strangely enough, father had allowed him to stay anyways. Whatever the pair had been talking about before was forgotten, for the king quickly brought up the troubles brewing between the Brackens and Blackwoods. Things had recently worsened between the two houses and father had still not decided who to send to represent the Iron Throne in this matter.

Ser Richard had suggested Mace Tyrell or Raymun Darry but his father had not looked favorably to those suggestions. He believed they drew too much attention to why Lord Tully didn’t act. Nor could the throne call upon Gerion Lannister, for the queen’s uncle was away at Oldtown again dealing with his lady wife.

Richard had laughed at that but the king had chided him for it.

“For a man still unmarried Richard, you take far too much pleasure at the expense of those of us with determined wives. Lady Lynesse is firm in pressing her father to grant Gerion some new title in Oldtown. She means well in seeking such from Lord Leyton, but it would help if she had the sense to discuss that with Gerion first… or if her timing was better…”

“Well you can’t send Joffrey.” Richard had rubbed his chin. “Unless you want the riverlords united against him and the throne.”

“Send me father.” Jon had broken in, kneeling before the king. “I shall ride to the Riverlands and hear what grievances the lords have. I have learned how such is done after watching Lord Stark with his own bannermen. Be there conflict, I will do my best to resolve it. In your name.”

Ser Richard hadn’t been impressed by his words but the king gave him an appraising look. Waving Jon to his feet, father had placed a hand to his hurt side and frowned at the wince that Jon unwillingly made.

“That wound did not fester but a long ride would not be ideal my son, nor have you ever acted in the name of the crown before unlike Aegon-”

“I’ve had few chances to act your son here in the North. You refused my offer to ride with you to the Wall because you have plans for me. Well, if those plans involve acting as a prince and your son, I beg the chance to prove myself.”

He’d needed his father to agree to it, for he loved Winterfell and the Starks too much to stay. Every day in this castle was a day surrounded by the shame he had built up around himself like great curtain walls. He feared those walls would soon tumble down and crush not only him but the people he loved.

Sansa and Daenerys most of all.

Jon had given in to the spell that Sansa cast on him by taking liberties with his betrothed. Betraying the love he felt for Daenerys had not been eased by telling the princess the truth. Admitting to such after he’d kissed Dany had been the only way to tear himself away from her.

For Daenerys set his mind and heart on fire.

Yet all he offered her was hurt.

Dany was not the same girl he’d once known. She was stronger than he ever could have hoped yet he still saw the pain in her eyes after admitting what he had done. He could only imagine how Sansa would take the truth, for as sweet and lovely as she was, the lady had never endured half of what Jon and Dany had. Such would surely destroy her and Jon couldn’t bear that.

That’s what is important here. Sansa and Daenerys.

My feelings are worth shit in all of this. I can’t even make sense of them.

Times like these, Jon might have sought the counsel of his best friend but Robb was another matter altogether. His cousin remained sullen and withdrawn with most, save for Lady Roslin. Jon was not surprised to be excluded. While he was walking around perfectly fine, Robb lay crippled because of a tourney that he had brought to Winterfell.

Surely Robb bore ill will towards him. How could he not?

How could Uncle Eddard and Lady Catelyn be expected not to do the same? He’d caused the ruination of their first born son and soon enough, the departure of their second.

After father agreed to send Jon to the Riverlands he’d made it clear Ser Jaime and Oswell would be staying in their new roles. His father thought the change would be good for all off them.

And the king hadn’t been content merely stealing Bran away from Winterfell.

When Jon learned Lady Catelyn would be travelling with him to Riverrun, at his father’s request, he’d been furious. After his aunt broke the news to him Jon had begged leave to go and set his father straight.

Shockingly, his aunt refused to allow such a thing.

“Do not fret Jon. It will be good to see my father and brother again.” Lady Catelyn had smiled weakly, her hands wringing as nervously as Rickon fidgeted in her lap. “And a grand thing for Rickon to meet his grandfather! My father has not laid eyes upon any of his grandchildren in fifteen years and Rickon looks so much like him. To see my youngest… my father was always so determined, surely such will lend strength to his body…”

Her voice had drifted at the last part and he spotted a pang of worry cross her face. When Lady Catelyn took notice of his concern, she’d bent down to kiss Rickon’s head.

“With Ned marching off, and Robb needing his strength, I couldn’t leave this little one behind. It’s selfish, but I need at least one of my babes with me for this journey.”

“We’re going on a trip!” Rickon had smiled. “Mother and me! Are you coming Jon? Can I ride on your horse?”

“If your mother allows it.” Jon had sighed. “What of Robb? With my uncle and you gone, surely he needs someone to help guide him.”

“You and I know better than most how little Robb wants our care.” She’d frowned. “Unless that Frey girl is about, I can’t get two words out of him. When she is gone away with the rest, Robb will have others to take up his care. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik will take help take care of the castle, and Arya and Sansa will care for their brother. He’s treated them gently so far, so hopefully they can guide him through his recovery. Though I pray that Robb will find the strength to be there for them… the girls are going to take this very badly Jon. Arya looks up to you and Sansa… well…”

She’ll be better off with me gone. They all will.

Even if I’m the worse for it, I can be happy if my loved ones do not suffer because of me.

He wished his courage was as easy to gather as his belongings had been. For today his departure was at hand, the same day as his father and uncle were to ride for the Wall. Even though their journey was more perilous, Uncle Eddard made all efforts to prepare Jon for his ride south.

“I’ve treated with the Lords Blackwood and Bracken before. Tytos is prickly by nature, but pray with him before the weirwood at Raventree and he will come around. He gets to do so rarely with fellow followers of the old ways.”

“What of Lord Bracken?” Jon asked.

“Laugh at his jests and act impressed at his tales of bedding women. The man’s as devoted to wenching as he is to hating the Blackwoods.”

As they travelled down from the lords solar and down the steps of the Great Keep, Jon made sure to put his uncle’s wisdom to memory. He hoped that what last shreds of goodness the man could impart upon him would stick. They parted ways so Jon could seek the godswood then, for Bran had told him that was where Arya was hiding from all this change.

Accidentally cutting him had put the poor girl in a sulk that lasted for days. He’d made sure that everyone knew he was at fault for surprising the children at play and thus Arya had been spared her parents anger. Still, her mood had stayed foul and had grown even darker when word of his leaving Winterfell reached her ears.

He found Arya letting out some of her frustrations before the heart tree, cutting at the air angrily with a branch in hand.

“Don’t drop your elbow!” He called, bringing Arya around to face him.

“Don’t leave your family!” Arya snapped back, tossing the stick down on the ground and crossing her arms.

“It’s time Arya. I’ve enjoyed Winterfell’s warmth and welcome long enough. It’s time I bring some of what I’ve learned here to the rest of the realm.”

“You don’t even like the south!” She shouted. “The North was good enough for you! At least it was before they forced you and Sansa to be together! You’re going to Summerhall for her just like Uncle Benjen, aren't you? Well who is going to teach me swords now? You were going to let me try a blunted blade soon and-”

“I’ve spoken with Domeric. He found it funny to hear of our little lessons. I convinced him to continue helping you with them. Dom’s a fine swordsman Arya, would that please you?”

As Arya bit her lip to consider that thought, Jon pulled a bundle from his cloak and began to untie it. Within was a small sword, Braavosi in style, it was a far thinner blade than what usually came out of Mikken’s forge. The smith had been confused by his request but Jon had insisted, for he could not leave Arya feeling completely alone.

“This is for you my little wolf sister.” He held the blade out to her. “It’s not a practice sword mind you, so be careful with it. I had it made special for a special kind of fighter. Sharp and light, it is perfect for-”

“That’s for me?” Arya took a few hopeful steps forward. “You had a sword made for me?”

“You made a token for me, I thought to offer you something at least half as precious.”

Arya laughed then and ran at him soon after, barely pausing long enough for Jon to hold aside the sword and hug her tightly. During their embrace, he told her the best swords had names and Arya made him laugh in her choice.

Needle was the perfect name for such a blade.

Of course he swore her to secrecy. Until she was sure Domeric was comfortable with her holding a blade keeping it hidden was key. Next came hiding it from Sansa and that memory pained him to think on.

For when Sansa had learned of his departure she’d sought his chambers. Tears in her eyes and hands at her chest, she’d stood outside his room and looked at him in disbelief.

“I’m sorry my prince- I mean Jon. I know I shouldn’t have come in such a state but…but…” She’d breathed deeply. “How can you leave? Is it because Arya hurt you? I swear she’ll never do it again-”

“It’s not Arya!” He’d protested and Sansa had sobbed. Without really thinking, he took her arm and led her into his chambers to take a seat upon his bed. Handing her the closest thing on his table, he watched as she dabbed at her eyes with the token that Arya had given him.

“Sansa, I’m not leaving because I want to. I’m going because I have to. I’ve acted poorly here in Winterfell and if I go south, I hope to find my honor again.”

“Do you mean our kiss?” She’d whispered, smiling a little through her tears. “Some might call it shameful yet I’m almost flowered, and a kiss from a maiden’s true love could never be a bad thing. Not when it is meant well or… felt so nice to do…”

They’d both gone silent at the memory of their kiss, Jon startled to find his hand still lingering on her arm. He made to move his hand, but Sansa instead grabbed onto it, smiling up at him, her tears forgotten.

“Is it because I only offered the one kiss?” She’d asked, her cheeks growing red. “I… I would do so again Jon, I just don’t want… I don’t want you to think me impure.”

With Sansa sitting on his bed and the memory of how soft and pliant her lips had felt, tingling like a ghost’s upon his own, he had been tempted to kiss her again.

Until he reminded himself why she’d come. Why he had to go.

“I would never hold such a thing against you Sansa.” He’d spoken, while continuing to hold her hand. “This journey will give me a chance to become the man I want to be. Perhaps it will give you time to decide if… if there is a better man for you. I would understand if you changed your mind about marrying me-”

“You’re my prince!” She’d shaken her head. “A dear prince who defended my honor and held a tourney for me… my love who goes south to earn a great name for himself…”

“Sansa.”

“Will you go to Summerhall? Please send for me the moment it is ready… I want to see our castle! To make it a home for us both… where we can be happy together. I’ll be the perfect lady there Jon, I swear. I’ll make myself worthy of being your princess… of the prince who rode a joust carrying a token of my love.”

“I did what now?”

“You’re too modest my prince.” Sansa held up the tear stained cloth then, rather sheepishly, and explained how she and Arya had made it together.

“Mother set us to it truly, else we might have never stopped arguing to do so. I did most of the leaves but Arya did the wolf. I only guided her hands some… she did well.”

Hearing that made the token all the more precious to Jon. To know that all three Stark women had a hand in it was touching, for he carried a love for each as different as the ladies were from one another. Even with Sansa’s tears darkening the token, it looked all the more beautiful.

He had it on him now, tucked within his cloak as he and Arya made their way to the courtyard.

There they found hundreds of riders readying for the trek to Castle Black, with the twenty or so meant for Riverrun preparing as well. Amongst this commotion the king and queen stood out. Father was clutching Cersei’s hands, speaking quietly to her before placing a lingering kiss upon her lips. Bile rose up in him at the sight.

How can she fake enjoying it so? Is it possible to force your cheeks to grow flush?

There were other farewells taking place as well, far more meaningful to him. Ser Arthur planted a kiss upon Elara’s hand, the lady brushing it aside to leap up into her uncle’s arms. Arya ran ahead so that Lady Catelyn could gather her and Bran against her in one big hug, the two children doing their best to act strong. Little Rickon gave a cry of glee before wrapping himself around Uncle Eddard's leg.

“Father! I’m going to see the Riverrunt!”

“Riverrun my son.” The lord lifted Rickon high in the air as the boy giggled. “You will take care of your mother and you must tell me all about it when I return.”

Jon basked in how close father and son acted, feeling a twinge of jealousy as well.

Then he began to worry, for Daenerys was heading towards him. Her coming was something he both greatly dreaded and desired. Much had kept them apart of late, like preparing for this journey or having his wound tended by Maester Luwin. The distractions had been needed to soothe his mind from the pains of love.

“This isn’t fair Jon.” Dany reached to adjust the sides of his cloak. “When you took ship from Maidenpool I was there to see you off. It would be only fair for you to stand on the docks of White Harbor when I depart, waving farewell as I did.”

“We’re trying to get to the Riverlands swiftly. That wheelhouse will be slow moving and your party won’t be leaving for days more. Even then-”

“Oh hush, I was teasing you! In truth, I’d have you gone yesterday. If only it meant you being away from her all the sooner.” Dany glanced back to where Sansa was standing by her father. “The faster you are in the south, the quicker we can be reunited. When I get to the capital, I’ll think of some reason to come to the Riverlands and find you. Perhaps I can join the men that Rhaegar is sending to meet you…”

He backed away, for Dany had taken a step forward and resisting her took drastic efforts.

“I doubt Lord Beric will still be in King’s Landing when you arrive, nor very willing to take you Daenerys. Don't ask such a thing of him either. I’ll be acting in my father’s name to prevent a war between two lords, it’s not some pleasure ride where I can add to the offenses I’ve already committed.”

“By the Father you’re stubborn.” She whispered. “If I didn’t love you I’d hate you for sure. As upset as I am with you, it is in me to forgive Jon… as you once forgave me. Have faith in us, I beg that of you. One way or another, we’ll find our way back to each other. We always will…”

Letting her say such things was a mistake. He knew he should find the strength to lie, to say that he didn’t want her. That today would be the start of a trek that would help Jon escape the deep hollow pit in his stomach he felt whenever Daenerys was away from him.

Yet he couldn’t do any of that, for a part of Jon wanted her words to be true. That she’d find him again. That she always would.

“I have to go Dany.”

“Then I wish you well my prince.” She straightened up and offered her hand for a kiss. “And I pray that I see you soon.”

“Farewell princess.” He took her hand in his and felt that familiar of lightning run through her touch into him. The feel of her skin on his lips was just as maddening. Of course Dany made it worse by taking holding of his head and whispering in his ear.

“You kept my rose… I know it’s in your saddlebag… look at it and see my heart beating for us. Take care of it Jon, my love.”

No one saw me pack that rose away… how the hell did she know?

“Daenerys.” His father hailed, waving her over. “I would like a farewell too!”

“My dearest one is for you brother!” Dany called back, winking at Jon as she ran off.

Watching Daenerys seek his father, Jon was shocked at how well that had gone. Then surprised again when he found he’d gather an audience, for one of the direwolves was now sitting at his feet, nuzzling against his leg.

“Hello Lady.” He laid his palm out and the pup licked it tentatively. “Sorry to be stealing Ghost away from you all. He’ll miss you I’m sure. As will I. Take care of Sansa after I am gone…”

“That’s kind of you my prince.”

Sansa was blushing as she walked over to him, looking as lovely as ever in the same blue gown she’d worn during their betrothal. Ghost followed behind her until he rushed ahead to chase after Lady, who began to lead the white wolf about the yard.

“He does not want to leave her.” Sansa smiled, coming up alongside him. “Now I pray that Farlen was right… that our wolves truly do take after their masters.”

“I-uh, I will take good care of your lady mother and young Rickon.” He spoke haltingly, suddenly finding it difficult to put his thoughts to words. “And Maester Luwin should expect a raven from us by way of the Twins.”

“Then I shall have a letter sent there for you when you arrive.”

Sansa made to take his hand then but a party of riders trotted by, causing her to abandon the attempt with a blush.

“This is what it must be like to be a true lady.” Sansa wrung her hands some. “To stay behind as men ride off on grand adventure… or some battle…”

“Your father will be fine Sansa. I believe in no other man more than him.”

“I’m sure your father will be well too.” She succeeded in taking his hand then, her small fingers interlacing with his own. He did not fight it. Her fingers were long and gentle and warm.

“But I was speaking more of how a lady must feel, to watch her beloved leave her side. I used to think it was a great honor, to be able to say that my love left on a noble quest but… forgive me… it just hurts Jon. I don’t want it to hurt.”

I don’t want to hurt you… I’ll ride as far as I can to spare you that…

“All will be well Sansa. I promise.” He prayed that he spoke truly, lifting her hand to kiss it as he had Dany’s.

He told himself it was to be polite. That it wasn’t the sweet taste of her skin against his lips that he wanted then. She must have bathed in something special, for it did indeed taste sweet and it felt even better to see Sansa part her lips at such a touch.

“If you promise then I'll believe you.” She glanced about nervously before taking a step forward. “But my fears linger... I worry we will not see each other again until I am a woman, so I ask, I beg my prince, to have something to drive away my worries. Perhaps I can give a gift that drive away your own?”

Sansa closed her eyes and stood up higher on her toes to reach him. Jon almost pulled away at the embarrassment of it, for others would likely see them. That was until he felt the tremble in Sansa’s hand. The desire to have a kiss of this beauty overwhelmed him, for it was likely the last he would ever have. So he closed his eyes and met Sansa for a kiss. It was both sweet and chaste, their lips enfolded about each other’s just as their hands did below. They moved only just the slightest bit against one another, Jon fearing too quick a movement might ruin the wonder of their touch.

When he pulled away, Sansa’s eyes were shining, her breathing heavy. He tried to say something before his senses came back to him and mumbled instead. Nevertheless, Sansa smiled widely at his attempt.

“And I you, my white prince.”

It was plain that Uncle Eddard and Lady Catelyn had been watching, the same with his father and Cersei. The only one not staring at them was Arya, for her eyes were locked on Jaime, who for some reason was rising from a knee before the girl. That didn’t matter as much as the sight of Dany turning her back to him, Elara waiting to comfort her.

Please gods, show me the way forward in this… I beg of you…

“Jon!”

Jon jerked at the sound of the shout. Partly because of how nervous he’d felt, partly because of how strained the familiar voice sounded.

Sure enough Robb was there, being carried away from the Great Keep and towards him. Grey Wind prowled ahead while Hodor supported the young man on his weakest side, Roslin holding Robb's other arm. The toll that Robb’s descent had taken on him was plain. His cousin hopped upon his good leg while struggling to keep the other from touching the ground, his face was red and sweaty from the effort.

Yet he smiled widely all the same.

“I probably look as good as you did when you first arrived.” Robb jested between grunts. “I was there to welcome you then… I’d be here to see you off.”

“You’re a bloody fool.” Jon was already crossing the space between them. “You were a fool then and you’re a fool now.”

When they came together, Robb’s arms left Hodor and Roslin and wrapped around him, the two supporting one another like they always did.

“I have to be a fool to call you a brother.” Robb rasped in his ear. “Gods I do though… I do.”

“And I you, the first true brother I ever had.” Jon hugged him all the tighter. “Forgive me Robb… for everything…”

“Nothing to forgive, everything to thank you for. Wouldn’t have met the most beautiful woman in the world if you hadn’t come here. My heart would be an empty thing without her. I thank you for the love I now have.”

Robb broke away to steal a smile of Roslin who lowered her gaze sheepishly. Jon had suspected that they’d fallen for one another but Robb was openly declaring his love for the girl. In a way Jon was jealous of his cousin, to be so sure of his heart.

“Caught you kissing my sister there. Keep that up and one day our children will be playing together in Summerhall.”

“Or at Winterfell.” Jon replied without a care, for it felt natural to do so.

“Next time I see you, you’ll be a man, lord of a castle.” Robb smiled, taking Jon’s hand in his. “Good luck Dragon.”

“And you Wolf.”

The rest of the Starks descended on them after that, Robb’s parents united in both anger and happiness to see their eldest making the journey here. Watching the family gather about, with tears and heartfelt farewells falling freely, Jon basked in the moment.

To imagine that such a family had once been his.

A little while later they all began to mount. The king and his uncle on their horses, Lady Catelyn on her own with Rickon in her lap, and Ser Jaime hopping upon his mount, they rode out as one massive party. Bran waved while Arya crossed her heart, a signal of the promise she’d made. Daenerys was still angry with him yet he caught the nod she gave him just before passing out of sight.

Oswell offered him nothing more than a curt nod but in this moment of separation, Jon could not let that stand.

“I can’t say the same of your armor, but I’ll miss you ser! There never was a finer teacher!”

“I’m a Kingsguard not a bloody maester.” Oswell answered back. “I forgive your misspoken words… for I respect the fine swordsman who speaks them. Farewell my prince.”

Oswell and the others all fell away as Jon passed beneath the first gate, a feeling of panic coming over him then. He began to dread the thought of never passing beneath these gates again. The fear might have overtaken him if not for his father.

“The knight offers high praise indeed.” The king rode alongside him as they passed beneath the final gate. “It was Benjen and Oswell that led you here in the first place. I imagine your uncle will be excited to hear you returned to the south. When you finish in the Riverlands, feel free to visit him Jon. Go and see your new home if you wish.”

It was a strange thing to hear his father telling Jon to feel free. His entire life, he’d never felt free to do what he wanted. Not even in Winterfell.

Probably wise… look at what I do with my freedom…

“Our reunion… it was not what I wanted.” The king continued. “The whole thing is how I made it of course, but not what I wanted. I sound a fool to say so yet I’ve acted a fool in many things… mostly in regards to you. My beloved boy.”

The words were so unexpected, Jon thought he heard wrong. His father never spoke to him so freely before. To have him do so now, when they were soon to part, filled Jon with anger. They’d had weeks to have this moment. Months to speak on what could have been between them.

Yet something in his father’s eyes made that anger fall away. Instead Jon felt a ray of hope. He remembered the dream of a small boy, listening to his father’s harp and imagining it was just for him. Suddenly the ways his father had ruined this visit didn’t seem to matter. They grew as distant as Winterfell did behind them.

“I wanted it to go differently too.” Jon’s mouth gave voice to words he barely had time to consider. “If it had… if we’d acted better I might have been able to tell my father, many weeks ago, how I missed him. How I love... how I wished that, for just one moment, we could act as father and son. That it would be okay for me to speak well of that… to hear that I was no foul thing…”

“You never could be… you are the best of me.” Father closed his eyes and gripped his reins tightly. “Whatever trials you’ve suffered… however you’ve hurt, know that I have hurt with you. My dearest hope was to protect you as a father should. To do so, to be apart from my boy… the son of my greatest love… it is also my greatest shame. One day I will to explain why that had to be Jon. To apologize for all my faults. To see you as happy as I found you in Winterfell. Your mother wanted so much for you…”

Somehow, with everything his father was saying, Jon fixated on Winterfell and glanced back up at the castle. Large, grey, and foreboding, it was just as marvellous as when he first saw it. Winterfell held no candle to the beauty of the maiden who stood atop its battlements, watching them ride away.

Sansa’s hair burned like a signal fire, blowing free in the wind, and Jon hated how that splendor grew fainter with each passing moment. He raised a hand up to honor her and hoped that she saw it.

“Thank you father.” He rasped, as if it was hard to say. “Thank you for Winterfell, for sending me here...”

The king bid his horse closer to lay a hand on Jon’s shoulder, just as Uncle Eddard had in the solar.

“May the home I’ve set aside at Summerhall make you so happy Jon. May you spend the rest of your days as content as I once felt. When your mother and I had our short time together… to find such happiness, you shall be truly blessed my son.”

I’d rather be your son than blessed… Summerhall can wait if it means hearing more of my mother.

Despite how weak he felt in his father’s grasp, as the home he loved so much grew more distant, Jon found the courage to ask what he needed. The Kingsroad lay ahead and they would part soon.

“Father, when you come back from the Wall… might we talk like this again?” He asked. “Can we speak of all this? Of mother?”

As the king held him like he'd dreamed of for so long, Jon left his heart hoping for the answer he never expected to hear. In this, after so many years, the king of the Seven Kingdoms did not disappoint.

“I swear it Jon.” His father answered.

“When we meet again, we will speak of your mother.”

“I promise.”

Notes:

Eddard at the Wall. Bran and Daenerys in the capital. Jon and Catelyn in the Riverlands.

With Robb, Arya and Sansa in Winterfell.

Just in case you're keeping track.

Chapter 8

Summary:

From the Riverlands to the capital and north again.

Nothing is as it seems. Suffer the innocents.

CATELYN

 

The waters running around the edges of Riverrun's walls was a wonderful sight. Whether rushing in angry torrents or streaming in a peaceful flow, the sight always calmed Catelyn in times of trouble.

Let all my troubles and fears be carried away in those waters.

Leave only peace here. Peace and love. Most of all hope…

The view from her father's chambers was magnificent, and Cat found herself humming a tune from her childhood. It was something her mother had sung, Cat remembered that much about her. She had a clear memory of her mother sitting in this very spot, humming this very tune. Her father had been there too, standing behind mother as they ran their hands over the small bump that would one day become Edmure.

Her mother had been laid to rest long ago while her father currently enjoyed a more welcome type of rest. Hoster Tully, Lord or Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident and one of the strongest men she’d ever known now laid abed, frail and sickly. His slumber was far different than she ever remembered, his breathing raspy and short.

Yet he still draws breath, may he draw many more.

Let it be years worth… months at least… please.

The chamber door opened and Riverrun’s maester entered with a cautious knock, just as he did countless times in her youth whenever she’d fallen ill. Vyman was once a charming and sprightly caregiver in Cat's memory but now his shoulders had hunched and his hair was white. The old man appeared genuinely relieved to his lord at rest.

“You may enter maester.” She whispered. “If my humming has not made him stir then some quiet words will not bother.”

“I'm sure he would prefer your lovely voice to my words any day.” The maester gingerly shut the door and came to her side. “You do him wonders Lady Catelyn, young Rickon as well. My lord has not slept so well in almost a year.”

“He’s likely exhausted. I had to chase Rickon away from him. They both acted like I was a tyrant to demand such but I saw how worn father was becoming.”

“The boy has a healthy zeal about him.” Vyman nodded. “What past Tully glories was the lord filling his grandson’s head with today? Lord Edmyn Tully joining Aegon the Conqueror’s side against the dreaded Harren the Black? Perhaps the great deeds done during the Dance of Dragons?”

“Not today, it was only Uncle Brynden that father spoke of.” She watched the surprise come across Vyman’s face. “Oh I know, I'm sure father would deny it to my uncle's face, but he seems quite proud of Uncle Brynden's accomplishments. He misses his brother, he just won’t speak to it…”

They had arrived at Riverrun almost a moon ago, but today was the first time that Rickon had ever heard tales of his great uncle. It had come about when Rickon was bragging of Shaggydog being the only black direwolf among the children’s litter. The comparison was too great for her father to ignore, and soon the boy was being entertained by tales of the Tully’s own Blackfish. Enthralled, Rickon ate up every word of his free-willing uncle, even beginning to act out the stories to both of their amusement.

“Why do they call him Blackfish?” Rickon had asked, leaping about the room as if on a horse.

“Many reasons my boy.” Father had smiled. “I put the idea in Brynden’s head, quite by accident I must say, and he decided that he liked it. Made his leaping trout a black one after that, probably just to fluster me. Lttle brothers are wont to do that. You remind me of Brynden some. Tell this old man, do you test your brothers' patience?”

“Sometimes.” Rickon had nodded, earning a chuckle from her father. “I’m a little brother and my wolf is black, can I be the Blackwolf? I can be a knight too! Please grandfather!”

She was about to send Rickon away when father had waved the boy forward, putting an aged hand upon her son's head.

“If only so that you will remember younger brothers can earn just as much glory as their elder brothers. It would make me very happy to call you the Blackwolf. Now climb up here and give your grandfather a hug.”

Cat still cringed to think of how Rickon jumped onto the bed to wrap his arms around her ailing father. Quick and forceful movements caused him pain, and he grimaced until it melted into a look of contentment. Watching father rest his face against Rickon’s curly red hair had been such a sweet thing to see.

To have father hold another one of his grandchildren would be a joy.

Or if we could somehow find my uncle and reconcile the two brothers…

“Any word of Uncle Brynden?” She asked softly and Vyman shook his head.

“Not that I know of.” The maester whispered. “None of the ravens have returned with his whereabouts. Still, others have yet to reply…”

“Are those not new?”

She gestured to the rolled up bits of parchment in the maester’s hand. The sight of them caused her to grow a bit concerned. As of late, the word that came to Riverrun was more likely to be sour than sweet.

“No my lady. I just gathered these when I was told of the royal party approaching. A rider came announcing the imminent arrival or Prince Jon and Lord Edmure. You told me to alert you as soon as word came.”

“Yes of course.” Cat grew happy to hear such news. “Let my father rest. He can awake to his son returned and a prince feasting in his hall.”

They left the lord to sleep while she and the maester began their journey to the Water Gate. She had not seen Jon since he left Riverrun alongside Edmure nearly a month ago. The young prince was a gift from the gods during the long ride south.

During the weeks of traveling, Rickon would frequently grow irritable sharing a saddle with her so Jon would take turns letting the boy ride with him. With Ghost and Shaggydog’s help, Jon led their party on quick hunts every few nights so that they could eat freshly killed game instead of rationed stores. When she grew ill near Moat Cailin, retching several times a day, Jon nearly called a halt to their march.

Cat had persevered of course, having been inflicted with such illness before. She was wise on how to endure it.

While Hallis Mollen and Harwin made for good conversation, it was Jon that she had spent most days talking with, willing the time away. She did most of the speaking in truth, but the prince listened well. He was eager to learn all that she might teach him of the Riverlands, and as much history as she remembered about the Blackwood and Bracken rivalry.

Knowing Jon as she did, it was little surprise that he preferred such topics over wedding arrangements. Whenever she even mentioned Sansa, Jon would blush fiercely and grow somehow more quiet. After a while, Cat had let the matter rest. There were other subjects she avoided as well. Like how plainly they both missed Winterfell and the family they had left behind. Or how Jon would grow somber whenever someone mentioned Oswell. The knight’s absence was as conspicuous as Jaime Lannister’s presence.

Having the Kingslayer with them had not boded well early into their journey. Among the mixed party of Stark and Targaryen men had been a lone Lannister man who tended the Kingsguard’s horse. The first night they made camp alongside a branch of the White Knife, they’d awoken to find the groom dead along a riverbank. The man’s face and chest were submerged beneath the water, an empty wine skin at his side.

“He always was a drunkard.” The Kingslayer had kicked at the empty skin. “Passed out taking a piss most like. Not a bad way to go I must say, having your cock in hand.”

“Watch your mouth.” Jon had warned. “There is a lady present.”

“My apologies.” Jaime spoke without conviction. “For my language and the dead man floating before our eyes, whatever offends Lady Stark more.”

It was safe to say that she missed Oswell as well.

That man’s death was the foulest thing to happen on the southward trek however. Unsurprising, the second worst experience had come at the Twins. When Jon and she had come before Lord Walder Frey, begging leave to cross, the aged lord had offered more barbs and complaints than courtesy. Lord Walder had scrunched up his ancient face and to stare down at them from his high seat, wrought in the likeness of the Crossing.

“Prince Jon eh?” The lord smiled with no teeth. “Your father never did thank me for staying loyal, not taking up swords against him.”

“You did not take up swords at all.” Jon had answered, earning a nudge from her. “That is to say, my father does not know what he misses here at the Twins my lord. Your castles are marvelous to behold, the view of the river is breathtaking.”

“The second son likes my castle does he? Low on succession but high on praise it seems. Heh.” Lord Walder had pointed to a line of young ladies standing in the hall. “What do you think of my girls your grace? Any praise for them? Care to take one off our hands?”

Jon had been struck speechless at that so Cat came to his rescue, gently chiding the lord.

“Now Lord Walder, you must know by now that the prince is betrothed to mine own daughter. You cannot expect him to extoll on the beauty of your relations in my presence.”

“He’s half Stark isn’t he? You Starks seem to have a healthy liking for my kin.” Walder’s words had caused a ripple of laughter among the ladies and a few of the men began murmuring.

She and Jon both shared a look of shock then that the Freys knew of Robb’s fascination with Lady Roslin. Soon after, Lothar Frey limped forward to deliver several letters meant for them. Jon had two waiting, one from the capital announcing the departure of the royal party meant to back him in his dealings with the riverlords. The second, to her joy, was from Sansa though Jon read it privately.

Lothar had passed her two letters as well, both from Robb yet only the first had been meant for her eyes. Her son had written of Sansa and Arya doing well and of various matters at Winterfell, all of which set her mind at ease. Robb’s words were full of authority and she grew hopeful that her son was as strong as he sounded.

Then she'd read the second letter, the one that Robb had sent to Lord Frey himself.

Lord Walder Frey,

I pray that this letter finds you well. With my sister’s betrothal to Prince Jon, she will soon enough become a princess in her own right. Princess Daenerys has already written to you but I wished to follow up by my own hand. I beg that you permit Lady Roslin to become my sister’s handmaiden. That Sansa may learn of the capital from a highborn lady well versed in its courtesies and royal matters.

I would also add that Lady Roslin has become a dear addition to Winterfell and we would be honored to have her for as long as you would allow. As the Stark in the Winterfell, I pledge to care and protect your daughter with all the strength of the North. I swear it with all my heart.

Sincerely,

Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell.

Her heart had dropped at reading the letter and her dismay must have shown on her face for Jon became concerned. When she numbly passed the letter to him his reaction had been much the same. Lord Walder had been pleased to say the least.

“Oh yes, my girl Roslin is living at Winterfell now.” The lord had chuckled in his rasping way. “Getting to know the Starks quite well I imagine. Heh.”

Soon the Freys let her know the whole truth. The Targaryen women were meant to leave Winterfell some days after their departure, yet it appeared when they did, it had been without Roslin. Which meant that Robb had now spent weeks alone with the lady, without Ned and Cat there to keep them decent.

Gods Robb, what are you doing? What is this nonsense about Sansa?

May the Father show him sense. Please do not let him dishonor Roslin or the Stark name.

Do not act let him act like Brandon did…

While Jon sent out letters freely before leaving the Twins, Cat had waited until Riverrun to send her own. The Frey maester could not be trusted with the words she would send to Winterfell. She visited Maester Vyman straight away upon arrival at Riverrun, giving him a letter where Cat made sure to remind Robb of the potential matches they were considering for him. To remember the honor that the Starks held so dear. For him to see Roslin as the member of a powerful family that could not be toyed with.

Look at all the trouble that one Stark bastard caused our family.

That Robb ignored the matter completely in his replies from Winterfell enraged her all the more. Were it not for her situation here in Riverrun, she had half a thought to ride back north and set her home to rights.

For now though she was set to welcome home the men who had set the Riverlands to rights. When she arrived in the yard, Cat reflected on how many times she had watched her father arrive home as a child. Then she thought of how long it would be before she could return to Winterfell, to the home that she and Ned had made together.

A year if not more. So much time away from Ned and my babes.

It could not be less though. The journey would not be safe, otherwise…

“Mother!”

Rickon called out, laughing as he escaped the care of his minders with Shaggydog running alongside him. She swore that the beast was now the size of a full grown wolf.

“Jon and Ghost are back! And Uncle Edmure!”

“Yes Rickon but remember your courtesies.” She held him to her hip. “It is Prince Jon and Lord Edmure until they tell you otherwise.”

When the trumpets sounded, the clanking draw bridge lowered and the portcullis was raised. The first to cross within the castle was Ghost, a white spirit moving silently toward them before Shaggydog growled and charged to meet him. The two wolves began to playfully battle as the others entered the castle.

Edmure and Jon rode side by side, with guards behind them flying their banners. The Tully trout and Jon’s white dragon flapped on high yet she did not recognize either of the young men holding the standards. The one holding Edmure’s was fair-haired and comely while the other was dark in coloring, tall and thin. Behind Jon came the Kingslayer, alongside a dashing man with red-gold hair and a satin cloak decorated with a purple lightning bolt and stars. Near to him she spotted a young boy with pale-blond hair and familiar dark blue eyes. By the time Jon and Edmure both dismounted Riverrun had added two hundred men to its number.

Only the two men in front mattered to her and Rickon though.

“Come here lad!” Edmure shouted and held out his arms. “Let’s see how high you wolves can jump!”

Rickon acted as foolishly as her brother wanted, running into leap up into his arms. They were given only a moment to enjoy the embrace before Shaggydog jumped up as well, knocking her brother clear off his feet.

“Shaggydog no!” She cried out as the courtyard filled with gasps.

“Ow Shaggy! Too hard!”

Rickon rubbed a scraped elbow which Jon knelt down to inspect. Edmure was sitting on his arse, his cloak tossed up over his head as men helped the dazed heir back up.

“I stop a war between Blackwood and Bracken only to be attacked in my own castle…”

“My apologies brother.” She said, holding Rickon’s chin up to ensure that he was not badly harmed. “My son’s wolf is a tad too excitable.”

Edmure accepted her words with a nod, just as she accepted his claim at ending the feud. Cat, like many others, knew that it was actually the young prince they had to thank for peace in the Riverlands.

By the time the Winterfell party had arrived at Riverrun, things had nearly escalated to open warfare between the Blackwoods and Brackens. Apparently Edmure had been expecting the two lords to journey to Riverrun, to render judgement on their dispute, when one of Lord Blackwood’s sons was captured by his rival. The Brackens claimed Lucas Blackwood was caught in their lands and threatened to hang him for it. Of course his father intended to march right to Stone Hedge’s gates to get Lucas back.

Such was the situation when Jon left Riverrun alongside her brother. Now it was his face she gazed upon, for in their short time apart, something had changed in the young prince.

He seems older, far older than a few weeks time would explain.

Or perhaps it is because he acts as a man now, that I begin see him as one?

“My lady.” Jon bowed to her. “It is good to see you looking so well. I worried that your illness might still liger.”

“I’m fine Jon.” She smiled at his concern. “Only eager to hear of your adventures.”

They left Rickon playing with the direwolves so Jon and his party could retire to her father’s solar, dismissing the guards. Cat felt a small bit of pride to see Edmure sitting so well in the lord's chair, but also dismay. Truly it was his rightful place but it reminded her of father’s continuing descent.

The tall handsome lord she had spotted in the yard was introduced to her as Lord Beric Dondarrion. His squire, Edric Dayne, waited outside yet that did not keep the name from making her uneasy. However far away Elara Dayne was, the embarrassment of her existence caused a pall to hang over Cat's mood for a moment.

The other two new members of their party were also apparently squires for Jon and Edmure, waiting outside the room alongside Edric Dayne. She caught that their names were Lucas and Harry, but learned no more before the men bid her to sit.

“Let us drink have a drink to peace.” Edmure announced, before waving a servant forward with a pitcher of wine. “A hard won peace at that. I dare say that we couldn't have offered more generous terms…”

As the three men drank to their victory, Cat merely watched. Edmure made to finish his cup and quickly asked for a second. Beric took a gulp while Jon barely sipped of his. Only she and Ser Jaime scorned any at all.

“I’m eager to hear this tale.” She said. “What was offered so that the Blackwoods and Brackens went from taking hostages to laying down their blades? ”

“The truth.” The Kingslayer answered. “However tiresome it was to hear.”

“More helpful I believe.” Lord Beric offered. “Bringing out the truth helped things a great deal in easing the lords' fury. Prince Jon somehow managed to find it himself. Now, rather than waging a war, those families will be celebrating a wedding.”

“A wedding?” Cat was surprised to hear that while Jon nodded.

“Between Lucas Blackwood and Jayne Bracken, second born both.” He said. “In truth, this was all because-”

“Lucas couldn't find himself a nice tavern girl.” Edmure laughed alone.

The story unfurled before her, sounding like a story that Sansa might have written. Apparently all the claims of the two families violating each other’s lands were true, though for less foul reasons than first believed. Lucas and Jayne had fallen in love, and in pursuit of that love the two youths would often meet each other in secret. Both believed that their fathers would never allow their love, and as relations between their houses grew worse, they made plans to flee together to the Free Cities. Lucas had gone to meet Jayne for their departure when he was captured. Jayne kept the truth hidden, terrified that if her father learned she had given her virtue to their prisoner, he would kill Lucas in a rage.

Until Jon and Lord Beric’s men had arrived.

“It was remarkable.” Beric said. “We were there less than a week before Prince Jon had them both admitting to the affair.”

“Affair? I call it folly.” Jaime added.

“The prince smelt it on them for sure.” Edmure said. “It’s the direwolf in him.”

“No, I just saw their shame.” Jon spoke softly, looking at the table. “They were both so ashamed, you could see it in their eyes. Lucas for taking the liberties before marriage… Jayne for letting him languish as a prisoner. They gave up their honor for love.”

Jon seemed bothered by that for some reason and the room became silent. Which only peaked her interest since she could not see how this truth led to peace.

“My father once proposed such a match between Blackwood and Bracken.” She said. “He saw it as the only way to secure a lasting peace and neither lord accepted it then.”

“Father didn’t give as much away.” Edmure grumbled before drinking of his wine. Beric shot him a cold look while Jaime rolled his eyes. After an awkward couple of moments, the prince spoke up.

“I encouraged the lords to allow Lucas and Jayne to wed, saying that my father the King would surely favor such a match as much as I do.”

Running away with a woman you love despite all wisdom to the contrary?

That does sound like Rhaegar.

“Beyond that, I promised to take Lucas into my service, he acts as my squire now.” Jon continued. “He carries my banner and I promised Lord Tytos that one day, I shall grant Lucas some land when I take lordship of Summerhall.”

“While I get Lord Jonos’s bastard.” Edmure guffawed. “That's Harry Rivers out there, my new squire and ward to Riverrun. What a fine reputation I have now, to be taking natural born children under my wing-”

“You get a bastard for peace in your father’s lands. Fine trade if you ask me.” The Kingslayer said. “And you didn't offer any better ideas.”

“The Brackens had stiffer terms than that.” Jon continued. “Jonos has five daughters and no sons. Rather than leave Stone Hedge to his eldest girl the lord intends on making his nephew Hedry his heir. Lord Edmure promised that House Tully would support such a succession, a wise and kind offer I must say.”

“I didn't- yes, thank you my prince.” Edmure flushed some then.

“The wedding helped too.” Beric added. “The prince offered for Lucas and Jayne to wed at Summerhall once repairs are complete. I must say, I had thought to restore the king’s peace through battle, but things turned out for the best. I must say I look forward to the day I call you a neighbor in the Marches your grace. There are few young men so level-headed to seek talk over war.”

“I know the costs of acting rashly.” Jon said, his somber manner returning.

Despite herself, Cat reached out and took hold of the prince’s arm then. She was proud of him, for Beric’s praise spoke to the kind of prince that she and Ned had wanted to raise. A young man who would think before acting, one she could trust with Sansa's care and well-being.

After some more discussion, Cat let it be known that Utherydes Wayn, Riverrun’s steward, had prepared food for their party. The others was eager to eat, and she promised to join them while begging a moment or two alone with the prince. Jon appeared worried at first but after they were alone, she rose to fill his cup with wine.

“You handled this splendidly Jon, I know Ned would think so. Your father as well.” She added the last part as a courtesy. “I’m not sure what reached you of Ned’s visit to the Wall while you were away…”

“My uncle has called the banners.” Jon grimaced. “The North will make war against the King-beyond-the-Wall. Has Uncle Eddard led his army to battle yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

Ned’s raven from Castle Black was terse in regards to the upcoming war. The Umbers, Mormonts, and Karstarks were already on their way to the Wall and Ned expected the other lords to follow shortly. Soon her husband would be marching against a fearsome foe while Cat sat safely here at Riverrun, much like it had been years before.

In more ways than one.

“Sansa and Arya have sent letters. Your father as well.” She moved to gaze out the window, waving Jon to join her. “Maester Vyman has them in his keeping and will gladly show you as soon as you are able.”

“I’m able now.” Jon made to set aside his cup of wine until she stayed his hand.

“Later Jon, you have a celebration to attend.”

“Let Beric and Edmure enjoy the good cheer. Without their support, my proposals would have been for naught.”

“And had you not put forth such ideas, then war would have been assured.” Cat sighed. “My brother is eager to take credit for this but you cannot allow it. If any hear Edmure’s name over my father’s, they might begin to wonder why he does not act. You did so well Jon, feel no shame in reaping the rewards of it.”

At the mention of shame, Cat felt a twinge of it herself, for she’d made no mention of another raven that had come for Jon. This one from the capital.

“You’ve had a letter from King’s Landing as well.” She forced her voice to be even. “From Princess Daenerys I believe.”

There was no ignoring the happiness that flashed across Jon’s face at her mention of the princess. Instinctively Cat’s hands went to her middle as a jealous urge to protect Sansa came over her. With all she had learned of Brandon’s actions during their betrothal, she was far warier of the princess’s role in Jon’s life.

I trust Jon, with all my heart I do, she thought, yet once I thought the world of Brandon.

When I would not yield, he sought another lady in my stead… with Sansa so far away, I would be mad not see a threat in Daenerys…

Or am I mad for thinking this at all?

“Lady Catelyn?” Jon asked in a worried tone. “Is something wrong? Has Lord Hoster not improved?”

Cat realized then that her eyes were filling with tears, whether or not she wished them. There was no reason for her to cry in truth, but lately that had not stopped her. So she did her best to push it away.

“All is well… as well as it can be I should say.” She looked out the window towards the river, willing the waters to take her tears away. “My father is ill and growing worse, yet he smiles to be with Rickon. He draws great pride in having one of his granddaughters betrothed to a prince. Your wedding is something he dearly wishes to see with his own eyes… but I fear he won’t be able.”

“I’m… I'm sorry…” The prince spoke haltingly. “I would… well, you know I want to make you happy… it’s just…”

“Do not fret Jon, I have faith that my father will live to see many joys yet.” She wrung her hands some. “I know how pleased he was to hear you bring peace to his lands. Now that your task is done, have you given any thought to where you might go next?”

The prince ran a hand through his dark hair and shrugged, like the boy of ten she once welcomed to Winterfell so many years ago.

“Lord Beric has been telling me about the Dornish Marches. I might join him for a ride south, to visit Uncle Benjen at Summerhall.” Jon gazed out the window then as well. “Or perhaps I could seek the God’s Eye and Isle of Faces, like my father wanted years ago. Mark and Martyn died trying to deliver me there. I would like to say a prayer for them before those weirwoods.”

“They would be honored I’m sure.” She felt the tears rising again as Jon continued.

“It would be good to visit King’s Landing as well. There are loved ones there I’d very much like to see again- my lady?!”

At those words Cat began to cry, the tears running down her cheeks freely. The thought of Jon seeking out Daenerys in the capital had pushed her over the edge and now she sobbed.

“Forgive me.” She wept as Jon stood shocked. “It should not upset me so much… I know I asked but to hear that you mean to leave so soon… to visit the capital…”

“I can stay! I'll stay for as long as you want!” Jon spoke in a panic, pulling free a small cloth from his tunic and handing it to her. “Bran and Oswell can wait, I’m sure the boy’s doing fine there I just worried-”

“You mean to visit Bran?” She choked out, dabbing at her eyes with the cloth. “My Bran?”

“Of course. He wouldn't be in King’s Landing if not for me. It’s the least I could do, to check up on him.”

“Oh Jon… that’s not on you. Ned and I knew that Bran would one day be forced to leave with Ser Oswell. You’re kind to think of doing so. I worried perhaps… that…”

Her voice fell away, for she’d taken notice of the cloth she was dabbing her eyes with. Staring back at her was a familiar grey direwolf. Cat recognized the token that Arya and Sansa had made together. To see Jon carrying this reminder of the girls made her feel terribly foolish for doubting him. Then immensely sad to think of how far the girls were from them both.

Then the tears came again.

“Lady Cate-”

“Aunt Catelyn! Please!” She snapped as she fought to control herself. “I implore you to call me that and do not call anyone into this room. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

“There’s no need though.”

“But there is. With all that’s happening here and in the North, I thought of how long it will be before I can see my children…” She lowered the cloth and did her best to meet the prince’s eyes. “Jon, I have no right to ask this of you, but I beg you not to journey too far from Riverrun.”

“If you fear war between the Blackwoods and Brackens, I assure you that the matter is settled. The lords won't try anything with their sons here.”

“No, it’s not that.” She sighed. “It humbles me to say this, but I fear I might become overwhelmed. My father needs me more and more every day while Rickon must be tended to with great care. I dare not look to Edmure in these matters. He must learn to be a lord in his own right and I don't wish to add to his burdens. Above all that I would like you to be here when your cousin arrives.”

“What?” Jon gaped in confusion. “Which one? Is it Sansa? Arya? I did not think that any of them planned on visiting-”

“This was not planned, I promise you that.” Cat took Jon’s hand and pressed it to her middle. “Nor will we know their name for many moons to come.”

Those words caused Jon to stiffen and his eyes to widen. Ned always reacted the same when he learned she was with child.

It was at Moat Cailin when Cat had first noticed the signs. The joy she had felt outweighed the sadness of realizing that this babe would not be born at Winterfell. She thought to turn back then, but had worried that she might not see her father before he passed away. Whether at Winterfell or Rivverun, she was certain that her newest child would be born amongst family and love.

Robb was born here after all, she thought, while his father marched off to war.

Ned didn’t even lay eyes on Robb until our son was nearly a year old.

She’d made no mention of the babe in her letters. She didn't want Ned to worry over her while he planned a war. There was time for that later, when the child was old enough and they both journeyed to Winterfell. She prayed that Ned would be there waiting. It would be a gift from the Seven above for her husband to return from war in once piece, ready to be presented with another child.

“You’re with child.” Jon spoke the words like they were a wonder. “How did- when did that hap- wait, I don’t mean… I mean, how long until…”

“Half a year, I think. Half a year before this little one makes their appearance.” She smiled to feel Jon’s touch against her small bump. “I know you could travel half the realm in that time, and you have every right to. I carried Robb while Ned was at war but with my father so sickly… I cannot lie, it would be a great comfort to have you here Jon.”

The prince moved to take hold of her hand then, cupping it with both of his in a gentle embrace. 

“Then I shall stay, for as long as you have need of me.” Jon said firmly and without a tinge of begrudging. “I do this gladly. You and my uncle welcomed a frightened boy to your home once, I can be here and see your child safely into this world.”

“Do not make me cry again.” Cat sniffed, running fingers across her middle. “To show such care for a lady in need, you will make a fine husband one day my prince.”

His expression become strange at that but Jon recovered quickly, squeezing her hand and offering her one of his rare smiles.

“I would act a decent nephew for now.” Jon said. “Aunt Catelyn.”

The young prince that she had raised as one of her own both pleased and disappointed her then. Cat had no doubt he would stay by her side for as long as he could. That would make her trials all the easier.

Yet he could not heed her second request. For Jon’s words caused her to cry again.

She could forgive him these tears of happiness though.

 

DAENERYS

 

The city spread out below her for miles, a sprawling mass of huts and shops, taverns and stables, packed tightly together and teeming with as much filth as life. They had arrived at the Red Keep over a moon ago, and Dany's chambers had remained unchanged. The Great Sept of Baelor and the Dragonpit loomed large upon the sister hills, a wonderful view that Rhaegar had gifted to her years ago.

I can see so far from up here, the world is so large, so wonderful.

Yet all anyone cares about is what happens within these walls.

She only had to glance down at the number of highborn courtiers hurriedly moving through the open yards and walkways to see the truth of that. The world outside these walls was theirs to reach out and touch, but all they cared about was the latest bout of scandal.

“It’s days like this that make me miss the North.” She said, turning away from the window. Elara and Jackie were quietly looking through her jewelry to complete her dressing, a gaudy practice she had forgone at Winterfell.

“So much show for something I care little about. I see now why Jon loved it. Those lands were cold but honest. The people were harsh but open, honorable, I could respect that. I miss its people, its hills, the wolves-”

“The smell?” Elara raised an eyebrow.

“The smell!” Dany sighed. “I swear, pine smells as sweet as the rose gardens of the Reach! They might roll their eyes to hear such around this castle but it’s true.”

“Perhaps. The North has its failings too.” Elara held up a necklace of amethysts and Jackie nodded, moving to tie it about Dany’s neck. “People from those lands can be just as dishonest and selfish as any here at court. You’re getting so worked up over this…”

Because it’s not right, she thought, this whole farce.

I would do anything if it means I can be with Jon. That doesn’t change how vile this all makes me feel.

Daenerys wanted to speak her worries to her friends more than anything, so that Elara and Jackie could help guide her to the right thing. She stayed silent though, out of fear that they might just change her mind if they knew.

“There will be new lords and ladies at the petition.” Jackie piped up happily. “More attendants for Lady Margaery, a whole entourage… a good many unwed men as well…”

Daenerys felt a twinge of guilt at those words. Jackie was a friend and did so much for her, yet Dany could not reward her friend with then highborn marriage she sought. The young woman hailed from a family of well-respected servants both at Dragonstone and here in the capital yet such did not earn one a husband with titles and lands. Jackie could trace her line back to the Conquest itself, of kin serving as stewards to Aegon the Conqueror himself. There were tales of past kings and princes having natural born children by Jackie’s kin, including Aegon the Unworthy and Daemon the Rogue Prince.

Yet to look at the servant, none would guess that there was any blood of Old Valyria in her veins. She was undoubtedly pretty but in a common way, with brown hair as plain as her eyes. Being common was the problem, for no one in her family had ever married higher than household knights and stewards. Whenever Daenerys sought matches for her friend among the young noblemen at court, they would turn their noses up at the prospect. None with lands or holdings, no matter how insignificant, were willing to marry a servant just to earn Dany’s favor.

They are all looking for better… everyone always wants something more…

Elara laughed derisively then.

“More for Margaery’s party? If the Tyrells keep this up, no one will be able to move in the castle without stepping on a rose.” She glanced at Dany then. “Want to wager whether Mace is up to something?”

“The lord cares more for sweets than intrigue.” Dany turned away from Elara to hide her lie then.

“Doesn’t mean the Queen of Thorns isn’t. Or others…”

Barristan’s arrival saved her from Elara’s musings, for the knight was ready to escort them to the throne room.

The Red Keep’s hallways were filled with suits of armor and other relics of the Targaryen dynasty. It had seemed so endless to her once. After being in Winterfell she couldn’t help but feel that the Red Keep was small and cluttered, especially with people. When they reached their destination, the Great Hall was positively bursting at the seams.

Barristan cleared a path of course, for Dany and her friends were permitted a place of honor. Several lords and ladies were among the crowd, few of whom she called friends. She spotted Gyles Rosby, Lady Stokeworth and her daughters, the Redwyne twins, and several others. To her surprise, some Freys were present as well. She recognized them from their distinctive noses, so unlike Roslin’s.

Her friend was dearly missed.

They wept when bidding farewell to each other at Winterfell, ignoring Cersei’s urgings to hurry from inside the wheelhouse. Dany refused to be rushed, not when she’d played a part in arranging this parting.

“I cannot believe my father allowed this. I could never have dreamed…” Roslin had sniffed through her tears. “I should feel horrible I’m not going with you… oh Dany…”

“There is nothing horrible in your joy.” She’d whispered into Roslin’s ear. “Your father’s as hopeful as I in all this. Serving as my lady was always meant to lead you to a better life Ros. Lord Walder wanted you to wed a great lord and I wanted you to be happy… I pray that both of our wishes come true.”

“Robb hasn’t even asked his parents yet.” Roslin had twirled a bit of her hair in nervousness. “He says he wants them to see how good a lady I could be here at Winterfell before he suggests the match.”

While Roslin had worried away their last few moments together Elara had come to say her farewells too, though with an air of disapproval.

“I’m against this.” She’d declared, while kissing Roslin’s cheeks. “You both know it but I guess neither of you care.”

“I do care! I do! You just won’t listen. I don’t know why you dislike my lord so. Robb is not the lusty scoundrel you think he is.” 

“Then I pray that I’m wrong.” Elara embraced Roslin one last time. “I would be content to be wrong in that. Take care of yourself Roslin. Stay strong. Before all of that, you be happy.” 

It was trial to follow Elara’s advice and leave Roslin behind yet neither of them could stand in the way of their friend potentially becoming the Lady of Winterfell. Robb, Roslin, and Dany all had roles to play in seeing this come to pass. Maester Luwin might have opened letters between Robb and the Freys, yet the old man had showed courtesy in respecting the privacy of Roslin and her own messages to Lord Walder. Those ravens between Winterfell and the Twins helped Robb and Dany make all the necessary arrangements.

A carefully orchestrated series of actions that Daenerys hoped would lead to a loving marriage for a dear friend.

The spectacle unfolding in the Great Hall was another such plot, though orchestrated by another group for very different reasons.

A circle of onlookers had formed around the throne, some moving aside so that Daenerys and Elara could gain the view accorded her station. There within the circle, where all petitioners would stood in obeisance to the King or his Hand, were three very different parties. 

Renly Baratheon was a handsome and dashing man, personally Dany found his fetching smile to be one of his finest features. Though now the lord showed enough sense to hide his good humor. She saw behind the somber expression Renly wore, for his eyes were lively and full of mirth. They’d often look so when Renly laughed at one of Aegon’s jests or Loras Tyrell returned after some journey.

Near to Renly stood the High Septon himself. Shrouded all in white the man was accompanied by several septons and other servants of the faith. All his lessers did their best to match the High Septon’s sober and troubled expression.

As troubled as the holy men acted, they could not hold a candle to the party of House Florent. All looked embarrassed or moments away from raging. Lord Alester stood tall, his face pale and drawn. Beside the lord stood Ser Axell and Lady Selyse, his brother and sister, both trembling with fury as they gazed across the room at Renly. Defiant in a way, they all held their heads high, save for one. 

Lady Delena, Alester’s niece and Renly’s wife, had eyes only for the floor, her face wet with tears.

Many in the crowd pointed at the three parties and whispered among themselves, yet most stared up in awe at the Iron Throne. For there, gazing down from the seat of his father, was the Prince of Dragonstone himself.

Aegon made an impressive sight. 

A window had sunlight streaming into the hall, bathing the throne and prince in its golden light and giving Aegon’s silver-blonde hair a magnificent glow. He kept it shorter than Rhaegar’s, cut just above his neck, yet Dany saw much of the father in the son. The prince was comely, some even going so far as to call him beautiful. Despite his youth, one glance from his dark indigo eyes could set women twice his age to blushing. His tall, muscular body was clad in the red and black of their house, complete with a swordbelt strapped about his waist and a sable cloak tossed over one shoulder.

With the prince on the Iron Throne, one did not have to look far to find his sister.

Rhaenys did not sit in a throne of her own, preferring a seat in the shadow of her brother’s. While the son took after Rhaegar in looks the daughter could not be more different. Her olive skin and dark hair gave Rhaenys an allure all her own, looking right at home in the shadows of royal power. Rhaenys was taller than Daenerys yet far more slight of figure. The black gown she wore like a second skin left her arms and shoulders bare, the tops of her small but shapely breasts made strikingly visible. About her waist hung a golden chain which rested on the edges of her hips in a sultry way. Another lay around her neck, which Rhaenys toyed with while moved over the crowd gathered in the hall.

Dany was suddenly reminded of Balerion, Rhaenys’s pet cat. 

She’s eager for this, pleased even, she thought, Balerion looks the same when a saucer of cream is set before him.

When their eyes met she half expected Rhaenys to lick her lips. Instead the princess offered a wink and a wicked smile, continuing to twirl her golden chain about. 

Aegon was not so playful. The prince gazed down thoughtfully on his petitioners, as if he was giving some matter deep consideration, his fingers tapping along the melted blades of the throne. 

“Look who has a better seat.” Elara whispered. “The little sneak.”

Her friend drew Dany’s attention towards those gathered about the sides of the royals. She soon spotted Bran, dressed in the simple greys of his house and wearing a dagger on his belt. It was a pleasant surprise to find the young squire standing among the most esteemed members of court, though Bran was not being given any specific honor. In fact he was almost hidden behind Oswell, who was doing his duty in guarding the throne.

“The boy is only here a month and look how high he soars.” Elara snickered. “Did you know I caught him climbing the godswood’s heart tree last week, teasing some other boy? Jon Royce I think.”

“Really?” Dany answered back. “What I heard was you helped Bran and his friend trip up the Redwyne twins.”

“It was only the one.” Elara answered back, feigning an exasperated look towards Bran. “And I barely included the winged wolf in that little game. I don’t care for him at all.”

“Liar.” 

As Dany spoke she immediately felt guilty for even giving voice to that word, considering all that was about to unfold. When Bran spotted them he grinned widely yet she could muster only a feeble wave in return. With dark thoughts clouding her mind Dany looked over the small council gathered nearby.

A troubled Monford Velaryon was speaking with Jon Arryn and Raymun Darry. Mace Tyrell and his uncle, Grand Maester Gormon, were both clearly eager to get the proceedings underway. Only Varys was unreadable, standing apart from all the rest in silent reflection.

How many of them know what’s about to happen? Why it’s even being done?

Will they share in Rhaegar’s wrath when he learns? Will I?

“Where’s the queen?” Elara asked, looking about. “I don’t see her or the Gilded Dragons.”

“Cersei has been scorning petitions ever since she returned.” Jackie whispered. “I heard her say she would only sit beside the throne again when there was a dragon worthy to sit beside-”

Aegon raised his hand then and a line of guardsmen began pounding their spear butts into the floor. As idle chatter began to die away, the Grand Maester came forward, bowing to the prince on high.

“Your grace! The days' petitioners have arrived!” Gormon spoke in a grandiose way. “With a much larger audience than usual, I might add.”

A ripple of laughter moved throughout the crowd. Dany gave Jackie a harsh look for joining in.

“Silence.”

Aegon’s voice rang out with a familiar iron tone. There was no need for spear butts to quiet people after that. The Grand Maester cleared his throat and continued but the prince waved him off.

“High Septon, it is always good to see you.” Aegon inclined his head in respect. “Were you not a part of this petition, I would descend and show the piety your station deserves.”

“You show it often enough with your visits to the Great Sept, my prince.” The High Septon dipped his staff. “I pray that the Crone guides you to wise and judicious verdicts on this day.”

“My brother will surely offer both.” Rhaenys spoke with a voice as smooth as silk, offering the slightest of grins up to Aegon. “With the High Septon and a Grand Maester among his teachers, how could he not?”

While Aegon grinned slightly at Rhaenys’s words, the High Septon waved forth one of his attendants to read a parchment.

“Having been sought out by Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, in regards to his marriage to Lady Delena Florent, the High Septon has deemed it necessary to bring this matter before the throne.”

“It is a rare thing.” Aegon said. “Asking the throne to involve itself in a matter of the faith, of a marriage between its subjects.”

“Well said my prince.” The High Septon answered. “Yet this is a special case, for Lord Renly’s marriage was arranged and set down as part of an agreement between the lord and the throne itself.”

“My father permitted Renly to maintain lordship over Storm’s End and its lands if he took a loyal bride to wife.” Aegon nodded and Dany noticed that many in the audience nodded along with him. “House Florent was firmly at our side during the rebellion and none could doubt the loyalty of their arms.”

“But what of their women?!” Renly called out to the crowd's shock and delight. The Florents all jerked backed at the words before Delena covered her face and sobbed.

Renly stepped forward, dropping to a knee before the throne and looking every bit the humble lord. He even managed a small tear in his eye.

“Prince Aegon, please hear me. I was a child when the rebellion was fought, I played no part in it. Afterwards, I found myself the lone protector of House Baratheon’s noble legacy and did all I could to ensure its survival.”

“Except to father heirs!” Axell shouted, earning scattered laughter as well. Renly persisted nonetheless.

“I married who the king bid me to. I accepted the liege lord he bid me to follow. When other lords rose up with blades in hand, I knelt and offered mine to your father. I have done all I can to prove my loyalty, yet my wife has shown none to me.”

“That's not true!” Delena shouted. “I was loyal to you at first! For years and years but you didn’t want-”

The pounding of spear butts drowned out the court's murmurings at Aegon's signal.

To silence Delena’s protests.

“High Septon, I take your meaning.” Aegon leaned forward in the ugly throne. “The crown does indeed take an interest in this marriage. I am very interested to hear why you’ve been involved in it.”

“Lord Renly has petitioned me to set his marriage aside.” The white-robed man turned to look upon Delena then. “On the grounds of infidelity by his wife.”

It took the guards and stewards a long time to bring order back to the room after that. Women laughed and smiled to one another as men jeered both Delena and Renly. Elara was gaping at the spectacle while Dany tried to appear as shocked as Rhaenys.

When quiet was finally restored, the High Septon declared that he had looked into this matter with great care. Having spoken with both husband and wife, members of the Storm’s End household, even waiting a moon’s turn for Delena’s relatives to arrive and hear their testimony. In the end though, the High Septon said that the testimony of one guardsman led him to a damning conclusion.

“This man admitted, under a strained conscience, to having bedded Lady Delena after a feast. While he was clear of mind and she drunk with merriment and wine, he did befoul the marriage vows between the lord and lady.”

Delena made to speak again before Alester grabbed her arm and held it tightly, speaking quietly in her ear. The High Septon looked very put out to say the next part.

“My prince... while there should always be forgiveness for missteps, I regret to say that I am willing to grant Lord Renly his request. No pious man should be asked to share a bed with a wife who shares her body with others. If the crown has any objections, I would hear them before declaring this union annulled.”

Aegon sat back in the throne, his face blank as he stroked his chin, eyes moving between Renly and Delena.

And then to Daenerys herself.

None of this was a surprise to her, for she’d heard all of it before.

Shortly after returning to the capital, Daenerys had sought Aegon out, and by extension, Rhaenys. She had no idea at the time whether Aegon supported Rhaegar’s plans, but she knew that they needed to speak. To break their unannounced betrothal and even to help set aside Jon’s, she would need Aegon’s help.

And this needs to happen so that Aegon will help.

Put all your doubts aside. This is not the marriage that matters to you.

“This is not a judgement I make lightly.” Aegon said. “The High Septon has likely come to this decision with great care, one found on believing the testimony of this knight. Yet if the Lady Delena disputes that man’s words, I would be wrong not to consider her-”

“Perhaps you should not consider this matter at all!” Jon Arryn spoke powerfully for his advanced age, the lord looking up towards Aegon with concern and anger. “The king arranged this marriage, should it not be him that weighs in on its end? Soon King Rhaegar will return and-”

“And until that time my brother rules in his stead.” Rhaenys twisted her gold necklace. “He has heard petitions for weeks in our father's place, in place of the Hand, and not once have you challenged his judgments. Let the heir to the king act as our father desired.”

“Your father wished for his council to be heard as well.” Lord Arryn replied.

“A wise group of men indeed.” Aegon smiled down at the group. “And I thank you for your counsel now, my lord. Yet in the end, the decision rests with the throne, and I am the one who sits in it.”

With that the prince turned to face the Florents, his expression becoming one of sympathy. A quick gesture and one of the stewards rushed to Lady Delena, offering her a cloth to dab at her face with.

“Lord Alester, do you speak for your niece in these matters?”

“I speak for House Florent in all things.” Alester replied, standing stiffly, still with a firm grip on Delena’s arm.

“If you so wish it, I will have all the witnesses and testimony necessary to this matter repeated here, so I may judge the truth of this matter for myself.”

“So the realm may know the truth of it.” Rhaenys added, moving her eyes across the crowd before Aegon continued.

“My lord, if that is what your niece wishes, speak to it and I will gladly see it done.”

The lord and his niece shared a moment then. Axell and Selyse whispered something hastily to Alester but he ignored them, his stern eyes beating down whatever fight was left in Delena. The lady sniffed and lowered her head, the lord lifting his chin high to respond to Aegon’s question.

“Mistakes were made. Women are sinful creatures at heart. I would not prolong this shameful performance any longer than it has. Let it end.”

Aegon nodded.

“Then let it be known that the throne has no objections to the marriage of Renly Baratheon and Delena Florent being set aside.”
  

The words were barely out of his mouth before turmoil rose and Lord Alester made to lead his family out of the hall. Delena was showered with catcalls and insults while Axell and Selyse burned red with rage. Renly acted bereaved at the whole matter, yet made no move to leave himself.

The next petitioners were moving their way forward, a procession led by a red-haired Dornishwoman, yet Daenerys could not stomach being here any longer.

Surprising Elara and Jackie, she began her escape through the crowd. When her friends made to follow she bid them to leave her, sputtering something about feeling ill. Instead Dany sought her chambers, seeking some solace from the world for the time being.

Laying upon her bed, she stared at the ceiling, trying to picture the stars that shined brighter in the northern sky. She thought of Jon's face. His grey eyes. The way his lips looked just before they kissed her.

Sadly the memory of him kissing Sansa Stark came back as well and Dany had to force that away too.

He’s far away from her now, even farther than he is from me.

Lord Tully wrote to Aegon of how well Jon did in the Riverlands… he’ll be coming soon.

He has to come. We always find each other.

Hours later, it Dany who had to go. She needed to seek out Aegon.

It was evening when she made the trek to Aegon’s chambers, which she found guarded. That was normal enough yet the Kingsguard who did so was quite unexpected. Rather than Oswell, it was Ser Richard Horpe, the pox-scarred Kingsguard that Rhaenys preferred above all others, standing watch outside the door. After he called within announcing Dany, she tensed to hear Rhaenys’s voice answering.

Aegon’s chambers were spacious, the door opening to a welcoming room while the bedchamber itself was separated by another door. That door remained shut when Dany walked in, finding only Rhaenys gazing out a window to the darkening sky. When the princess turned around to face her, Dany noticed her gown was practically open at the front. Considering how the Myrish lace about her legs did little to cover them, Rhaenys looked more like a seductress than a princess. With a sly smile and raising of a cup, Rhaenys drank in Dany’s shock and sipped of her drink with zeal.

“Some wine Daenerys?” Rhaenys asked, pointing to two empty goblets on the table. “After today, I believe we’ve all worked up a thirst and we have some fine Dornish red, courtesy of House Toland.”

“No. Thank you, but no.” She shook her head. “Where’s Aegon? I need… we should talk.”

A woman’s faint cry came through the bedroom door then, Rhaenys grinning to hear it.

“Our silver prince is welcoming Lady Valena to the capital.” Rhaenys made to sit upon a couch, laying out like a cat before patting her hand on the chair beside it. “Please sit, while my brother entertains my friend us women can speak privately.”

She hesitated, and as the sounds of passion from the other room grew louder, Rhaenys began to laugh.

“Oh please Dany! Anything you tell Aegon will be heard by me a moment later. You know how close we are.”

She’s right on that, Dany thought, yet I’m beginning to worry at how close they have become.

Rhaegar’s been gone nearly half a year and Rhaenys’s boldness has grown tenfold… today was a sign of that.

“Today was worse than I feared.” Dany sat. “Poor Delena… was there no way around that? Shaming her so?”

“The lady brought it on herself. If you’re going to betray your marriage vows you should be smart enough to do so without being caught.” Rhaenys replied, raising an eyebrow at a particularly loud cry from the other room. “That or be more discreet.”

“It wasn’t her fault though… you even told me-”

“Renly always hated Delena and that family of hers. The Florents didn’t care much for him either. They assumed Renly would remain Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and apparently the mere lord of the legendary Storm’s End wasn’t enough for that big eared wench or her grasping kin.” Rhaenys drank of her cup again and sighed. “I’ve been to Storm’s End, it's a magnificent place. I can see why Axell and his ilk tried so hard for Renly to appoint Florents to every position of note at the castle. But they always had their eye on winning back the full Baratheon title… little do they know…”

“It’s cruel.” She snapped. “You know that.”

“No. It was fair.” Rhaenys glanced back at her. “Delena was shamed for one man she fucked, not all three that she’s welcomed to her bed over the years. Renly had all of them ready to testify if the Florents pressed the matter. That’s why Aegon gave them the chance to escape such a spectacle.”

“Renly just wanted to escape his marriage…”

A loud banging could be heard now but it was nothing compared to Dany’s thoughts. She knew that every one of Delena’s lovers had been pushed to seduce the woman by Renly himself. How any man could hate his wife so much that he would solicit others to bed the woman was beyond her.

Rhaenys laughed at her discomfort.

“I thought you’d understand poor Renly. I mean he’s like you, his heart is meant for another.”

That took her aback.

Rhaenys told Dany before that she wanted Renly free of his wife, that the two, along with Aegon, had worked towards this goal for some time. Why the princess wanted to wed Renly herself was still confusing though, for Rhaenys had never shown any real interest in the lord. 

“I didn’t know that he loved you.”

“Me? No, it’s not me he loves.” The princess played with the chain about her waist. “Men are enchanted by my perfumes but Renly prefers a different bouquet than my own. We are quite fond of each other though. He admires my vision for the realm and I his keen mind and wit. Our marriage will be a step towards taking the Stormlands away from Jon Connington’s grim fumbling and putting them into Renly’s capable care. Thus the first pillar in Aegon’s golden reign will be secured.”

“Rhaegar won’t allow it.” She pointed out. “Even with Renly’s marriage set aside, he will have someone else in mind for you.”

“He already does, a fine match really. The Tyrells can be bound to us in a different way though and Renly offers more… much more.” Rhaenys shook her head. “Besides, my father is in no position to lecture me about running off and marrying on a whim. It might be difficult to find some septon to perform the ceremony, but it will be done. Father will have no choice to accept, trust me on that Daenerys.”

“Trust you? We’re plotting against your father-”

“Not against him!” Rhaenys said fiercely. “I love my father! I want him to rule for many years more! I'm doing this to ensure that our family survives! Father puts too much stock in prophecies and woods witches. The game of thrones is what matters! That’s what we’re playing at here. With Aegon’s future on the line, it’s a game I intend to win.”

Rhaenys’s speech stopped then when the princess raised a finger in the air, listening intently. Her eyes moved to the bed chamber door which swung open. Aegon strode out, with nothing but a sheet tied around the waist of his sweaty, naked body. A beautiful sight to behold, he looked like a god brought to earth, his body hard and chiselled by muscle.

The naked woman clinging to his side was beautiful as well. Her fierce red hair covered only some of her full breasts, while one of her long legs moved up along the prince’s suggestively. The lady beamed up at Aegon with a rather lovely face, but it twisted into shock when she saw Dany. Aegon was startled as well, stepping in front of the naked woman as she fled back into his room with a cry.

“Oh… um… hello Dany.” Aegon scratched his head. “I was just… um… damn it Rhaenys, you could’ve warned me.”

“And interrupt all the fun?” His sister giggled, taking in Aegon’s body with a hungry look in her eyes. “Our aunt just wanted to witness what she was giving up. Did you like all you heard Daenerys?”

“Stop it!” Dany hissed as Aegon cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’m here because I don’t understand how that display in the throne room convinces Rhaegar to let us wed freely.”

“By the gods Daenerys.” Aegon muttered, going forward to fill a cup of wine for himself and then refilling Rhaenys’s. “This thing with Renly in it itself won’t. It’s all part of what needs to happen to make that possible.”

He leaned against the end of Rhaenys’s couch and caused Dany to blush, for he made no move to hide his form in her presence. Once it might have flattered her, but Aegon shared his charm with one too many ladies for her to find him tempting.

“Once the Stormlands are under Renly’s rule and finally at peace, we can add them to the list of powers behind House Targaryen. Think of it Dany! The Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne, the greatest of the Seven Kingdoms, all united behind the crown. Joined together in a grand alliance of the south! With that kind of power we can keep the Lannisters in check and the realm at peace for thousands of years.”

“I wed Renly and become Lady of Storm’s End.” Rhaenys spoke with a flourish of false pride. “Then Aegon marries his rose. Dorne will always be loyal to Aegon and me, but we'll strengthen their ties through some marriages. Perhaps wed Myrcella to our cousin-”

“It’s too much.” Dany felt overwhelmed by the scope of this conspiracy. “Bringing the Dornish and Stormlords back on side alone… and Cersei will keep Myrcella far away-”

“Let us deal with Cersei.” Aegon spoke with an air of pity. “Dany, you have nothing to worry about. I only let you know of our plans to put your mind at ease. I love you, but us marrying makes more sense in Marwyn’s odd mind than in the real world.”

She was thankful that Aegon didn’t feel hurt that she wanted to marry Jon instead. That was all she was thankful for however. Everything else that Aegon spoke of sent her mind into worries and pitfalls that kept her up at night.

“Even if you marry another and all your plans work, how does that help me be with Jon? Rhaegar could just match me to someone else.”

“Like Joffrey?” Aegon asked. “Cersei wants that to be sure, but I will never allow it Dany. Father erred in giving Viserys such a free hand. I intend to make sure that Joffrey’s evil is kept in check.”

Rhaenys sniffed then, as if a bad scent had come to her nose.

“Between that golden monster and the northern bastard, I don’t know who is worse.”

“Never call Jon that!” Dany jumped to her feet, glaring down at Rhaenys. “No matter what Rhaegar and Lyanna did, you should never-”

“She’s right Rhae.” Aegon put a strong hand on Dany’s shoulder, shaking his head at his sister. “Hate him all you want but Jon is our brother. I've never once doubted his loyalty in me, and he did father’s will in the Riverlands. If Daenerys thinks he is worthy of her love, then he’s worth you keeping your foul tongue in check.”

“I thought you liked my foul tongue.” Rhaenys stood up as well, staring into Aegon’s eyes with a strange sort of challenge. “Fine. I shall rebuild the Baratheon line, you will pluck your rose, then we help Daenerys get her false prince.”

“Rhae…” Aegon warned but his sister was already walking away from them.

“So sensitive.” Rhaenys sighed, undoing the ties of her gown as she grabbed a pitcher of wine. “Let me go see how Valena is doing. Perhaps she’d enjoy my foul tongue more.”

With an inviting look towards them both, Rhaenys disappeared within the bedchambers, the door closing behind. Aegon and Dany stood staring at the door in a state of shock, though the prince’s expression slowly turned into one of bemusement.

“Aegon.” She grabbed his attention. “We’re going against Rhaegar. He has plans too you know, and I’m worried that he won’t let them go so easily. Marwyn had him talking about an age of peace and a return of dragons… he wants us-”

“We’re the only dragons that matter. My father acted against his own and the realm was better for it.” Aegon spoke darkly, his face becoming serious. “We have all suffered enough for my father’s dreams and prophecies. Rhaenys says it's high time that we grow strong enough to do what must be done, to make House Targaryen strong.”

“That’s what she says.” Dany said. “What do you say Aegon? What will you say to Rhaegar when all of this comes out, when he learns you went against his will? The king’s will?”

Aegon looked at her then with eyes much like her own. Beyond the purple of Old Valryia, she saw herself reflected in them. There was fear, doubt, even hesitation.

And something that scared her a little more. A spark of determination she had seen in the mirror whenever she thought of Jon.

The prince took her chin in grasp with a firm but gentle touch.

“I will say behold, your grace. Here stands Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and heir to the Iron Throne.”

“His father’s son.”

 

SANSA

 

“Careful!” Sansa and Roslin called out in unison.

While they sat their horses comfortably Robb looked far less sturdy. Robb was once the finest rider that Sansa knew, now he shifted side to side as he brought his horse to a trot, furrowing his brow in concentration. Gripping saddle and reins tightly, he used the strength of his hands and arms to compensate for his weakened leg.

Sansa had watched him do this several times before, though always inside the castle yards with Hullen or others ready to help. Robb could barely walk without a crutch yet he’d been back in the saddle a fortnight now. Such was the talk of the castle. Maester Luwin said the numbness in his leg helped compensate for the pain he must be feeling. To Domeric it was Robb’s sheer force of will that drove him on.

Sansa called it a miracle.

I said so many prayers for Robb in the sept and before the heart tree, to the old gods and the new…

They must have made up for the ones I said during the tourney.

They were just outside Winterfell’s gate, set to join Robb for a ride through the Stark lands. Neither Maester Luwin nor Ser Rodrik had been able to convince him differently, he’d even ignored her protests as well.

I’m just trying to keep him from getting hurt again, she thought, with father gone, Robb must act as Lord of Winterfell in his stead.

Just as I must act as its lady… for surely I am the only Stark daughter who can.

As if to prove her right, Arya spurred her horse past Maester Luwin and Hullen, laughing as she rode by. The sisters could not be more different in that moment. While Sansa was dressed finely and kept some grace on her horse, Arya was dressed in a gown as drab as a servant’s and acted little better.

“Go Robb!” Arya shouted happily, rushing past her and Roslin to join Robb’s side. “You’re doing great!”

“Tell them that!” Robb laughed back. “Perhaps you and I should go on alone little sister.”

“Not likely!” Maester Luwin declared, shaking his head as he kicked his mule after them. “Mind that leg! Just because that limb has failed you, doesn’t mean your good sense should!”

“I may only have one good leg but my mount has four! Gods, how I missed this!”

“Me too!” Arya shouted. Then the two shot off away from the rest of the party.

Originally Robb wanted to take this ride alone, insisting that he needed only one minder to join him. Before he could name that person, the maester had insisted on a larger group instead. Thus Sansa and her sister had joined Robb alongside Maester Luwin, Hullen, Domeric, Roslin, and a couple guardsmen.

While Arya could be all smiles, without a care in her head, it fell to those with good sense to worry on Robb's well-being.

“I wish he would listen to you.” Roslin said, twisting her reins nervously. “Or the maester … he pushes himself too hard.”

“Quite right my lady.” She nodded. “Let’s go and make sure that Robb has more sensible company than my sister.”

They set off together then and Sansa was once more thankful for Roslin's presence.

It was a complete surprise to everyone when Robb had revealed Roslin’s new role at Winterfell. Sansa was only told the night before Princess Daenerys and Queen Cersei were set to leave the castle. Somehow Robb had secretly arranged for Roslin to stay while the others left, which had caused Sansa some unease. The Frey girl was older than she was, and Daenerys’s friend first and foremost, yet Robb had helped her see good reason in allowing Roslin to stay.

“You’re going to be a princess Sansa, you’ll need highborn ladies about you.” Robb had wheezed, sweaty from using his crutch to reach her chambers. “Jeyne and Beth are fine enough but Roslin’s a true southron lady, from a wealthy house sworn to our grandfather. You show grace in welcoming her to our home.”

“Won’t mother and father be angry?” She’d foolishly worried, helping to ease her brother into a chair. “It would be proper for them to choose my companions…”

“Will they do so when you are a princess? I’m a cripple now but one day I will be the Lord of Winterfell. Just one day you will go from being my little sister to a princess. We should start acting as such now. Winter is coming Sansa.”

“I’m not sure. I-I think I’d like to have a lady-in-waiting… but doing it like this… it doesn’t feel right.”

“That is all I care about Sansa, believe me. I am trying to do what’s right. In my heart, I know it.” Robb spoke with a strange desperation then. “Please Sansa… if you write to father and say that you wanted this, I’m sure he would allow it. Maester Luwin and Rodrik won’t send Roslin away and offend Walder Frey unless father orders them to. He will let her stay if you ask it of him.”

She wasn’t ignorant of how Robb felt towards Roslin.

It was charming, romantic even, the way Robb was trying so hard to keep his love near him. There was no denying Roslin had treated Robb with great care after his fall, with a tenderness that touched Sansa’s heart. Watching the lady help Robb grow accustomed to his hobbled state, the small smiles they gave one another, it all seemed like some magical song.

Jon had given her hope with his kiss after the tourney. How could she deny Robb his own kind of hope with Roslin?

Her prince would have done anything to make Robb happy. His princess would do the same.

Robb certainly sounded happy as he laughed alongside Arya, their horses slowing as they made their way through the dirt roads and by the stone buildings of the Winter Town. As they passed through the town, Sansa took note of how many of the smallfolk stared at their party. Some were fearful of the three direwolves running with them. Nymeria, Grey Wind, and Lady were all as big as full grown wolves now. Yet many watched with interest as Robb rode by, a few bold ones even whispering and pointing at him.

They all bowed at any rate, which was all that really mattered. Sansa held her chin high as they journeyed on by the smallfolk, disappointed that any of them thought to treat Robb with anything less than deference.

“Has Arya always ridden with the men?” Roslin asked as Domeric caught up with Sansa’s siblings, his pink cloak flapping behind him.

“Sadly yes.” She sighed. “Even when she’s not welcome, she sneaks a horse from Hodor and finds a way.”

“My brothers would never let me catch up with them.” Roslin smiled. “All except Olyvar, he was too kind to leave me behind for long.”

“Arya used to follow Jon around like she was one of our pups. Now she’s been bothering Domeric more and more, talking about such strange things. When we were breaking our fast the other morning, he was telling her how to use her meat knife. She’s been using one for years, how strange is that?”

“I have seen stranger. Elara carried a dagger.”

“A dagger?!” Sansa was shocked to hear of a lady acting so brazen, even one natural born.

“I was horrified by it… at first. Then Prince Viserys tried to kidnap Daenerys and Elara stopped him with it. I was thankful for the dagger after that.”

“Lady Elara used a dagger against a prince?!” Sansa could not believe that. “Surely there were guards about? Or Barristan the Bold! For a lady to act so… so…”

“Elara said she has the dagger for when there are no men around. Or for when the wrong men are.”

Sansa couldn’t figure out whether or not Roslin shared her disdain for Elara’s violent ways. She was too busy trying to understand how a bastard born lady could threaten a prince of blood with a dagger and still be welcomed among the king’s family. It was no secret Jon did not care for his uncle, they had even come to blows if the rumors were to be believed, yet could the king’s brother truly be so foul?

I thought well of the queen until I saw how cruel she was… when I let her hurt Jon…

Would he have been better off with Elara there instead of me?

“Hey hurry up!” Arya shouted from up ahead.

The rest of the group had stopped their horses at the edge of the Wolfswood, waiting for Roslin and Sansa to catch up.

Robb rubbed his hurt leg some but waved away any attempt by Maester Luwin to tend it. She shared the maester’s worries but trusted her older brother. He hadn’t come close to falling and Robb truly did look his old self upon his horse, he even smiled to see the girls arriving.

More of a welcome than the three direwolves offered before they charged on into the trees. 

“They’ve got the scent of something.” Robb spoke, breathlessly, the strain from the ride quite obvious. “Looks like our friends are in the mood for a hunt.”

“It’s the company that’s got their blood up.” Domeric added, eyeing the trail the wolves had left. “Been too long since the wolves have gone on a hunt with you Stark.”

“And it shall be some time longer still.” Maester Luwin protested. “You can ride Robb, but your leg is not so strong for you to attempt…”

“I’m fine and it would be a good thing to return with a boar or stag.” Her brother’s face fell some. “I think the townsfolk would be impressed to see me do so.”

While Quent and Wayn nodded their approval Arya bounced up in down in her saddle at the idea. Somewhere deeper within the forest the wolves howled and Robb’s mind was made up. Domeric untied the bow and quiver he had tied to his saddle and tossed it over to her brother.

“Drive whatever it is towards the river. I’ll circle around and cut it off.”

“Me too!” Arya spoke up. “Nymeria will bring the stag right to me!”

“It could be a boar!” Maester Luwin scowled. “A dangerous thing for young ladies and injured lords to hunt!”

“We could just ride with Domeric to the river?” Sansa offered, wanting Robb to have this moment. With a glance to Roslin she saw a chance for to give him a far better one. “Arya and I will go on with Domeric to the river. If you would Roslin, please join the maester in seeing Robb through this.”

“Of course my lady.” Roslin blushed and Robb shot her a smile full of thanks.

Soon they were off, Domeric leading Arya, Wayn and herself through the trees towards the distant river, the rest following Robb and the direwolves. The tall sentinel pines were packed tightly in this dark forest yet Domeric rode through them with ease. Arya and Wayn kept their horses right on his trail, with Sansa at the rear.

She wasn’t in any hurry to interrupt Roslin’s time with her brother and preferred to take in the view of the woods around her.

If there’s a forest near Summerhall I hope it is a bright and welcoming one, full of songbirds and gentle creatures.

Where Jon and I can take long rides and gaze up at blue skies in sunlit fields.

As she imagined her future home in the south her mind drifted the lands her father now prepared to make war within. It frightened Sansa to think of father leading an army beyond the Wall, Old Nan’s tales of that land had terrified her as a little girl. In her nightmares it was the home of beasts and savages that feasted on the flesh of men. She was almost a woman grown now but the thought of father battling the wildlings set her blood to ice.

So she resolved to write another letter for her father as soon as they were back at Winterfell. To tell him how much she loved him and how proud she was he kept wildlings and deserters up at the Wall. In a small way she hoped he’d be able to reply with some soothing words of his own.

It would be as welcome as the letter Jon had sent from Riverrun. Full of courtesy yet sweet nonetheless, Jon let her know all was well. His words were so soothing to Sansa she forgave his shyness for not speaking of their love.

For she’d heard her prince speak to it with her own ears after their farewell kiss. A truly magical moment when their lips had separated and he’d whispered those cherished words…

“Sansa stop being stupid!”

Arya rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly as she stopped her horse. Her little sister acted annoyed to wait for her to catch up as Wayn and Domeric disappeared into the thick woods ahead.

“Dom bet he could beat us both to the river! And you’re making us lose!” 

“Fine by me, I shall act a lady.” She said, hurrying her mount on only in the slightest. “Domeric should know better than to wager against ladies anyways.”

“I bet him then! Alright! Please don’t make me lose!” Arya pouted. “I’ll leave you behind if you don’t hurry up!”

“You will not. I cannot let you ride through these woods unescorted.”

“What do you care if I go on or not?” Arya asked, jerking her horse around as Sansa came up alongside her.

“I care very much where you go.” She replied, finally kicking at her mount’s side so she could keep up with Arya.

“You what?” Her little sister seemed taken aback at that. “Since when?”

“I must. With mother gone, I’m every bit the Lady of Winterfell as Robb is its lord. You’re under my care now Arya and I will do my best to-”

“Shut up!” Arya snapped. “Gods Sansa! Daenerys is a real princess and she didn’t act as snotty as you!”

“You will not say such things!” Sansa yelled back but Arya was already kicking hard at her horse to escape. “Get back here!”

Then they were riding hard through the woods. Arya had always been the better rider, but here among the trees, she couldn’t bring her horse to a full gallop like she usually did. Sansa was able to keep close until they finally broke through the copse and arrived at the slow-moving stream that Domeric had spoken of earlier.

Arya reined up and began laughing happily.

“Hey! We beat them!” Her sister gestured about, showing the empty banks of the stream, save for the two of them. “Good work Sansa!”

“You just called me snotty!” She said incredulously, which only made Arya laugh more.

“It got you chasing me didn’t it?”

As angry as Arya had made her, there was a touch of a thrill coursing through Sansa that they had beaten all the others here. It was maddening how Arya had tricked her, yet her sister’s foolish smile teased a giggle out of her before she could stop it. When Arya giggled as well, something broke within Sansa and she began laughing. Soon they were both hysterical with laughter, almost crying, and Sansa forgot why she was even mad. The sisters were sharing a truly happy moment them. The first one she could think of since before all the strange foulness had started between them.

As their laughter fell away, she wrung her hands some.

“What you said about Daenerys… about her being a princess… I mean, you liked her didn’t you?”

“Yes I did actually.” Arya nodded. “I kind of feel bad for thinking she’d be horrid before she came to Winterfell. It turns out Daenerys was a lot of fun!”

“But when I am a princess, you’ll like me more won’t you? Because we’re sisters?”

“What?” Arya made a face then. “Like you more?”

“I’ll be a princess too. If you had to pick between us, you would choose me wouldn’t you?”

“Why would I have to pick between the two of you?” Arya bit her lip.

The wolves howled somewhere close by then. All three had a distinct sound, like voices of their own, and they rose up into the skies above in haunting chorus. While she couldn’t understand their meaning, something felt odd afterwards. As if there was the world around them became wrong all of a sudden. Her skin turned to goose pimples then and she shuddered, though she had no reason to do so.

“Sansa…” Arya spoke in a whisper, staring wide-eyed at something back towards the trees.

Behind them Sansa saw a very big, rough-looking man, stepping out from behind some ferns. His head was bald and his face was windburned, his clothes filthy and faded. She thought his cloak might have been black once, long ago.

“Fine horses you got there.” The man spoke gruffly, moving towards them. “Big, strong horses for such small girls.”

“Why thank you.” Sansa looked to Arya, who was as nervous as she was.

Things grew worse when others began to join the first man from behind the trees and bushes. Men and women, all as filthy and frightening to behold as the first.

“What do you want?” Arya asked and a tall woman with a spear laughed.

“Brave that one is Stiv. Watch out for her.”

“Shut up Osha.” The big man answered. He moved far too close to Sansa, eyeing her cloak in a menacing way. “Looks warm. Hand it over.”

“That and your horses.” A short, broad woman with yellow hair spoke next. “Be quick about it.”

“But these are ours.” She could not believe her ears at the demand, nor Arya’s audacity as the girl took to shouting.

“Yeah, go away! We’re not walking all the way back to Winterfell!”

“Keep that up girl and you’ll be walking bow-legged too.” A gaunt man threatened as the short woman snorted.

“Not with your member she won’t Wallen.”

The outlaws began laughing, which it only scared Sansa all the more. For it was laughter without joy, none of their smiles reaching their eyes. The man named Stiv didn't smile at all, his teeth were bared like a beast as he came on.

“Hali, Wallen, stop your yapping and get to work.” 

Stiv reached out and grabbed at her reins then before she could jerk away.

“Stop it! I command you!” She raised in hand in threat towards the filthy man. “I am Sansa Stark! Daughter of Eddard Stark, the Lord of Winterfell! Unhand my horse or you will lose your head!”

“That be a Stark alright.” Wallen snorted. “High and mighty… even when they’re about to die.”

His words sent a jolt of terror through her, for that was the first time Sansa considered that these foul people might do more than just steal their horses. When Arya gave a cry she wrenched around to see two men pulling her down, her sister kicking and biting the whole way. Before she could protest Stiv’s rough hand slapped down onto her thigh and gripped it horribly. His eyes moved over her body in a way that made her feel naked.

“Don’t be thinkin’ of fighting like her.” He rasped. “Or things will go worse for you later…”

“Stiv, what if she’s telling the truth?” Osha asked, lowering her spear some. “If this be a Stark, you know Mance would be paying good coin for her. Might be he could even use her to keep them northern bastards from making war on the free folk-”

“Fuck Mance Rayder and all those stupid shits still beyond the Wall. I’m not facing the White Walkers again so let the Others take Mance and the Starks for all I care.”

With that Stiv yanked Sansa down from her saddle. Sansa squirmed and fought but all that led to was being slapped across the face and then being tossed hard on her bottom. As the damp earth soaked her gown, she saw Arya kick a blade out of of one of the men's hand, sending it flying into the shallows. The outlaw drew another blade just as quickly while Stiv pulled a dagger of his own and looked down at her threateningly.

“If you be a Stark bitch, be that one as well?”

“No.” Sansa said quickly, fearful of what they would do to Arya if they knew the truth. Mother wasn’t here to protect them, so she would take care of Arya in her place.

“No... no she’s just my servant… leave her be… she’ll just make trouble so let her go…”

“Sansa?” Arya looked hurt by her words. She was trying to stand when a man delivered a blow into her stomach, driving her into the ground.

Sansa cried out at her sister's pain then shrieked in pain herself when Stiv took a handful of her hair in hand, smiling cruelly as he yanked her about. He reminded her of the Queen then. To her there could be no truer villain in the world than this filthy outlaw.

Then her hero arrived.

“Step away from my sister and I promise you that your heads won't be put on spikes.” Robb called out.

Riding out from the woods came Robb and Domeric, their cloaks billowing in the breeze and swords raised in threat. No matter the state of his leg Robb looked every bit a warrior then. The outlaws were certainly threatened by him, for they quickly formed up to face the riders, weapons at the ready.

“This be her brother.” A man with a grey stubby face grunted.

“And a man in pink.” Hali mocked. “You boys looking for a fight?”

“Six against two.” Osha warned, hefting her spear up. “Don’t make this worse… you can take your sister and be on your way…”

“After we take those horses.” Stiv growled. “Get off them. Now.”

“Six against five.” Robb said back before whistling.

Within the blink of an eye the forest yielded her brother’s reinforcements. The three direwolves burst through the woods, moving gracefully over the wet ground and towards the outlaws. Grey Wind and Nymeria had bloody mouths, their fangs bared as they snarled. Lady, the gentlest of the wolves, eyed the outlaws in a fearsome manner and Sansa was thankful for it.

“Fucking wolves!” Wallen spat.

“Direwolves.” Arya rasped from her place on the ground.

“Either way, they’ll make fine cloaks.” Stiv cracked his knuckles. “Kill them!”

The outlaws threw themselves forward with savage cries as Robb shouted Winterfell back at them. She cringed as her brother and a man with an axe came together. She needn't have worried though. Robb’s sword sliced right through his face and into the bone beneath. Grey Wind leapt at another man who came too close to Robb’s horse, wolf and foe flying back into the stream as one. The Osha woman tried to attack Robb next as Domeric charged toward Wallen, Lady and Nymeria encircling Hali. 

Nymeria snapped at Hali’s side so the woman stabbed down with her knife, missing as the direwolf leapt away. As her sister wolf backed off, Lady lunged forward, clamping her jaws around Hali’s calf. The woman screamed and made to gut Lady until Nymeria’s teeth closed around her wrist. After that, the sisters joined in a savage tug of war with the screeching woman between them.

Wallen made to flee after that, running back to the woods as fast as he could. Unwilling to allow that, Domeric rode the outlaw down, cutting at him so that Wallen’s head was half-cleaved from his body. All this blood sickened Sansa but she ignored the vomit rising up from her tummy. Her eyes were only for Arya then, who was moving about in the stream, likely trying to flee the battle.

Arya, get to Arya, she thought, she must be so scared… Jon would want you to protect her…

Sansa gained her feet for only a moment before Stiv grabbed her hair and yanked her back into his chest. The foul man pulled them backwards into the cold stream, the icy water feeling like a hundred blades against her legs. Then she felt a very real blade against her neck.

“End this!” The man cried out. “Or I’ll slit this cunt’s throat! I swear it!”

Robb had driven Osha onto her back and was about to trample the woman when he reined up. His face flashed with fear and his bloody sword lowered.

Domeric continued to ride closer, but at a very slow, deliberate pace. Osha was breathing but unmoving on the ground. Grey Wind re-emerged from the stream and joined his sisters over top the savaged corpse of Hali, all three wolves either drenched with water or blood. Their eyes locked on Stiv as they began to inch forward.

“Get them things away from me!” Stiv warned. “I’ll kill her before they kill me!”

“Grey Wind!” Robb shouted. “Lady! Nymeria! To me!”

The three wolves stopped, yet Domeric continued on with a strange expression on his face. For half a moment his gaze flitted behind them towards the stream, then back towards Stiv. His pale eyes all the colder then.

“You’re in a good position. But the moment is all wrong.” Domeric said, leaning forward on his horse. “Patience is the key. You have to wait to get the result you’re looking for. Only a little bit longer now.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Stiv asked, backing a little further into the stream. That startled Robb for some reason.

“Stop! Don’t-”

“Shut up cripple!” Domeric wheeled about, pointing his sword at Robb. “Men are talking here, not one-legged fools!”

Robb was stunned by Domeric’s harsh words. She couldn’t imagine what would make their friend to act so horribly. When Domeric turned back, he leapt off his horse, taking a few steps towards them.

“I said stay back!” Stiv warned.

“Forget what you say, listen to what I’m about to say.” Domeric gave a grin that terrified Sansa. “We don’t have much time. You can take my horse. I’ll take the crippled lordling's, and then we can both be away from here.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m Domeric Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. I take it you’ve heard of my family?”

Stiv nodded as Sansa’s teeth began chattering. She was so scared with the knife pressed against her neck, she just wanted to close her eyes until this was all over, yet a part of her bid her to keep watching.

Where is Arya? Did she make it to the other side of the stream? What if she’s drowned?

“Please.” She begged Stiv. “Let me look to my sis-”

“Shut up girl!” Domeric snapped fiercely, glaring with at her with a cold fury. “See this? This is how the Starks lord over us Boltons. Once we were kings in our own right. The Starks feared us, as they should. That crippled boy back there is to be the next Lord of Winterfell but if you help me kill him, I’ll get you away from here.”

This didn't make sense. Domeric was gentle and kind, Jeyne always blushed whenever he spoke to her. He played the harp for Sansa whenever she asked, sometimes he would tell her tales of his and Robb's hunts. He wasn't this monster who she saw before her.

“Domeric no… please, help me…”

“Shut up.” Stiv hissed. “What happens after we kill him?”

“We take this wench back to the Dreadfort. I will wed her then and wait for her father to come back and try his might against mine. All the while you’re feasting and wenching and drunk on castle wine. You look like a man who could enjoy some warmth and wine.”

“That I am.” Stiv’s foul breath wafted over her face. “Aye… aye, I like this. Don’t think you’ll have to worry about no Lord Stark though. Mance knows all about him… been ready for some time now. They’re all be dead when the White-”

Grey Wind’s growl cut off his words and Stiv cursed. The knife was pulled away from her throat then, pointing at the direwolves.

“Well prove your words. Kill them beasts and then we can do the lordling together.”

Robb jerked in his saddle, staring fearfully at Sansa and Stiv. Domeric smiled, his fingers flexing upon his sword handle.

“Time to make your move then. Now!”

Suddenly Stiv shouted pain, loosing his hold upon her. The sudden release sent Sansa’s numb legs tumbling in the water, landing on her palms against the river bank. When she looked at Stiv, she was shocked to see him clawing at his back, a dagger sticking deep between his shoulder blades.

Behind the outlaw, standing as if in a trance, was Arya. Her hair and clothes were drenched with water, her hands in blood.

“Fucking cunt!” Stiv roared, making to grab at the little girl.

He never had the chance though. For Domeric came upon the outlaw with frightening speed. The soft splashing of his steps through the water were the only warning Stiv had, the outlaw turning in time to see his death coming. With chilling grace, Domeric thrust his sword through Stiv’s heart.

“Warmth and wine?” Domeric twisted his sword. “A cold bath is all you’ll get from me.”

Domeric pulled his sword free and Stiv fell back into the river, lifeless. As the villian’s body drifted away Sansa wasn’t certain the man left standing could be called a hero. In a flurry, Domeric gathered Arya into his arms and was making his way towards her when she began to scream and clamber away from him.

Everything he had said to Stiv sounded so sincere, his hatred of the Starks so true, that she feared Domeric was going to do her harm.

“I d-did like J-jon taught me.” Arya’s teeth chattered as she spoke to Domeric. “L-like you s-said to d-do.”

“I know little wolf, you did well. Very well.”

Whatever they were talking about was a mystery to her. As soon as she was back on dry land Lady was there waiting. Sansa threw her arms around the wolf and sought her warmth and comfort then, weeping into her friend’s soft fur.

“Sansa? Sansa?” Robb called down to her. “Sansa, are you hurt?”

She shook her head, watching through her tears as the rest of their party appeared. The group was galloping down stream towards them, Roslin at their lead. When Domeric lowered Arya down near her, Sansa reached out and pulled the girl against her chest like mother would do whenever she was scared. Arya was shivering and she tried to will any heat she had left into her sister, until Roslin dropped a dry cloak over them both.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Roslin said. “I rode as fast as I could, just like Robb said, but I don’t know these lands and- oh merciful Mother! Arya, you’re bleeding! Are you hurt?”

“It’s n-not mine.” Arya chattered, her bloody hand gripping tightly into her shoulder.

Sansa gave a cry to see it there. All at once she was pulling Arya’s hand away and furiously wiping it clean with her own skirts, trying to get every spot of blood. There was already far too much blood spilled in the fighting, seeping into the ground all around them. Sansa couldn’t let it taint her little sister. Maester Luwin came to attend them both when she spotted Quent and Wayn throwing Osha down in front of Robb.

“Mercy, m’lord.” Osha begged, her eyes fearful as she took in the sight of Nymeria and Grey Wind tearing chunks out of her former comrades.

“What mercy would your friend have showed the lord if Arya hadn’t gotten the drop on him?” Domeric asked. “We’re all lucky the little wolf found that blade in the water-”

“You defied me.” Robb said coldly, glaring at Domeric with a barely contained rage. “Father always said to be wary of you Boltons.”

“You should be thanking me. I saved your sister’s life.”

“What if he’d heard Arya sneaking up behind him?” Robb asked. “What if he’d been wearing armor? What would have happened then? To Arya? To Sansa?”

Domeric didn’t answer, his pale eyes moving over to where Sansa was still furiously wiping away at Arya’s hands.

“How badly are my sisters hurt?” Robb asked the maester and the old man sighed.

“They’re likely to catch a chill if we don’t get them back to the castle soon.”

“Then we move quickly.” Robb declared, spitting down at the corpse of Hali. “Take the heads from the deserters, send them back to the Wall. The rest we leave for the beasts and crows.”

“And her?” Quent asked, pointing to Osha.

“Spare me Lord Stark, spare my life and I’ll be yours! I swear it!”

“What would I want with a wildling?”

“You’ll want what she knows.” Domeric spoke up. “That man, the one I killed in the stream, he spoke of Mance Rayder. He said he's ready. That he’s ready for the North.”

“If this is true, we should learn all she knows.” Maester Luwin added.

Sansa rose to stand then, helping Arya do so as well. With her little sister shivering in her arms, Sansa took in the scene around her. This carnage was the worst thing she had ever seen, next to Robb’s shattered leg.

Only this time Jon wasn’t there to kiss away the darkness.

She was trembling as bad as Arya, though less from the cold and more from the terror of knowing these were wildlings.

It didn't matter how close to danger she had come. How brutal the battle had been or how bloody the wolves had massacred the outlaws.

It was that she almost lost Arya, her little sister, to a bunch of savages who only numbered six. And now her father went to fight against thousands just like them. In their dark, savage lands.

Her father was marching into darkness.

Chapter 9

Summary:

While good men act as they must others move in the shadows.

Pulling strings. Pushing pieces about.

Or taking a vengeance most cruel.

Notes:

To understand the mood I had to put myself in to write the end of this chapter I suggest listening to Watch the World Burn from the Dark Knight OST.

Here's a link. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NdV7-rOt2Y&index=13&list=PLA0EB49C4E7626AC9

If you want to get really into it start listening right about when Margaery is singing.

A Dead Man

 

I’m not dead.

At least not yet. Not until my wife hears about all this.

The knight’s silent grumbles echoed in his own head rather than the cave around him. It was a dark, dank, shadow ridden thing, lit by a handful of weak torches driven into the wall. Most of the holders were made of human skulls, and he was sure now and again that his feet brushed against the rest of the bones. He was careful not to lift his feet too high, nor drag them upon the ground, lest he draw unwanted attention.

The cave drove deep into mountain and each step deeper filled his heart with dread. His hands instinctively went to the pommels of the swords he wore about his waist. Two as always, to ease his mind.

How many years have I been fighting the mountain clans? How many battles have I survived against these brutal fuckers?

And what was the one thing I always said? Don’t go into their fucking caves.

Yet here he was, journeying into a sacred fucking cave of a fucking mountain clan, feeling his way through the darkness, doing his best not to get killed. Either by clansmen or his own ally’s idiocy.

“Are we close?” A voice rasped from behind him. “How much farther?”

He spun about, his eyes locking onto the filthy face of the goat herder that Marwyn had recruited for this fool’s errand. The man’s name was Pate and he was as common looking as his name suggested. Pudgy without being fat, ugly without being hideous, stupid yet somehow remembering to breathe. Lucky for the knight, this fool happened to be a regular trader with the Burned Men, so Marwyn decreed he would help with this task.

He waved Pate forward, as if to whisper to him. Then he flicked the stupid sod as hard as he could right in his forehead. His hand swiftly covered Pate’s mouth before he could cry out, then pressing a finger to his own lips.

“Shut up.” He mouthed.

Just because Marwyn and Hauk were distracting the Burned Men in their shamble of a village, didn’t mean there weren’t some lurking in this cave. In truth, it was a surprise that the wildlings hadn’t killed the group on the spot. This clan had a healthy respect for fire though, and Hauk’s pyromancer tricks had enthralled the lot of them.

It had taken months for Marwyn’s group to get this close. Months of travelling through the foothills and staggering peaks of the Mountains of the Moon. Trying to track down the most feared of all the mountain clans, his second least favorite group of wildlings.

This was his own fucking fault of course, bragging about being the only knight in the Vale who could claim to have fought every type of clansmen there was. Lord Arryn had gotten wind of his tales and shared them with the king himself. So when Mad Marwyn the Mage needed a protector on his suicidal quest into the Vale, guess who was signed up?

His wife had not been expecting him to bring company back to the Vale. His little keep was tucked away on a jutting outcrop two days ride from Runestone. The Runetower wasn’t much to look at but his wife took pride in it nonetheless, he figured that applied to him too. Tess kept the Runetower looking fine and clean when he was away and was none too impressed with the group he’d shown up with. Her eyes had almost fallen out of her head to see a shabby Archmaester and a dullard pyromancer traipsing through their doorway. He couldn’t even explain himself, for the maester forbid him from telling Tess the truth of their quest. Thus he’d appealed to his beautiful wife’s second saving grace, her eternal patience.

“Whatever you’re up to, you come back in one piece.” Tess had warned him. “If you get much shorter I don’t know what I’ll do with you.”

“I’d be the perfect height to do that thing you love me doing.” He’d growled back, grabbing at her arse and earning a slap and a kiss in return. “Our boy is making us proud in the capital, I’ll not let the little bugger show me up. Have some wine and a fancy new dress ready to celebrate with when I get back.”

“Does my husband not like the gowns I wear now?” Tess teased, lightly playing at the string of her bodice. Even after birthing a babe that body was like to make a septon blind with its curves.

“I hate them.” He’d lied. “Prefer you out of those things as often as possible. Besides, the new dress is for me. You’re clearly the one wearing the pants in this marriage.”

The way his dear Tess laughed at that had kept him warm and sane on the chilly, maddening nights they spent hunting down the cave of the Burned Men. A memory of her naked body helped as well, especially when they added that comely bastard girl to their party at the Gates of the Moon. They’d needed mules to carry all of Marwyn’s bottles and scrolls, but the ones they’d brought to the foot of the Eyrie were not the best. To carry Hauk’s fire potions, the pyromancer had insisted on sure-footed ones not prone to stumble, lest they all die in a fiery blaze.

So Nestor Royce, his cousin by another cousin, had gifted them a team of mules and a comely bastard girl to tend them by day, and distract him by night. Mya Stone’s dark hair, bright blue eyes, and woman’s shape was enough to keep Hauk staring for hours. The knight retreated to his tent each night, to relax on thoughts of his wife.

Who he loved too dearly to betray, even in his own mind. Still, the image of catching Mya bathing in a hot spring came to mind now and again. He didn’t figure it was betraying his wife if Tess joined them in those little daydreams, helping the girl to bathe. Teaching Mya the joys of a woman’s body before showing her all the fun they could have with his…

Gods dammit, not now you idiot.

“What is it?” Pate asked. “Why are you crouching down?”

“Um… stealth. Now come on.”

Willem cursed his manhood for getting hard here of all places. It wasn’t like he was journeying deeper and deeper within the sacred cave of the Burned Men. He counted his lucky stars that the Milk Snakes weren’t about, those buggers cut off peckers as trophies. The Burned Men might burn you to death, but more or less they kept to killing folks and moving on.

He saw no sign of any savage killers around the bend ahead, only strange drawings on the walls around them. Crudely drawn pictures of men carrying spears and weapons, lots of fires, and more of dragons. Or one dragon over and over again. A brown one with a brown woman always with it.

Oh and sheep. Lots of sheep.

Weird folk these Burned Men.

It got even stranger after they rounded a final bend, for it opened into a large cavern, one where he found scores of fires burning about the edges. That only drew his eye for the half moment that it took to register that the giant, misshapen rock at the top of a pile of stones was not a rock at all.

“It’s a monster.” Pate pointed a trembling finger up at it.

“No, my mother was a monster. That’s a dragon.”

A dragon’s skull to be precise. Its gaping mouth was large enough to swallow a man whole. The thing's teeth were as long as the swords at the knight's side, its jaws splayed open with a fire burning within them like a hearth. It lit the whole thing up in a terrifying way. He knew that because his member had shrunken down to the size of a normal man’s.

High above them a light shone through, some small opening in the rock above where the smoke escaped. He wagered that was the source of the thin, wafting column of smoke rising up into the sky from high in the mountain they had spotted during their trek to the Burned Men’s village. Just as he saw what all the trouble was about as he climbed up the stone pile to gaze within the dragon’s mouth.

Laid upon a golden cloth far finer than wildlings had any right to have, laid the very things that Marwyn had sent him to find.

“I owe that old fucker an ale.” Willem whispered. “Hell I’ll buy him two. It’s the king’s coin after all.”

He spotted other valuables as well, stuffed within a chest deeper in the dragon’s mouth. Inside he saw jeweled necklaces, golden goblets, even a ring with strange writing on it which seemed somewhat precious. He ignored it all. When Pate began to scramble up the rocks in excitement, Willem held out a hand to stay his approach. He pointed to a couple of small entrances towards the opposite end of the cavern, ones that flickered with light as well. Just because there weren’t any men guarding the way here, didn’t mean there weren’t any further on.

Now that they’d found what they were looking for, they still had to get it out of the cave, back to the others, and away from this mountain full of Burned Men. Somehow, the fool behind him was supposed to help with all that. Marwyn had tracked Pate down in a shithole settlement in a crag of the valley nearby. All said that Pate was the bastard of a Burned Man, one who’d raped his mother but was too lazy to carry her heavy arse back up the mountain. Willem figured that was just an excuse for why most didn’t like the man, beyond the fact he traded with the wildlings.

Pate claimed to have been up the mountain to their village, to have seen the entrance of their sacred cave with his own eyes. The Burned Men claimed this cave had been the home of the Great Fire Bringer or the Fiery Tit Snark or something of the like. Thus, with a promise of a rich reward from the king, the goat herder was added to their number. Afterwards Marwyn had set Willem to coming up with a plan for a heist which included a clumsy pyromancer, a goat herder, and a fine-arsed bastard girl. While the knight did that, the maester had disappeared from Pate’s hut, riding his mule away for a whole week.

It was a dangerous stunt. The Milk Snakes had been raiding about in these hills recently and Willem had told him such when the maester returned. Though the stubborn maester wouldn’t speak a word of where he’d been, only to demand that they get on with things.

“Well, time to get on with things.” He said quietly, turning back to Pate. “Toss up the sack would you?”

With the sack at the ready, Willem set about his work, moving the invaluable treasure into its new home as quickly as he could. Annoyingly, Pate had crept up closer and closer as he did so, watching him handle the marvelous things with a sort of reverence. Tying up the sack, he carefully began the climb down the stones, not so much as knocking a pebble free. Pate surprised him by not making a sound either.

Which was when he knew something was wrong.

Back up at the top, Pate had stuck himself half in the dragon’s mouth, doing his best to reach the chest of golden baubles.

“You stupid bastard.” He hissed. “We’re not here for that.”

“It’s gold, jewels.” Pate answered back like an idiot. “Did you see that ring? It’s precious…”

Not as valuable as what we’ve got now you idiot. Think on it!

Why would they stick these at the front and shove the rest deeper in?

Willem was moving quickly back up the rocks when Pate’s fingers latched onto the edge of the chest. As the fool began to pull it back, something snapped within the skull. Whatever was holding up the dragon’s top half gave way then, its fangs swinging down. Willem was there by then, taking hold of Pate with his free hand and yanking the man away as hard as he could.

The fangs swung so close, he felt the wind wash over him and his pants became looser all of a sudden. He gasped to see the belt of his pants sliced in two, but the sound was lost as Pate tumbled down the rocks, shouting the whole way. Oh, and then there was the massive, bloody crash that came from a dragon’s jaws slamming shut.

All this commotion was followed by a series of shouts from the unexplored tunnels. A quick glance showed shadows already playing within the walls of those caves. Willem half-ran, half-slid the rest of the way down the rocks. On the way his hand was down his pants, feeling about to see what else the dragon fangs might have cut.

With a sigh of relief he confirmed all was as it should be.

“Oh thank the gods you’re alright.”

“I think I’ll heal ser.” Pate gasped in pain, touching at a bloody cut upon his head.

“What? Not you! We’re about to die so shut up and run you fucking idiot!”

There was no need to sneak about anymore, for the shouts of men behind them let Willem know that they were being chased. Slinging the sack over his shoulder and grabbing a torch free of the cavern wall, he ran back the way they came. The goat herder wheezing to keep up.

He ran as fast as his legs could take him, hoping the tunnel was nowhere near as long as it felt when they made their way down it. Running was more important than worrying, for he spotted at least three Burned Men chasing after them with torches and blades of their own.

Fuck, run run run… think of your boy… this is Jon’s sword you’re carrying, you need to get it back to him…

Run for Tess… your sweet Tess… her great tits and that fine honey bush between her legs… you want to see all that again…

Hey! While you're at it, imagine seeing all that and Mya too… Tess and her crawling into bed together and…

“Oh come on!” Willem cursed his swelling manhood until he realized the state of his pants. “Fuck! Take the torch! Take the torch!”

“What?” Pate panted in fear before crying out as Willem thrust the torch at him.

“Carry it! My breeches are falling down!”

“Give me that sack!” Pate shouted back to his fury.

Marwyn had made it clear that Willem was to handle the goods and not to trust Pate but they didn’t have time to argue. His cock was losing the battle of holding his pants up. He swung the sack over to Pate with barely enough time to grab at his breeches and hike them up. 

While he was saved from falling Pate was suddenly fueled with some sort of magical speed. The chubby goat herder began to outpace him, yet held back a moment or two. With an expression of part joy, part cruelty, the fool kicked out and tripped him.

Willem shouted a mix of curses towards Pate and the goat that birthed him before he hit the ground hard. His torch skittered away so that the only light he had came from the Burned Men closing in for the kill. Rising to his feet, he pulled his sword and readied himself like Bronze Yohn had taught him many years ago.

What he did next no one had ever bid him to but it was a ritual for him now. Willem silently repeated the names of his wife and son, over and over again. Each footfall of his foes echoed with the names Tess and Jon. It gave him courage, for he could never fear those two.

Though the three Burned Men who came upon him were fairly scary.

“Thief.” An ugly man missing a nipple threatened with a club.

“Stealer of the holy.” A uglier one rasped, his ear a burned away and a shortsword in hand.

“Little man.” The ugliest man of all spat, his beard was shaggy and filth ridden, his axe thick and ready.

“Hey! Thief and holy stealer are fair enough.” Willem twirled his blade about. “Let’s get this done before more of you handsome devils show up.”

Trained guardsmen would have come at him at once but these were wildlings. They saw one on one battles as something to be revered, a chance for a man to prove his strength. Such victors got the choicest of screaming maidens when the time came.

When the axe-wielder charged forth Willem felt no guilt for targeting the fool’s manhood. While his blade caught the axe on high, his foot flew out and kicked the man’s balls up into his throat. He finished it by slicing through the gasping foe’s throat, spurting blood coating the rocky ground between them. He backed away some for the next two were no longer concerned with personal honor. They wanted to kill him. The same was likely true for the men carrying the torches he saw far behind them, so this needed to end quickly. Small and fast, Willem always had that going for him. Undisciplined in life, strict as a silent sister’s undergarments in his training.

They slashed and cut at one another, club and short sword flying at him again and again. The club swung at his side, so he deflected it with a down cut before swinging upwards to throw away a jab from the short sword. A fist came at his face so Willem moved closer rather than fleeing, the blow merely glancing off his head. Being so close to the one foe should have discouraged the other, for fear of his friend’s survival, yet these men were savage to be sure. The short sword stabbed again, Willem jerking away in time so that it gutted the wildling behind him instead.

Unfortunately in his dying breath, the Burned Man grabbed at his wrist, wrenching at it so his sword fell free. As the blade clattered on the ground, his remaining foe readied his bloodied short sword to finish him off. That was when the Seven smiled upon him. His breeches chose that moment to drop and his cock to spring free.

He took it as a compliment when the wildling paused to consider the sight before him. Beyond that, he spared the idiot little. In a fluid motion, Willem pulled his second sword free and cut through the air with a deadly ease. His blade cleaved up through the wildling’s chest and along his neck. The man was staggering about, unwilling to accept his death as Willem sheathed his swords and tucked his last weapon back within his pants.

“About time you got me out of trouble Big Will.”

The other Burned Men weren’t far now so he took off again, running in the dimly lit tunnel as quickly as he could. The cave entrance went from being a speck of light in the distance to an ever growing beacon of hope. Sweat was pouring down his face but he didn’t break stride. Willem was as motivated to escape death as he was to kill Pate when he found him.

So it was a mixed blessing when he finally leapt free of the cave, escaping its dark embrace, only to find Pate’s bloodied corpse surround by scores of Burned Men. The cave entrance was at a lower part of a ravine, with moss covered rocks scattered all about, and cliffs of various sizes rising up around them. The Burned Men formed a half circle around the cave mouth, pointing all manner of weapons at him. There was no escape he could see. A thick pine-filled wood lay further down the ravine, a trail within it that led to their mules, but he couldn’t get by this lot.

That was when he noticed the sack that was still in Pate’s dead grasp.

“Thief!” Willem shouted, pointing at the smashed remains of Pate’s skull. “Stealer of the hole!”

“The holy!” A particularly terrifying wildling with a burned out eye declared.

“Yes the holy! It’s good you caught him. He almost got away. Timmy is it?”

“Timett! Timett son of Timett!” The wildling roared, kicking at Pate’s body. “And you are thief too! Slower thief! Shorter thief!”

“Listen Timmy, I wasn’t slower.” He put his hand to his sword, pressing his luck to the end. “Care to test that for yourself winky?”

“What is winky?” Timett demanded and one of his fellow Burned Men pointed to his eye and began blinking.

“Yeah, he’s got it. Top of the class right there.”

“You will burn.” Timett threatened, waving his men onward. “Burn for the shame you bring on the holy.”

As Willem began to repeat the names of his wife and son, a horn blew somewhere above them. The sun was high in the sky, so when he looked up all Willem saw were dark shapes along the edges of the cliff. Then some smaller shapes flying down at them. The Burned Men began to scream and he saw some stuck with arrows while others were crushed from falling rocks. All apparently forgetting to kill him.

Would you look at that? Didn’t even have to pull my cock out…

The Burned Men were scattering for cover so Willem took the chance that fortune had given him. He ran and snatched up the sack from Pate’s body, giving it a kick of his own before taking off down the ravine. Burned Men screamed and shouted to see him fleeing but as arrows and rocked clattered all around them, few risked following. Those that did got a nastier surprise, for clambering down a shorter cliff came a score of wildlings who meant these ones little good.

For these were men of a different clan. Men whose markings Willem knew well.

Fucking Milk Snakes.

While Willem headed straight into the woods, he heard the sounds of savage cursing and weapons clashing against woven shields ringing out behind him. As he darted between this tree and that, arrows flew by him, some sticking in the bark of pines, others whistling by his head. He would have felt braver with a sword in his hand but he stuck holding up his pants again. The woods were angled sharply down so that’s the direction he went, though he wasn’t alone in doing so. It upset him some to see that it was Milk Snakes chasing him now instead of Burned Men.

“Get the burning treasure!” One roared. “The cock is mine!”

After that, if Willem could run any faster, he certainly was. When he came to the top of a boulder, the view he saw below filled his heart with hope. For about fifty feet away was the string of mules, Hauk and Mya moving near them, tossing a bunch of empty flagons into the woods.

I’m about to die and they’re getting drunk? I should be getting drunk!

“Hauk!” Willem shouted as another arrow whistled by. “Untie the mules Hauk!”

The pair jerked up to see him rushing towards them. He was almost close enough to see the terror in their eyes at the horde of Milk Snakes coming behind. Hauk began to uncork another flagon, pouring it about the ground and Willem damn near lost his mind.

“The mules! Get them ready!”

Mya reached out and slapped Hauk’s flagon away and soon after the pair were doing just as he begged. He was so tired of running, his legs were on fire, and now something in the air set his eyes and nostrils to burning. The ground became slick as well and he almost ragged at it. Like it wasn’t already a hard enough thing to run while holding a heavy sack and struggling to keep your pants up at the same time.

He laughed at that despite himself.

“What’s so funny?” The scrawny, bald pyromancer asked as Willem leapt onto a mule. “What’s wrong with your pants?”

“Fucking Milk Snakes want to get in them!” He shouted back, kicking at his mule. “Let’s get out of here!”

The stupid, cumbersome beasts noisily voiced their displeasure as they slowly began to flee. There were eight altogether, two for packmules, but the others were meant to have riders. Pate was dead but the other missing man gave him pause.

“Where’s Marwyn?”

“He’s getting ready!” Mya answered, her eyes wide with fear at the approaching Milk Snakes. The wildlings were moving much faster than the mules. “Hauk, maybe you should sound the signal…”

“Signal? What signal?” Willem asked as he kicked harder at his bellowing mule, the beast reminding him of his mother then.

“We are to wait until we’re far enough away. Until they are passed the tallest tree-” Hauk squealed then as an arrow skimmed his ear. Soon after the pyromancer raised a horn up to his mouth and gave two quick pathetic blows.

Whatever was supposed to happen didn't, for the Milk Snakes were still closing in.

Something above them caught his eye then. A flaming arrow arching high in the sky over their heads, flying back towards the way they had just came. When it struck the ground amidst the wildlings, the world itself became a inferno. Flames spread quickly from right to left, enveloping the Milk Snakes and exploding out so quickly that he swore the hair on his mule’s ass singed.

“It worked!” Mya cried out happily. “I can’t believe it worked!”

“Fastfyre… a year’s worth of it.” Hauk gaped at the burning forms of men behind them. “The Archmaester was right. Our wildling friends did betray us…”

“Wildling friends?” He asked.

“Yes, Marwyn secured us help from the Milk Snakes by promising them half of what we stole from the Burned Men.”

“He made a deal with the Milk Snakes!?” Willem roared. “I hate Milk Snakes Hauk! I hate them!”

As his anger flowed through him, Mya bid their eyes to look ahead. Stepping out from behind a pile of brush with a longbow in hand came Marwyn the Mage. The maester brushed off his dirty grey robes with an air of annoyance before waving at them, bidding them to stop. He beamed to see Willem with the sack in hand, clapping his hands in anticipation.

“Is it as I said? Do you owe me some ale?”

“I owe you a boot to the head! Fucking Pate… fucking Milk Snakes… my pants!”

“Yes, yes, great horrors all.” Marwyn waved his concerns away as he took hold of the sack and looked within.

With a deep breath and a wide smile, the old man turned his eyes to the sky above and murmured something too quiet for them to hear. He forgave Marwyn that much at least. This quest had meant mere months of searching for Willem. For the maester it meant the culmination of years of research and toiling in places that learned men have no right being.

Marwyn’s gaze was as alive as a man half his age.

“Willem my dear ser, we’ll need to get you cleaned up.”

“We’ve got a date with a king.”

 

EDDARD  

 

“We should go now! Before those wildling savages know what hits them!”

The Greatjon’s bellow was so loud that Ned half expected the shields hanging from the walls to start shaking.

The Shieldhall here at Castle Black was aptly named, for filling its walls were scores of old shields used throughout the long history of the Night’s Watch. Ned was more interested in the great many Northmen now crowding the hall’s long tables. These were his bannermen and they were growing impatient, as hungry for battle as they were for a meal.

Rickard Karstark sat with his youngest sons, Eddard and Torrhen, and they joined the Smalljon in nodding at the Greatjon’s words. Galbart Glover muttered something to his brother Robett that Ser Jorah Mormont overheard and grumbled against. Ned's old friend Willam Dustin waved his squire forward to fill the cups of Medger Cerwyn and Halys Hornwood while Daryn broke bread with Robin Flint.

On and on it went, his bannermen taking up most of the tables while men of the Watch filled the rest. Chief among the black brothers was the leader who had given over this hall for the war council tonight. To Ned’s left, dressed all in black, his jaw clenched in disapproval, stood Lord-Commander Stannis Baratheon.

When he and Rhaegar had arrived at Castle Black, Ned had expected to find Stannis a shadow of his former self. It could not be an easy thing to spend fifteen years on the Wall while hearing tales of how his brothers prospered elsewhere.

Robert started the rebellion, leaving Stannis to hold Storm’s End to protect Renly.

Now Robert lives a life of glory and riches, Renly rules over their ancestral castle, and only Stannis is held to account.

That’s enough to ruin any man… but Stannis Baratheon is not just any man.

Stannis proved that as he crossed his arms and voiced his disapproval of the Greatjon's lack of tact.

“A man who shouts when he could simply speak is a man who acts without thinking.” Stannis declared, his voice hard and stern. “Just because your words are louder does not make them any less feeble.”

The Greatjon reacted as Ned expected, rising from his seat to challenge Stannis’s rebuke. Stannis was a large man, broad shouldered and sinewy with muscle, yet he held no candle to the powerful form of the Greatjon, who stepped forward to tower over the Lord-Commander.

“If your lot could keep the bastards off our lands, I wouldn’t be here shouting!”

“A lord who begrudges the duty of defending his lands is a lord unworthy of holding them.”

“You fucking southron-”

“This solves nothing.” Ned stepped between them, tired of their constant arguing. “We’ve been at Castle Black two moons now and we’ve managed to keep from fighting amongst ourselves so far. Let’s not turn on each other now, on the eve of our march.”

This was an exhausting re-enactment of earlier arguments between the two men. Stannis and the Greatjon could not be more different, the northern lord full of laughter and demands, the Baratheon commander stern and full of commands. Yet they were valuable where it counted. They were both effective and capable leaders of men. Their experiences fighting against wildling raiders made them key to Ned’s strategy beyond the Wall.

A march he hoped hadn’t been betrayed like Robb warned.

Willam Dustin thumped his fist into the table, ale streaming down his beard.

“Aye, come off it then Jon! I swear, you must be getting old. We’re about to go to war and you’re as sour as bad wine! Where’s that Umber spirit?”

“Up your arse if you keep mouthing off Dustin.” The Greatjon growled back. “I’ll never be too old to lust for a good fight! Or to get bloody doing it!”

“Well said my lord.” Ned spoke evenly. “So let us continue making plans for bringing the fight to our foes, for I was not done speaking.”

That not so subtle reminder of who was in command here was not lost on the Greatjon, nor on Stannis, as Ned shifted his gaze to him.

“I thank you for your hospitality Lord-Commander but the Greatjon is my bannerman. An insult to him is an insult to me. House Stark has forever been a friend of the Night’s Watch, do not make me take issue with a friend.”

Stannis set to clenching his jaw again as he turned away, walking forward to gaze down upon the map that Jory and Theo Wull had spread out on the table. Theo had once ridden off to war under Ned’s command, helping to retrieve Jon from the Tower of Joy. For years now though Theo wore the blacks of the Night’s Watch and Ned was glad there were still men of such ability in the order. These maps were the work of such men, those who had braved the dangers beyond the Wall to put to parchment what they learned. Of the dangers that lay ahead for their army.

“Gather around, all of you.” He waved the room full of men towards him and soon a large, burly ring encircled the table.

“As it stands now, we know little of what’s facing us beyond what these maps tell us. None of the rangers that the Lord-Commander has sent out over the last few moons have returned, which makes sense if we consider what my son’s letter said.”

“How the hell did they know?” Jory asked. “You only called the banners two moons ago my lord. Those wildlings Robb killed said that Mance has known of your coming for longer! We never sent word ahead to Castle Black that you were coming, so they couldn't have tortured it out of those missing rangers-”

“That they’ve been killing my rangers lends credence to it though.” Stannis interrupted. “Blinding our advance is smart. It shows sign that they have something to hide.”

“How do we know the missing men haven’t simply gotten lost?” Ser Jorah asked. “Or fallen prey to shadowcats or any of the other dangers beyond the Wall.”

“Like the Others!” Torrhen put forward, earning a laugh from many but none from any of the black brothers. The hulking form of Jeor Mormont was among those who disapproved of the humor.

“Those men were all well trained. One group going missing I might understand. But three? One under the command of the First Ranger himself? I don't believe it.”

“Deserters then?” Daryn asked. “Is that not more likely than half dressed savages getting the drop on so many men?”

“They can’t be that tough.” Eddard Karstark whispered to his brother Torrhen. “Not if a cripple could do away with them.”

Torrhen chuckled some until he saw his brother’s folly, for Ned was both watching and listening. His fists clenched upon the table and he straightened to his full height to stare the two young men down. Their father was not ignorant to this either, Lord Rickard’s expression darkening as well.

“Repeat that.” Ned said, his voice like ice. “Repeat what you just said, Eddard son of Rickard.”

“My lord… I meant no-”

“Lord Stark… Ned, I apologize for my son. He should know-”

“He should know to follow the command of a Lord of Winterfell when it is given.” He kept his rage in check, as Jory and William joined him in glowering at the Karstark brothers. “Repeat what you just said about my son.”

Eddard looked to his father again who gave a curt nod. Thereafter the Karstark gave voice to his slight against Robb, and earned disapproving grunts and frowns from most of the northmen present.

Behind all that, how many secretly agree? There are many lords not present here who might very well think so little of Robb.

All for the sake of your pride… it is your fault that Robb was hurt… that he was…

“Crippled.” He spoke hoarsely. “My son’s leg is crippled. Yet hobbled as he is, Robb did the duties I left for him. In my stead, he defended my lands. He killed those who made to trespass and befoul the North with his own blade.”

“A limping direwolf is still a direwolf.” The Greatjon added.

“I’d prefer he have a limp than act without good sense.” Ned looked back down to the map. “Leave this hall Eddard Karstark and take your brother with you. I task you with overseeing a count of the horses and fodder we have gathered here.”

“That’s steward’s work!” Torrhen protested.  

“It takes good sense to do such work, perhaps some of it will stick.” He did not look up again but he knew the two Karstarks lingered. “In case you two were wondering, that was an order.”

Their father grunted then and with sullen curses flowing between them, the two young men left the hall. When they were gone, Ned chose to raise his eyes, for he would meet Lord Rickard’s glare himself. The lord was fuming yet it was nothing compared to the fury within Ned. A more bloodthirsty part of him wanted to beat the young Karstark into the ground yet it was not his place and he was no savage. He was a lord and he would act as one, meeting Rickard’s eyes and their challenge.

The standoff lasted a moment or two longer before Rickard lowered his eyes to the map. Soon after Ned returned to the task at hand.

“All doubts aside, we must assume that the lost rangers were taken by wildlings. That this is a possible screen against our march.”

“Last time I was beyond the Wall it felt wrong.” Theo spoke up. “Like I was being watched the whole time.”

The man shivered and several other rangers voiced similar worries. Stannis grimaced, as if his men being honest reflected poorly on him.

“Our enemy blinds us and knows the lands far better than we do. This all has the makings of a disaster.”

“So what should we do?” The Greatjon snarled. “Should we send all our men up to the top of Wall to freeze their arses off waiting for the wildlings to come knocking down the gate like you lot?”

“Our duty is to hold the Wall.” Stannis ground his teeth. “All three hundred miles of it, with less than one thousand men…”

“Slightly more than a thousand.” A trembling voice piped up.

It belonged to a rather fat steward, half-hiding behind the other sworn brothers. Ned knew his name to be Samwell Tarly, the firstborn son to Lord Randyl Tarly, a fearsome warrior to be sure. Randyl’s son was little like him though. Even now the large young man quaked as all of the eyes fell on him. The steward's own eyes went to the parchment which shook within his chubby hands.

“I’m sorry my lords… it’s just… with the recent additions, we’re over a thousand-”

“My points stands.” Stannis said with a tone so harsh that Tarly almost jumped.

“Well, it is a good thing then that we have brought many more.” Ned said, tapping the map where Castle Black was marked. “Excluding the sworn brothers, we have eight thousand men here with over two thousand more at Eastwatch under Roose Bolton.”

Ned kept the frown from his face to say such, for the Lord of the Dreadfort was not a man he trusted completely. Almost half the northern strength at Eastwatch had arrived with a small fleet of ships under Wylis Manderly. From Karhold came a few hundred more under Harrion Karstark to join the Boltons in rounding out that force at the Wall. There was little choice but to choose Roose Bolton as the leader of those men. Roose was the only one to be tested in battle and too cautious to give in to foolishness.

Oddly enough, he’d been comforted to hear that the Boltons had not brought their full strength on this march. He liked the idea that even in Roose’s own command, his men were outnumbered by others.

“And I have three hundred mounted to add.” Stannis grumbled. “They know the lands and are mobile. Qhorin Halfhand is the perfect guide for our plans.”

“Forgive me Lord-Commander, but with what we’ve heard from Winterfell, the plans must change. We must delay-”

“Delay?!”

“I was not consulted!”

Stannis and the Greatjon were miraculously united then in their outrage to hear Ned’s words. Jory even smirked, for he’d predicted this very thing happening.

“Are we to wait for Roose’s force to march to Castle Black?” Halys asked, causing the Greatjon to curse.

“Bloody weeks of waiting that will be! The leech lord will slow it to a crawl!”

“Unlikely Lord Umber.” Ned held up a hand. “Since that force has already left Eastwatch. Roose marched his men beyond the Wall yesterday. As we will do the day after next.”

All fell silent at that and Ned was able to lay out exactly what had changed to their strategy. Stannis had continued to churn in his quiet anger at having been left out of these changes. It was not how Ned wanted to do things but he could not take the chance that Mance Rayder had somehow learned of their march from sources right here at the Wall. Few castles or fortresses were ever fully secure.

In the end, Stannis actually spoke in favor of the plan, adding his voice to the chorus of others who saw its wisdom. That didn’t stop almost every one of his lords from attempting to follow him afterwards, each begging, or demanding in the case of the Greatjon, to lead the van. Somehow Ned escaped it all and found himself wandering the grounds of Castle Black with only Jory and Alyn at his side.

The three had ridden into Castle Black moons ago much the same, save that Rhaegar and Arthur Dayne had been riding with them.

Stannis had arrayed his small garrison as an honor guard of sorts. No matter his own feelings towards Ned and Rhaegar, the Lord-Commander knew his duty, and welcoming the Warden of the North and the King of the Seven Kingdoms to the Wall was no small thing. The hand shakes between Stannis and the two of them had been curt and cold. In truth, Rhaegar had been far more eager to attend the blind maester at Stannis’s side. Ned found a warmer greeting from Jeor Mormont. Despite his old age, he looked as strong as ever and took great pride in his position as master-at-arms here at Castle Black.

By far the coldest welcome had come from the black brother that Ned knew best. Ethan Glover was a powerfully built, bearded warrior, and one of the finest men he had ever known. That made it hurt all the more when, following an attempt to crush Ned’s hand in his grip, Ethan had spit on the ground.

“No surprise to see you riding here beside that whoreson.” Ethan had growled. “The last time I saw you, Lord Eddard, you were busy kissing dragon arse.”

“Ethan, I bent the knee to see justice done for my father and Brandon-”

“Last time we talked you spouted that shit as well.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised by those words, yet he was. Ethan had smiled in a foul way to see his hurt, stepping closer so that their noses were nearly touching.

“I wear the black now so I can say whatever I damned well please to you, Eddard Stark.” Ethan bore his teeth to speak his name. “The lord who knelt. The son who forgave the murderer of his father. The brother who serves the very man who led his own brother and sister to their deaths.”

“I did what was right. Aerys was responsible for those murders.” Ned's words had been feeble in the face of Ethan's wrath.

“I’m glad Brandon is dead. I hope he rests in ignorance that his squire held more loyalty to him than his own flesh and blood.” Ethan had turned his back to him then. “Brandon would’ve died for you Ned. He knew that family mattered more than anything. I go now to take care of my adopted one. Enjoy your time at the Wall, my lord, I know I have.”

That was the first time that Ned had seen Ethan in fifteen years and the last he would see of the First Ranger before he led a party Beyond-the-Wall. Two moons had passed since Ethan and his men had gone out on their ranging, their names now added to the list of missing or dead.

Yet Ethan’s words still hung in the air around him.

Most of all the parts about family.

My family comes first. It always has.

I turned against Robert because of Lyanna… I kept fealty to Rhaegar because of Jon…

I let my wife suffer in doubt for a girl I hardly know… all because she is family…

It was hard to think on his family while here at Castle Black. All he had of them were letters, and his own words back to them felt hollow and worthless.

Robb’s early reports from Winterfell had eased some of his worries, though to hear from Ser Rodrik that his son allowed Roslin Frey to remain at the castle had angered him. Until Sansa’s letter had come, practically begging him to allow the Frey lady to stay as her lady-in-waiting. Before that he had been inclined on ordering the girl home, but Sansa's pleadings made him wonder on the matter. Then word had come of the wildling attack on Arya and Sansa.

He’d felt so helpless then, so enraged to think of his little girls at the mercy of savages. When they were small and terrified by nightmares, he would hold them tight and threaten the darkness for their benefit. There was so little he could do for his children here that he'd finally sent word that Lady Roslin might stay, if only to comfort Sansa.

And Robb.

“You care for the Lady Roslin?” He’d asked Robb before the tourney. “I can see it in how you act son, I believe everyone can.”

Robb had not tried to lie. His son had actually smiled to admit it.

“She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen father. You’ve seen her! Roslin’s so kind and genuine, I don’t think there’s a person in the castle that could say something poor about her… well, except the queen.”

Ned had laughed at that last part despite the seriousness of the moment and Robb had continued on, full of boyish vigor.

“They haven’t made a match for her yet, can you believe it? The south must be as backwards as Jon says for a lady like Roslin to be looked over. I swear father, as soon as I saw her leave the king’s party, it was like being knocked off my horse… I could barely catch my breath.”

“I felt much the same once my son. Once I spotted a beauty who could have brought me to my knees with a whisper.” He had put his hands on Robb’s shoulders then, gathering strength for what must be done. “Yet I turned away from her, for she was meant for another. I'm sorry my son, but you and Roslin are not meant to be.”

“But we can be!” Robb had protested. “She’s highborn! A friend of a princess and a daughter of my grandfather’s bannerman! Father, I love-”

“Marriage is not about love, at least not at first. It is about duty and love grows from that. There are matches I’m eyeing for you that would benefit House Stark far more than Lady Roslin ever could. Even as we speak here, I can see that your mind is set, that you will love this girl no matter what I say. That is why I must ask you Robb, use your love for Roslin to keep from treating her poorly… do not take her to your bed out of passion only for her to leave in shame…”

Robb had acted angry to be accused of ever doing such a thing, yet still Ned had pressed his point. While his words extolling the matches that could be made for Robb in the North or elsewhere were met by indifference, other words took hold. When Ned asked Robb to promise not to shame Roslin and leave her without prospects, he had done so.

“I would never dishonor her.” Robb had spoken with a wisdom beyond his years before asking a question that Ned had dreaded. “Did you forget the woman you loved? The woman you turned away from to be with mother?”

“Robb… I cannot lie to you. It was always your mother. Always Cat.”

To be so far from Cat now was a trial as well, for he knew she was enduring her own ordeals at Riverrun. While it heartened him to hear of Jon doing well and of Rickon thriving in his mother’s birthplace, Ned hated that so few words between him and Cat included disagreements and confusion.

She hadn’t cared to learn of his permitting Roslin to stay at Winterfell, yet the decision had been made. While her anger was something he could ease with gentle word, her strange queries left him at a loss. She had asked him questions about his mother and grandmother for some reason. Then she'd kept referring to hope and their future, as if it was a living thing, something they could share in once they met again. Her words were so flowing, poetic and beautiful, and Ned never had a head for such things.

With all the worries he had at the Wall, Cat’s musings seemed out of place. He knew his wife and she was not usually so whimsical.

Ned could not say the same of his king.

Striding out of the rookery came Rhaegar with Maester Aemon on his arm. It was an odd thing to say but had the king and the maester not been together, he would have been surprised.

Less shocking though than to learn that this old blind man was the reason that Rhaegar had travelled all the way to the Wall in the first place. Many had gaped to hear the king call Maester Aemon his uncle when they first arrived. Ned himself could not understand how a Targaryen at the Wall could be forgotten, for his own father had never once spoken of it.

Yet speaking was all that Rhaegar and Aemon ever appeared to do. The two men would spend hours each day in the maester’s tower, going over parchments and books that Samwell Tarly waddled back and forth from Castle Black’s library to bring them. Arthur Dayne always stood guarding the door, allowing none within save Tarly and Richard Lonmouth.

That Stannis permitted such a thing in the first place was likely due to Rhaegar’s grand gesture upon arriving at the Wall. Among their party had been just over one hundred of Rhaegar’s own men. Save for twenty or so, all had volunteered to take the black on their king’s request. That Rhaegar had clearly arranged this beforehand and never spoke of it annoyed Ned yet the offer was not unwelcome. These were not dungeon dwellers or greybeards. To a man, each and every one was a knight or warrior that the king had recruited for this very purpose.

It left Rhaegar with a small personal guard, but counting Ser Arthur among their number, Ned added an imaginary count of ten.

“Lord Stark.” Rhaegar hailed him, the two parties coming together in the shadow of the Wall. “I saw your lords departing the hall from the rookery. Do you still wish to march beyond the Wall?”

“My wishes and wants mean little your grace, only what must be done. I will be leading the North against Mance Rayder and his followers the day after next.”

“And of the Night’s Watch?” Maester Aemon asked softly. “What role shall it play?

“It was my impression that the Lord-Commander would be summoning you to speak on that very matter maester.”

“Then I shall not delay in my duties.” The maester nodded, patting Rhaegar’s arm and making to take his leave. “Pray excuse me my king, the Lord-Commander awaits me.”

“Of course uncle.” Rhaegar said deference. “Ser Arthur shall escort you on your way.”

“I have stood my watch here at the Wall since long before you were born my king, all without a Kingsguard to see me about.” The old man waved away Arthur’s efforts. “Let the knight protect the future of the realm, not its long forgotten past. A good evening to you Lord Stark, and to all you young men.”

As they watched the blind man head towards Stannis’s tower, without a hitch of doubt in his step, Ned wondered how many years of practice it took the maester to learn the routes of this lonely castle.

If I ever become so old, could I do the same?

In Winterfell I could imagine doing so, but only if Cat was still with me.

Rhaegar chose this moment to ask that Ned catch him up on all that was decided in the Shieldhall. The king invited him along to a trip to the top of the Wall and Ned saw no reason to reject it. While the winch lift carried the two men and their entourage up, he laid out all their plans for the army. At times he thought that the winds whipping about them might steal away his words, yet Rhaegar listened intently, nodding and asking questions.

“I could summon more support for this campaign.” The king offered as they neared the top. “They know better than to defy me but even then the Iron Islands might not offer many swords. The Vale is more likely. The Arryns and Royces hold your family in high esteem. It would mean delaying-”

“Thank you your grace but delaying would only hurt us.” Ned said. “Every day we wait is another day that Mance Rayder prepares for our coming. Another day he gathers more to his side. I have faith in the army I've formed here. The North has been fighting off wildling kings for thousands of years without the help of the south, I aim to do so again.”

When they left the lift, the two walked forward onto the icy battlements until they came to the very edge of the Wall itself. Beyond lay a never-ending land of dark forests and rolling hills, dotted with snow here and there. In some ways it was much like the North, save that Ned knew so little of it beyond maps and tales.

“Correct me if I’m wrong Eddard.” Rhaegar said. “But weren’t most of the battles against the wildlings done so in your own lands, not in theirs? Little is know of the people beyond this Wall and their ways, less of the threat they pose to the realm. Are you certain this is a war you can win?”

“If men only marched when victory was certain then many might never have been won. Look to your Aegon the Conqueror for the truth in that.”

“Point taken.” The king conceded. “Truly my lord, I would have more doubts if it was any other man than you commanding. We may not be friends, but you are one of the few men in the realm I have total faith in. Were Jon Connington not my Hand, I would have given thought to naming you to the position.”

That took him aback. Ned looked at the king, not sure if the man was making a jest at his expense. Rhaegar maintained his stoic expression throughout, his purple eyes searching the stars above.

“Lyanna praised you so. She said you are both wise and honorable, cautious yet strong… qualities many think I lack.” Rhaegar continued. “When I sent Jon to you, my hope was that his uncle would impart the best of himself upon my son. That somehow, between us, Jon could be forged into a prince that the realm needs him to be.”

“Catelyn writes of Jon doing well in the Riverlands.” He said. “I take no credit for it but I do take pride in my nephew. In my prince. I believe Lyanna would as well.”

“I believe that with all my heart.” Rhaegar shivered some as a cold wind blew up around them. “I knew Jon would be equal to the task. He’s part Stark after all, and that family does not balk to march into the unknown to see their duty done. Jon’s earnestness to act as a prince impressed me actually. I barely had to suggest this task to him before he took it up-”

“Suggest?” Ned turned on the king. “Jon told me that he was the one who asked you to send him south…”

“More or less, I admit that I tested him. He only offered after Richard and I put the idea in his head. It was fortuitous in a way that this crisis arose. There were other matters I thought to send Jon south to deal with were but all were far less pressing.”

“You were always going to send him south?” He asked, remembering the fear that Jon had of that very thing when Rhaegar first announced his trip to Winterfell. A fear Ned had talked him out of.

“Yes. It was time that my son began acting as a prince. The type of prince he must be and he could not do so at Winterfell. I gave him the opportunity and he took it, without being forced. It was a noble gesture that made me-”

“Noble? You dare speak of nobility?” He took a step towards Rhaegar. “You who tricks his own son?”

This was unbelievable. Somehow he’d let himself and Jon be taken in by Rhaegar’s guile, just as Lyanna had been long before. A few kind words between them and all had been forgiven. Right now Jon could be beside Robb, lending his strength to Winterfell’s care. He’d still be near Sansa, keeping her happy and denying Ned any reason to allow Roslin to stay.

It made his fists clench in anger.

“Careful my lord.” Arthur warned, pointing to his sword. That led to Alyn to stepping forward and Jory offering a warning of his.

“Watch yourself ser. That’s my lord you threaten.”

“Stop.” Rhaegar commanded, his eyes locked on Ned’s. “Must we do this again? Revert to our quarreling?”

“How can it be different?” He asked right back. “Baiting Jon into leaving, holding private meetings with an old man about gods only knows, keeping everyone in the dark at all times… you act as if being open and honest are crimes! Is it so hard for you to do the right thing? To step out of shadows? To be truthful with your own son? He deserves better! Lyanna deserved better! If she only knew-”

The blow came quickly or else Ned would’ve readied himself for it. It was a solid strike, right across his jaw, and it sent him falling back a step or two. Rhaegar held his first in front of his chest as if it were a weapon, his billowing hair doing little to hide the rage across his face.

Both Jory and Alyn gave shouts yet were stayed from pulling their swords as Arthur had already drawn his. The greatsword Dawn, pale as milkglass, divided Ned from his men as Arthur held it between them in an unspoken threat.

“Lyanna knew all that I did.” Rhaegar choked out. “She shared the burden of knowing and dreamt of our child’s place in it all. My wife put her faith in that prophecy… in me. Yet neither her knowing nor her love for me spared Lyanna in the end. I could only tell her what I knew and I knew nothing in truth. So do not speak to me about the virtues of honesty when you have no idea what truths are out there.”

“Jon has a right to know. Whatever follies you have planned for him. Jon has that right.” He unclenched his fists and held up a hand to show Jory and Alyn he was alright.

“And soon he shall. My time at the Wall is almost done.” Rhaegar lowered his own fist then. “My uncle and I have learned much in these months. Of the price that must be paid to restore what has been lost for too long now. The power that the realm needs to hold itself together against the dreaded times to come.”

The king showed them all his back again, his shoulders tensed as he faced the wind blowing down from the north.

“I was wrong about so much and could not see the truths through all I was told… now my eyes are open. My own path is laid out. This must all be shared with my children… with Daenerys most of all… I pray that this knowledge helps her more than it could Lyanna.”

It was plain that Jory and Alyn thought the king sounded mad, and Ned worried how much of Aerys had passed into Rhaegar then. Yet the man sounded more troubled than mad, more resigned than threatening.

Just like that night on the Trident… when he sought to spare us all death and folly…

Gods this man is maddening.

“Sheath your steel Arthur. Eddard and I are done with each other.” Rhaegar glanced back towards him. “You have my leave Lord Stark.”

A part of Ned wanted to press his luck. To strike the king for all this foolishness yet he held back. Cat would have thought less of him for doing so and the sight of the scar across Rhaegar's cheek reminded him of a blow that the king had never answered.

Besides, he had a greater urge in asking one last question of the king than striking him.

“If all this knowledge you speak of comes at some great cost, yet still leaves you unsure of the future, then why ever seek that path Rhaegar? Why set your children upon such a path?”

“A wise man once told me, if we only marched when victory was certain then many might never have been won.” Rhaegar’s breath came out in a cloud, disappearing in the darkness beyond. “Are we done now?”

“Yes your grace, we are done.”

Whatever anger he had towards Rhaegar paled in his disgust of how little this man trusted or knew his family. As he walked back to the lift, leaving Arthur and Rhaegar to the cold, his eyes went to the stars above them.

They shone brightly tonight. The ice dragon stood out so much, it was impossible to miss it. The sight made him yearn for Cat and his children then. When the children had been smaller, his wife would often gather them about as he pointed out the constellations. Robb and Arya would try and impress him with all they remembered, Sansa and Bran would stare up in wonderment, while Jon quietly asked him to point out Lyanna’s favorites.

He remembered most of all how Rickon would try and grab at the bright lights as Cat cradled him in her arms.

When she was still with child, Rickon remaining a mystery to them, they’d decided on a name for him while looking to the stars. All the children had ideas of their own, save Jon who was too shy to presume. Cat had laughed all the suggestions away, for Ned and she always had an agreement. He named the boys and Cat the girls, though they never decided until both agreed.

His wife had always done her best to name their daughters in the northern way. Taking inspiration from Starks of old…

“By the gods.” He said aloud as Alyn and Jory joined him in the lift. “By the gods… Cat…”

“Is something wrong my lord?” Jory asked. “Do you wish us to go and take the king to task?”

“We’ll do so if that’s what you want.” Alyn added.

“No.”

That was not what he wished for right now.

As the truth of Cat’s letters dawned upon him, the lift began to descend down the Wall. His thoughts were full of Cat in Riverrun, warm by a fire as she sang to her middle. Her sweet voice comforting a hope that he had not dared to dream of.

While Ned descended into the dark and cold, where an army and war awaited him, he kept that picture alive in his mind.

It was a truth he could cling to.

 

BRAN

 

“A monster! Save me ser!”

Myrcella’s calls for help were followed by a roar from her attacker, who raised up his claws and charged at the young girl. Backing up towards a fountain, the golden princess screamed, shielding herself from harm.

Until Bran came to save her.

“I’m here princess!” He shouted, grabbing Myrcella’s hand and pulling her away from the monster. “Follow me! I’ll protect you!”

“Thank you my brave knight!” Myrcella giggled as they began to run, leaving their pursuer struggling to catch up. “Oh he’s chasing us!”

“Get back here!” Prince Tommen growled, his hands held high and gnarled like claws. “I’m going to eat you up!”

“Only if you can catch us!” Bran called back.

Soon Bran was leading the youngest royals in a chase about the lush castle garden. Bright flowers and slender trees flew by as their excited cries and laughter rang off the walls and pillars surrounding this place. These games of monsters-and-maidens often became noisy. This was the best spot for the prince and princess to play with others. As far as it was from the busiest parts of the castle, there were few to judge their courtesies. They could act themselves here and such was how Bran grew to like the pair. It was strange to think that Myrcella and Tommen were Jon’s siblings, for they were different in almost every way.

Tommen was younger than Bran, and pudgier too, with white blonde hair cut about his ears. The prince’s eyes were a pale green, something that had taken Bran days to realize, for Tommen often kept his gaze on the ground. Though when Tommen played like this he came alive, his face flushed and his eyes full of joy.

While the prince’s laughter was nice to hear, Myrcella’s was as pretty as the songbirds that flew about this castle. All said that the princess was a beauty, taking after the queen in looks. Her blonde curls looked like spun gold while her eyes shone like polished jade. As far as Bran could tell, that’s where Myrcella’s likeness to her mother ended, for she had all the kindness and warmth that the queen lacked.

It was the princess who invited Bran to join these secret games that the royal siblings would play. Though she was older than him, Myrcella liked it most when Bran pretended to be her knight and savior, like he did now.

Which was fine by him. He liked playing Myrcella’s gallant protector.

It's like I'm a Kingsguard knight, guarding a princess. A warrior who defends maidens from fiends and outlaws.

Or monsters.

They’d gotten such a lead on Tommen that Bran had an idea to look even better in the princess’s eyes.

“Here my lady, hide here.” He led Myrcella behind a rosebush. “I’ll lead him away so you can escape.”

“My hero.” She replied, blushing and giving his hand a final squeeze.

When he pulled away Myrcella crouched down low, stifling a giggle as she did so. Tommen was calling out for them, coming closer with each moment, so Bran took off running again. He went straight towards a tree rising up near the entrance of the garden, the prince hot on his trail.

“I see you!” Tommen did his best to roar. “The monster is hungry!”

“That’s fine! Watch this!” He teased as he began to clamber up the tree. It was one of the slender southron varieties that he didn’t recognize. Its bark was far easier on his hands than those northern of pines and ironoaks.

“Hey! No climbing!” Tommen complained as Bran reached a branch strong enough to hold his weight.

“You sound like my mother!” Bran laughed. “Don’t worry monster. I’ll give you a chance!”

Bran took hold of the branch and lowered himself so that he hung just out of Tommen’s grasp. The prince laughed and jumped up over and over again to try and grab his feet. He spotted Myrcella poking her head out from her hiding place, smiling widely.

Then her eyes widened and she pointed off to his side. Bran only caught a blur of movement when someone leapt up and wrapped their arms around his legs. The surprise of the moment and the added weight wrenched Bran down from the branch. His landing would have hurt more if he didn’t have a pair of monsters to soften the fall.

The three boys were a tangled mess of limbs and groans but somehow Bran’s attacker began to chuckle.

“Ha! Got you!” Jon Royce smiled as he shoved Bran’s leg off of his head. “That will teach you to tease a prince, Stark!”

Jon was a squire like Bran, serving Ser Robar Royce, a second son of the lord of Runestone, and one of the many knights that Prince Aegon called a friend. His family of Royces were a cadet branch to the one at Runestone and Jon wore a bronze tunic very similar to theirs, save that his had two blacks swords crossed over it. The two boys were the same age but Jon was just a bit taller, with a head of honey-brown hair and a laugh that couldn’t be ignored.

Which annoyed Bran quite a bit at the moment.

“You’re a fool.” Bran winced as he rolled away from the other two. “I could’ve broken my legs!”

“I’m not a fool! I’m a monster!” Jon declared, throwing himself on top of Bran and trying to pin him down. “Say, 'Mercy please Bronze Jon! Mercy!'”

“Don’t be so rough!” Myrcella warned as she came to help Tommen up. “You’ll hurt him.”

“Not if he says mercy! A true knight will always give mercy!”

“I thought you were a monster?” Bran laughed back, struggling with the squire as he saw help arriving from the other side of the garden. “Watch out, here comes a real one.”

“Huh? Hey!” Jon cried out when Summer arrived and yanked the squire back by a bit of his shirt.

Myrcella and Tommen began to clap as the direwolf dragged their friend across the grass, Jon laughing all the while. It was a rare treat for Summer to be here, for Queen Cersei often forbade him anywhere near the youngest Targaryens. The queen was nowhere near now though, so they all took their chances.

When Summer finally released Jon, licking at his face, Myrcella proved her courage by going up to pet the wolf.

“He’s getting so big Bran!” Myrcella said as she stroked Summer’s back. “With the right saddle you could ride him.”

“Not likely.” Jon fought off Summer’s affections. “Even some horses are too wild to be ridden! I wouldn't try it with a wolf, princess.”

“Targaryens rode dragons. Wolves aren’t so scary, see Tommen?” Myrcella replied, trying to wave Tommen forward to join her in petting Summer.

Yet the prince stood firm, his eyes suddenly fearful, a shadow passing over his face. It wasn’t Summer that scared Tommen so, for the direwolf sensed something amiss as well and jerked about toward the garden entrance. When Bran did the same, he grew tense, for they weren’t alone anymore.

Prince Joffrey stood sneering in the stone archway, his companions doing much the same. Lancel Lannister had crossed his arms while the prince’s sworn shield, the Kingsguard Ser Preston Greenfield, gazed at Bran like he was a simpleton. Joffrey’s eyes were the worst of all, as green his mother’s and just as cold. He was tall for his age and dressed finely, the golden dragon sewn upon his doublet matching his hair. Bran thought that Joffrey’s clothes and hair were the best things about him, for the prince acted cruel and petty in most things. As much as he wanted to be Kingsguard someday, the thought of protecting a prince like Joffrey made Bran wary.

Summer must have felt the same, for when the prince strode forward the wolf’s eyes followed every movement.

“What’s this then? A pair of mongrels harassing the royal family?” Joffrey looked down his nose at Bran and Jon before pointing at Summer. “And who let that beast out of the kennels?”

“Aegon did… he said Summer’s behaved enough to move about the castle.” Myrcella said softly. “And they weren’t bothering us. We were just playing.”

“Dragons don’t play!” Joffrey snapped. He took hold of Tommen’s ear and gave it a vicious turn, causing the little boy to squeal. “And they don’t whimper like babies! Act like a prince!”

“Ow! Joffy stop!”

“Don’t!” Myrcella stamped her foot. “He didn’t do anything!”

While the siblings begged mercy Ser Preston merely watched. Bran thought for sure that the Kingsguard would do something to defend Tommen yet Joffrey was free to continue tormenting his little brother. When the boy began to cry, his face twisted in pain, Bran couldn’t take it.

“Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

“What did you say to me?” Joffrey glared at him, tightening his grip on Tommen. “I’m the son of the king! Everyone is mine to torment, so don’t you dare look at me with such insolence!”

“Tommen is the son of the king too! Let him be!” Bran took a step forward and only then did Ser Preston act, moving to shove him back with a steel gauntlet.

“Watch your tongue squire, lest you-”

Summer’s growl brought a pall of silence down upon the group. The direwolf bared his teeth and lowered himself in a threatening way, the hairs on his neck rising up. Gasping in fear, Joffrey released Tommen and Ser Preston moved his hand to his sword.

“Is that beast threatening the prince?” The knight demanded.

“Perhaps he just smells something foul!” A call rang out from a walkway which circled about the edge of the garden. Tyrion Lannister’s voice rose far higher than he stood, the dwarf lord entering the garden with a slight hop from his stubby legs. Behind him came a man named Bronn, Tyrion’s personal sellsword .

“The wolf may have detected the distinct scent of a princeling acting like a little shit.” Lord Tyrion said as he and his man took up a position between Joffrey’s group and the children. “Tommen, come here lad, let your brother go and find some other innocent creature to torment.”

“You can’t tell me where to go!” Joffrey shot back and Tyrion laughed.

“Oh don’t remind me! There are plenty of places I’d tell you to go if I could. Lucky for your siblings here, my dear sister is looking for them. It is time to prepare for the welcoming meal Prince Aegon is throwing to honor the newly arrived highborns from the Stormlands. You there, the Royce lad, please see Myrcella and Tommen on their way, would you?”

Jon shot Bran a worried glance but did as the lord asked, leading Myrcella and Tommen away. The prince was weeping as his sister cradled his head to her shoulder.

“Young Bran is it?” Tyrion asked and he nodded. “Come along then, Ser Oswell sought a pair of direwolves as well.”

Bran did as he was told and waved Summer along so that they could follow the dwarf and his sellsword. He didn’t like the way Joffrey was glaring at him one bit and Bran found himself glaring right back at the prince.

“That was foolish lad.” Bronn said. “The Gilded Prince back there don’t take kindly to people challenging him. They end up uglier for it.”

“It’s true. Since I’m ugly enough already, leave challenging my nephew to me.” Tyrion piped up with a laugh before clapping Bran on the shoulder. “Though I thank you for doing as you did. Many a squire would not be so brave, even if some would call such bravery reckless.”

“I like Tommen… and Ser Preston wasn’t stopping Joffrey.” He shook his head. “He should have, shouldn’t he?”

“The Kingsguard protect the royal family, but not necessarily from each other.”

No, that can’t be right, Bran thought, the ser would have protected Tommen.

Knights protect the innocent, they help women and children.

Unfortunately for him the first thing Ser Oswell did when he saw Bran was to cuff him upside the head.

Apparently Bran was supposed to be attending this welcoming feast too and he looked too shabby to do so without cleaning first. He didn’t really think it was fair to get in trouble for something he was just now being told about, but he kept quiet.

It was just another thing about the capital that didn’t make sense to him.

The weather was warm and sunny, the gardens lush and beautiful, yet people seemed happiest indoors and whispering about each other. The city held more people than he had ever seen, from all different parts of the realm, but only Daenerys and Prince Aegon ever took the time to talk to any of them. The royals weekly processions to the Great Sept often had Aegon stopping to speak with the smallfolk, and sometimes Daenerys gave Bran and the others copper pennies to hand out to beggars in the king’s name.

Princess Rhaenys didn’t like it when Aegon did such things. She was always snapping at Ser Oswell and the other guards to keep a closer watch. That was better than how Queen Cersei acted though. She kept herself and her children firmly hidden in their litter, the Lannister guardsmen beating those who didn’t move out of the way swiftly enough.

The way the royal family treated each other was worse still. At Winterfell, Bran and his siblings would fight now and again but they got along more often than not. Yet the Targaryens could barely stand being in the same room together. Aegon and Rhaenys kept different friends and company than the Queen and Joffrey, with Daenerys, Tommen, and Myrcella often stuck in the middle.

A small company of Lannister guards had their own rooms in the Red Keep and they often traded barbs with the personal guards of Aegon and Rhaenys. During petitions, the friends of the queen and the crown prince would stand at opposite sides of hall. Ser Oswell rarely spoke of his worries but the ser was clearly bothered by all this. If Bran wasn’t training with the other squires in the practice yard, or doing the ser’s bidding, he was forbidden from going about the castle alone.

Which was fine by him, for it offered Bran an excuse to seek out Princess Daenerys and Elara.

His silver princess had welcomed his visits with open arms, she and Elara often happy to guide him about the Red Keep. They told him the history behind the Maidenvault, whispered to him of secret passages, and laughed to show him the skulls of long dead dragons, for he’d gaped at the sheer size of Balerion the Black Dread's gaping jaws.

In truth he spent more time with Elara than Daenerys, who often left to have her private talks with the other royals.

People looked and acted differently around Elara when the princess wasn’t nearby. Some even went so far as to crinkle their noses as the lady passed them in halls, which Bran thought was too rude to ignore. Elara usually laughed it off, though he noticed they spent a lot of time in her chambers, away from prying eyes. They would talk about Starfall and Winterfell and how much they missed their homes. Mostly Elara would tell him tales of sorcerers and shadowbinders that she’d learned from Marwyn.

Bran really wanted to meet the strange maester, especially after Elara showed him the gift that Marwyn had given her.

A white raven, of the kind that the maesters used to announce the changing of the seasons. The large white bird sat on a perch in Elara’s room, its black eyes watching him as curiously as Bran watched it.

“What’s its name?” He’d asked the first time that Elara had shown him the raven.

“She doesn’t have one. Marywn told me to try training it without a name.” Elara had shrugged. “Something about testing my skills, an experiment or something. Marwyn’s an odd old bird himself, not normal at all. Just like this raven. The white ones are supposed to be much smarter than their black cousins. Here, watch.”

Elara had tapped twice on a table top and the bird flew across the room to land on her shoulder. Three quick taps sent the raven flying to the top of her window, so it could watch them at a safe height again.

“She’ll fly out my window now and then but she always comes back. I like to watch her flying, she’s so graceful in the air… sometimes I dream I’m flying like she does.”

“I dream I’m a wolf!” He’d spoken truthfully, for it was new to hear someone else having such dreams. “You should name her though. I mean, she’s trained now isn't she? And you didn’t like it when Summer didn’t have a name.”

“Oh, are you saying you named Summer to please me?” Elara had asked with a smirk.

He didn’t think she should know that he’d named his wolf because of Daenerys, for all the hope that his silver princess filled him with, like the brightest summer. He'd flushed fiercely at first, unable to think of an answer, but in the end Elara had laughed and touched his chin playfully.

“Fine then. If the Winged Wolf wants me to name my bird, I think I’ve got one that fits pretty well.” She’d held out her arm and whistled, the raven flying down to land upon it. “Well hello there Winter. Be wary now. A Stark is coming.”

Bran hadn’t liked being teased but thought the name fit well enough. It made Elara smile some, which was rare enough when the princess wasn’t around. The lady missed Roslin and for some reason Jackie was usually somewhere else when Daenerys wasn’t around.

It would be good if that new lady and Elara become friends, he thought, even if she is so strange looking.

As he dressed quickly, wearing the itchy clothes that mother had forced him to bring to the capital, his thoughts turned to Lady Brienne. He wondered if these clothes made him look as uncomfortable as Lady Brienne did when she’d arrived at the Red Keep.

Prince Aegon and Lord Renly were good friends, so it made sense that the lord was trying to help with some of the problems in the Stormlands. Apparently many of the stormlords liked Renly and he’d arranged it for them to send their children to the capital as signs of fealty to the throne.

Bran had been in the training yard when they’d arrived. A score of highborns riding through the gates of the castle, all gazing about in wonder. All save one, a monstrously large woman whose eyes stayed on the ground the whole time. She looked as strong as the ser and dressed in men's clothes rather than a lady’s.

Prince Aegon and Renly had been there to welcome the new arrivals, with a number of ladies to take charge of the girls. Lady Margaery and Princess Rhaenys led the way in picking new companions from among the group, yet none came for Lady Brienne.

The lady’s face had reddened with embarrassment, her shoulders slumping, and Bran had felt bad for her. That was until Daenerys arrived and after a few short words with Aegon had taken Brienne on her arm. His silver princess led the large woman away herself, laughing and talking with her.

Bran had been curious and wanted to chase after them but he and the others were put back to practicing right away.

All under the watchful gaze of the Red Keep’s master-at-arms, Ser Alliser Thorne. The cheerful knight taught everyone, from warriors grown to lowly squires like Bran and Jon. They trained with the young boys of the castle like Dickon Tarly and Lyman Darry. While Ser Oswell would always be his favorite teacher, it was good to practice under Ser Alliser, for the old knight made it more fun than any teacher that Bran ever had.

“That’s a good lad Tarly! Keep him on his toes!” Alliser would laugh as he moved about his charges. “Watch that elbow Stark! Else Bronze Jon there will get his blade right by you!”

If ever one of the boys embarrassed themselves, or had a particularly rough day in the yard, Ser Alliser would be at his side, clapping the boy on the back.

“How can you be so down my lad? Why, I’m an old man, well past my glory days, and I can’t see a reason to be in such spirits. We’re basking under the summer sun, living in the reign of the greatest ruler since the Old King himself! I get to teach the finest heirs and squires that can be, you among them my good boy! Revel in that! Be young! One day you might be a knight! Smile for the future ahead of you. Remember these good days for when there might be dark ones.”

Alliser wouldn’t stop until he got a smile out of his charges, one he would return with laughter.

Bran found him much the same in the feasting hall, Ser Alliser grinning ear to ear as he spoke with Monford Velaryon and Ser Balman Byrch. There were hundreds in attendance and table after table was filled. The guests were seated based on station, all leading to where the high table rose up above the rest. It stood empty now, for the royal family had yet to arrive and thus Ser Oswell was missing as well.

Bran spotted his friend Jon at the best of the tables, near to where the Tyrells sat. Lord Mace was laughing at some jest told by Renly while Margaery and Loras smiled to speak with Robar. While his friend enjoyed a seat near to Robar, Bran noticed Elara far down the line of tables. Their eyes met and she pointed and smirked, silently mocking his clothes. He stuck his tongue back at her but was happy to see an empty seat on her right.

When he made to join Elara though, a steward held out his hand to bar the way.

“Be you Brandon Stark? Squire to Ser Oswell Whent?”

“I didn’t do anything.” He protested, pointing towards Jon. “If it’s about what happened in the kitchens, it was Jon’s idea! He said he had a plan-”

“This way young master.” The man ignored his words and forced him along. “Her royal princess has set aside a seat for you.”

Daenerys wanted me to have a special place? Over everyone else?

His heart pounded in his chest as he was led by Elara, who looked disappointed until she turned her gaze away from him. The seat he was led to had the Tyrells directly across from him while Lord Arryn and his family were to Bran's right. His aunt Lysa barely spared him a glance. She hadn't taken much interest in him since he arrived, as her time was entirely devoted to doting over her sickly son, a thin, pale boy who never joined the others for practice. Still it was a fine seat and he was glad for it.

Though nothing compared to the splendor of the Targaryens when they entered.

All stood as heralds bellowed out the arrival of the royal family, though they did not walk in as one. From the right side of the hall came Queen Cersei and her children, Joffrey holding his chin high like his mother while Myrcella led Tommen by his hand. Rhaenys and Aegon entered from the left, the prince with his sister on his arm while Daenerys followed behind, chatting with the Kingsguard knights.

A large empty chair separated where the two parties met at the table, with Aegon and Cersei sitting to either side. The queen and the prince barely looked at one another yet Myrcella had caught Bran's attention. She waved at him quickly, her green eyes and bright smile pleasant to see. Acting like it was some conspiracy, Bran waved as well, pretending to play with his collar as he did so.

Myrcella blushed and Tommen giggled.

“Well hello again lad.” Lord Tyrion’s voice interrupted the moment, for the dwarf lord was climbing into the empty seat to Bran’s left. “I’m glad someone chose a companion for me that compliments my noble stature.”

“The-the princess did…” He said haltingly which Tyrion found entertaining.

“Then we must thank her, for now we both get to bask in the warmth of my sister and nephew’s gentle gazes.”

Tyrion wiggled his fingers up towards the high table where the Queen and Joffrey were glowering at him.

“Lovely people really. Care for some wine?” He asked and Bran shook his head. “Pity, figured any boy that squires for Ser Scowlsalot would have a healthy need for distraction.”

“The ser is making me into a knight my lord, and he’s kind about it too.”

“Compared to mine own family, I do not doubt that Whent is gentle as a puppy. Do tell him I said so.”

Bran wasn’t going to be doing that any time soon. Not with how unhappy the ser looked right now. He stood with Ser Barristan and the scarred Ser Richard, all guarding Aegon’s end of the table. At the other side stood Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Preston, who eyed both Tyrion and Bran with disdain.

“Don’t pay too much mind to Preston, it draws the eye from Richard Horpe.” Tyrion gently urged Bran to look the dour knight’s way. “Very skilled with a blade but frightening to look at. Of course my dear sister protested vigorously to add such a man to the Kingsguard. Cersei does not hold much love in her heart for ugly things.”

“Being a true knight and a good swordsman is all that matters.” He said. “It’s all that should matter…”

“Well, luckily for Richard, a princess’s wishes matter just a bit more. As soon as Cersei made her feelings known, Rhaenys begged King Rhaegar for the scarred slayer. She spoke of honoring the Stormlands, showing grace, respecting ability, all far less interesting reasons than simply annoying my sister. A cause I can always get behind.”

Bran was already thinking of writing to Sansa about all of this when Tyrion diverted his gaze toward the Tyrells, where Renly and Loras were laughing.

“Speaking of getting behind things.” Tyrion smirked. “I’ve noticed you riding with Aegon and his dearest friends over there. Is it my mistake or have some new additions been made to that little group? Perhaps you can tell me about them, they all seem to be of the fairer sex.”

Riding with Prince Aegon’s entourage was one of Bran’s favorite things to do. Renly and Loras would often lead their party, sometimes disappearing into the fields and trees for a time. The prince would jest with Oswell and Robar, jumping his horse over fences and rocks in fine displays of horsemanship. Sometimes the men would place wagers on whether Bran or Jon could win in a horse race or ride down a fleeing hare first. Aegon even patted Bran's back when Summer helped them bring down a boar in the Kingswood.

The hunts and daring feats had become rarer of late, ever since the women had joined in their rides. Princess Rhaenys had started it by bringing Lady Margaery and her ladies along. Aegon hadn’t seemed pleased at first, Bran had overheard him warning Rhaenys from riding for her health, yet he'd ended up permitting it anyway. Long gone were the races between the menfolk, for Aegon wished to go at a leisurely pace and enjoy most of the time in the company of Lady Margaery.

As the food was served, the lady had the attention of all the men around her and several from across the gap in the tables. Margaery’s softly curling brown hair brought out the similar shade of her gentle eyes. She looked very much like her brother Loras, only far prettier and with a woman’s shape.

The thought caused Bran to blush.

“I know the feeling.” Tyrion mused as a plate of capons was put before them. “A feast for the eyes and stomach this evening. We should enjoy it, the high times are sure to come crashing down soon enough.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, let us ask your good uncle shall we? Lord Arryn!” Tyrion leaned forward to catch the attention of the lord at Bran’s side. “Hello there! It appears that no one told your nephew here of our dear Hand’s return to the capital or what news comes from across the Narrow Sea. Young Bran seems quite put out.”

The old lord scowled at the words and thumped his goblet down.

“I’m not put out! I swear!” Bran protested but Lord Arryn’s bushy eyebrows were furrowed towards Tyrion.

“It still amazes me how the small council’s private business becomes public in the bat of an eye.” The lord grumbled. “Jon Connington will be in the capital within the week, and I for one welcome the return of the Hand’s good sense.”

“Connington’s movements are far less interesting than those of Robert Baratheon though.” Tyrion countered, chewing on a mouthful of capon. “So the Golden Company is in Pentos then. Are they to war with Braavos? Myr? Fend off the Dothraki again?”

“I am not kept abreast of Robert’s plans.” Lord Arryn seemed embarrassed to speak of it.

“Seems like a smart thing to do, when old Robert has ten thousand sellswords backing him. That and a fierce hatred for dragons and those who’ve slighted him-”

“Watch your mouth.” The lord’s face drained of life. “To speak so in front of this boy, you will scare Ned’s son.”

“I’m not scared.” He offered.

I’m confused but I’m not scared, Robert Baratheon couldn’t beat the ser in a fight.

Or Arthur Dayne. The Sword of Morning would cut him down in a heartbeat.

The rest of their conversation was cut short by the coming of a royal steward, who urged Bran out of his seat and towards the high table. He assumed the ser needed something of him but instead he was brought to stand below Aegon and Rhaenys.

Bowing quickly, he looked to Daenerys, expecting some sort of explanation but she acted just as confused.

“Bran! I hope you’re enjoying the meal.” The prince smiled down at him. “We were about to welcome our new guests from the Stormlands when I remembered that we never probably did so for you.”

“I’m a squire your grace, I don’t need a welcome.”

“Oh ho! There’s Oswell’s influence right there.” Aegon smiled. “Is my protector treating you well? Any complaints from the only Stark within the Red Keep?”

“None my prince! I’m happy to serve!” Bran grinned.

“Which prince do you serve, I wonder?” Princess Rhaenys raised an eyebrow. “From all I here, the Starks are quite fond of my father’s northern son. Do you wish it was Jon sitting here instead of Aegon?”

Bran was dumbstruck by the question and what he might have done to offend the princess. The ser came to his rescue though, his rough voice coming from the end of the table.

“The boy is not permitted wishes or dreams, he serves me and I serve the royal family your grace. I dare say that none do so more loyally than this lad, and the Starks keep the faith well enough. Your father has seen that himself, thus the arrangements he’s made-”

“Arrangements! Yes, let’s speak of those Bran. How do you enjoy your seating arrangements?” Rhaenys asked, her eyes moving towards Tyrion. “I saw you and the Lannister speaking earlier... I thought it only polite to let you continue growing so close. Where we could keep our eyes on you, of course.”

“That was after that beast of his threatened Joffrey.” Cersei spoke up. “I want that monster removed from the castle. It might have killed Tommen or Myrcella.”

“Lord Tyrion is quite fearsome.” Rhaenys smirked and the queen narrowed her eyes.

“You know full well I speak of that direwolf. It’s a menace to my children.”

“Summer would never hurt them! He was protecting us!” Bran protested.

“Joffrey says that he was the one who protected his siblings from that monster.” Cersei ignored Bran and put a hand on her son’s shoulder. Rhaenys guffawed at the last statement.

“A stand off between monsters? I’m sorry I missed it.”

“I doubt you missed much sister.” Aegon frowned. “Much of this tale likely goes unsaid. Like how my half-brother goes from tormenting defenseless creatures to braving a direwolf.”

“You dare-”

“I do more than dare step-mother, I rule.” Aegon was firm and his gaze cold towards the queen. “Until my father or the Hand return, it is my word which commands here. The direwolf shall remain free, for it is has done less harm in this castle than others I could speak of. Now, I was talking to the squire, a son of a fine house, if you would forgive me.”

With that Aegon turned his attention back to Bran, his expression warming suddenly. The prince made a few more kindhearted inquiries and a jest or two before he honored Bran by letting him join Ser Oswell for the rest of the ceremony. Daenerys grinned as he passed by but his ser scowled.

“Summer best be locked up in your chambers boy.” The ser said. “I warned you about letting him roam free in this castle.”

“He is, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone ser.”

“I’m more afraid for his safety lad.” The ser countered. “A certain prince may have been talking of desiring a direwolf pelt in the corridors earlier.”

Bran's anger towards Joffrey was interrupted when heralds began summoning the newest arrivals from the Stormlands to present themselves before the high table. Young lords and ladies were paraded up one at a time by their courtly minders, each being given the same welcome he’d received. The feasting and laughter went on during all of this, save until the last pair made their way to the front and all began to gawk.  

It was Lady Brienne who’d taken the empty seat beside Elara, who now led the shy lady before the royals. Bran got angry at how many people were snickering and pointing but something else caught his eye then. High in the rafters, he’d spotted a flurry of movement, a pair of white wings flapping as a pale shape moved through the shadows above.

Below, Elara was curtsying as Brienne bowed before Aegon, who looked amused by the display. The Queen was not so generous.

“Is that what they consider courtesy at Tarth? For a lady to bow as a man?”

“That’s a lady?” Joffrey called out loudly. “I thought it was the Mountain!”

Loud, cruel laughter rose up from the tables and Brienne’s cheeks flushed. Nowhere near as red as Elara’s though.

“And I thought princes were taught to treat ladies with respect!”

“Well said!” Aegon slammed a fist down on the table as Joffrey sputtered in rage. “For Lady Brienne is my guest and it is welcome we offer her! Not childish gapes!”

“I apologize your grace.” Brienne spoke quietly. “Surely it was I who was at fault.”

“There, sense is spoken!” Cersei nodded. “I shall not hold your manners against you, the company you keep is no fault of your own. Likely that is why you do not wear a proper gown, for fear of it being dirtied.”

“With sand perhaps.” Joffrey added, smirking at Elara. “Nothing worse than sand. It gets everywhere, as if it doesn’t know its proper place…”

“Like a third born son should know his!” Daenerys said with anger. “With Arthur Dayne so far from here you do grow bold Joffrey. The good ser shall return though. A fierce protector indeed-”

“Enough.” Aegon warned but Cersei wasn’t done.

“Who said anything about Daynes? Joffrey was speaking of sand. Elara here was legitimized by my husband was she not?”

“Father should return quickly!” Joffrey pushed away from the table to point down at his feet. “I believe I stepped in the makings of a new lady by the stables!”

The prince had gone too far then. Some in the hall still laughed but more gasped. Aegon and Daenerys both rose from their seats in anger yet it was Elara he watched now. Her face had been a cloud of fury only a moment before, yet now it became oddly calm. When she swayed slightly, he took a step forward expecting her to faint.

And that was when something else fell from the rafters and right onto Joffrey’s head. A thick ribbon of bird shit spraying across his golden locks.

The prince leapt to his feet in shock, every eye in the hall now falling on him. As he reached up, trembling to touch at the filth dribbling down his face, Rhaenys began to laugh. Then Aegon. Barristan and Oswell followed suit until the entire hall boomed with the bellowing laughter of the entire court.

Bran wasn’t laughing though, neither was Cersei, for they both watched the white raven flying away towards the open window of the hall.

“Mother!” Joffrey wailed and the Queen went to him, grabbing her golden prince and ushering him from the hall under the continuing gale of laughter.

“Beware the songbirds my prince!” Renly called out. “Their voices be sweet and their leavings quite foul!”

“It’s a good look for you!” Rhaenys cackled. “Now you live up to your reputation!”

If he hadn’t been so close to Elara, Bran would’ve missed her words in the commotion. Elara wasn’t laughing but she smiled her most beautiful smile, one of genuine happiness.

“Enjoy your crown Joffrey, it’s the only one you’re worthy of wearing.”

He was glad the Queen and Joffrey were gone then. Though some Lannisters still lingered, Tyrion holding his belly and slamming a fist into the table as he laughed. It was Lancel that Bran worried on though, for the man had been standing near the high table too and looked to have heard Elara’s words. His stomach tightened when the Lannister squire strode from the hall.

When the laughter died down, all returned to their seats and the feast continued on, without the queen and the prince. From his place beside Tyrion, Bran watched as Aegon waved Myrcella and Tommen to take the empty chairs and take small sips of his wine. Monford Velaryon told a grand tale of defeating a pirate prince along the Stepstones while Renly did impressions of his brothers that had people spitting out their wine. Bran kept his eyes on Elara though, for something was bothering him.

She meant for Winter to do that... but how did she do it?

There was nothing to tap against and she didn’t whistle.

Did Marwyn teach her some trick? Maybe Summer could learn it. I wonder if Elara would teach me?

He would have to wait until the morning, for Lord Arryn kept him busy. The kindly old lord was happy to hear stories of father smiling, or when Robb and Bran would make his head hurt. By the time the ser bid Bran to retire the hour was drawing late. He was close to bursting with food and Bran took notice of how many had already left. Elara and Brienne were long gone, the same for Renly and Loras. Daenerys lingered alongside Rhaenys and Aegon, all listening as Leonette Fossoway played the high harp and Margaery sang along, quite beautifully.

If his stomach didn’t hurt so much, he might have asked to stay but Bran followed the ser’s command.

The corridors of the Red Keep were lined by torches but some parts were darker than others. He knew the suits of armor were empty yet he still kept his distance from the ones in the darker corners. Bran felt jumpy all of a sudden, though he wasn't sure why. This castle was no Winterfell but it hadn’t treated him badly, yet something felt off.

The air felt wrong, like there was some chill in it. A threat he couldn’t see.

There were few if any people in this part of the castle, for most of the highborn had chambers elsewhere. Elara’s room was near though and thus it was little surprise to see her walking far ahead, likely heading to the princess’s rooms for her evening dressing.

I’ll escort her there! A knight wouldn’t let a lady walk about the castle alone in the dark.

Then I can ask her about Winter’s trick…

He wanted to yell but imagined someone sleeping nearby might take offense. So he began to run after Elara as she turned a corner in the corridor and disappeared from his sight. Yet when he rounded that corner, he found only another empty hallway. There was no way Elara was that fast but he ran to the other end where it branched off again and saw no sign of the lady either way he looked. Turning back the way he came, Bran saw something odd, a dark shape on the stone floor he’d missed before. Walking towards it he found the shape to be a shoe, a lady’s shoe.

No ladys have any chambers in this corridor… these are all storerooms…

A muffled sound caused him to jump, for it sounded like a girl trying to scream. A series of grunts followed. Then the harsh sound of a slap and a cry. It was all coming from the closed door of a storeroom near to where he found the shoe. When he pushed it open slowly, he saw some light within and the sounds of a struggle grew all the louder. Shelves full of bagged grain and other foodstuffs led the way within, to where a torch burned behind a curtained off area. As he made his way within the room, the voices became more clear.

“Hold the slut down! I can’t get it in if she keeps squirming.”

“Joffrey, I’m not sure about this… what of Ser Arthur-”

“Shut up Lancel. No one will believe this Dornish bastard over me. Now do as I say or I won’t let you have seconds. Preston hold her dammit!”

Bran recognized the grunt that followed. All the voices he knew well, even the strained cries of the woman. When he came to the curtain, he drew it aside to peak within, finding all he expected and feared. Ser Preston and Lancel stood holding a struggling, half-naked girl down, face first upon a table. Behind her, Prince Joffrey stood with his pants around his ankles, gripping the girl’s bucking hips with one hand and reaching between them with the other.

Lancel’s hand pressed a cloth over Elara’s mouth as she fought and screamed in vain. Her tear-filled eyes were wild, her nails scratching against the rough wood of the table. They’d torn her dress down from her chest and her skirts were thrown up over her naked backside.

Get help… you need to get help… they’re hurting her…

All that fell apart when Elara’s eyes found his. He’d never seen her so scared. Her eyes pleaded with him, in his heart he could feel it. Then her eyes widened and Joffrey laughed.

“There it is… think you can shame me in front of the court? Well let me plant some shame in that bastard belly of yours-”

“Monster!” Bran roared, leaping out from the behind the curtain and ripping Joffrey away Elara.

The three attackers were so dazed at his sudden appearance that he had the upper hand at first. The ser always told him to use good fortune when it smiled on him, so as the taller prince struggled to come to grips with who touched him, Bran struck. It was a good solid punch, like Robb and Jon had taught him, right into Joffrey’s eye. His knuckle screamed in pain as it glanced off bone and Joffrey cried out.

Elara was free then, rising up and slashing across Lancel’s face with her nails, leaving four deep cuts across his cheek. Bran was going to help her with that fight when the side of his head exploded in pain.

“You strike a prince?” Ser Preston’s voice boomed as he cocked his fist for another blow.

“He’s hurting-”

The man’s fist cut off the rest of his words, driving into his face and sending Bran flailing down upon the filthy floor. His nose and mouth were pouring blood and he began to weep despite himself. From the pain, but also from the unfairness of it all.

Knights were supposed to protect people. Not hurt girls. Not punch boys who help them.

“Get him on his feet!” Joffrey shouted and Preston did as he was told, yanking Bran up and clamping a bloodied hand over his mouth.

“Leave him!” Elara screamed as Lancel held her in a bear hug, trying to get his hand over her mouth only for her to bite his hand. “Help! Rape! Help us!”

“Quiet the cunt!” Joffrey raged as he touched the thin trickle of blood that fell from the small cut above his eye. “You made me bleed you fucking wolf shit.”

Bran tried to fight his way free, his face throbbing, forced to swallow the blood collecting in his mouth. Somewhere, from the world beyond the room, he thought he heard Summer howling.

“Do you know what the punishment is for striking a member of the royal family?” Joffrey asked, spitting in his face. “Do you?”

Summer… Summer I need you…

“A hand for a strike. A foot for a kick. That’s too kind… far too kind.”

“Help!” Elara had freed her mouth again. “Leave him alone Joffrey, please! Help us!!”

“A hand for sure but he struck my eye…” Joffrey mused, a terrifying smile coming across his face when his eyes fell upon a dagger on the ground. “Ah yes… the bastard’s weapon. She tried to fend us off with it. Mind if I use this?”

While Elara screamed back at him, Joffrey plucked the dagger from the ground and turned his horrible gaze on Bran. As the prince stepped closer, Bran wished the ser was here. He would save them for sure.

“Hold open his eye.”

As Preston forced his left eye open, Bran wished his father was here.

“No Joffrey!” Elara was sobbing. “It’s me you want to hurt! Hurt me! Not him!”

“An eye for an eye.” Joffrey sneered as he raised the blade up.

Bran could barely see it through his frightened tears. He wished his mother was here.

“Bran! Bran look at me!” A kind voice begged him. “Look at me Bran! Go away! Go far away Bran! Don’t do this Joffrey! Please no! Someone help us!”

No help came though.

No help and none of the people that Bran wanted to come. His mind screamed for the ser. For his parents.

Daenerys. Robb. Arya. Sansa. Jon.

No one came.

Only a monster. A dagger’s sharp end. A cruel pain.

And his own screams.

Chapter 10

Summary:

Many scream out for justice, others whisper of betrayal.

Sons and daughters trying to act their parts in it all.

DAENERYS

“No Joffrey… stop… help…”

She could barely hear Bran's voice as he rolled back and forth on Ser Oswell's bed. He was having another nightmare it seemed, and as sad as that was to see, Dany didn’t think it could compare to the horrors that the boy had survived.

“Hush Bran, hush now. I’m here.” Elara spoke softly, making soothing sounds as she touched a cool cloth above the boy’s bandaged face. “You’re safe with me.”

Bran’s left eye was heavily wrapped, a bit of fabric running diagonal across his head and cheek. Oswell’s austere chambers offered little in the way of comforts but the knight had kindly offered them nonetheless. Beside the bed lay a pallet where Oswell had been sleeping while his squire recovered. His duties as a Kingsguard kept him from standing vigil over Bran for the moment, so Summer and Elara did so in his stead.

Summer was lying down below Bran’s feet, whining now and again as his master whimpered and cried. While Aegon had sent the Grand Maester himself to tend to Bran’s hurts, he could not spare Oswell during these troubled times. Daenerys had no such qualms in releasing Elara to Bran’s care.

“Mother… mother it hurts…” Bran reached up and Elara took his hand in hers. “Sansa… help…”

“Your mother loves you Bran. She wrote you a letter.” The lady whispered back. “She wanted us to tell you to be strong. That she loves you deeply.”

Daenerys still remembered how she had found them that horrible night.

Barristan had just led her from the feast when she’d hear the howl. It was not her imagination, for others standing in the corridors had paused at the sound as well. She’d immediately thought it to be Summer but the wolf had not howled since they left the North.

Her protector had urged caution yet her interest was peaked, so they’d travelled towards Bran’s chambers. She figured they could stop by Elara’s rooms on the way and see how badly she’d taken Cersei and Joffrey’s cruelty. Sadly, when they reached that part of the castle, she learned that their cruelty was far worse than imaginable.

Barristan spotted Summer first, the wolf bounding down the corridor, his fangs bared in threat. The knight had thrown her back against the wall but the wolf ran right by them, set on a destination ahead. Of course she ordered that they follow.

Straight towards the sounds of screaming and cries of fear and pain. A crowd had formed around one of the storerooms, men and women talking excitedly and pointing. Suddenly Joffrey and his henchmen had broken through that cordon, startling everyone. Lancel’s face was clawed up but it was the prince who bled profusely. His hands were wet and red and his right arm was horribly savaged. Joffrey's weeping overshadowed all other voices for a moment before Lancel carried him away with Ser Preston following, pointing his sword behind them as if fearing pursuit.

They had let them go, for Dany then recognized the voices still screaming from the storeroom. Elara and Bran’s wailing still came back to her each night. The image of what she found in that storeroom haunted her dreams. The pair lying together on the blood-stained floors of the chamber, Elara half naked and weeping as she clutched a screaming Bran in her arms. Summer paced back and forth, his mouth and muzzle bloody and a deep gash running along his side.

From where she stood, she could see that Bran had been beaten, for the right side of his face was black and blue, with blood smeared over his soft lips. It was only when she went to help him that the true horror was revealed.

Bran had turned to look at her then. Where once a bright, blue, innocent eye had gazed at her with kindness, now there was only a ghastly hole. A dark pit which wept rivets of blood as Elara’s own tears fell upon the boy’s face.

The Grand Maester was able to ease some of Bran’s pain, yet there was little he could do for the eye. It was gone. Daenerys had seen it herself on the floor of the storeroom. The memory of that sight was still hard to think on, though not as much as some of Bran’s treatment. Watching Oswell and Barristan hold the boy down while the Grand Maester stuck a hot poker in the empty hole had been too much.

With his screams echoing in her ears she'd fled the room, retching in a corner. Elara had stayed though, watching the whole thing despite the horror. Despite the smell of burning flesh.

As strong as I’ve tried to be, I couldn’t face that… the suffering of such a sweet boy…

“Jon has ridden out to pursue Joffrey.” Dany said, coming over to join Elara’s side. “His letter made it sound like half the Riverlands have joined him. Barristan claims the Blackfish himself has joined the chase, that Ser Brynden is charging west down the Gold Road-”

“Dany, don’t.” Elara shook her head. “He doesn’t need to hear that.”

That took her back. If anyone had interest in bringing Joffrey to justice, it was these two.

“Brynden Tully is Bran’s great uncle, a knight of renown and storied ability. He will surely track down Joffrey and his party.”

“I said don’t.” Elara glared at her. “Bran doesn’t need your false hope Daenerys. Cersei’s golden monster won't be held to account for any of this, you know that. The king couldn’t even imprison his brother for trying to kidnap you, do you think he’ll treat his own son any different? For trying to rape a bastard? For blinding a foolish little squire who tried to help her? The brave, stupid boy… I-I wanted him to run… I prayed that he would run… I wasn't worth it… I'm not worth it.”

“Elara.” Dany cupped her friend’s cheeks as her tears began to fall. “I promise, no matter what it takes to convince Rhaegar, Joffrey will pay. One way or another.”

Whether her friend took heart in those words she couldn’t tell, for Bran gasped again and Elara’s attention was immediately drawn away. Dany wanted to stay longer but Aegon and Rhaenys were waiting on her, their messenger implying that it was a matter of great urgency. So, with a kiss to Elara’s cheek and Bran’s brow, she left the suffering pair to their pain.

So she could act a princess.

Outside the chamber she found a party of guardians waiting, Barristan and Brienne included. Ser Robar and his squire supported the five Targaryen guardsmen gathered about, all armed and armored for a fight.

As well they should be, she thought, for as long as Aegon and Cersei feud, it would be unsafe otherwise.

The Red Keep is less a castle now than an armed camp.

“How is he?” Barristan asked.

“Not well… but better than he was.” She answered sadly. “Ser Robar, I shall leave two of my men here to act as an escort to Lady Elara. She is not leave these rooms without protection.”

“As you wish your grace.” Robar answered. “Lady Dayne shall be as safe under my care as the Stark boy.”

Her remaining guardsmen took up positions in front and behind her, with only Barristan and Brienne permitted at her sides. Such was how she departed the White Sword tower, which contained the chambers of the Kingsguard. Even here, in parts of the castle firmly in their grasp, Rhaenys was insistent that she be well-protected.

It had been like this since the attack. While Daenerys had been concerned with helping her friends, and many others stunned by Joffrey’s violence, Cersei had moved swiftly.

By the time Ser Arys Oakheart and Loras Tyrell had led a party to arrest Joffrey, the prince and his accomplices had already fled the castle and even the city itself. They were last seen riding hard from the Lion's Gate, straight to the Westerlands and the safety of Tywin Lannister’s protection.

Fearful that Cersei might try and take the castle itself, Rhaenys had set her men to removing Lannister guardsmen from every place of importance. That had not gone over well. By the time the sun had risen, a score of men lay dead and three times more wounded. Aegon’s men held most of the castle but Cersei had taken Tommen and Myrcella and retreated with the rest of her men to the Tower of the Hand.

The fighting had not stayed limited to the Red Keep either. According to Varys’s little birds, Cersei had sent men out with coin in their purses and vile rumors on their tongues, to rally support for the Queen amongst the commons. Street fighting had erupted throughout the city, with even some of the gold cloaks taking sides against one another.

While Mace Tyrell had gathered up his family and joined many others in fleeing the capital, others had thankfully stayed. Some to support one side over the other, like Renly and Loras, others to simply keep the peace itself. That it had not come to open warfare already was thanks almost entirely to the work of Jon Arryn and, surprisingly, Tyrion Lannister.

The two men had worked out arrangements that kept Aegon's supporters and the Lannisters from killing each other for a little over a week now. That didn’t mean there weren’t still archers in the Tower of the Hand, gazing down through arrow slits. Barristan hadn’t seemed so on edge in all the years that Daenerys had known him.

Even after peace was made, Aegon had wanted Dany to take another one of his sworn knights as a protector but had accepted her wishes in keeping Brienne instead. Some of the earliest fighting had taken place in Maegor’s Holdfast, not far from Dany’s own chambers. Lannister men fighting and dying within her hearing as Aegon’s forces made to drive them from the fortress. It had been a fierce and bloody battle, one her new lady had been in the thick of.

At first Barristan had opposed Brienne joining in the fight. His tune had changed when it appeared the Lannisters were making to take Dany herself hostage and needed to be beaten back. Later, when the halls were wet with blood, Barristan regarded Brienne in a different light. The knight claimed to have seen the lady knock several men senseless and break a knight’s collarbone during the fray.

It was safe to say that Dany didn’t regret taking Brienne on as a companion in the least.

The lady was tall and imposing, her armor hiding little of the muscular body beneath. Her straw-colored hair was cut short, which only drew more attention to the freckles adorning her wide face and the gaps between her teeth. All of that took away from Brienne’s earnest blue eyes, a gateway to the gentle soul hidden beneath a warrior’s body.

None need look hard to see that this lady has strength.

Most would look at me and see a target. A prize. Someone’s prey.

Their path through the Red Keep was meandering, for it made every effort to keep her away from windows and open passages that faced the Tower of the Hand, where Cersei’s men still held sway.

When it came time to cross a courtyard to reach Maegor’s Holdfast, Brienne held out a hand, making Dany pause while she double checked around the edge of the archway. Barristan did much the same at the opposite side, the two sharing a nod before waving Dany on. As they crossed through the yard towards the imposing royal fortress, Daenerys thought to ease the tension.

“Brienne, I thank you for all that you have done.” She spoke softly, trying not to draw attention. “To have your sword at my side, it is a great comfort in grim times. You came here as little more than a hostage to my brother, not to serve as my protector. There’s little reason to defend me as you do.”

“My sword is yours princess.” Brienne said, eyeing the darkened archways about them. “You had no reason to welcome me to your home, yet you did. For that I am grateful. More than that, my father and Lord Renly bid me to prove our loyalty to King Rhaegar. I hope in protecting you that I do so.”

“I wish Elara and Bran had been so well protected.” Dany said sadly.

“The attack on the lady is an affront to all things good and chivalrous.” Brienne spoke through gritted teeth. “Lady Dayne was kind to me, she rose to my defense when I was too embarrassed to do so myself. To harm such a woman... to maim a defenseless child... it is unspeakable.”

“No, it must not be.” She replied when they reached the doors of the holdfast. “I want those crimes spoken to. I want them shouted from the tops of the tallest towers across the realm. I want all to know that good people suffered and a monster roams free, if only so a sense of justice can be stirred.”

“Surely it will be.” Brienne said confidently, as Aegon’s guardsmen opened the doors and welcomed them within.

Dany wished she had such faith, for as they climbed the stairs to Rhaegar’s chambers, it looked like there were more people in search of glory than justice. There were knights and lords alike filling the corridors leading up to where Aegon and Rhaenys awaited her.

“It must be now, the Lannisters need to be put in their place.” Arys Oakheart declared.

“Tywin Lannister is most dangerous when threatened.” Raymun Darry spoke gravely. “With this attack upon the Stark boy, the North will surely march with us. The Tullys as well. If Dorne joins in-”

“Who needs the bloody Dornish? Let warriors of the Reach and the Stormlands show those lions what for!” Lord Bryce Caron bellowed and many echoed his call to arms.

When the door to Rhaegar’s chambers opened, the sweet memory of her brother playing his harp here came back to her unbidden. She heard no music now though, and she doubted this memory would be a pleasant one.

Aegon and Rhaenys stood side by side, paused in the midst of some argument with Oswell while Renly and Richard Horpe stood watching. The prince was armored in a shining suit of grey, so well polished that the flames from the hearth were reflected in it. Rhaenys wore a chainmail byrnie of the darkest black, with a heavy red cloak pulled about her shoulders.

Dany felt underdressed in her normal gown.

Her family was ready for a fight.

“Daenerys... good. We’ve been waiting.” Rhaenys nodded her way. “Out, all of you.”

“Princess, I wasn’t finished.” Oswell protested. “I cannot argue against this strongly enough. We are only days away from being reinforced! With the Hand’s return-”

“Who is the heir to the throne? Lord Connington or my brother?” Rhaenys sniped.

“Rhae, Oswell knows who the heir is.” Aegon shook his head, but after a pleading look from Rhaenys he waved his hand. “Yet my sister is right, we must speak privately with Daenerys. You can continue your arguments after ser.”

Oswell did not look the least bit happy to leave, unlike Renly who offered a smile and a nod to the royal siblings as he passed. Barristan and Brienne had to wait without as well, so only the stern, silent Ser Richard remained to protect them.

“How is the Stark boy?” Rhaenys asked. “How strong is he?”

“Strong? Well... the pain is great Rhaenys. He’s delirious still. Speaking of his parents, of wolves and ravens. Screaming Joffrey's name-”

“Able enough to be moved though? By wagon if need be?”

“Moved? I-I’m no healer but possibly. Are we taking him home to Winterfell? Riverrun and his mother would be a better option I think. I would travel with him myself if it comes to pass-”

“You’ll be going to Dragonstone.” Rhaenys said simply, moving closer to Aegon and clutching his arm tightly. “It’s the safest place for you right now and it gets you far away, should father or the Hand attempt to press you into marriage to Aegon sooner rather than later.”

She was shocked that they were discussing marriages again. As much as Daenerys loved Jon, right now they were at the precipice of war. Surely pulling themselves back from its teetering edge was more important than betrothals and matches.

“Dragonstone is a stone’s throw by ship, what difference would it make if I was there rather than here?”

“Because I won't be here Dany. We won’t be here.” Aegon glanced down to Rhaenys. “It’s not safe for us here anymore. Rhaenys is scared-”

“I’m not scared, I just know better! You don't remember what happened the last time our father left the capital at the mercy of lions. Last time it was mother who died screaming but this time it could be you Aegon! I won’t give them the chance-”

“I know Rhae, I know.” Aegon kissed the top of his sister’s head and gazed deeply into her eyes. “I won't let anyone harm you. Not while I draw breath.”

“Has something happened?” Dany asked, for this was all quite confusing. “The last I heard, you had five times the number of men than the Queen does in the capital.”

“Armies mean little to those with coin.” Rhaenys answered. “There are always assassins to worry about. Poisoners, cutthroats, vermin who could be prowling the secret passages throughout this holdfast at this very moment, just waiting for us to drop our guard.”

“So where will you go? If not Dragonstone then where?”

“Storm’s End.” Aegon answered. “With what men are loyal to us, Rhaenys and I will make for the Stormlands. There are things we must do there before I can seek out the Tyrells at Highgarden…”

 “You can’t mean to go through with your plot now!? Bran’s been maimed! We need to focus on finding Joffrey!”

“If we don’t do this now it will never happen.” Rhaenys answered, pulling away from Aegon. “Jon Connington will be here in days and there’s no chance of him allowing us to leave after that. He's just as likely to throw Renly in the dungeons for getting his marriage annulled. We don’t have much time Daenerys. I must marry Renly soon or the story becomes less believable…”

Rhaenys put a hand about her middle then, touching it gingerly as if it pained her. Rather than wincing though, she smiled to do so. When Aegon laid a hand upon her shoulder, his sister gripped it tightly.

“We go to Storm’s End. You go to Dragonstone. Then we let the Hand slap Cersei about for us.” Aegon said. “Father sent word, he prepares to depart from the Wall. By the time he returns, I hope to have a powerful alliance ready to take on the Lannisters. Just like Joffrey, Lord Tywin has gone too far in defying me. The Lord of Casterly Rock has ignored my order that he apprehend my shit of a brother and return him to us for justice. If the Starks and the Tullys demand justice, I intend to have allies in the south ready to support them in getting in it.”

“In a way, this attack was a blessing.” Rhaenys added, her eyes gazing deeply into the hearth’s flames. “House Dayne is furious. Father’s precious Starks will be too. Which do you think Lord Stark will be offended by more? The breaking of a betrothal or the maiming of his son? After we offer him justice, he can comfort himself with that while you marry your prince.”

“Do not speak that way!” Dany raged, stepping forward so that their faces were but a hair apart. “What Joffrey did was no blessing! Elara was nearly raped! He cut Bran's eye out with a dagger! We will avenge them because that is what’s right!”

“Don’t be so dramatic. I’m merely saying-”

“You’re thinking of yourself! That’s all you ever do! You’re a selfish, paranoid monster Rhaenys! I can’t even tell the difference between you and Cersei anymore!”

“I’m the monster?” Rhaenys gritted her teeth as Aegon tried to get between them. “You know nothing of monsters. Your father burned my mother before my own eyes. He laughed! She screamed and he laughed! Even when he made me- no, I’m no monster. I’m a woman who protects her loved ones from monsters. It will never happen again, not to Aegon. Not to my child!”

“Rhae! Dany!” Aegon pushed them both apart, waving Richard over to take Rhaenys in hand, for the princess looked ready to claw Dany's own eyes out.

“May the Crone show you two some sense. We can’t leave things like this! The three of us are allies, remember? United in one cause. A proper family.”

“I’m not sure I want to be a part of this family anymore…” Dany said. “Maybe Jon and Viserys were the lucky ones… being sent away from this madness.”

“Don’t say that Dany.” Aegon pleaded, his purple eyes full of hurt. “Please, we are all tired and on edge. These are just the hard times. In a year’s time, you and I will bask in the love of our spouses, you with Jon, me with Margaery, and father will smile to see us so happy. He will welcome Rhaenys and Renly back to court when they present him with his first grandchild… does that not sound like a fine thing?”

Despite her anger at Rhaenys, the prince’s words broke through the haze of Dany's anger. The future he described was a welcome one to picture. Though instead of Renly and Rhaenys bringing a child before Rhaegar, she willed it be Jon and her instead. In her mind, she pictured Rhaegar holding a beautiful child while Jon smiled and held her tight.

Then Jon’s face suddenly twisted into Bran’s, the dark hole pouring blood down onto her hands.

“Promise me that we will punish Joffrey.” She said firmly. “I only want that future if I can look Jon in the eye and say that we did right by his family.”

Aegon’s face became a mask of firm resolve, his hands gripping her shoulders as if to steady her.

“He will be held to account. It won't be any half measure like father did to Viserys. I am not so weak as to allow his punishment to become a reward.”

“Reward?”

“My future husband brought word of it.” Rhaenys moved away from Ser Richard to join them before the hearth. “The Evenstar offered more than his daughter to prove his fealty, he offered information. Some Lyseni traders told him of Viserys’s activities across the Narrow Sea. Apparently he has joined the Second Sons, or is at least moving in that circle.”

“Viserys is no warrior.” Dany frowned in confusion.

“Maybe he’s a paymaster then. Or a dung collector for their horses, who is to say?” Rhaenys shrugged. “The traders also whispered about Viserys getting a bastard on a daughter of the Rogare family but whatever the truth, Aegon’s displeased.”

“He should be locked away in a tiny little cell at Ghaston Grey or serving at the Wall, not living it up in a sellsword company and bedding Lyseni noblewomen.”

It was a strange thing to hear about Viserys, for it did not raise anywhere near the anger in her that it did in Aegon. The horror that Joffrey had just wrought on her friends left Dany numb to any harsh feelings that she harbored against her brother. They could wait until another day.

Though it was clear that neither Aegon nor Rhaenys were willing to wait more than two to flee the capital. It came as little surprise to learn that they had already made arrangements for her departure before speaking of it with her. By midday tomorrow, she was expected to board a ship for Dragonstone with an escort of fifty men. When she argued that such strength be used to take Bran to Riverrun instead, where he could be reunited with his mother and she with Jon, the royal siblings had rebuffed her.

“The Stark boy goes where Oswell goes, and the ser travels with me.” Aegon said with an air of sympathy. “Bran will have the best of care with us. I will protect him as fiercely as I would you.”

“We will get him far away from the Lannisters.” Rhaenys added. “The Starks can rest easy with Bran in our gentle embrace. Loyal families should always expect us to be so accommodating.”

A hostage… they’re taking him as a hostage…

Her protests against that were for naught. Despite Aegon’s wishes, she left her so-called family angry.

After Brienne and Barristan escorted her back to her chambers two levels down, she bid them to join her within. Jacqeline was already inside, admiring Daenerys’s jewelry as she often did, and she saw no reason to delay telling her maidservant, along with her sworn shields, what was to come.

The girl was positively devastated by the news, gasping in horror while the other two took it more in stride. Brienne had only just arrived so it was no great change, though she seemed disappointed to hear that Renly would be travelling with Aegon. Barristan’s lined face became grim to hear of their departure, though he did not argue against it.

“To be honest princess, I would rather have you safe on Dragonstone than anywhere near the capital right now.” Barristan said in his grandfatherly way. “Perhaps the Hand can restore order when he returns… but I have more faith in the king’s ability. Let Dragonstone offer us sanctuary until he returns from the Wall.”

“Aegon wants you to pick men to join us before the night is done. Barristan, please, leave some of ability for Bran’s care. I’m ashamed enough to be leaving him.”

“It will be done.” Barristan made to leave and tasked Brienne with guarding her door in his stead. This left her and Jackie alone. She looked about her chamber, taking note of how little she would actually miss from it.

I’ve always liked my rooms on Dragonstone more…

“Princess... are we really to go back to Dragonstone?” Jackie asked, her eyes glistening.

“Yes, Elara as well. I will have some other servants sent for to pack my things so you can see to her rooms. I don't even want to think about the battle I will face when I take her from Bran’s side…”

“Princess, I’m sorry, but… there aren’t as many proper men on Dragonstone… and I thought you were going to find me a husband here…”

“I've been trying Jacqeline, I swear.” She sighed, for this was not a good time. “I’m afraid it just hasn’t worked out so far. When we get back from Dragonstone, I’ll keep looking.”

“Have you told them how well I serve you?” Jackie asked desperately. “My family’s got Targaryen bloodlines in it, I swear! The brother of the first Viserys and one of the Aegons were fathers of Azures past. We used to have the purple eyes too, that’s why we took that name! Please princess, I promised my father that I would finally be the first in our house to marry a true lord…”

“And I hope you will be but it won’t be tonight or tomorrow.” She turned her back, willing her friend to take the hint. “Now please, go tend to Elara’s things and ask Lady Brienne if she needs anything prepared as well.”

Rather than leave well enough alone, or even leave at all, Jackie pressed her case.

“Is it because of the company you keep? Does the court liken me to them?” She asked tearfully. “Princess, you’re so, so kind to all, but people say you have the worst taste in companions. No matter what the king decrees, all still call Elara a bastard and that Tarth woman is freakish to be sure-”

“Silence!” She rounded on the servant and pointed towards the door. “You will hold your tongue and do as you’re told! I name you my friend but you forget yourself in how you speak of mine! Now leave my sight and do as I've commanded before I question whether my faith in you was misplaced!”

With a choked sob, Jackie tore out of the room, slamming the chamber door behind her. Hands clenched and breath heavy, Dany suppressed a scream of her own. How Jackie could be so selfish as to think of marriage prospects at a time like this was beyond belief.

Poor Bran lays half blind, screaming in pain, meanwhile Aegon and Rhaenys flee.

Myrcella and Tommen are locked away as Cersei’s plots against us.

Jon is so close, yet he's as far away as ever…

Her last letter to Jon was written to break the news of Bran’s attack, and now she sat at her table, preparing to write another to let him know all that had happened since.

And where to find her if he had need.

As her words poured forth on the parchment, she reflected on the hypocrisy of her actions and her anger against Jackie. Here she was, in the midst of all the plots and follies surrounding the throne, hoping somehow it would all still lead to being with her prince. Even with all this uncertainty, Dany still felt so sure that she and Jon would be together.

Perhaps Jackie was right… she may well have Targaryen blood coursing through veins.

To act so selfishly, to go against good sense itself…

She acts as much a dragon as any of us.

   

ARYA

 

“Don’t say such things! That can’t be true! It can’t!”

Sansa’s cry was cut off when she clasped a hand over her mouth, buckling over in her seat as if to retch. Roslin was at her side in a flash, putting an arm around Sansa’s shoulder as her sister began to weep into the lady’s chest.

Arya refused to cry though, willing her own tears away. She was trying to make sense of what she had just heard.

Why would anyone want to hurt Bran? We punched and kicked each other sometimes when we wrestled…

But he never really tried to hurt me… he never hurt anyone…

Father’s solar was different now, not that anything had changed really. The old oak table and chairs still remained, the hearth still burned, and an old battle-worn banner bearing the Stark direwolf still hung as it did for as long as she could remember.

Ice was missing though. The mantle where father would rest it sat empty and dark. Father had taken the sword when he left, marching off to fight the wildlings, leaving Arya and her siblings to try and make sense of all that had happened since. 

Yet no one spoke, the air heavy with silence. The only sounds to be heard were Sansa’s sobs and the howl of the wind outside. A storm was coming, a powerful one.

Maester Luwin had said so earlier but now he stood silent, his face pale and pained while Rodrik Cassel’s jaw was clenched, his long whiskers quivering in rage. Robb acted much the same, sitting behind their father’s table with his fists clenched in front of him. Though his face was blank, she could see the rage in his eyes. Domeric taught her to look to the eyes for truth. He stood just outside the circle, leaning against the wall nearest to the window, gazing off at nothing.

Well to others it might look like that. She knew better, though. The cold, quick movements of his eyes betrayed how Domeric’s mind was working away. It was something that Arya was used to. During the fight with the outlaws, after she’d found the dagger in the stream, Domeric had that same look in his eye.

When it had taken him all but a moment to figure out how to kill their enemy.

“This is too horrid.” Roslin whispered quietly as she held Sansa’s face against her neck. “Joffrey was always cruel but I never thought… Robb, should Arya be hearing this?”

“Bran is my brother too.” She protested. “We always read his letters together…”

“They are Starks. Arya and Sansa both.” Robb said hoarsely. “An attack against one of us is an attack against all of us. I won’t hide the truth from them. As safe as we are behind these walls the Starks beyond suffer at the hands of our enemies. They can’t be ignorant of that. Winter is coming.”

“Blood for blood Robb.” Domeric spoke softly. “It's as simple as that. Prince Joffrey took Bran’s eye so he must suffer. Make it so that the prince begs to be blinded himself, if only to be spared seeing what we’ll do to him...”

“Is that to happen in this very room?” Maester Luwin interrupted. “In front of these children? Perhaps you should wait to speak so harshly until the girls have departed.”

“Why? Because of blood?” Domeric asked, his eyes turning to her. “Trust me maester, Arya’s not scared by a little blood. She knows how to be strong.”

The maester sighed and everyone was looking at her then. Ever since she had helped stop the deserter from hurting Sansa, people acted strange around her. Some whispered, while others stared at her like she was someone else.

“Domeric please, don’t remind her.” Sansa looked up, tears in her eyes. “You know she’s been having nightmares, you’ll just scare her-”

“I have not!” She lied.

I had to stab that man… he was going to hurt Sansa.

He was a deserter anyway. His life was forfeit. Father would have done the same.

Just because I keep dreaming about his face, doesn’t mean it was wrong…

“Why are we talking about me?” Arya stood up from her chair, pointing at the parchment in front of Robb. “We should be talking about Bran. He’s the one that’s hurt. We need to help him!”

Both Robb and Sansa looked at her with pity then, her sister reaching out to try and pull her into the embrace she shared with Roslin. In their arms, Arya would likely find comfort, but it wasn’t the time for that. Not with the vision of Bran bloodied and hurt in her mind. She pulled away from Sansa’s grasp and made to shout again when Robb spoke.

“Arya, come here. Right now.”

His voice was stern and strong, his lord's voice, yet watching him grimace to shift about in the chair was hard to see. When he opened his arms and waved her on, Arya knew she had to go to him. When she was close enough, Robb grasped her arms and squeezed them like he would after helping her up from a fall.

“It’s okay to be angry. We all are. Just know that we won’t think poorly of you for being scared either. Father always said it's alright to be scared.”

“We should be hunting Prince Joffrey, like Jon is doing.” She sniffed. “You’re still a really good rider Robb. Let’s take Domeric and go south to help. We can get Bran and then Mother and Rickon. Jon too. By the time we’re all back here, father will be home and-”

“But father’s not home Arya and I am the Stark in Winterfell. It is my job to protect the North in his stead and right now, I can’t say it is safe. Not with what’s happening on the Stony Shore.”

With word of Bran’s attack, it was easy to forget the tales they had heard from the western shores, of how mysterious men in longships were reaving all along the coast. The first warning had come from Flint’s Finger where a village was burned to the ground. Then Lady Dustin warned that settlements along the Saltspear and on the shores of the Rills were hit too. The reavers killed many yet took little, moving on long before any help could arrive.

“The Greyjoys would be fools to rebel again.” Rodrik declared. “And to strike the North? Now? There’s still a lot of strength left in these lands, even with your father gone.”

“Nor would we be alone in fighting them.” The maester nodded. “The betrothal between Sansa and the prince unites Winterfell to the Iron Throne-”

“Well that didn’t help Bran, did it?” Robb argued. “I love Jon, but father always said to expect little from the crown and you won’t be disappointed. Right now these raids are scattered and random. Who is to say they will stay that way? I’ve told my lords along the shores to evacuate their people to places they can garrison. If these are simple ravagers, they’ll lose interest soon enough.”

“The Tallharts want to march. They want you to march.” Domeric raised an eyebrow. “Helman Tallhart has a grand plan of holding every inch of his shore and he thinks you should be there to help.”

“That’s reckless. Dangerous even!” Sansa spoke and Roslin nodded. “With your leg as it is, you shouldn’t-”

“Should a fight come I’ll be there, just as father would.” Robb answered. “I’ve sent word for men to muster here at Winterfell. The Tallharts should heed my words of retreat but if this is an attack by the Greyjoys, I will meet it, as a Stark should…and I can’t do that if I get caught below Moat Cailin.”

As Robb’s meaning sunk in, Arya felt her heart sink in turn.

“So you’re not going to help Bran? We’re not going to catch that horrible prince?”

“By the time we travel south Joffrey will be long gone.” Robb said sadly. “Believe me, I want to do what you say but it’s not what father would do in my place. We must wait and see what happens when Joffrey is caught.”

“Prince Aegon has sworn justice.” Maester Luwin added. “Should the riders searching for rogue prince fail, he has demanded that Lord Tywin turn him over.”

“Tywin Lannister will not hand over his own kin.” Rodrik spoke gruffly. “There was talk that he threatened a renewed rebellion if the Kingslayer’s life wasn’t spared after killing the Mad King. As if all the gold in the world could hide the rot within Casterly Rock.”

“Yes, yes they are foul.” Sansa said, wiping at her eyes. “Of course it was the Queen’s son who did this to Bran. She probably made it happen, to punish Jon for his fine deeds in the Riverlands! The Lannisters are monsters! Monsters all!”

“That’s not true!” Arya protested, for she knew at least one Lannister who was good and true.

“It is! They’re cruel and spiteful, evil even!”

“Not Ser Jaime!”

He’s not like them, she thought, he would never hurt a little boy like Bran.

Jaime saved innocent children from the Mad King.

Hearing Sansa speak so poorly of the Lannisters bid her to defend the knight Arya still thought of constantly. Partly because of how much she liked the smug man, and the rest because it was Sansa saying these things.

The day most of their family had left Winterfell, all anyone cared about was Sansa. Before, in the godswood, Jon had given Arya more than Needle, he had given her hope that she could be special because of it. Yet when they’d arrived at the courtyard, all anybody cared about was how Jon and Sansa were talking. Everyone was waiting for them to kiss.

She’d been more interested in the ground when Jaime came to her.

“What is he waiting for?” Jaime had asked with a sigh. “I’m in a hurry to be away from this frozen, bland hole of a castle. The quicker he kisses the girl, the sooner I’ll be off.”

He had looked to her, like he expected Arya to be angry at the insult against Winterfell. Yet she felt too unhappy to argue, not with him and everyone else leaving.

"It will always be like this.” She had said, kicking at the ground. “All anyone will ever care about is Sansa. That or some other pretty girl.”

“True enough. Sounds like most of the men I can think of.” The knight nodded, rubbing at a smudge on his golden hand. “Men fight and die over women, but they do the same for lies. Sometimes it’s one in the same. Most fear my blade, when they should be terrified of my sister and all that her beauty hides…”

“There’s no beauty for me to hide behind. They all call me Arya Horseface... no one will fear me, or even like me... who would?”

"Some lordling who owes your father some debt most like.” Jaime laughed but it died away when she blinked away her tears. “Seven hells girl, how should I know? Trust me, whatever problems you think you have, they are nothing compared to mine own. Or even your precious prince over there."

That was when Jon had kissed Sansa. Jeyne and Beth began giggling while mother took father’s hand, the two smiling to watch, others acting much the same. Not Arya though.

"See? Jon was always my friend first. We were always close. I-I was his little wolf sister.” She bit her lip. “He never even tried to kiss my hand. Now he’s leaving and one day Sansa will leave too and they’ll be happy together, and I’ll be given away to some stranger like you said. No one will ever care about the ugly Stark sister…”

“I never said- girl, you’re not ugly, that is I wouldn’t say- maybe you should be talking to someone else.”

“Sansa’s going to get everything. Knights, princes, songs, grand adventures… only the pretty girls get those things… what does that leave for me?”

Even then she felt silly and selfish. Jon had given her a sword, she knew that he cared about her. Mother had kissed her and told her how proud she was of her. Father had smiled and held her hand tightly to say farewell. Yet to Arya, that was all an afterthought to the hopes that they placed in Sansa.

She hadn’t blamed Jaime when he made to walk away from her, and was surprised when he turned back after only a few steps.

"Fuck it." Jaime had growled to drop to his knee before her. Before she could stop him, he’d taken hold of her hand and held it to his lips. "If only to prove you wrong girl. My favourite kind of Stark is the wrong one. Perhaps this will quiet you some and I could have peace for a while."

His words had mattered little then. The finest knight in the realm simply kissed her hand. No one else made him. No one was even paying attention.

"You didn't have to..." She’d said shyly as he rose to his feet.

"Oh I know. I don’t kneel unless I choose to. As for kissing maidens? Well, count yourself among a very select few. That’s how bad my taste is." Jaime had turned to take his leave of her then. "Now, I best be going before your father takes notice. I would hate to beat Ned Stark bloody in his own castle. He should do better to keep you away from men like me."

"There are no men like you."

She didn’t know if Jaime had heard those last words but Arya had meant them with all her heart.

Just as she meant the ones she spoke in Jaime’s defense while everyone united in their hatred of the Lannisters.

“The man betrayed his oath.” Rodrik shook his head and Sansa rose to her feet.

“He’s the Queen’s twin Arya. You have no idea how terrible she is. She hates Jon and- oh no! Jon’s with her brother now! He can’t be safe! Robb, we must ask grandfather to protect-”

“Jaime won’t hurt Jon.” Arya stood her ground, challenging all who dared to say otherwise. “He would never hurt him! Even when Jaime’s angry at someone, he doesn’t hurt them. Well except for that groom before the tourney, but that was the Queen’s fault! It was Jon and Jaime’s berth, not hers-”

“What groom?” The maester asked, his eyes wide. “You say that the Queen sent a groom to Prince Jon’s berth before the tourney?”

She nodded and told the whole story of what she’d seen in the stables. Of course she left out the parts where Jaime was angrier than she'd ever seen him. For some reason though, that didn’t comfort the others.

“He was the only one to see the saddle afterwards.” Rodrik looked to Maester Luwin. “It was his word we trusted.”

“And Prince Jon was meant to be riding that horse, not Robb...”

“So?” She asked as Domeric leapt away from the wall and Robb began to pale.

“Get out.” Robb said in his lord's voice. “Girls, get out. Now.”

“But-”

“Go!” His command left no room for argument, even though Sansa and Arya both tried. Domeric enlisted Roslin to help usher them from the room, even though the lady looked unhappy to leave Robb. Quent and Rodwell waited outside and Domeric made sure Arya couldn’t try and listen through the door.

“They must send warriors to help Jon.” Sansa said as the three of them walked the corridors in dejection. “I couldn’t bear it if the Lannisters hurt him like they did Bran… he needs to be protected by the Starks and the Tullys both! More even! Can your family help Roslin?”

“I’m not sure. I would hope so at least.” Roslin made a strange face. “One of my oldest half-brothers, Emmon, he’s married to Lord Tywin’s sister. My father doesn’t like the Lannisters much though. He wants to be closer with the Starks and the Tullys but won’t help simply out of kindness.”

“Your father should help because it’s the right thing to do.” Arya said firmly. “When Jon finds Joffrey he should have an army with him. A big army, the biggest anyone has ever seen!”

“Robb will have to change his mind” Sansa agreed. “We must send men for Jon to lead. A grand force with all the finest houses. The Targaryens, Starks, Tullys, perhaps even the Manderlys…”

“The Boltons too. Domeric wants to punish Joffrey just as much as Robb, and he said there are thousands of men at the Dreadfort just waiting around for a battle.”

“No.” Sansa shook her head, stopping and looking back as if expecting to find someone following. “No, not Domeric. I don’t trust him, not after the horrible things he said.”

“Those were lies! He was just trying to distract the outlaw so I could get behind him-”

“That should have never happened! Jon would never risk us like that. They didn’t sound like lies Arya… I looked him right in the eye and-and I believed him…”

“Sansa! Arya!” Septa Mordane’s shrill voice rang out ahead of them. The white clad women opened her arms as she strode forward. “The maester let me know of what happened in the capital. Come with me girls and we can say some prayers for Bran in your mother’s sept.”

“I don’t want to pray...” Arya protested. “I want to help…”

“Hush Arya, it is for your brother and his men to handle matters now. If you want to help them, you must act as a lady of House Stark. Now come along.”

Outnumbered, she did as she was told. Septon Chayle had been waiting for them in the sept, offering his condolences as he guided the girls through lighting candles before the likenesses of the Seven. Sansa always remembered all the prayers and the right songs but Arya messed them up sometimes and mother was the one who would help her with them. Septon Chayle was nice, but it wasn't the same. She wished it was her mother here helping them instead of the septon.

Just as she wanted it to be father they found kneeling before the heart tree. Instead she found half the castle there in his place. Farlen with his daughter Palla, Vayon Poole was there too but Jeyne was gathered beside Beth and the twins, Bandy and Shyra. Then there was Mikken, Alebelly, Poxy Tim, and even Hodor, who helped steady Old Nan’s elderly form.

They all offered kind words but none of it really helped. With so many in the godswood, and Domeric locked away with Robb, Arya couldn’t do the one thing that would make her feel better.

Not until she reached her chambers again. Septa Mordane had tried to hold her before leaving but Arya had fled her touch, too focused on getting her hands on the only thing that could comfort her. Once inside, she rushed to the trunk at foot of her bed. Hidden beneath her gowns and finery was Needle, and when she unsheathed the blade, it glinted in the light.

Spinning around, she cut through the air with a swish. Then she leapt to the side and swung Needle down as if to deflect a blow. With a grunt, Arya jumped forward and cut again.

Then again. And again.

Never doing the same thing twice.

“Surprise will be your greatest strength Arya.” Domeric would say.

He repeated that often, usually as he paced around her, watching as she practiced her stances. Their private lessons in the darkest parts of the godswood always included little bits of wisdom the Bolton heir wished to impart onto her.

“Be wary of any fight you can’t finish in the first strike.” Domeric had said. “Your size and weakness make you a target. Help your foe believe in that. Quiet. Unassuming. Peaceful. Let eyes look you over and then move on, writing you off. Make them pay for that.”

“What if they don’t write me off? Or I can’t win quickly?”

“Surrender. Beg mercy. Survive. Then after a time, seek vengeance when their guard is down.” The young man had laughed at the disgust she held for that idea. To Arya it felt dishonorable and she couldn’t imagine Robb or Jon ever doing such a thing.

“Likely they wouldn’t.” Domeric drew his blade and challenged her. “Alright then, if surrender isn’t an option, you find a weakness. Any weakness. And exploit it.”

With that he’d come at her. Domeric’s sword cutting and stabbing as she fought to stay ahead of his blows. Ducking behind trees or trying to be faster than him didn’t work, Domeric knew all her tricks. This was no duel of branches like it had been with Jon, nor of practice blades. Domeric insisted that they use real blades, so she would learn the true danger of a battle. At first that kind of swordplay had scared her, just like he wanted.

She couldn’t be as reckless or play about like she did with Jon. To continue training, Arya had to overcome her fear and treat every move like it was life or death. A few cuts and bruises had come from it, but none so bad that she couldn’t explain them away. At first she thought it was because of how skilled she was becoming, until it became clear that Domeric was holding back.

During that last duel, he’d had her beaten whichever way she turned, trying to prove his point. He was preparing a powerful swing, to throw Needle aside, when Arya had fallen to a knee with a cry. Domeric stayed his hand of course, concern etched across his face as he made to check on her.

Only for her to raise Needle up and point it at his neck. Staring wide-eyed at the threat, Domeric had been at a loss for words.

“Found your weakness.” She’d announced with a wide smile. “Just like you told me.”

“Oh?”

“Yup. You won’t hurt me.” Arya tapped a finger to her head. “You won’t hurt any of us. Stiv was fool enough to believe that but I’m smarter than him. Will you yield?”

“I do, without shame.” Domeric had grinned. “Excellent my lady. Simply excellent. When Jon asked me to take this up, I thought it to be a little game to pass my boredom, but now… you intrigue me, Arya. You'll be an enthralling sight when you become a woman.”

“You’ll be scared to fight me then.” She sheathed Needle but then immediately regretted it, for Dom grabbed her wrist and spun about to press his sword across her chest.

“Deceit Arya. Do you see the strength of it now? You had me beaten, you accepted my word, and now look where you are.”

“All of that was a lie?”

“Not all of it. Only the part about yielding.” His hot breath had been against her neck, his hold gentler than it could have been. “Lies are best hidden behind a veil of truths. Take that to heart Arya, for it is truer for you than most. You are a sweet girl, eager and loyal... and a fighter as well. Let all others see that first bit and they’ll never suspect the last until its too late.”

Those words echoed through her head as she jumped about her room. Her brow was sweaty and her sword arm ached but Arya pressed on. There was no one to battle yet her mind was battling against itself. She couldn’t shake what Domeric had said with what Sansa had said about not trusting him.

Domeric told Stiv to trust him. To help him kill Robb so he could marry Sansa.

He said the Starks should fear the Boltons.

Lies are best hidden behind a veil of truths… so what parts were true?

She slashed through the air again. Then again and once more.

A fourth time. Then a fifth. It could have been a hundred by the time Stiv’s death came back to her. His ugly face twisted in pain, until it slackened into a calm disbelief as Dom plunged a sword in his chest. The way he’d fallen back into the water, disappearing beneath and drifting away.

In her dreams, Stiv would always reach up for her, trying to pull Arya down with him.

That was when Needle finally slipped from Arya’s sweaty grip. The blade flew down and clattered on the floor. She was breathing so heavily, she could barely manage a sigh when a voice caused her to jump.

“Best hold tight, else someone will steal it from you.”

When Arya whirled about, she saw Osha standing in the doorway. The wilding held a bundle of linens in her hands and wore chains about her legs. She had been acting as a servant for weeks now but still remained fettered. Robb didn’t trust her to keep her word. Neither did Arya.

“You’re supposed to knock!” She snapped, angry and fearful that someone had spotted her with Needle.

“I did.” Osha shrugged as she came into the room and shut the door behind her. “Not like I found you killing anyone. Just playing about with that little poker of yours.”

Her jaw dropped to hear Osha to speak so openly about Needle, like the wildling had known about it all along. As Osha took to stripping the beddings, she grinned at how shaken Arya acted.

“Seen you in the godswood I did. Few times now. With that cold-eyed killer.” 

“You were spying on me?”

“Spying? I’m no Mance Rayder.” Osha chuckled, her wild hair falling into her eyes. “The southron folk here don’t like me much but I like that godswood fine. Feels like home in there.”

“We’re not southron. The Starks have blood of the First Men.”

“All you lot this side of the Wall are southron to me. Maybe not you though. The way you fight and give that Mordane woman a hard time… you might have a touch of the free folk in you little lady.”

Arya took a touch of pride in that despite herself. This wildling had attacked them, that was true, yet Arya was too curious to ignore such a strange woman. Osha was strong, and Robb said she handled a spear as well as any guardsman. She told strange tales of the lands beyond the Wall, even better than Old Nan’s. Stories of warrior women and giants, of beasts and monsters.

Yet now Arya worried what other tales Osha could tell.

“Osha, please don’t tell anybody about Needle…”

“What’s a needle?” Osha asked in confusion, until Arya held up the sword. “Ah, well I don’t see no need to tell anybody about that. I’m with the Starks now, swore on it for sparing my life. Good for a girl to know how to use a sword, heed me on that. Better than your brother does.”

“Robb listened to you. He warned our father about Mance Rayder. The northern army is beyond the Wall now. My father’s going to defeat the wildling king.”

“Aye, might be.” Osha rose up, the new sheets all tucked in and the old ones gathered in her arms. “The free folk ain’t what you all need to be scared of. More men and weapons come here by the day, swords that should be marching north with your father. The White Walkers are the true threat little lady. Trust me on that.”

I’d be stupid to trust you, she thought, only a few weeks ago you were trying to kill us.

Instead of saying so, Arya heeded Dom’s advice. She merely nodded, staying quiet as Osha took her leave, letting the wildling think what she wanted. After Osha was gone she hid Needle away again, burying the secret deep. When Roslin came by to help her ready for bed, the lady was none the wiser. Roslin brushed her hair with a look of worry, trying to get Arya to speak to her of her feelings. It was like Roslin expected her to break down crying after all she’d heard.

Crying wouldn’t help her father at war. Crying wouldn't help Bran as he suffered in some strange place far away.

Nymeria understood that. When Roslin left, the direwolf pushed into the room, hopping up onto the bed and curling up beside her. The wolf wasn’t crying, she wasn’t scared. After Arya laid her head down to sleep, she resolved to be so strong, even as the storm kicked up around the castle. The winds blowing hard, rain pattering against her window.

Before she drifted off, one thought did trouble her, about what Osha had said. She couldn’t be sure what truths the woman had hidden in her lies. Whether or not the Others were truly back, her father unknowing of the danger.

Sleep offered no comfort. Her dreams were as terrible as they could be.

She was at the tourney again, when Robb had fallen. Except it wasn’t a joust she was watching, but a true battle, being fought on some strange field. The sky was grey and full of storm clouds, the grass and earth soaked with blood. Father was there, as was Robb and Jon. Domeric and Jaime. All battling against hordes of wildlings and outlaws, against giants and pale monsters with bloodied mouths. One after the other they all fell, pulled down from their horses screaming as the wolves howled.

The slaughter poured blood out upon the lands until it rose like a tide over her legs and waist. It was a dark flood when she saw mother and the others. Mother was trying to pull Sansa and Rickon from the darkness when they all disappeared beneath it. The last was Bran, his one eye a black hole as both arms reached out for her. She fought to reach him but the tide was too strong and soon he was gone too. The darkness was swallowing her and all she could hear was the howling of the wolves.

“No!” She screamed, shooting straight up in bed.

The room was dark save for the fire in the hearth. Nymeria’s eyes shone in the light, her ears perked up as she gazed at Arya with concern. It wasn’t the wolf howling though, but the powerful storm raging outside the castle. Rain was battering the window, which dripped much as her tear soaked cheeks did.

It was just a nightmare… a horrible nightmare.

They’re all still alive… the darkness wasn’t real…

Then the lightning flashed, filling the room with a blinding light, followed by a cracking boom of thunder. Arya leapt from her bed in fear and ran, doing something she’d done since she was a little girl.

She went to find her family.

Mother and father weren’t here but the others were. Her bare feet padded on the stone floors as she ran down the darkened corridors, terrified that somehow her dream had been true and everyone was gone. Robb’s chambers were the closest so she went to check on him first.

When Robb’s door stood before her, she pushed slowly in, fearful that he wouldn’t be there.

Yet as she peaked around the edge of the door, she saw him. In the weak light of the fire, she had a clear view of the top of Robb’s bed where his head lay propped up against a pillow. His eyes were wide open and she was thankful for it. Arya wanted to crawl into bed beside her big brother, so he might tell her that everything was okay.

Before she could things changed. For Robb wasn’t alone.

Roslin’s face appeared from just beyond her view, the lady was atop her brother, lowering her lips down to press against Robb’s with a strange urgency. He met her touch greedily and the pair made soft sounds as they kissed.

When she pushed open the door a little further, she saw that Roslin was beneath Robb’s blankets with him. Her gown was lying rumpled next to his clothes beside the bed. Her brother held Roslin as his hands moved up and down her back. His own chest was bare, just like the lady’s shoulders and the parts of her back not covered by the blanket.

“It’s not your fault…” Roslin said between kisses. “You’re trying so hard, you do so much for the girls… you couldn’t stop what happened…”

“I should have.” Robb pulled his lips away. “He’s my little brother... if I hadn’t been crippled he never would have left…”

“No! No, don’t think that way.” Roslin pulled his face back to her. “You’re the strongest man I have ever known. Your heart, your soul… Robb, I thank the gods that I met someone as true as you. I love you my lord. Every part of me… I’m sorry I’m such trouble…”

“I love you.” Robb answered, kissing her again. “I don’t care what it takes. What I have to do. You’re never leaving here.”

When Robb kissed her neck, Roslin shuddered, her small hands running down his face. Arya felt strangely entranced by all of this. She ha heard men joking about this sort of thing. They would laugh sometimes when some of the hounds would take to rutting and they’d compare it to how they took women themselves.

This was something different though. Robb and Roslin were so sad but happy at the same time. They began to move under the sheets, Robb’s arms going to her hips and lifting her smaller frame to a place just above his hips.

“My lord… Robb…” Roslin panted, her cheeks flush and lips red.

“I want you.” Robb’s brow was furrowed, his teeth gritted. “I want to be yours and for you to be mine. I will not do this unless you wish it. I cannot unless you say so…”

In reply, Roslin put her hands to Robb’s shoulders as she gazed into his eyes. With a furtive nod and a tremble, she whispered to him.

“I am yours.”

With that Robb lowered Roslin’s body and his hips moved up, causing the lady to cry out in pain. Robb stopped with a groan as Roslin pressed her forehead against his, whimpering something. There were whispered words between them that she couldn’t hear but Arya wasn’t stupid.

Once, when’d she been about Rickon’s age, she had gone to mother’s rooms and found her parents in a similar way. She’d screamed until mother had thrown on a robe and come to comfort her.

“He wasn’t hurting me sweetling.” Mother had said, kissing her head. “We were making love. A sweet thing that gifts us wonders like you and your brothers and sister. It binds us together… it lets us show how much we love one another.”

Robb and Roslin were moving against each other now, in a rhythm that had her gasping and him grunting. Through it all, the lightning flashed and the thunder clapped outside the castle. Even still, she heard the words of love muttered over and over again between them.

So Arya quietly backed away from the door, shutting it gently and leaving Robb and Roslin to their making love.

Returning back to the darkness of the corridor.

The sounds of the storm growing louder and louder.

   

JON

 

The top of a tall hill was flat and spacious, the soft grass covering it pressed beneath his boots. His view of the lands below the hill was breathtaking, for he could see for leagues in all directions. The lush, green fields and small thickets of the Riverlands spread out before him, the sun hanging low in the sky to the west.

Joffrey likely watches it set even now, he thought, safe and sound in Casterly Rock.

The vile, little monster. He’ll suffer for what he’s done. I pray that it is done.

It was the Old Gods he prayed to and while Jon wished there was a heart tree to offer them too, his gods weren’t as far as they could be. Ringing the crown of this hill were the stumps of mighty weirwood trees cut down long ago. He’d counted thirty-one of them and it would be a lie to say their presence hadn’t drawn him here.

That he hadn’t led his men to this place for some sort of guidance.

“We camp here.” Jon spoke firmly, turning to face the men collected about him. “The hour grows late, there is no better view of the approaches and rest is needed. Lucas inform the men.”

“Yes my prince.” Lucas bowed stiffly, for his side still pained him. The Blackwood was tall and thin, with long dark hair and a stoic demeanor. Jon hadn’t heard him complain once about the hurt caused by the blow of a mace.

“I’ll lead a patrol out, just in case this view deceives us.” Lord Beric added, his tunic stained dark here and there with dried blood. “Five men, Harwin if you’ll spare him for I’d leave Edric here.”

“My lord! I am well!” Edric Dayne protested, his arm in a sling. “I should be at your side.”

“You were when it counted, Ned. Have my tent ready for when I return.”

As the squire lowered his gaze in defeat Jon turned his own to the last man gathered near him. A tall knight with a weathered face and grey hair. His tunic bore the red and blue crest of House Tully, save the jumping trout was not silver like one would expect. This was a fish of a darker color.

A Blackfish.

“Take one of mine as well.” Ser Brynden Tully spoke in his hoarse, smoky voice. “That sour freerider, Lem. The one with the piss-colored cloak, he knows these lands well enough.”

“Be back no later than nightfall my lord.” He gave Beric his leave. “We lose no more men. Not when we are this close to Riverrun.”

Beric took his leave then and Edric followed behind, pleading his case as both disappeared into the throng of riders Lucas had dismounting and making camp across the hilltop. For a moment or two he could pretend this was the same party he’d left Riverrun with three weeks ago. More than a hundred men he’d gathered together on a quest for justice.

Almost a third of them now lay dead and buried. More blood Joffrey and his ilk would have to atone for.

So why do I ride in the wrong direction? I head north when I should be heading south.

I should have done more... I have to do more…

Weeks ago, in Riverrun’s stables, his aunt had argued differently.

“Jon, you do not have to do this.” Lady Catelyn had pulled at his arm as he made to mount his horse. “Let Lord Beric go. Or my brother. It does not have to be you to take up arms against Prince Joffrey… your brother…”

“No, it must be me. Whether I like it or not Joffrey’s my brother and I will drag him to justice myself. For the little boy I love as a brother, I can do nothing less.” He’d declared, taking the lady’s hand in his. “The river lords might be hesitant to try and capture the son of a king. Let them know another royal son joins the hunt and support will grow.”

If Cersei’s golden monster thought to flee to the safety of the Westerlands Jon would stop him. When word had come of what Joffrey did to Bran he’d commanded his men readied at once. In that moment Jon could have killed Joffrey himself, no matter the curse of being called a kinslayer.

He had not dared speak those foul thoughts to Lady Catelyn at the time, for she’d endured enough of late. Her eyes had been red-rimmed and listless, the poor woman exhausted from her tears. The bulge in her middle was noticeable and, as she tried to hold him back, Lady Catelyn held a hand over her child to be.

“I thank you for this Jon, for my dear boy I do… but as a lady of House Stark and daughter of House Tully, I must beg different. Just wait for my brother to send out his ravens. To gather five times the men you have now. Should any harm befall Rhaegar’s son in the Riverlands it would look-”

“Far less foul than me enjoying the comforts of Riverrun while my kin maim your son.” Jon released the lady and mounted his horse. “If Aegon is right and Joffrey seeks the Westerlands there’s a chance to catch him south of the Blackwater. He has a lead on us but we can close it, I can capture Joffrey and bring him back to answer for what he’s done. I can give you justice.”

They’d been fine words and hard to say, for he had little desire to leave Lady Catelyn’s side when she was so distraught. Yet that didn’t change what had to be done. With a hundred men at his back Jon had ridden hard towards the Gold Road, driving men and horses to near exhaustion at the pace.

Just south of Stoney Sept they’d been joined by the town’s knight, Ser Wilbert, and some of his men. Edmure Tully had sent a raven warning of their coming, bringing news of the capital as well. A mixture of rage and relief had filled Jon to learn Bran and Daenerys were no longer at King’s Landing. That city was a cesspit and he wanted them far from it.

While he secretly hated the thought of Daenerys travelling away from him, Dragonstone was her birthplace and had always kept her safe. Yet there was little comfort to be found in Aegon and Rhaenys taking Bran with them to Storm’s End.

He needs to be with his family, safe back at Winterfell or even at Riverrun.

It should be Joffrey being dragged about, not Bran…

His quest to see that done haunted his every thought.

They pressed on and on until they came to a ford over the Blackwater. The bridge was narrow and could barely fit a single wagon. The river ran swiftly beneath the bridge and a thick forest lay to the other side. It was like a hundred other crossings he’d seen in his life yet something about this one had bothered Ghost something fierce. The direwolf was leading the party when he stopped just before reaching the bridge, his ears at attention and focused on the forest beyond.

When Harwin was forced to rein up to keep his horse from trampling the wolf, Ghost became even more agitated, though not at the Northman. It was the other side of the river Ghost focused on, baring his teeth in a silent snarl and snapping at the air.

Jon should have stopped and considered what that meant. Little enough in this world scared Ghost but something across that ford had. In hindsight, it was easier to smell the ambush. To remember the strange feeling which crept up his back and set him on edge, like he was being watched. At the time though, all Jon knew for sure was every delay he allowed was another moment Joffrey could escape his grasp. So he’d ignored Ghost’s silent warnings, ordering his men across.

Leading many straight to their deaths.

Only half their number had made it across when trumpets sounded from the woods ahead them. Ser Jaime and Lord Beric’s swords were drawn and raised by the time the first of their foes ambled out of the forest. Lines of men, armored and mounted, with spears and lances at the ready. Clearly these men had been laying in wait yet there was little to point to their identities. No sigils were born on their tunics. No banners flew above their heads.

It was their leader who gave them away.

The sight of the monster emerging from the trees had drawn gasps from many. Heavily armored, with his face hidden behind a greathelm, the man was eight feet tall and as wide as a curtain wall. The large stallion beneath the giant must have been powerful indeed to hold such a man. When the monster hefted up his massive war lance it was Jaime Lannister that finally named him.

“The Mountain. He sent Gregor fucking Clegane…” The white-cloaked knight then turned and pointed back to the bridge. “Back! Get back! We need to retreat now!”

There was no escape though, for the bridge was clogged with the men who had not yet crossed over. Before Jon could give the order for those men to fall back the enemy trumpets sounded twice more and the attack came.

On parchment they were well matched. The Mountain had equal numbers, his men as well equipped as Jon’s. Yet everything else was against them. Half Jon’s riders were trapped in the backlog of the crossing, the rest not yet arrayed for battle. The foe held the high ground, their men arrayed in well-formed battle lines, sweeping down the hill in formation.

His men did their best, flocking to Jon and forming a protective circle around him. Beric made to usher their remaining number forth from the bridge, an attempt to bring order to chaos. When the charge came it brought more than a hundred men descending in an armored wall of death. The thundering hooves were followed by crack of lances against shields or armor.

Or by horrible screaming.

Ser Wilbert had died in such a way, a lance driven through his middle, the poor man offering no final words save his pained wailing. More fell in such a manner, yet it could have been worse. Just before the charge had hit Jon’s part of the line Ghost had leapt to the fore of his party, the wolf’s sudden presence terrifying their enemy’s lead mounts and scattering their formation.

Nothing had stopped the Mountain though. While Jon and his men went sword to sword with their foes in a desperate attempt to hold the riverbank the Mountain had bore down on him. Ghost was driven back by riders with spears, Jon locked in a deadly sword fight with a foe of his own when he spotted the Mountain’s charge. The massive warrior barreled towards him, a war lance aimed right at his heart.

Somehow, despite his fear, Jon managed to trick the swordsman battling him into raising an arm so he could stab through the man’s armpit. It was an ugly death for sure but his own impending doom drew his attention. The Mountain had been moments away from killing him, his stallion grunting, the lance barely wavering from its mark.

Until a white blur had come between them.

When Jaime rode in the Mountain’s path his lance faltered, raising up some at the last minute. The Kingsguard took most of the blow on his shield, which shattered from the force of the lance’s armored point. The rest of the devastating attack deflected off Jaime’s shoulder, the top of the lance breaking off, parts of it flying through the air as the knight fell in a heap upon the ground.

The Mountain was not deterred, throwing aside his lance and pulling a two-handed greatsword free with only one hand. Though the knight has scant chance to use it against Jon. Just as their horses came together the Mountain’s screamed and kicked away, the fletch of an arrow buried in its rump. Other cries had followed, more of the Lannister men falling to arrows flying from back the way they came.

That was when the Blackfish’s men had arrived. From the tree line a score of archers had dropped from their horses, loosing arrows at his enemies. Twice that number in mounted men rode out of the forest, the Blackfish at the lead, charging right into the flank of the Mountain’s men.

Seeing they had help spurred Jon out of his shock and he’d done his best to rally men to meet the Blackfish’s coming. To crush their foe on one side and roll up the line from there. It was a blur of blood and screaming from that point on. If someone claimed a hundred men died along this far flung bank of the Blackwater that day he’d believe them. Their enemy suffered most of the losses but he still buried more than thirty of his own men there. The rest of the Mountain’s men had fled back south, Ser Gregor leading the way.

The sight of that monster riding off still filled him with rage. His fists were clenched as the Blackfish came to stand next to him here.

After the battle the Blackfish’s tale unfolded. Ser Brynden had been at an inn outside the capital when he learned of the attack on Bran. With haste, he set forth to do as Jon had, to ride west to catch Joffrey. With the promise of goodwill from House Tully and some gold to boot the knight recruited a company of men along the way.

They’d been hot on Joffrey’s trail when the Blackfish’s party came upon a small town along the Gold Road. The people there were terrified, many injured or worse, all telling the same story. When Joffrey sheltered within their inn a large force of mounted men had arrived from the west, led by what the smallfolk called a steel-plated giant. The rogue prince had been enfolded into the strangers’ care, protected by a great many who made to return to the west. The rest had struck north, leaving several women ravaged with vague memories of their abusers speaking of an ambush.

“Pretty much the reason I’m even here.” The Blackfish had said, spitting blood from a burst lip as they recovered on the riverbank. “My chase of Joffrey was over, his escort too powerful. Though I wasn’t about to let the Mountain a free hand in my family’s lands…”

“We’re alive because it.” Beric offered his hand in thanks. “Tywin Lannister unleashed his mad dog upon us and we live to tell the tale. It appears our hunting party must now become an escort. Prince Jon your life is in danger, we must be away to a friendly keep as soon as-”

“No.” He’d said, his eyes on the rows of their dead at his feet. “Joffrey has to answer for Bran… the Mountain for this… Lord Tywin as well.”

There was no part of him that wanted to heed their counsel. To stop after only one fight named him a coward. How could he face the Starks with such a tale?

Yet now, a week later, he prepared himself to that very thing. For Riverrun was not far off now.

“Your first visit to High Heart your grace?” The Blackfish asked, grunting in a pleased manner. “A fine view if I say so myself.”

“It is my first.” Jon said simply, his mind still awash in anger.

“Hoster and I used to ride out here when we were young boys. To camp beneath the stars, a part of us always hoping it would be like the tales say. That the children still haunt this hill by night.”

“I worry more on the monsters bedding down tonight in the Westerlands.” Jon shook his head. “We should not have turned back…”

“What choice was there?” The Blackfish asked. “I rode as far as you in pursuit of that golden savage, all the way from the capital. My love for Cat extends to her children, even if I’ never met them. That doesn’t change what is and what had to be.”

Those words were as unwelcome now as they had been weeks ago.

“Go ahead, be angry.” The old knight continued on. “I happen to be furious. We still made the right call. Joffrey had a strong force protecting him and a good lead on us. You barely survived one ambush, likely there could have been more. How many men would you have die for the sake of a foolish mission of vengeance?”

“Justice. I sought justice, not vengeance ser.” He said, willing it to be true.

“The first would have been nice but I’d have settled for the latter. More than anything I’d keep my family as safe as I can. It’s for my kin we pulled back and it was the right damn call. That party of raiders could be part of a larger threat. One that might well be marching through the Golden Tooth towards Riverrun as we speak.”

“There’s been no word of an invasion.”

“And before it happened there was no talk of Bran Stark being blinded either, yet here we are.” The Blackfish turned west, Jon following his gaze towards the sun falling low in the sky. “Want to know how I get to sleep at night? I think about how Tywin and his monstrous grandson will see their last sunset soon enough. Long before I see my own. I pray for it and sleep like a babe after.”

Some men called out then, seeking the Blackfish’s input on where to set watches and Jon gave the knight his leave to go. Listening to Ser Brynden repeat their reasons for retreat did not set his mind at ease. Staring at a weirwood stump ahead of him, Jon was tempted to drop to a knee and pray for the same thing the Blackfish had.

I doubt it would help me sleep though, my hopes and worries keep me up most the night.

His fear for Lady Catelyn and her unborn child had driven him back to Riverrun. Should the Lannisters come he’d be there, ready to defend his aunt and her family. Or to march with them into the Westerlands, at the Tully’s side all the way to Casterly Rock.

With a sigh he turned from the hill’s edge, to seek another Lannister altogether. The camp was going up quickly. Their mounts were being led to the horse lines off to one corner after being left to graze in the lands below. Tents were being put together here and there, his own among the first to be readied.

That was where Jon sheltered his protector. The knight who’d saved his life by risking his.

Pulling aside the flaps he found Jaime Lannister lying upon a roll of furs and rushes, bare-chested and scowling. The knight’s shoulder was bandaged and he was meant to be resting. Instead Jaime was busy cleaning his sword, steadying it with his golden hand while running a whetstone down it with the other.

“I’d bow but I’m forbidden to stand or be of use.” The Kingsguard growled. “Fine reward for saving a prince’s life. All over some bits of wood.”

“Splinters ser, quite large ones. No matter how nobly you earned them they did you harm.” Jon sat to the knight’s side. “Don’t blame me because you heal so slowly. It’s your attempts at practicing that keep opening your stitches.”

Jaime grunted, lifting up his sword and inspecting it in the failing light of the day. Maybe an hour of sunlight was left to them and soon Lucas would arrive to light a candle or two in this tent the three shared. It was crowded and some felt undignified that Jon did not keep his own pavilion, but he cared little. Lucas and Jaime had both sworn to serve him and risked their lives to do so, sharing his tent was a small gesture in the scale of things.

“Riverrun in a day or two is it?” The knight asked. “I predict a warm welcome for the two of us. A Lannister and a Targaryen. Popular names of late in the Tully lands I imagine.”

“We rode out to bring Joffrey to justice.” He countered. “We fought beside Ser Brynden and will stand with the Tullys soon enough. I’ll make it known you took up arms against your father’s bannerman. That you saved my life-”

“Bloody horse spooked is all.” Jaime returned his gaze to the blade. “Riding accidents happen all the time… no matter how hard you try and prevent them …”

“That was no accident ser. It was a brave act and I won’t let you say otherwise.”

“Am I being ordered to take a vow of silence?” Jaime asked. “A cripple and a mute? Why I’d be stealing that Dayne boy’s finest quality.”

That wasn’t fair of him to say. Edric was a good-natured lad and shy by nature yet his recent decent into sullenness was understandable. Joffrey hadn’t just hurt Bran, he’d attacked Elara as well. As much as Jon cared for Bran like a brother, it appeared Edric felt the same sort of sibling bond with his cousin. Sadly little word of Elara’s condition had been included with the letters sent from Riverrun and Edric was left fearing for what was left unsaid.

When we return to Riverrun I’ll ask the maester to write to Dragonstone. Edric deserves to hear about his cousin just as I heard about mine.

In truth, he’d already planned on sending a letter to Dragonstone. It shamed him that asking after Elara gave him good reason to send a letter to Daenerys, for he yearned to hear from her. During his stay at Riverrun their letters had been formal, devoid of the warmth and love he still remembered finding in her touch. Or in the haunting memory of her eyes. No matter how far away she was, Daenerys could set his chest to pounding.

His thoughts on letters and ravens caused his eyes to wander over to a bag by his corner of the tent. For within it were Dany’s letters. Sansa’s as well. He kept them separate of course, as if doing so somehow made up for the fact his heart was betraying them both.

With Sansa it was her bright eyes and soft lips that pulled at his thoughts. When he read her letters, the words always echoed in his mind in her voice. Her sweet, song-like voice. Sansa’s letters were far more honest than his and they caused a pleasant light-headed feeling within him. Especially the last one.

‘My dearest prince,

All speak of your great deeds in making peace in the south. Not all heroes need be made in battle and I so name you one. When the news reached Winterfell I wanted to dance with joy. Alas the only partner I seek is far away, acting a brave prince.

Each day we are apart is a dreadful trial Jon. I’ve sworn a vow that when we are together again each moment shall be one full of joy and happiness. I will bring you light my winter prince, as you do for me.

I miss you so,

Love Sansa Stark, your lady, always.’

It was a cruel twist of fate that he could not even read Sansa’s letters without thinking of Daenerys. The winter rose she’d packed away in his bag had long ago dried up to nothing, yet its scent filled the satchel and all the letters smelled of it.

The smell was sweet though. Filled with meaning.

“Oh seven hells.” Jaime’s curse broke into Jon’s fond memories. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?” Jon looked about, for he’d not moved or done anything in the last few moment as far as he could tell.

“It’s bloody well written all over your face. Thinking on that Stark girl?” 

“I wasn’t!” He lied while the knight sheathed his sword, frowning the whole time.

“A protest filled with passion. So either you’re lying or it’s another girl creeping into your thoughts. A certain silver princess… a more than doting aunt perhaps?”

“You’ve no right.” Jon jumped to his feet, angry that Jaime would both suggest such and be right in doing so. “You speak nonsense! And on things you have no understanding of!”

“Struck a nerve then? Take a hit from the Mountain’s lance and complain to me about your feelings.” The knight began to polish his golden hand. “Trust me lad, I know love when I see it. That foolish, infuriating, useless feeling that you can’t get enough of. Felt it myself once.”

That took him aback some but such a thing was not unheard of. There were many tales and songs of Kingsguard loving maidens and what not. Though he’d always believed the white-cloaked knights of his father’s guard loved their duty first and foremost. If Ser Jaime had found some way through the haze Jon felt every time he thought on Dany or Sansa he’d gladly hear it. Ever since sorting out Lucas and Jayne Bracken’s foolish acts of love he’d been wary of the follies love could drive people to.

Jon himself was born of such a folly.

“How did you free yourself of it then? Of foolish love?” He asked without trying to sound hopeful.

“I’ll tell you when I figure that out.” The knight replied, spitting on his golden hand. “Can’t look in a mirror without being reminded of it…”

“Because you love yourself?” Jon fumed, he couldn’t believe Jaime had gotten his hopes up for the sake of some stupid jest. “Well I wish you luck with that then ser. I’ll leave you alone with your true love. Enjoy polishing yourself.”

He tried to ignore the impressed expression on the knight’s face as he stormed out of the tent. Whenever he began to enjoy Jaime’s company the man did something to ruin it. Taking up arms against Joffrey for the sake of Bran was an easy decision for him. Yet Jaime had followed Jon’s lead against his family out of duty, only protesting on the grounds the pursuit could endanger Jon himself.

The man acts honorably but then tosses it away like honor is not worth having.

Here I am willing to do anything to earn some of own back.

His anger at Jaime’s foul sense of humor didn’t stop him from seeking out better company. Cook fires were burning throughout camp, a few hares and a stag dripping grease into the flames as men gathered around. At one of the farthest fires he found Ghost watching a hare turn on the spit, a greedy look in his eyes. Lucas was tending this fire and did not take well to Ghost’s intentions.

“My prince I like your wolf well enough but he can bugger off if he plans on getting any of this meat.”

“You heard him Ghost, behave now.” Jon said, joining Lucas by the fire and taking notice of a figure pace at the edge. Edric was clearly feeling uneasy as he stared off into the dark lands below the hill.

“Is Lord Beric not back yet?” He asked.

“Not yet your grace.” Edric answered, turning towards him with worry in his dark blue eyes. “He said he’d return before nightfall… I should have gone with him.”

“Have faith in the lightning lord.” Lucas poked at the hare with a knife. “From what I’ve seen of him Lord Beric isn’t a man to break his word.”

“Aye, he’ll be fine Edric.” Jon waved the squire forward. “And when he’s back he’ll likely have tasks for you. So get some food in you now while there’s time.”

Edric sighed and nodded, walking to take a seat with them about the fire. When the hare was ready Lucas offered some but Jon would let his men eat their share first. Lucas began to tease Edric soon after with tales he’d heard from the Blackfish, of how the children of the forest still haunted this hill. That by night the small creatures came back to take vengeance on the Andals who’d defiled their sacred hill.

Edric wasn’t about to show any fear and Jon was impressed by that. Just as he was by the Blackfish who was still moving about the ranks and tents. The old knight was taking stock of who was where, showing his worth once more.

Lady Catelyn will be happy to have her uncle back, may Ser Brynden’s return soften the blow of my failure.

Perhaps she can get him to explain why such a storied knight was so content to lounge about near the capital for so long.

While the others ate Jon leaned back and looked to the stars above. There were clouds blocking some of the night sky but most was clear, the stars shining like diamonds in a black sea. He missed stargazing at Winterfell and wondered if Sansa and the others looked upon the same stars he did now. It was a pleasant thing to imagine Daenerys enjoyed such a lovely view at Dragonstone as well.

All of this was interrupted when Ned shot to his feet with a cry.

“It’s one of them!” The squire shouted, pointing fearfully towards the edge of the hill behind Jon. “The children! They’re here!”

Lucas had begun to laugh but it died away as both Jon and he saw what had frightened Edric so. Hobbling out of the darkness came a short creature, shrouded in shadows and standing no more than three feet tall. Its hair was white and matted, so long it looked to drag on the ground, and it leaned heavily upon a gnarled black cane.

“What the fuck is that?” Lucas shouted, drawing a blade as many others ran forward to challenge the creature.

The Blackfish raised his sword and came to Jon’s side as Ghost move to the other, the wolf watching the creature’s approach with more curiosity than fear. The figure had come close enough to the light that some of its mystery was lost. Clearly this was not one of the children of the forest. In truth it looked to be nothing more than a woman, an ancient looking dwarf woman.

“Halt right there.” The Blackfish commanded. “Who are you? How did you get by our sentries?”

“The youth miss much and more.” A rasping voice replied, a pair of red eyes peaking up through the mess of hair to move across the gathering crowd. “How did you come to be squatting on my hill?”

“Your hill?” Lucas guffawed. “The Smallwoods hold dominion over these lands-”

“Words on parchment might say so, but words do not bed down here each night do they?” The old woman pointed her cane to the fire. “Some warmth and wine on this night, I beg of ye. Share with me and I share with you. My dreams and nightmares. Your futures and woes.”

Nervous laughter and soft curses followed that, many sheathing their blades and looking ashamed to have drawn them for such a thing. The Blackfish was one of those, shaking his head and crossing his arms.

“A beggar selling fortunes. Go on then, be away from here. We’ve more need for a decent rest than your mad ramblings.”

“Beggar or not, we shall offer hospitality.” Jon said, to the surprise of many. “Good woman, please join me by this fire. Share in what we can offer, in the king’s name.”

“Many kings… many and more…” The old woman waddled on, singularly focused on plopping herself down on a stone by fire. “Be there wine? With some wine my mind comes alive, my dreams all the clearer.”

“I’m sure there’s some to spare.”

Jon signaled to Edric, who stole away Lucas’s skin, causing the Blackwood complained loudly. That was drowned out by laughter when the old woman snatched the wine away from Edric with a nimbleness that sent the squire jumping back in fear. Jon moved to sit directly across from their visitor, the fire burning between them as she greedily drank of the wine.

“A fine draught… sweet and sour all at once…” She rasped, wine dribbling down her lips. “Good to have, something to savor. I’ve supped on enough grief in my time…”

“Might I ask your name?” He asked and the old woman cackled.

“I am the Ghost. The Ghost of High Heart.”

“Fairly certain that title’s taken.” Ser Jaime’s voice broke through the ranks. Now wearing a shirt over his bandaged chest, the knight moved to stand behind Jon, pointing down at Ghost.

“This here is the Ghost of High Heart. Been so for a few hours at least.”

“Glib of tongue, golden of hand.” The Ghost murmured back. “I’ve dreamt of you before. A lion bound with a white leash, watching as a child set the sun to burning, the laughter and screams louder than your roar…”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Jaime roared, taking a step forward until Jon put a hand on the man and pushed him back.

“Easy ser! She is but an old woman. Leave her be.”  He commanded, taking stock of how red with fury the knight had become. Jaime’s good hand even trembled some.

“Old, yes, many years I’ve wandered. Few of you shall be so lucky.” The Ghost continued in a strange tone, her head tiling upwards. Her cane fell to the ground as her knees began to tremble. The skin of wine fell too, for her hands now reached to the sky above.

“ The old gods stir and will not let me rest. I dreamt of a dragon trapped within a great set of antlers. I dreamt of a wolf sleeping in a deep, dark lair while the cold winds blew without. On his shoulder perched a three-eyed crow. I dreamt of a roaring fire and girl who was lost. In the dark she wept, with tears on her cheeks as the screams they did rise, the flames reached higher, from the fire death came, oh, I woke from terror. All this I dreamt, and more.”

“More than enough I’d say.” The Blackfish said, Lucas and Edric nodding their agreement. Many gazed uneasily on the woman and Jon himself felt very uncomfortable now, regretting offering her comfort in the first place.

“I think that’s enough stories for now.” 

Yet she was not deterred. The Ghost continued as if their words were but gusts of wind.

“I dreamt a wolf howling in the storm, but no one heard her grief. I dreamt such a horrible noise, I thought my ears would burst, of drums and horns and horses and babe’s wails, but the saddest sound was the river washing it all away. I dreamt of a maid at a harvest festival, reaping what was sown, she danced so beautifully, at her feet the blood did pool. And later I dreamt a lady that was a fish, mourning for a king of snow-”

“Bloody nonsense!”

“Someone shut her up!”

“Worst camp follower ever!”

“No more.” Jon stood, disliking the woman’s words as much as the attitude of his men. “I command you to be silent. We’ve no need for any more of your strange dreams-”

“Silence? I see you! I see you, wolf prince! Dark prince! I dreamt of the silence you bring, a dreadful stillness filled with death ... You are cruel to come to this hill, cruel. I gorged on sorrow at Summerhall! I need none of yours. Begone from here, dark heart. Begone!”

As Jon was struck to hear the woman speak to him so others rose in uproar. Ser Jaime and the Blackfish being the loudest. They made to usher the woman away, with anger in their eyes when a shout rose up from the other side of camp. The sentries to that end calling out warnings.

Of riders approaching.

“It’s Lord Beric!” A man cried out. “His patrol returns! They’re not alone!”

The group abandoned the strange old woman to run across the hilltop, to meet Beric’s coming. There they found the sentry’s claims to be true, for Beric had not returned alone. Cresting the hill came Beric with Harwin at his side, followed closely behind by the rest of their men and four more. Chief among the newcomers was Harry Rivers, Lord Edmure’s ward.

“Prince Jon!” Beric shouted to see him. “My prince! Riders from Riverrun!”

“We’ve been searching for days your grace!” Harry yelled. “Seeking your men! Ever since the invasion started-”

“Invasion?” Jon’s heart grew cold and all became silent. Jaime and him exchanged a glance of rare understanding. “Do the Lannisters march on Riverrun?”

“No! The Lannisters don’t march at all!” Beric answered as Harry drew forth a roll of parchment and held it out to Jon. A broken red seal of House Targaryen upon it.

My father’s seal.

“Rebellion in the Stormlands!” Harry heralded. “The Crownlands have been invaded by sea! The Golden Company has landed all along its northern shores!”

“Thousands upon thousands!”

“Robert Baratheon has returned!”

Chapter 11

Summary:

The war begins. Threats to the north and south. On the seas and lurking in the shadows.

Making it all the harder to the see the light through the darkness.

BRAN

 

“Their left is broken!”

Bronze Jon’s shout was lost in the excited cheers coming from the baggage train. Bran stood with hundreds of other squires, grooms, and servants from the safety of a gently sloping hill, watching as Prince Aegon’s mounted charge tore through the rebel flank.

They were well away from the battle but he could still hear the sounds of trumpets blaring and the screams of horses and men sweeping over the field. Thousands pushed forward under the banners of the royal army. The Targaryen dragon flew alongside the yellow suns and white crescents of House Tarth, the yellow haystack of House Errol, and the black stag of House Baratheon.

The loyal Baratheons that is.

The enemy army was hard pressed, their lines of infantry crumbling against the greater numbers thrown against them. The rebel reserve had rushed to reinforce the right after royal archers bled it something awful, which meant there was no help for the left when the prince's armored knights rode right over them. 

The riders swooped down across the rebel ranks, so tightly packed together the glimmer of their armor made it look a giant sword cutting straight through the enemy formation. Somewhere among that crush of riders was the prince himself, surrounded by his knights and bannerman, Ser Oswell at his side.

Bran was too far away to pick them out in the chaos of battle though. He stood squinting to watch the finer details of the fight.

With the one eye left to him.

“Lord Renly is rallying the center for another push!” Bronze Jon grabbed his arm, smiling widely as he pointed down. “Lord Errol hasn’t budged on the right! They’re done for Bran! The whole left-”

“I see it Jon.” He pulled away. “If anything happens on my left I'll just turn my head. I’m not blind.”

That caused his fellow squire to turn away from the battle for a moment. Jon’s expression fell some and Bran felt bad all of a sudden. His friend was just trying to help, it wasn’t something to get mad at him about.

It’s not like he stuck a dagger in your eye…

A half remembered memory came then. A flash of red, swiftly fading to black as his head filled with the sound of Joffrey’s laughter and Elara’s screams.

It was over in a flash, his mind returning back to the battle at hand. Except no matter how hard he tried, half the world remained lost to him. If he lifted his leather eye patch up nothing would change, no matter how bright it was. That eye was only for the darkness now. Which meant he had to strain all the harder to see the good in the world.

Someone had told him that.

“I didn’t mean anything by it Bran.” Bronze Jon apologized. “Too used to being a squire now, I always have to help somebody…”

“It’s okay.” Bran shoved him some. “I’ll just hit you harder in practice.”

“Forget practice!” His friend laughed, pointing back at the battle. “If this the rebellion drags on, we’ll get to fight in a real battle!”

“Not this one…”

Bran marveled at how quickly the rebel army broke apart before his eyes.

The Lords Buckler and Fell had gathered together almost three thousand men to the rebel cause, all dedicated to ending Targaryen rule. Now those men were throwing down their weapons and fleeing in the face of Prince Aegon’s mounted attack, an action repeated all up and down the rebel host. Hundreds of grown men ran for their lives as the royalist side gave chase.

He cringed to watch as some were ridden down and killed despite being defenseless, for many were dressed little better than farmers.

They are rebels, he reminded himself, traitors who were coming to attack us from behind. To kill us.

Joffrey at least looked me in the eye before he cut it away.

The ser said he woke up once in King’s Landing but Bran couldn’t be sure. His mind had been filled with such strange dreams and nightmares and the world had faded in and out of being too many time.

Soft hands. He remembered being touched by soft hands. Having gentle fingers run through his hair and lips pressed on his brow. A sweet voice which spoke to him and pushed away all the pain.

He finally came to his senses somewhere in the Kingswood. When he awoke in the wagon, Bronze Jon began screaming, bringing the entire march to a halt as Ser Oswell and Prince Aegon came to see him. It wasn’t a surprise to learn that they’d left the capital for some reason. His dreams were of running through a deep wood with a marching mass of men. Soon after Summer came bounding from that forest, almost knocking Bran down in excitement to see him up and moving.

It was a hard thing to accept what Joffrey had done to him. The ser borrowed a looking glass from Princess Rhaenys, and made sure they had some privacy in his own tent so Bran could look at himself. His hair had grown longer, but everything about his face was normal except for the bandage over his eye.

“It could have come off some time ago.” The ser had spoken gruffly. “But we didn’t want to scare you back into idleness again. My armor has never looked worse…”

“Sorry ser.” Bran’s fingers slowly undid the bandage, pulling fearfully.

He'd gasped at the sight. There were a few lines about his eye, scars from the dagger, not too bad really. The worst part was his eye, for where it should be there was now only a shadowy, red-tinged hole. He was terrified to look upon it. It was like he was wearing a mask that was missing a piece and behind that mask there was nothing. Or something worse than nothing.

“I’m a monster.” He’d sobbed, tears running from both eyes. “He made me a monster.”

Bran had tried to run but the ser took hold of his shoulders, pulling him back before the looking glass. Dropping to a knee beside him, the knight grabbed his chin and forced him to look at his reflection.

“You’re a little fool if you think that.” Ser Oswell stared into the mirror as well. “I’ve met real monsters. I’ve fought and killed monsters. Once I even feared becoming a monster myself. There’s one in every man but the best of us keep theirs locked away deep within…”

“Where will they lock me away?” Bran tried to pull away but the ser tightened his hold. “Please ser… please, I don’t want to see it…”

“You didn’t want Joffrey to cut it out in the first place but here we are. Think on why that happened. An eight year old squire comes upon three armed men about to rape a girl. One a prince, the other a Kingsguard knight. What is he to do? What did he do? Answer me!”

“I tried to stop them… t-to save my friend…”

“Tell me a monster would do so. That a monster would act so stupid for the sake of what’s right. To be so brave when sense and selfishness would bid him to run. I don’t see a drop of evil in such an act. I see a young man that made a choice. A soft little lordling who, somewhere between Winterfell and the Red Keep, became a fine squire. One I’m proud to have at my side.”

The tears were still running free as the ser’s grip slowly loosened, though still bidding him to look upon his empty eye. He and Ser Oswell gazed at each other through that reflection and the knight nodded.

“Brandon Stark, I command you, look at yourself with the one eye left to you and thank the gods for it. Take comfort that you still draw breath. Find the strength inside we both know you have and face this, like you faced those monsters in that storeroom. Finish these tears and then we’ll get you back on the path to becoming a true knight. That’s a good lad.”

As upset and hurt as Bran was, as scared as he felt, he could not defy the commands of his ser. The bandage had been left on the ground and Bronze Jon had found him a brown leather eye patch to wear instead. It was hard to adjust to everything at first. Having half his world blocked out made even simple tasks difficult for a while. The hardest was trying to practice with his sword again, for his whole left side was wide open to attack.

Yet even with one eye, Storm’s End remained magnificent to behold. The castle was surrounded by a massive outer curtain wall, smooth and wonderfully curved. Built on the edge of a cliff, the seaward side had a sharp drop below the wall that went straight into the waters of Shipbreaker Bay. The huge drum tower was crowned with battlements and rose up high like a fist challenging the sky above. Bran’s favorite part was the view of the sea below. He spent many an hour standing at the edge of high white cliffs, gazing out into the rough waters.

Lord Renly had arranged a great welcome for them, with feasting and music taking up many days and nights. That had all paled to celebration which took place when Renly and Rhaenys announced they would be wed. Such news came as a shock to most of the low soldiers and squires like himself, though many of the men of import, Ser Oswell included, took it in stride.

As if they’d been expecting it.

Prince Aegon led his sister into the castle sept, Rhaenys wearing a heavy gown of white with a black Targaryen cloak about her shoulders. Bran had stood with the ser and the rest of the honor guard near the altar where the septon of Storm’s End and Lord Renly awaited, Ser Loras beside him. After Renly replaced Rhaenys’s black cloak with a golden one of House Baratheon, the pair’s hands had been bound together by a ribbon and their vows exchanged.

Thus Princess Rhaenys Targaryen became Lady of Storm’s End.

With all the feasting and smiles that followed, Bran figured this must be a grand marriage. Renly was kind and handsome and he always made everyone smile, Ser Loras especially, so he would probably be good for the princess. In truth Bran thought that Rhaenys was the lucky one. She never acted the happiest of ladies, and had been growing somewhat thick about the middle as of late.

That was probably why there hadn’t been a bedding. Bronze Jon was disappointed to hear that, for he'd heard it was the best chance for a lowly squire to see a woman naked.

Bran blushed to picture the princess naked, then cursed himself as he unwillingly remembered the sight of Elara’s bare body. He remembered how her breasts had been full and round, with dark nipples at their center. Once he had read one of Maester Luwin’s books where there was a picture of a beautiful naked woman called ‘Man’s weakness,’ and the sight of Elara's body reminded him a little of that painting. Elara’s form was lovelier to him, nicer to think on. The memory always became terrible though, for it would change into Elara fighting against grabbing hands, tears on her cheeks.

Is it wrong to think she’s beautiful after seeing her stripped down like that?

Maybe it’s a good thing I wasn’t awake to say farewell. She was hurt by monsters, she doesn’t need me thinking monstrous thoughts about her…

As it turned out, there were others far closer, plotting much worse things against the royal family.

From what Bran could piece together, the first warning came from Ser Ronnet Connington, the castellan at Griffin’s Roost. Word had reached the Hand’s family that houses of the Rainwood were rising in rebellion against the Iron Throne. Then a raven came to Storm’s End from the Estermonts, Renly’s kin, urging him to take Aegon and Rhaenys captive. That was when the threat became very real.

Bran had been serving as the cupbearer during that fateful meeting, where the royal siblings gathered Renly and their most loyal knights together in council.

“Traitor!” Rhaenys had screamed at her new husband. “You led us here to be slaughtered!”

“So I could be killed myself?” Renly asked, holding the Estermont parchment out before him. “If I was to betray you, would I have shown you this? Would I have bothered marrying you? Brought Loras-”

“Oh yes, you Baratheons are well known as deep thinkers.” Ser Oswell interrupted with a frown. “Well let’s just think on this. The Vale's fleet is destroyed, surprised by an armada of sellsails at Gulltown while at anchor. Claw Isle and the shores of the Bay of Crabs were also savaged, leaving your brother free to sail up the bay and attack Dyre Den, Wickenden, and get himself a bloody port in Maidenpool!”

“With an army of allies here in the Stormlands.” Richard Horpe added gravely. “Red Ronnet’s outriders believe that eight thousand men are marching on Griffin’s Roost. There are likely others elsewhere throughout this region. Should they unite, King’s Landing is threatened to the north and the south. A well laid betrayal.”

“Renly had no part in it!” Ser Loras rose to his feet, only for Renly to push him back down with care. After that the lord unbuckled his swordbelt and put it on the table.

“Aegon, Rhaenys, please. I spent many years at court with you both. I was the ward of Mace Tyrell, your most ardent supporter. Yesterday you looked to me as a friend, a goodbrother, and a husband… I promise you, that's higher regard than my dear brother holds for me. Robert hates everyone who bent the knee, you know that, and I’ve been doing my best to bring the Stormlords back to you. I’ve been betrayed, just as you have.”

“Of course…” Rhaenys had spoken as if in a daze, her anger fading. “The clever whoreson… by the Seven, if we were all still in the capital it would be perfect. Think on it! All know how close you are to the throne Renly. How many stormlords are loyal to us simply because of you? The might of Storm’s End is yours, its influence arrayed behind the throne. You’re the biggest thorn in your brother’s side!”

“It’s a set up.” Aegon declared, shaking his head. “Robert likely thought we’d execute you from the start. He could use your death to rally all the support from these lands he could need…”

The prince had laughed then, leaning back in his chair and shocking all by his behavior.

“And I thought I had a terrible brother.”

A moment or two passed before Renly smiled and began to laugh himself. The two men then walked about the table and embraced one another, Aegon grasping Renly’s face in his hands after.

“I trust you my goodbrother. I would not give my sister to just any man, for she is worth the world to me. Say we stand together against this threat. That Lord Renly Baratheon will march with me against this Usurper, the warlord who terrorizes my father’s realm.”

“Robert abandoned Stannis and myself to our fates. Stannis sealed his with his obstinance. I will not let Robert rob me or our house of the future we deserve. This Baratheon marches with the prince... his friend.”

“Touching.” The ser drank of his wine. “Now be a friend and help us plot to kill your former bannermen.”

While Bran had rushed about, filling cups and listening intently, he learned a lot. The counsel believed that the rebels were surprised by the prince’s arrival at Storm’s End. With Aegon’s personal guard, and what men Renly and other loyal houses could gather in such short time, they had an army of about seven thousand, nearly half of it mounted. To the south, Griffin’s Roost was screaming for relief, besieged by a large rebel army. Lord Jon Connington had taken most of his men to restore order to King’s Landing which left Red Ronnet with a token garrison to hold off the rebels.

Aegon had leaned over a large map of the realm’s coast, nodding as all this was told to him.

“My father has summoned the royal fleet to Dragonstone.” The Prince announced. “Jon Connington moves up the coast with a force he raised from the capital, gathering more men with each castle he stops at. The Tullys have rallied men as well. Edmure and my brother Jon lead an army out of the Riverlands. However fearsome his reputation, Robert Baratheon will soon be outnumbered, set upon by several armies with no help to be found… if I do as I must.”

Running a hand over the map, the prince’s purple eyes came alive, his face firm with resolve.

“If Robert somehow escapes the noose my father is tying around his neck, he’ll have no place to flee. The king tasked me with putting down this rebellion and I aim to do so. Mace Tyrell promised to sail barges of men up the Mander but it’s my hope that by the time they arrive, there will be nothing to do but celebrate our victory.”

If the prince had asked Bran right then to take up a sword and charge out into battle, he would’ve done so. The others hadn’t been so ready though. Rhaenys and Ser Oswell had urged caution, the princess wanting to wait and hear what help Dorne could send. Renly and Arys Oakheart argued for marching to the Mander, to await the coming of the Tyrells. In the end only Lord Bryce Caron and Robar Royce backed the prince’s plan to go on the attack immediately.

That hadn’t meant heading straight for Griffin’s Roost like Bran expected. Instead the prince led them north, until they came upon a mountain range where their army camped in the foothills near a pass. It didn’t make sense to Bran. Every moment they waited was another that the Conningtons fought off the rebel attack alone.

Three days passed before outriders came tearing back into the camp with word of an army coming through the mountain pass. Rebels marching south, taking the very route towards Griffin’s Roost they should have been. While Bran was focused on the enemy already on the move, the prince proved himself wiser, taking note of how the rebels at Castle Felwood did not make to join the siege.

Now it looked like they never would.

The battle was over, the Fells retreating like all the other rebels. Their men were spread out all across the field, either fleeing or lying on the ground where they fell.

“I wonder how many prisoners we’ll take.” Bronze Jon spoke with wonder. “Maybe if one of our sers captures a knight they’ll give us some of their armor. Maybe even a war horse!”

“We can’t ride war horses…” Bran adjusted his eye patch. “And armor should go to the fighting men, not watching squires”

“Speak for yourself runt.”

The sharp voice came from behind him, where a group of older squires were also watching the end of the battle. Harrold Hardyng was nearly a man grown and one of Prince Aegon’s squires. Bran didn’t care for him much, Harry was constantly bossing the other squires around.

“Next battle, I’ll be in the thick of things.” Harry put a hand on his sword and smirked. “If the prince hadn’t asked me to personally guard Princess Rhaenys, I would be down there right now.”

“Shouldn’t you be with the princess then?” Bran asked, pointing to the middle of the baggage train where Rhaenys sat her horse, surrounded by men-at-arms.

“I’m keeping the rest of you in line.” Harry snapped. “Can’t be too careful when we have children like you keeping watch, One Eye.”

“That’s really smart Harry.” Jon shook his head. “Calling Bran One Eye just cause he lost his eye. I guess I should start calling you Shithead.”

“Care for a beating?” Harry asked, taking a step towards his Bonze Jon only for Bran to move between them.

“Leave him alone.” He said, his one eye meeting the older squire’s angry gaze. “There’s been enough fighting today Harry.”

“Move One Eye, lest I correct your manners too.”

Harry was well muscled, with broad shoulders, and could likely pummel the two boys into the ground with ease. Yet Bran stood firm, not blinking once as Harry tried to stare him down.

“Harry, I had a dagger stuck in my eye. Joffrey made me watch when he cut it out. I know you’re trying to scare us but as bad as you are, you’re not evil.”

Bran lifted up his eye patch then, watching Harry’s face twist into a mix of fear and revulsion to see what lay beneath. The blonde squire took a step back, raising his hands up.

“Fuck, that’s disgusting… just get out of my sight.”  

“Gladly.” Bran lowered the patch back down, grabbing hold of Bronze Jon and dragging him away.

They didn’t have far to go, for the prince sought out the baggage train then, leading his battle commanders before Rhaenys. The returning warriors were battle worn yet magnificent to behold. They made such a marvelous sight Bran adjusted his eye patch in a desperate effort to not let his ugliness spoil the occasion.

While the royal army gave chase to the fleeing rebels in the distance Prince Aegon rode towards the rear guard with confidence. His fine steel suit showed a few dents and stains of red yet looked pristine compared to the state of the two Kingsguard knights at his side. Ser Oswell and Richard were covered with gore and filth, their white cloaks spattered with blood. Bran offered silent thanks that neither knight appeared wounded.

Aegon removed his helm as he reined up before his sister’s party, his pale hair blowing in the breeze. While Rhaenys looked dismayed at the state of her brother’s armor his wide smile bid the princess to break into one of her own. Their moment ended as Lord Renly rode to fore, armor showing little sign of battle and his green cloak unmarred by any stain.

“A victory my wife!” Renly lifted up the visor of his helm. “The Fells and Bucklers are crushed! Your brother gives us a fine wedding gift indeed!”

“So I saw. I also witnessed my lord husband doing his duty in holding the center.” Rhaenys offered her hand, which Renly kissed dutifully. The lord then pointed back at Loras, whose armor looked as battle worn as the prince’s.

“My men fought splendidly, though I dare say none better than Ser Loras. It was he who captured Lord Ralph Buckler.”

“A prisoner of note.” Aegon said, waving forward his Kingsguard knights. “Just one of many great deeds done this day. Rhae, you’ll hate to hear this, but I’d likely be dead now if not for these two. When Silveraxe Fell saw me leading the charge through their lines he rallied his men to kill me.”

“Poor Old Silveraxe.” Ser Robar smiled. “Someone should have warned him Oswell Whent was among our number. A fool’s charge indeed.”

“The man fought well.” The ser said with little cheer. “He was a traitor but died a warrior. Surely such a death deserves better than to be scorned.”

“Come now ser!” Aegon raised his hand up. “Between Richard and yourself I count a score killed, more even! Who felled Ser Brus Buckler?”

“Twas Ser Oswell.” Richard answered, riding onward to take his place by Rhaenys’s side. “I killed seven in this battle I am sure of. I cannot claim to have slain men of such esteem.”

“Fine. I’m a great killer.” Ser Oswell growled.  “There’s a camp to set up and ditches to dig, might I see to it being done?”

“No ser, you may not.” Aegon shook his head. “Lord Bryce is seeing to the rebel remnants and I shall task Robar and Arys with raising camp. You, my fierce Whent, are to rest and recover. Unless my protector wishes me to find another to guard my tent tonight.”

With a scowl the ser accepted the prince’s command and left his side. Bran followed of course and when Ser Oswell made to dismount his horse, he rushed forward to take hold of its reins. While eager to hear all about the battle Bran knew the knight well enough to stay quiet. The ser was in no mood to talk.

Others were in the mood to celebrate though. The camp swelled with the return of the victorious army, men cheering and singing, others boasting of their deeds or holding up prizes taken off fallen foes. His knight was having none of it, barely speaking a word to any while his tent was set up. Afterwards Ser Oswell led Bran within and they made to remove his armor.

“The cloak will need to be washed.” The ser commanded, stripping off the bloodstained garment. “I don’t care how many times the washerwomen have to do scrub it, that cloak comes back to me white. Understand?”

“Yes ser.”

“Do not think of joining the festivities Renly and those other peacocks are likely planning until my armor is cleaned of all this filth.” He pulled off his gauntlets, tossing them aside. “One of my roundels will need to be repaired by the armorer. The greaves as well. Silveraxe got some blows in before his death. He fought hard for an old man… had some girl’s name on his lips at the end…”

The ser’s voice fell away as his fingers fumbled at the straps of the sword belt. Bran went forward to unhook the belt for him, seeing for himself how the man’s hands were trembling. Ser Oswell noticed it too, holding the shaking hands out before him, growing frustrated at how his fingers quivered. After a few moments he gritted his teeth and made fists of them.

“I spent so many years in the North I feared my blade had become slow and untested.” Ser Oswell stared at his fists. “That when battle came I’d falter, failing my king, my prince, my oath itself. Now six men lay dead by my blade. They came at me and I never hesitated. I didn’t hold back… Silveraxe… Brus Buckler… the others. I killed them all.”

“You saved the prince.” Bran struggled, not sure what to say for he’d never seen the ser act in such a way. “All know you were the finest knight in the battle…”

“There were many fine men in that fight. I killed some of them.” The knight shook his head. “For so long my duty was to watch over Prince Jon. To care for the boy. Then to guide you. More a teacher than a warrior. A protector… not a killer… I let myself forget what battle is truly like.”

With a deep breathe the ser closer his eyes, furrowing his brow at some ugly memory.

“Their eyes… by the seven lad, I forgot how it is with the eyes at the end… even the bravest man’s… so full of fear. One moment there’s a light there, the next it’s gone. Just gone… because of me… I’m sorry Bran… I am. I sound like a coward.”

“You’re not a coward.” Bran clutched the ser’s cloak tightly, staring up at his mentor who was clearly struggling with something he didn’t understand. “That sounds scary, it does. The thing with the eyes. You didn’t look away though… did you?”

“What? No… no I didn’t… never thought to really.”

“When my father executed the deserter, Jon said it was important I didn’t look away. I wanted to. I really did. But I watched anyways. When Joffrey did what he did… Elara wanted me to look away but I couldn’t… I thought that meant I was brave…”

“Of course it does.” Ser Oswell grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t doubt that. Ever”

“Then don't doubt yourself.” He held his chin high, hoping the ser felt the strength in his shoulders. “After the capital, I wasn’t scared because of you. The prince is alive because of you. Jon is alive because of you. One day you’ll knight me, the greatest knight in the realm. That’s who you are-”

“Oh seven hells.” The ser straightened up, shaking his head and turning away from Bran. Hiding whatever else he was feeling. “Sure I am lad, that’s why I need a one-eyed squire to tell me my duty. Well enough of that, go and get the work done I’ve set for you. I’ll just be here crying myself to sleep.”

“Truly?”

“No! Get!”

Strangely, it felt good to have the ser yelling at him again. That was how things were meant to be. Better still, as he was gathering up the bits of armor that needed repair and the ser lay down to rest, he swore the man watched him with a smile on his face. He certainly wasn’t crying.

By the time Bran was done running all about the camp, seeing to all the ser’s needs, the sky above was dark and celebrations well underway. Huge bonfires burned towards the center and he caught glimpses of Aegon calling forth men, to honor for their deeds in battle. His sister stood to his side, beaming as warriors bellowed the names of King Rhaegar and Prince Aegon.

Other squires like Harry and Bronze Jon were there too, enjoying the festivities, yet Bran had duties to perform. Tomorrow their army would be on the march, heading to battle once more. To lift the siege at Griffin’s Roost.

Back in the tent, Bran set to work so the ser would be ready for that battle. The knight slept deeply while Bran scoured his armor. It was hard work and took many hours, the sounds of celebration drifting in now and again. He didn’t begrudge it though. If he went out there, people would point at him, whispering the tale of how he lost his eye.

I don’t need two eyes to clean the ser’s armor.

Let every squire in the camp have fun tonight. My ser will look the finest on the morrow.

After he’d finished, Bran made to polish the white enamel again, actually falling asleep while doing so.

He only awoke when the ser lifted him up in his arms, hushing away any protest before laying Bran down upon his cot. The Kingsguard pulled a blanket over him, patting his head and leaving to take up the watch over the prince.

His dreams were normal at first. Images of his family. Daenerys. Myrcella. Elara.

Then they changed, becoming more like the dreams he’d had since the attack.

He was moving through the field of death, the stink of dead men filling his nose. The night could not hide them from his eyes, hundreds of dead men dotted this open land. In the darkness he could see other figures, living men, moving about the bodies. Searching the corpses, taking things or stripping bits of clothing free.

His stomach was full from feasting on some of the choicest bodies, so his time among the dead was done. Now he sought the great pack of men burning fires and sleeping in their cloth dens.

When he came to the edge of the camp, some men holding sharp sticks cried out but did little more, letting him cross through the ditch and further on. Most of the tents at the edge he scorned, for most of the action was towards the center. He passed men rutting with women in the shadows. Pausing for a time, he watched as one woman mated with man after man, the jingle of coins ringing through the air as she moved from mate to mate.

One of the men who came to mate with this woman he knew. A young man, large, with a scent he didn’t care for.

“What’s m’lord looking for?” The woman asked. “How might I be pleasin’ a brave warrior?”

“Your mouth will do.” Harry Hardyng answered back. “Don’t need you chasing after me with some bastard get. On your knees.”

His pants came down and the woman fished out the man’s cock. Her mouth fit around it, moving back and forth with loud, wet sounds. There was nothing special about this, no reason for him to make himself known. Yet he did, moving in close until the sucking woman could see him.

Then he bared his teeth and growled.

The woman was so scared, her jaw clenched before she screamed.

“Fuck!” Harry screamed, grabbing at his cock and falling to his knees.

“Monster!” The woman crawled away, fleeing into the night.

Feeling somewhat pleased he left the wailing squire behind, continuing on through the camp. Passing tent after tent. When he came to a large one, decorated in fine trim with a stag upon it, he found several men guarding it. Something strange happened while he watched this den. A man with a blade and a rose on his cloak entered through the front. A few moments later, a cloaked figure left through the back, followed by a man hidden under heavy coverings, his face scarred.

He followed them, practicing his prowling skills as they journeyed through the camp. They came to a stop at a large, red and black tent, with a dragon upon it and a warrior he liked standing outside. The scent of the man was a welcome one, his white metal skin gleaming in the torchlight.

Only the woman went within, and he was curious to see what she sought. Circling around the tent a few times, he found a spot none looked to be watching. Rushing forward he lifted up the edge of the cloth with his snout, crawling beneath the flap and going within.

Inside was a warm, wide open and specious den. He’d happened to climb in beneath some sort of table, one large enough for him to lay under and hide his large body. Not that it mattered, for the pair within only had eyes for each other.

Aegon was bare-chested, bruises adorning his body. Rhaenys had pulled her cloak back, her hands wandering over the dark spots on the prince’s chest.

“Why do you risk yourself so?” Rhaenys asked. “Renly commanded the center from safety, as was wise. Each one of these bruises could have meant your death Aegon… meant that I could have lost you.”

“I’ve had bruises before and you’ve not lost me yet.” Aegon answered, taking her cheek in hand and running a thumb down her lips. “I thought this was supposed to stop. Now that you’re a married woman, I’m supposed to accept you being another’s or some nonsense of the like…”

Rhaenys caught his hand in hers, her lips wrapping around his thumb and sucking on it lightly.

“It would be smart to stay away but then you led that charge… all I could think of was our child.” She put a hand to her middle, Aegon doing the same soon after. “We can’t be together Aegon. We can’t. Our family needs allies to be strong and Renly will raise our child as his. I want them to know you though… if only as an uncle… I want our babe to know his father.”

“I’ll be in battle again soon enough Rhae. Many times I hope. I fight to make this kingdom safe for you… for our child… gods, sometimes I wish you never came to my chambers, that we had never-”

“Don’t. Never say that.”

Rhaenys kissed him then and Aegon didn’t fight it. The silver prince instead wrapped his arms around the princess and pulled her tight. Their kissing was hungry, as desperate as their fumbling at her clothes. The cloak fell away first. Then her gown. The sheer cloth beneath was almost torn away, unveiling her lithe body to him. Olive skinned, with small perfect breasts and dark nipples, the prince’s lips went to one and suckled as she moaned. She drew his hand down low, to the dark thatch of hair about her sex, the quick movements he made them caused her to tremble.

When the pair moved back against the bed, it was different. Their movements were not the rushed rutting he’d seen earlier. They lay side by side, her back against his front, their hands moving all over each other as he entered her from behind.

Their words were soft and full of love. Hands falling upon the bulge in her middle.

Protecting the life there while a field of the dead lay beyond.

While he watched the whole time.

With his two eyes.

 

SANSA 

 

“Gods they found us.” Arya cursed, making to take hold of a large piece of wood. “Come on, we need to block the door.”

The room was a crumbling mess of wood and stone, yet the ancient ironoak door stood firm. The sisters had sought shelter in the First Keep, climbing the ruined steps to the tallest chamber they could reach in the abandoned fortress. It was Arya’s idea to flee here and under normal circumstances Sansa would chide such behavior.

Yet these were not normal times. She proved that by rushing forward to help Arya lift the wood and press it against the center of the door. It felt so rough and dusty Sansa had to look away to keep her grip, leaving Arya to guide it into place while she simply pushed.

They finished not a moment too soon, for the thuds of footsteps up the stone staircase grew louder. When the sounds were right outside the door, someone tried to push in but the wood held firm. A muffled curse was followed by a heavy knock which shook dust from the frame.

“Lady Arya? Lady Sansa?” Quent’s voice came through. “Are you in there?”

“No!” Arya shot back, fists at her side. “So go away!”

“My ladies, please... this is not proper.” Vayon Poole’s voice was tremulous even through the door. “Everyone is gathering in the godswood-”

“We don’t care!” Arya snapped, swirling about in her skirts and going to sit on a collapsed beam, burying her face in her hands. “Tell Robb that we don’t care!”

She grimaced when Arya made no effort to clean off the beam before sitting, for it looked quite filthy. Both girls were dressed in their finest gowns, the ones they had worn during the welcoming feast for King Rhaegar. The last time that Sansa wore this gown of blue she was promised to her prince. These were the skirts which spun about the floor as her true love led her in a beautiful dance. In her dreams, this was the gown she wore to be reunited with Jon. A gown of happy memories.

Yet there was little to be happy about now.

“Lady Sansa.” The steward’s voice begged. “Please, unbar the door… none of us are thrilled about this arrangement, but with Lord Robb about to leave-”

“I will only do so if Robb leaves for the south!” Sansa declared. “Let the Tallharts suffer for their own follies. Jon needs Robb with him. My prince needs his help. Tell my brother that!”

“And tell him to bring Domeric back!” Arya’s demand was muffled, her face still buried in her hands.

Vayon made no more pleas and she heard footfalls growing distant beyond the door. Certain they’d been left alone, she lifted her skirts and frowned at the state of this room. Bits of stone and wooden pieces of the roof collected all along the floor, everything covered in dust and cobwebs. When she became Lady of Summerhall, she would never allow any part of her castle to fall into such disrepair.

I love you father but leaving was the worst thing you could do.

Just look at the state of things in the realm… in Winterfell itself…

“They can’t make us go, can they?” Arya asked, finally peaking out from between her fingers. “Mother and father wouldn’t force us.”

“Of course they wouldn’t. I read mother’s letter and I promise you, she was furious.”

She came to Arya’s side, taking note of how messy her hair had become during their flight to the tower. Septa Mordane had seen to the girls’ hair personally before trusting the two of them to travel to the godswood alone. During that journey Arya had grabbed Sansa’s hand, pulling at her and running off. Here sister declared her intent to find a safe hiding place, far from Robb’s latest folly. Upset as she was, Sansa did not fight against Arya’s brashness.

Nor could she fight the urge to reach out and try to mend Arya’s hair now, if only to bring some order to all of this madness.

“Stop it!” Arya slapped away her efforts.

“You look a fright.” She hissed back, her fingers going right back to the messy braid. “Even in hiding, a lady should look her best.”

“We’re not hiding anymore. We’re under siege.” Arya sighed. “Ow!”

Sansa couldn’t help but pull at Arya’s braid, for her choice of words were horrible.

There were many places under siege as they spoke. War had come and it raged all across the realm. Men were marching off to battle beyond the Wall, south of the Neck, and even here in the North.

She could not imagine a worse time for a wedding. Unfortunately Robb and Roslin clearly felt differently and the castle was presently gathering in the godswood. All so her brother could be marry her lady-in-waiting. Sansa wanted no part in it.

Not that her wishes mattered, for Robb would not see reason, blinded as he was by love, willing to do anything to make Roslin his lady. Such a thing should not even be permitted without her parents’ blessing, yet Robb had outwitted Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin in this, forcing their acceptance of his plans.

Today’s wedding before the heart tree was but a ceremony, for Robb and Roslin were already married by law. Septon Chayle, under pressure from Robb, had wed the pair in secret. She heard tell that it was a moonlight wedding within Winterfell’s sept, with only the three conspirators and the Seven themselves to bear witness.

Ser Rodrik was furious to hear of it, Maester Luwin shocked and fearful to relay such to mother at Riverrun. Mother’s reply was full of anger itself though none voiced their disapproval as strongly as Domeric.

The fight between Robb and Winterfell’s ward became so fierce their voices echoed down the corridors of the Great Keep, Jeyne and Sansa listening intently all the while. It was a strange thing to hear Domeric shout, when the young man’s voice was often so soft.

“You are smarter than this!” Domeric yelled. “How can you be so wise and yet act so stupidly?”

“This is about honor Dom!” Robb argued back. “Roslin has earned my heart and my vow. There are none more worthy of being my wife!”

“Wrong! Shortsighted and wrong! There are at least five women I can think of! A Manderly. A Locke. Ysilla Royce even! The only daughter of Bronze Yohn… she would bring you strong bloodlines, esteem, the power of Runestone! I wager Lord Walder can’t even remember where Roslin ranks among his daughters!”

“That’s not what matters! Not to me! Besides, the Freys are strong in their own right-”

“With loyalties to scores of houses across the entire realm! Robb, rip yourself from this fantasy and see all of this as your bannermen will. Your father wed a southron flower. He bent the knee to a king who dishonored his sister. One of his sons was crippled because of the royal family, while the other lies maimed. The Starks have never looked weaker!”

“My father is not weak! He fights the wildlings as Starks have done for time untold!” Robb had shouted. “How can you say such things? After father welcomed you into his home! You’re like a brother to me Dom… by the gods, I want you to be the one to lead Roslin to the heart tree for me-”

“Stop letting love blind you! I’d fight beside you Robb, wherever you would lead. You are the brother I chose, yet I will not lead that girl into the godswood for you. Your father made me his ward and I will not help his son shame the Starks more than they have been. The North respects strength and I see little of it in you now.”

A silence had fallen between them and she feared for Robb then, for he was alone in a room with Domeric. The cruelty and guile that the Bolton heir displayed with the wildlings still troubled Sansa ever since. Robb however, was more troubled by Domeric’s refusal to take part in the wedding.

“You insult me. You insult my family. You insult my bride.” Robb’s stern voice drifted down the hall. “Despite what you may think, the Starks remain strong and I will defend our honor. As Lord of Winterfell, I order you out of this castle. Take your serpent’s tongue and your treachery far away from this den of honor.”

Domeric’s departure was dramatic to say the least. Under Robb’s angry gaze, the Bolton heir had mounted his horse with a few Hornwood men-at-arms acting as an escort. Her brother would spare no Winterfell men.

Arya broke free from the crowd, grabbing at Domeric’s arm and pleading with him to stay. He hadn’t though. After some whispered words to her sister, Domeric turned his horse towards Robb. With a cold gaze and a curt bow, the former ward had kicked at his horse, riding hard out of the gates, his pink cloak flapping in the wind.

As ugly as Dom’s departure was, she felt somewhat relieved to have him gone. He was a fear she no longer need worry on.

That relief was short-lived though, for one of Robb’s fears became a reality with the arrival of a raven from Torrhen’s Square.

She knew Robb issued orders to the lords of the western shores that were quite simple. With the threat of reavers attacking their lands by sea, the lords were to move their smallfolk to strongholds. There they would wait for their enemy to land and risk an attack on targets with more formidable defenses and strong garrisons. Robb hoped that a sound defeat would discourage whoever was attacking them from pressing their luck.

The Flints and Dustins did as they were told. The Tallharts did not.

Not willing to give a single fishing village or hovel to the raiders, Ser Helman Tallhart had gone on the attack. Torrhen’s Square sat on the edge of a lake that fed a river which flowed straight to the open sea. Splitting his men, Ser Helman commanding one force and his brother Leobald the other, the Tallharts moved downriver on opposite sides with a small number of ships plying the waters between them. They aimed to control the mouth of that river, intimidating any further attacks.

Sadly all this invited attacks upon the Tallharts. The raiders fell upon Ser Helman’s force at night, landing longships ashore and overwhelming the Tallhart camp before any knew what was happening. Robb said Leobald was forced to watch from the other side of the river while his brother’s camp was burned. It was something he could not endure for long. Taking to their ships, Leobald made to relieve the defenders, only to be attacked in turn by longships secretly lying in wait. In the end, Leobald was killed, Helman taken prisoner, and their men scattered or killed.

As if that was not horrible enough, the vile men then struck deeper upriver, landing outside Torrhen’s Square and taunting its defenders with the captured Ser Helman. His son Benfred could not ignore such a threat and led a sortie out of the gates, seeking to rescue his father. The raiders were ready for it though, not only repelling Benfred’s attack but pressing on, overwhelming the keep’s weakened garrison. Eddara Tallhart, Benfred’s sister, barely escaped with Leobald’s wife and children in tow. Her father and brother were not so lucky, murdered by the raiders’ leader who then set to sacking the town itself.

While the fleeing Tallhart children found safety with houses of the Wolfswood, the surrounding lands were savaged brutally. Using captured horses and Torrhen’s Square as a port, the reavers struck deeper and deeper into the North. Raiding villages, killing men, stealing maidens, spreading chaos across the land. Lady Dustin grew so worried that she sent her son Roderick to stay at Winterfell.

It was young Roddy who brought word of who was responsible for their woes, the son of an ancient foe that the North had helped crush only years ago.

Soon it became known to all that Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, led these attacks. His name was now spoken with venom in every corner of the North. Robb cursed the Greyjoys himself before declaring his intent to go forth and defend their homeland.

With the Hornwoods and Cerwyns joining their strength to the Starks, Robb had would march to retake Torrhen’s Square and drive the krakens back into the sea. He would avenge the horrible crimes done to their bannermen and protect the poor, defenseless smallfolk. Sansa admired Robb for acting so nobly. Even with his injury, she held faith in his abilities, having watched Robb kill a man with her own eyes during the ordeal with the wildlings.

That was until Robert Baratheon invaded the south.

“Robb please! The king has summoned you!” Sansa had begged, clutching at her brother’s arm as he sat behind their father’s table. “King Rhaegar called on you to march south! Jon is going to fight and he needs you! Let the Dustins and the Ryswells fight the Greyjoys! Please!”

While she begged, Robb continued to shake his head, trying to pull her fingers from his arm. Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik also eased her back, their faces stern.

“My lady, the North is in no position to be sending men south.” Ser Rodrik spoke as if his reasons mattered.

“Your grandfather is likely gathering thousands of his bannermen at Riverrun.” Maester Luwin added his own excuses. “The riverlords are closer to the battlegrounds. It is their strength that the king truly depends on, not ours.”

“Jon is depending on us!” She nearly screamed in frustration, reaching for Robb, pleading with her eyes as much as her words. “He loves us both Robb! You cannot let him fight Robert Baratheon alone! Father would never-”

“I am doing as father would, not as I want!” Robb turned away from her, trying to rise and stumbling some before getting a grip on the table. That he showed her his back only made things worse.

“I demand that you help him! I demand it! He’s my betrothed! I love him! Just because you’re crippled doesn’t mean you can act a coward!”

The maester had clucked in disapproval while Robb stiffened, his shoulders tensing while he gripped the table tightly.

“Gods, I try to do the honorable thing and Dom calls me an idiot. I try to look after our lands and you call me a coward.” Robb sighed, still refusing to look at her. “Father tasked me with acting as a lord and to do so with honor. I fear for mother and our brothers in the south, yet all word says that they are safe while the North is not. Jon marches to defend his father’s realm. I must go to defend the Stark’s… honor demands it of me.”

Honor was the furthest thing from her mind and she let Robb know it. Still he was undeterred. His plans remained the same. Robb would leave for Torrhen’s Square on the morrow with thousands of men at his back. Today Robb was to wed Roslin before the heart tree, according to the old ways, with the eyes of the castle on them both.

An event his sisters now scorned by fleeing. The daughters of House Stark locking themselves away in defiance.

It was a shameful thing to think truly, something she tried to ignore by busying herself with fixing Arya’s frayed braids. Yet her mind kept turning back to all that brought them here.

She was just too mad at Robb to go to his wedding.

How can I watch Robb wed his love when he lets mine fight all alone?

It’s not fair. I loved Jon before Roslin even met Robb. It should be me getting married, not her.

“Why did you run?” Sansa asked, frowning at the one bit of Arya’s hair that would not stay down. “What made you grab my hand and run?”

“Robb sent Domeric away and won’t bring him back. He was my friend too!” Arya scowled, leaning back on the beam and letting her legs dangle beneath.  “And he won’t help Jon and Jaime fight Robert Baratheon! I can’t believe how much he’s changed… actually I can’t believe you followed me either… or why I thought to grab you…”

“Maybe because you love me?”

“Ha!” Arya laughed, then hissed as Sansa pinched her. “Ow! Come on, you’re mad at Roslin! Not me!”

“I’m not mad at Roslin.”

That was the truth and Sansa realized it as soon as she said it. While she felt some jealousy about Roslin getting a wedding and all the attention, she wasn’t really angry with her. Roslin was kind and Sansa liked the idea of her and Robb being together. She just didn’t like Robb much right now.

“I’m mad at the Greyjoys. At the Lannisters. At Queen Cersei and Prince Joffrey. At the wildling king and the golden stag. They all make me so angry Arya… princesses are supposed to be above hate, to find grace and never think such foul things but I just can’t. I hate them for keeping us all apart. For taking more of our family away…”

“Me too.” Arya nodded, chewing her lip. “Pretty soon there will be no one left at Winterfell. I bet if Uncle Benjen finished Summerhall tomorrow you would leave too. Then it’d just be me.”

“I wouldn’t leave you alone.” She said truthfully, her mood brightening at Arya’s mention of Summerhall. To her it was a beacon of hope. “If Jon and my castle was finished, I would take you with me. We could both see Summerhall and explore its wonders together…”

“We could ride in new lands.” Arya smiled. “Or watch Lady and Nymeria play in strange fields!”

“With Roslin staying here, I’d need a new lady to help me.” Sansa said with a picture already forming in her mind, of Jeyne and Beth doing her hair as Arya laid out a gown for her.

“I don’t want to be your servant!” Arya crossed her arms but she waved her sister’s anger away.

“Not a servant Arya, just my lady. You could help me dress and I would see to your hair, and do all those things we just said. We would make Summerhall our home, just like Winterfell! Jon could find a bard and dance with each of us every night. It could be such a happy place.”

“That be nice… it sounds good at least.” Arya looked up, her grey eyes more enthralled than their usual disgruntled state. “As long as you don’t order me about.”

“Well, I’d be a princess...”

Sansa’s voice fell away at the sounds coming from beyond the door. Footsteps were echoing off the stone staircase outside. Slow, uneven footsteps, marked by a loud tapping of wood on stone. There was also the faint sound of claws scratching on the floor. All of this grew louder until the scratching was upon the wood of the door.

Robb’s voice following after.

“Sansa… Arya… may I come in?”

“Why would you want to?” Arya asked. “It’s only your family in here. Nothing that matters!”

“Surely there’s some other cause you find more important!” Sansa added. “You seem to care little enough for those who love you!”

“Girls, please.” The scratching came again. “The climb took a lot out of me, I’ll need to rest a spell before going down again. If you don’t let me in, I’ll just be standing out here looking like an even greater fool than I already do.”

“Good.” Arya muttered but with little conviction. They shared a look of concern then, for it had been a hard climb for them up the crumbling steps of the First Keep. Robb must have suffered worse to do so with his leg.

“If we open it… you must swear not to force us to go to the wedding.” Sansa spoke haltingly. “We won’t open it unless you swear.”

“I so swear.” Robb answered.

With a sigh Sansa nodded and Arya leapt off the beam, dragging her feet all the way to the door, knocking aside the bit of wood with a kick. Arya retreated back to Sansa’s side as the door creaked open, Grey Wind pushing his way in first. The wolf eyed the girls in a strange way, with a look that bordered on disappointment. As Robb followed his friend within, his own expression was one of sadness.

Her brother was dressed quite handsomely. He wore his finest cloak, one of white fur with a grey direwolf wrought across its back. The cloak was fastened to his grey wools by heavy bronze buckles, matching the ones on his boots which were made of supple brown leather. Robb’s grandest accessory was the one he leaned on heavily, a weirwood cane that a master woodcarver from the Winter Town had made for him. The top was wrought in the shape of a direwolf’s head, its mouth open and snarling.

She expected Robb to be doing much the same yet his mouth was set in a straight line, his free hand stroking the auburn beard he’d grown as of late.

“For all the times that mother threatened to lock you two in a tower cell together, I never thought you’d do it yourselves.” He offered a weak smile but neither girl laughed.

“We would return to our chambers of course.” Sansa pulled Arya to her, forming a united front. “Now that we are not being forced to attend the wedding.”

“You can but I’d like you to be at my wedding.” Robb said, his eyes moving sadly from Arya and then to her. “Everyone else can go and jump in the hot springs for all I care. It’s my sisters I want with me today.”

“Why? Why should you get what you want?” Arya asked, stomping her foot. “I wanted Domeric to stay and you sent him away! I wanted you to go help Jon but you didn’t!”

“I wanted both of those things too Arya.” Robb took a step forward, his cane tapping on the stone. “Please, both of you, hear me on this. I want Domeric by my side. I regret the fight we had. If he returned today I would embrace him as a brother.”

“And what of your future goodbrother?” Sansa demanded, tears welling up in her eyes. “Jon is your blood Robb. You’ve known him longer than Domeric and he’s going to be my husband… how can you let him fight alone?”

“Sansa don’t cry. I’m not leaving Jon alone. Roslin has had word from her father, he’s quite pleased about us marrying. So pleased in fact Lord Walder is committing the strength of his house to the royal cause. The last raven from Riverrun put their number at nearly twelve thousand! That’s more than father took beyond the Wall. Three times the number I have to protect all of the North right now…”

With a grunt, Robb limped by them so he could lean on the beam that Arya had sat upon before.

“Truly it should be more… and it’s why I can’t go south. Rodrik and the maester don’t like it when I share these matters beyond them but I must. Soon you will be the Starks in Winterfell, and I won’t let you be ignorant of all the troubles that face us. Domeric told me that the northern lords think us weak-”

“He wouldn’t!” Arya protested but Robb made a soothing sound to calm her.

“He did, and he was right to do so. I sent out many ravens asking for men. Robett Glover was barely back from Castle Black before he promised to ready Deepwood Motte’s remaining strength. Lords Gregor Forrester and Wyman Manderly promised us swords as well… yet many others offered only excuses. The Lakes, the Lockes, the Flints of Widow’s Watch, the Whitehills, and many more. There’s likely twice as many fighting men left in the North than I have right now, yet the lords will not bestir themselves.”

“Well… they should be punished then.” Sansa said, shocked to hear that their bannermen weren’t heeding the summons of Winterfell. “Held to account. Named as cowards… and-and traitors!”

“So I should make war on lords of the north now? Rather than heading south?” Robb asked. “Sansa, were I to do so while the krakens ravage our lands, we’d likely lose what support we have left. King Rhaegar has the royal fleet and the strength of almost the entire south to call upon for help. There is no other help for us here in the North. Our people are under attack. More die each day and it is Winterfell that they look to for relief.”

Robb leaned a bit more against the beam, rubbing his leg with a grimace of pain.

“I know what it feels like to be hurt and scared, to need help in a dire hour. I lay awake at night fearing that mother and the boys could be in such need. Or Jon. Even father. Those are just my fears though. The Greyjoy crimes in the west are a certainty. Reports say that there might be less than a few score longships ravaging our shores. Should I do nothing, if this goes unchallenged, hundreds more could follow. More pain and death coming with them. Girls, please, I beg you not to hate me for trying to keep such from coming to pass.”

His last words were spoken with desperation and Sansa could not bring herself to look anywhere near Robb’s face. Everything her brother spoke sounded like horrible burdens to carry. Worse still to have the duty of dealing with them. She loved Jon truly and wanted to tell Robb to go south, to help her love.

Yet that would leave her here in the North. Robb’s problems becoming hers.

That terrified her to the point of trembling.

“We don’t hate you.” Arya said after a time, the girl petting Grey Wind as the wolf licked at her other hand. “Not really… we were mad is all… you didn’t tell us…”

“If we had known how bad things were we would not have acted so.” She finished. “You’ve done so much lately without explanation… shocking things Robb… you cannot blame us for being upset. Or angry.”

Robb surprised her by chuckling at that, running his hand through his hair and looking up to the ruined roof above them as if beseeching the gods.

“I guess you’re right. To be honest, I never dreamed of seeing a day when my sisters fought with me more than each other.” He smiled some at that. “It is good to see you two getting along, but surely there’s some peace to be had between us? Today I wed the woman I love. Tomorrow I leave that wife behind to ride off to war, in the care of the sisters I love. Please girls, I’m hobbled enough as it is … I cannot do this without you two.”

“You won’t.” Arya took a step forward, putting a hand to her side like she expected a sword to be there. “I’ll help. Whatever you want Robb. I’ll help, I swear.”

“As will I.” She said, wringing her hands. “Truly I’m happy for you and Roslin… I just worry for Jon. I-I worry about not having the chance to wed as you do…”

“I have faith that you will Sansa.” Robb limped towards them, bringing Arya and then her into his arms. Embracing them as he would when they were little girls. “One day it will be father leading you before a heart tree, Jon waiting there as I shall wait for Roslin today. It will be a splendid day my sister. I pray our family will be there to enjoy it with you. As I hope you two will enjoy witnessing Roslin and my vows.”

Sansa gave no answer, save to wrap her arms around Robb, burying her face in his chest and holding him with all her strength. Soon the hand she had around Robb’s back was touched by Arya’s, who embraced him in much the same way. Somehow, despite his injury, Robb stayed standing, reminding Sansa of the First Keep.

For despite its damaged state, it still stood, strong and defiant. Offering its protection to the three Starks left in Winterfell.

When they left the keep, Arya and Sansa helped steady Robb’s descent down the steps. She kept a hand about his back, Arya holding his arm, Robb jesting the whole way that they should get mules for the stairwells.

The laughter helped change her mood some, which was welcome since it was the godswood they sought soon after.

Most of the castle was gathered there, lining the path from the entrance all the way to the heart tree. When Robb knelt before the tree, Arya made to stand to his left, Sansa to his right, the red canopy of the weirwood sheltering all three. Other notables were gathered nearby. Roderick Dustin stood proudly beside Cley Cerwyn, the two young men nudging and chuckling with one another. Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane kept Lady Jonella Cerwyn company, who wore a gown far too simple for her station.

The honor of leading Roslin through the godswood fell to Ser Rodrik, who was red-faced and moving awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with his duty. The bride acted more shy than anything else, which Sansa could not understand considering how beautiful Roslin looked.

Roslin’s cheeks were flushed, her full lips curved in a demure way. Someone, likely Jeyne, had seen to Roslin’s hair and it looked truly wonderful. The lady had the longest hair of any woman that Sansa knew, and it was brushed so well that it looked like silk. A braid ran like a tiara across her brow, joining in the back in a clever way.

Roslin’s gown was white wool, showing little neck but with a deep drop to her sleeves. A pair of bronze chains ran about her middle, hanging in a coy yet lovely manner. Around her shoulders she wore a grey cloak, one that someone had sewn the blue towers of House Frey onto. When she met Roslin’s wide brown eyes, Sansa couldn’t help but smile, for her lady looked truly radiant today.

Arya’s giggle caught her attention, and she glanced over to scold her sister into being quiet. Yet when she saw that Robb had risen to face Roslin’s coming, the reason for Arya’s laughter was plain. The awe-struck look on Robb’s face, complete with a dropped jaw, forced Sansa to fight back a giggle as well.

I cannot wait for the day when I can make Jon look so shocked.

Let Arya and Robb laugh at him then. Bran and Rickon too. I pray for it.

“Who-who comes?” Robb asked hoarsely, having to clear his throat to continue. “Who comes before the gods?”

The old knight stopped abruptly, jostling poor Roslin some and causing her to blush even more.

“I bring forward Lady Roslin, of the House Frey.” Ser Rodrik spoke gruffly, mustache quivering. “A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes here to be wed and begs the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do.” Robb answered, hand to his heart. “Robb, of House Stark, heir to Winterfell. Son of Eddard, the Lord of Winterfell, Warden in the North. I claim her. I claim her with all my heart...”

Robb stopped then, gazing at his future wife and remaining silent. People began to move about and whisper so Sansa hissed at him as quietly as she could, for it fell to Robb to continue the ritual.

“Who gives her?” Robb asked with haste, shaking himself free of his spell.

“Rodrik Cassel, castellan and master-at-arms. Loyal knight of House Stark.” Rodrik answered before jerking to address Roslin. “Lady Roslin, will you take this man?”

While Roslin worked up her courage, Sansa wondered which way she wanted the lady to answer. Things might be better if Roslin refused Robb. Their parents would be happier. Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin would not act so displeased. Perhaps some more northern lords would return to Robb’s side.

None of that sounds like the makings of a song though. With Robb looking so handsome and Roslin so beautiful, this must be love.

With my brother about to ride to war, he must have a lady love to return to.

So it must be yes.

It must be.

Many might not think much of Roslin. Some probably even spoke poorly of her worth. Yet not Sansa. Especially not after the she saw the flash of love in the lady’s eyes as she gazed upon Robb. Roslin gave voice to all that Sansa hoped she would.

“I do… I take this man. Forever and always.”

Then Sansa began to cry. Not in fear or sadness, but in joy for Robb and her new  goodsister. For the hope they would be happy together. That someday she and Jon could be joined in such a lovely way.

She had to dab at her eyes when Robb handed Ser Rodrik his cane, struggling and turning red to stand tall and unhook Roslin’s cloak. With no help at all, her brother then laid the cloak of House Stark upon her shoulders. Then, with Roslin steadying him, the pair knelt before the heart tree, bowing their head in prayer.

Arya was smiling widely, Nymeria at her side. Lady then pressed against hers, looking up at Sansa as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Grey Wind came forward to sit beside Roslin, likely praying as well.

It was a magical moment. Sansa felt united with her brother and sister in joy and love. The direwolves together, before the eyes of the old gods, in the heart of their home. Hope, love, and the dreams of all that could be.

She wanted to hold onto this moment.

Forever and always.

   

DAENERYS

 

A powerful wind blew off the sea, rushing over the rocky shores of Dragonstone and wafting over her. Its cool touch ran through her hair, caressing her face and neck while tugging at her gown like she imagined a lover would.

Daenerys thought of Jon then. Of how long it been since they’d last touched. Of how long it would be until they did so again.

There was reason to hope it would be sooner rather than later, for as the wind blew about the shore further out to sea it beat against the sails of a great many ships. Hundreds of vessels of all shapes and sizes either anchored or sailed in the waters around the island. Daenerys spotted war galleys and trade cogs, triple-decked dromonds and carracks. A score of different banners among them.

Those of the royal fleet flew the dragon banners but other loyal houses had sent ships of their own. The silver seahorse of the Velaryons flapped in the wind, as did the Rykker’s two black warhammers, the yellow suns and white crescents of Tarth, even the Manderly merman. When Rhaegar returned from the Wall a half score of the northern ships served as an escort, Ser Wendel Manderly now pledging them to join the fight ahead.

Jon will like that, she thought, the northmen fighting alongside us.

Perhaps he’ll even sail back to me on one of those ships when the battle is over.

“Is that the banner of House Martell?” Brienne asked, her lady protector squinting into the distance. “I had not heard of their ships arriving-”

“It’s just a trade cog.” Elara interrupted, acting quite bored. “That’s all the help Princess Elia’s brothers will offer the king. The anger over her death runs deep in Sunspear.”

Her two companions could not be more different in appearance. Brienne was fair-haired and armored for battle while Elara was darker, clad in a well-made gown the color of deep ruby. Brienne was clearly the warrior of the two yet Dany knew Elara to be fierce in her own way, a glimpse of such showing through her foul mood.

“What of the safety of Elia’s children?” Brienne pressed. “Surely the Martells would offer support for Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys against this threat.”

“They might. Helping those two does not necessarily mean helping King Rhaegar though.” Elara’s expression darkened then. “We Dornish don’t forgive easily. Not when it comes to the suffering of someone we care for.”

Good, she’s finally giving voice to it. She speaks of others but I can tell who she truly means.

Soon enough Elara will be come clean with her feelings… with her anger towards me…

“The Martells will be missed.” Dany said softly, looking to her friend and catching her eye. “Once they were dear friends of ours… and like any friendship worth having, I hope ours will be mended one day. That there is time for forgiveness.”

“Well said princess.” Brienne nodded.

Elara however dropped her gaze to the ground, fingers pulling at her dress in a nervous way, an old sign that the lady did not feel comfortable with the conversation’s turn. Forgiveness would not come today it seemed. With a heavy heart, Dany did what she could to help Elara, changing the topic once more.

“In a way it’s good the Martells aren’t here. From what we just saw of the town, there’s scant room for anymore men on this island.”

That brought sounds of approval from both her companions.

The women were gathered atop an outcropping of black rock, part of the path that led from the castle of Dragonstone to the fishing village back the way they came. This spot offered a good view of the sea below but did little justice to just how crammed the small village had become over the last few weeks. All the villages of the island were in such a state. It seemed like every ship that came to Dragonstone brought more men to add to the army Rhaegar was gathering here. Thousands upon thousands packing the narrow walkways between the huts, fish stalls and taverns she usually enjoyed strolling by.

Dany always enjoyed her visits to the village in the past, yet not today. Often she could wander about the small market and buildings, speaking with the villagers who called out kindly greetings to her. Now those pleasant people were lost in the press of newly arrived fighting men. Rather than greetings men shouted warnings, so others could scramble to part before her coming.

“This is not the Dragonstone I know.” She sighed as another gust of wind brought the smell of salt and fish up to her.  “I was born here Brienne, did you know that? In the middle of a storm.”

“Even in Tarth we have heard of Daenerys Stormborn.” Brienne smiled.

“Rhaegar brought me back for many visits since. Sometimes storms would rage while we stayed here but Dragonstone has always been a peaceful place to me. The people who live here are few, leading simple lives. Most trade ships seek Driftmark or King’s Landing rather than here. Cersei hates the sulfur smell and Rhaenys calls the castle dark and drab. To me though, this is home. Yet with so many people here… so many ships… I don’t recognize it. War changes things.”

“They’ll be gone soon enough.” Elara offered. “If the weather holds, these ships will sail and you’ll get your island back Daenerys.”

“And Robert Baratheon will answer for his crimes.” Brienne added before frowning. “I envy the men who get to bring Robert low. Surely it will be a great battle. One sung about in songs, where knights will be praised for gallantry and maids their beauty, the summer sun shining for time untold.”

“That’s beautiful Brienne.” She said with a smile only to find Elara shaking her head.

“I remember when Cersei paid a bard to sing Joffrey’s praises. It was a catchy tune but lies all the same. Summer forever? Well, since Bran isn’t here to say it, let me do so in honor of the little wolf. Winter is coming. And we should be going.”

Elara finished by pointing towards the score of Targaryen guardsmen waiting back towards the path. The lead one, a lanky, mustachioed man, was moving cautiously forward, clearly eager to be continuing on. She took pity on the poor soldier, for they’d already forced him to visit the village despite telling Rhaegar she merely wished a stroll about the Dragonmont. The volcano jutting up into the sky beyond Dragonstone was a treat to explore yet she’d commanded they journey to the village instead.

“Your grace.” The guardsman spoke with unease. “I fear what Ser Barristan will do to me when he learns we did not follow the plan… if we are late as well…”

“Fear not, I shall accept all punishments myself. In times such as these I cannot have good men suffer.” She reached to take Elara’s hand in hers then. “Enough good people have suffered already.”

Though Elara still wouldn’t meet her gaze it bothered her little. Dany felt the small squeeze her friend gave as their fingers intertwined. Another sign the chill between them might be ending. Their escort quickly enfolded the ladies back into their armed cordon, pressing onwards up the rocky path to the dark castle ahead.

Even at this distance she saw men walking the battlements of the ancient fortress, far more lively than the hundreds of stone gargoyles lining the walls and towers. The Sea Dragon Tower could easily draw the eye, built using the lost Valyrian stone-working magics, it was shaped like a dragon at peace. Yet her eyes moved to the large keep built to the center of the castle, the one made entirely out of black stone. The Stone Drum it was called, and that was where Rhaegar likely worked away, standing over the same table Aegon the Conqueror had when he plotted his conquest.

Dany would seek him out there. Yet she was in no rush, for now she enjoyed walking with her friends, holding Elara’s hand the whole way.

It had been so long since they’d acted like true friends. Ever since Dany forced Elara to flee King’s Landing and, more importantly, leave poor Bran’s side. At the time she’d prayed Bran would wake up before they left. Elara might have felt better to say a proper farewell to her young rescuer. Sadly the morning of their departure Bran was still lost to his delirium. That hadn’t stopped Elara from spending her last moments at the Red Keep with the Stark boy.

“You lost your eye my Winged Wolf, but I know you can still fly.” Elara had whispered as she ran fingers through Bran’s hair. “Things might be seem a little darker now so you must work all the harder to see the light. Fight for it Bran, strain to see the good in this world. I trust you’ll see it. I hope…”

Daenerys had wept the same as Elara when the lady pressed a kiss to Bran’s brow. As inspiring as Elara’s words were she could not find the strength to meet her friend’s gaze afterwards, the shame weakened her so. It was a trial to flee the capital with both Elara and Jackie mad at her. Their time at Dragonstone a tense one until news of Robert Baratheon’s invasion made it all the worse.

Strangely, in that time of need, it was Jackie who came and offered Dany strength. Her servant’s mood upended completely, their argument in the Red Keep forgotten. Eager to be at her side, willing to hear all Dany’s worries on the war and what news came from Crownlands, Jackie was a constant comfort.

Elara was the one who figured it out first. After a particularly happy outburst from Jackie and the girl leaving the room all smiles Elara made to explain things.

“It’s a man. She’s in love.” Elara said as she fed Winter some corn. “Some man in the fishing village. She visits him most nights. I’ve seen them together.”

“How? You don’t leave the castle at night.” Dany argued in disbelief, for Jackie was driven to anger for lacking a husband only a short time ago.

“We all have secrets Daenerys.” Elara spoke with a tinge of mystery. “You have your plans for Jon. Jackie has this man this in the village… he’s not what you’d expect either. A young man who reads and cages a couple ravens in his room. Never seen anyone keep ravens as pets outside maesters.”

“Or maester’s favorites.” She tried to jest yet Elara had not laughed.

Laughter would come later. It was enough that they held hands now.

Their touch only ended when they passed beneath the gates of Dragonstone, walking by torches held up by stone dragons and finding two Kingsguard knights in the busy courtyard. The larger of the two frowning at the white raven perched on his shoulder.

“Thank the warrior you’ve returned.” Arthur complained, swiping at Winter until the bird flew from his shoulder. “Your white beast has not let me be the whole damn day Elara.”

“Now you know how King Rhaegar feels.” Elara broke free from Dany’s grasp, to accept Winter’s arrival on her arm. As her uncle chuckled the young woman leaned up to kiss his cheek.

Barristan was not in such a fine mood, his weathered face creased with more worry than age as he took in her party. Whatever excuse she thought to offer for their lateness fell away under his disappointed gaze.

“I’m sorry ser. Do not blame the men, I took us-”

“To the village.” He sighed.

“To the village.” She admitted. “I regret doing so, truly. I don’t care for how busy its become, too many tromp upon its charms.”

“I should not be surprised, you’re never where you’re meant to be.” Barristan spoke in a tired manner. “Well you’ll be able to enjoy the village again soon enough. Jon Connington and the riverlords are ready.”

To Dany and her ladies the knight’s words sparked a measure of excitement.

“The fleet is to sail?” She asked.

“Ser, I beg leave to join the fight!” Brienne dropped to a knee.

“Uncle, what of Edric?” Elara looked to Arthur. “Is he with the riverlords still?”

Ser Arthur raised his powerful arms and up to silence the barrage of questions before addressing each woman in turn.

“Yes princess, the fleet shall sail. Lady Brienne, I’d prefer you stand but remain kneeling if you wish, for there is no chance of you sailing with us. And dear niece, our brave Edric fights by Lord Beric’s side. Joining thousands of others at Harrenhal as we speak.”

“More will come in time. For now the king demands the presence of his sister.” Barristan waved away her guardsmen. When Brienne made to leave as well the knight held his hand up. “Not you my lady. I’d ask you to join Arthur and myself in escorting our wayward princess to the king.”

When Elara made to follow Arthur stopped her, pressing a finger to her lips when she made to argue.

“None of that child. Now go write a letter to young Ned so I might have something to give him when he asks of you. No arguments.”

Dany marveled at how easily Arthur could bend the stubborn lady to his will. When Rhaegar’s ship arrived from the Wall Elara had leapt into her uncle’s arms, neither showing any shame as the knight spun her about on the dock. She caught the way Arthur embraced Elara a tad tighter and for a bit longer than usual, his face twisting into a brief flash of rage as he did so. It was not hard to imagine why.

News of Joffrey’s attack on Bran and Elara had reached White Harbor by the time Rhaegar’s ship arrived there. Arthur learning of Joffrey’s treatment of his beloved niece from the prince’s own father.

The panic following the invasion of the Golden Company had swept both Rhaegar and Arthur up in war councils and preparations for the battle ahead. Yet she had no intention of allowing Rhaegar to ignore Joffrey’s crimes and resolved to learn his plans for justice. No matter what else Rhaegar wished to see her about, she would have this from him.

A long, tiring climb up the steps of the Stone Drum brought the small group to the king, who awaited them where she expected.

The Chamber of the Painted Table was one of her favorite places in Dragonstone. It was certainly one of the brightest, the large room had four tall windows facing north, south, east and west. As spacious as the chamber was the grand table within filled much of the room. Twenty-five feet wide and twice as long, the painted table was carved in the shape of Westeros, a detailed map of the realm painted upon it.

At Dragonstone place on the map a chair rose up, a seat her brother sat upon and gazed out upon the breadth of the table itself. They found him deep in thought, his long pale hair hanging in the air as he leaned forward to gaze at the Crownlands. While the guards all waited without Rhaegar was not alone in his silent contemplation. Dany laughed quietly to see Winter perched on his shoulder, the bird’s black eyes watching their coming while the king appeared oblivious. It was Ser Arthur who broke his concentration by announcing their arrival.

“Bloody thing beat us here.” Arthur said as the guards closed the door behind them, leaving the five alone in the room. “Rhaegar, Princess Daenerys and Lady Brienne, as you requested.”

“Thank you old friend.” Rhaegar smiled to see them, taking Winter in hand and ushering the bird to fly down upon the table. He climbed down from the chair soon after and adjusted his crown, as if it felt heavy all of a sudden.

“Daenerys. You are late.”

“Sorry brother.” She curtsied. “I became distracted and-”

“I cannot fault you, I often become distracted as well.” Rhaegar spoke softly, rounding the table and addressing Brienne next. “My lady, I regret we have not had much chance to speak.”

“Your grace.” Brienne bowed. “I was thankful enough to know you accepted my father’s vow of fealty.”

“For all he’s done there was little to doubt.” Rhaegar eyed the lady appraisingly. “Aegon writes of the brave deeds of the Tarth men in his fight against the rebellion in the south. Lord Selwyn’s ships join us here for the battle ahead. Trust that I intend to reward your father when this tumultuous time ends. Until then, I ask a boon of you my lady.”

“I am to serve you in all things my king.”

“It is not me you shall serve, but my sister.” Rhaegar looked to Barristan then. “My loyal Ser Barristan sings your praises Brienne. Soon my two Kingsguard shall be joining me in sailing against Robert Baratheon. While I shall leave Daenerys a strong garrison here at Dragonstone I wish for her to have sworn protector as well. I hope it will be you.”

Brienne and Dany looked to each other, both surprised by the request. She welcomed it of course, Brienne was kind and capable, a fast friend in all regards. Doubt gripped the lady warrior for a moment or two before a shy smile broke across free. Those blue eyes of hers shining with earnestness.

“As a woman I cannot be a Kingsguard.” Brienne touched her chest. “Yet I will gladly take one’s place at the princess’s side though. If she’d have me.”

“Of course Brienne.” She embarrassed the lady by cupping her cheeks. “It took me months to take to Elara and Roslin as quickly as I have with you. I trust you, I name you a friend and welcome you by my side until my dear Barristan returns.”

As Brienne’s skin burned beneath her touch Rhaegar and the Kingsguard knights watched with pleased expressions. It turned out that was why Brienne had been summoned here and Barristan soon led her from the room to speak on matters concerning Dany’s protection.

Which left Rhaegar, Arthur and her watching as Winter moved about the table. The raven began pecking its beak down at Darry’s place, an action that caused her brother to grimace.

“Quite the intelligent creature.” Rhaegar raised an eyebrow. “I followed its eyes as I spoke my mind on recent events… it looked to every place I mentioned…”

“Well you best chide Marwyn about it.” Arthur jested. “Your pet maester saddled Elara with the bird.”

“Marwyn and I have much to discuss.” Rhaegar answered, pointing towards the Vale. “He’s at Gulltown now. Waiting for the threat of the sellsails to end so he can take ship here. If Lord Grafton’s fleet wasn’t destroyed he’d already be at Dragonstone… I’d like his counsel. Though I’d prefer the armies of the Vale more.”

This was a sore point for Rhaegar. For the lords of the Vale as well.

After the royals left King’s Landing Jon Arryn and the rest of the small council had used the Gold Cloaks to maintain order in the capital. Jon Connington’s arrival ended their rule, hundreds of his own men taking charge of the Red Keep in Rhaegar’s name. When word reached the Hand of Robert Baratheon’s invasion he locked the Jon Arryn in the black cells, apparently fearing the lord complicit in the attack.

As soon as Rhaegar heard of it he ordered the Lord Arryn’s release but the damage was done. When the Vale learned of his treatment its lords were outraged. Even after Lord Arryn’s release only a token force was raised at the Gates of the Moon to join the fight against the Golden Company.

“If the Vale had marched in force perhaps Darry might have been spared.” Rhaegar clenched his fists. “That poor family.”

“Something happened at Castle Darry?” She asked and her brother looked at her with his sad eyes.

“Robert’s army broke its defenses some days ago. There was little mercy to be found in his triumph, to a man he put the garrison to the sword. As well as every Darry he could get his filthy hands on. Lord Raymun and all his brothers murdered… Ser Jonothor and young Lyman are the only members of House Darry left. Robert did this because of how loyal their family has been to me…”

“Oh Rhaegar… I’m so sorry.” She went to the king, embracing him as fear took hold of her heart. On the map Harrenhal was so close to Darry that Winter hopped from one castle to the other in but a few jumps.

“They won’t be the last.” Rhaegar’s tone changed to iron. “From Rook’s Rest to the Saltpans, Maidenpool to Darry, Robert’s army burns and pillages all it comes across. Thousands have died by the sword… thousands will follow because of hunger and the elements as they flee the fighting…”

“If they are allowed to flee at all. The Dothraki cut down all they come upon.” Arthur growled as he walked about the table. “Bloody savages the lot of them.”

Daenerys felt a chill at the mention of the Dothraki. From her lessons she knew they were a people practically born upon their horses. Mighty warriors who travelled in massive war bands that could reach tens of thousands. It was shocking to hear Robert now commanded a few thousand among his number. While the Golden Company took castles and towns the Dothraki horsemen ravaged the countryside. They rode down any they came across with little regard for the difference between defenders and defenseless, and even less mercy.

“What of Harrenhal?” She worried, pulling back from Rhaegar who still held her arms. “Jon’s there and you’ve always said how much Robert hates the royal family…”

“It’s a foul thing to say princess but I wish Robert would be so stupid.” Arthur answered, moving his hand across the map from the capital to Harrenhal. “We were fortunate Castle Darry held out as long as it did. The Arryn force under Nestor Royce was able to reach Harrenhal unmolested. There they met the men Edmure Tully brought from Riverrun and the Hand led from the south. All told more than twenty thousand gathered at a formidable fortress. If Robert were to attack, well, it be suicide.”

“Which is why he won’t.” Rhaegar pointed down at another castle south of Maidenpool. “Antlers is his next target. To get there the Golden Company will have to avoid Harrenhal and march back towards the Bay of Crabs. Jon Connington will deny Robert that. The Hand’s army moves to meet our foe between the Saltpans and Quiet Isle. That is where I shall sail my own forces, landing to Robert’s rear and crushing his army in a vise.”

Rhaegar did not have to tell Dany all this yet of late he made a point to keep her informed. The two men explained the rest of their strategy in short order, both quite patient with her questions. Robert’s fleet remained in the Bay of the Crabs, controlling the entrance to the Trident while blockading Gulltown and the Vale itself. Rhaegar’s army was to depart from Dragonstone and hug the coast of Crackclaw Point and then the bay itself, sailing up towards Quiet Isle to land his troops in secret.

For her brother’s plan to work he needed to draw the sellsail fleet’s attention away from the coast.

That distraction would come from a massive attack the royal fleet would launch against the Gulltown blockade. Most of their warships were to join that fight, ideally overwhelming the enemy and securing victory. Rhaegar seemed content enough for the fleet to merely keep the sellsails busy.

“This will cost us Daenerys.” Rhaegar walked to the western window, watching as the sun dipped low and the sea became molten gold. “Quite dearly I fear. The foe will likely have the advantage and Lord Monford must screen my movements up the bay at all cost. Above the well-being of his own ships.”

“I don’t know why you’re going.” She whispered, leaning against the frame of the window and watching Rhaegar’s hair move in the wind. “Ser Arthur and Barristan can lead your men against Robert. You’re the king. It’s safer for you here.”

“As a king I say you are right. As a father, I shall go anyways. For Aegon and Jon are far from safe. Right now my children are immersed in a war I should have ended fifteen years ago... I cannot let them risk themselves so while I hide in safety.”

“But-”

“It’s no use.” Arthur interrupted without looking at her, for he was using his cloak to bat away Winter who once more sought to land upon him. “Heed me on that, for I have said much the same to Rhaegar already. Fear not princess, I swear by my greatsword Dawn to return the king to your side. I haven’t failed to bring him home yet. We’ve many more journeys to make together, him and I. One to the west after this war is done with for example.”

While Dany began to comprehend Arthur’s meaning Winter finally gave up on the knight. The raven flew onwards to land on a ledge near them. With a glance to the setting sun the raven began to caw again, though this time using the Common Tongue to do so.

‘West!’ Winter cawed. ‘West! West!’

“Like the knight said, after this war.” Rhaegar closed his eyes. “I shall end one war before I start another… father against son…”

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” She asked, daring to hope. “It’s Joffrey, you’re going to go after him for what he did. Please say so Rhaegar, please… I told everyone you would see justice done…”

“Justice. To arrest my own son and send him to the Wall… Arthur and the Starks shall call that justice. Cersei will call it a betrayal. Lord Tywin will name it war and call his banners. How many will die calling out my name? Cursing it? Call it what you will Daenerys, but when I go to put my own son in irons I will call it folly. A folly of my own making in failing Joffrey so. For letting Cersei have too free a hand coddling his failings. I saw the signs all along… they came earlier with him than Viserys yet I turned my back to it. Truly I knew there would be consequences of doing so. So once more others suffered for my folly…”

As relieved she was to hear Rhaegar intended to bring Tywin Lannister to his knees and hold Joffrey to account, it pained Daenerys to see Rhaegar in such pain. A glance Arthur’s way and the knight nodded, leaving the pair be without being told to. When the heavy doors closed Rhaegar and Daenerys were alone, as they often were in some of her finest memories of Dragonstone.

“You’re a good man Rhaegar.” She took her brother’s arm and leaned against it. “A great man and better king… all will see that soon. As I always have. I love you for it.”

Rhaegar said nothing, merely accepting Dany’s touch and presence at his side as they watched the sun set together. After a few moments of silence he turned some to kiss the top of her head. He took hold of her chin and bid her to meet his eyes, which were bright and glistening in the light of the sunset.

“Did you know of Aegon and Rhaenys’s plots?” He asked in a hoarse voice. “Of my daughter’s intent to marry Renly Baratheon? Or that she apparently carries his child?”

Now… it’s to be now… I hoped he would forget… put it off perhaps…

Surely the truth can wait a few days more… a month if the seven are kind.

She cursed the raven from Storm’s End. Its arrival brought word of Rhaenys’s marriage to Renly and caused a scandal here at Dragonstone. Rhaegar had locked himself away for the better part of a day after hearing of the wedding and his daughter being with child. Now he was standing right in front of her, demanding answers.

“Speak to it Daenerys. Did you know?”

Her strength left her and she could not bring herself to lie, so a weak nod followed.

“Is there more? Do my two eldest children aspire to defy me in other ways?”

“Yes…” Her admission drawn out by the intensity of Rhaegar’s eyes. “Aegon wishes to wed Margaery Tyrell… and they said- well I asked them to help me… to help me make you see-”

“Your reward was to be Jon.” Rhaegar rose to his full height and she felt small before him. “After everything I told you, you still wish to break his betrothal to the Starks.”

“I love him.” She felt stronger saying so. “As he loves me. We are meant to be together. It’s fated.”

“And we can’t fight fate can we?” Rhaegar turned to face the northern window then. “I learned much at Castle Black Daenerys. A wise man and I poured over prophecies, again and again. Comparing ancient knowledge, differences in dialects, even the backgrounds of those who put such predictions to parchment. In the end I learned on how mistaken I’ve been… on so much.”

“About Jon and I?” She walked around him, forcing Rhaegar to look at her. “Does this mean I can be with him at Summerhall?”

“No. Your destiny is to be queen Dany. Maester Aemon is sure of it.” He took hold of her shoulders and showed her the grand table again, the realm etched upon it. “I bring you into my counsel so that you might begin to accept that-”

“Then what are you talking about!?” She shook free, the anger rising in her. “If you were so wrong about your precious prophecies why are you still trying to keep me from Jon?”

“The dragon must have three heads.” Rhaegar took her outburst in stride, eyeing her with sympathy. “I always believed it meant my children… my eldest three. They would be the ones to bring magics back to the world. Yet I was wrong. Three dragons there must be… one red, one gold and one white. There’s no doubt in my mind who that red dragon is meant to be Dany. So listen to me now, the dragon’s eggs, they are hidden here at Dragonstone. In the mouth of the Sea Dragon Tower. When the time comes-”

“Rhaegar stop!” She cried out backing away from him, hands clutching her skirts in anger. “Just stop! Red dragons! Gold dragons! I don’t care about any of it! This is how you come upon follies again and again. You spend so much time lost in the mad ravings of dead men you ignore what’s happening around you!”

“Dany listen.” Rhaegar reached for her but she ran towards the door. “Dany please, you’re right but hear me. I love you so, I do this to guide you-”

“Let me make my own future!” Dany grabbed the door handle, whipping around and seeing the hazy shape of her brother through her tears. “You won’t listen to any of us! I love you Rhaegar! I was always so jealous of Aegon and the others! That they had a father like you! Now I see you’re just like our father… trade madness for prophecy and it’s just the same!”

That stopped Rhaegar in his tracks, his arm falling to his side like a string had been cut somewhere. She could look no more and faced the door before speaking to the rest of her fury.

“You wouldn’t let father decide your fate. I don’t trust you to decide mine. Keep your dragon’s eggs! Bring me back my prince! Spare us your fate Rhaegar! Please!”

With that she wrenched open the door and ran. Arthur and the other guards watched her go, none moving to stop her and no command from Rhaegar came for them to do so. The sight of Barristan and Brienne gaping as she rounded a corner didn’t stop her either. Their armored forms could not keep up with her desperate flight.

Rage. Sadness. Relief. Fear.

Somehow her brother inspired all that in her. Yet she loved him still so it hurt all the more.

When she burst into her chambers Jackie was there waiting. Standing beside her large four-post canopy bed the servant stared at the state of Dany. She offered only a sob before collapsing on the soft bed, burying her face in the lines to try and escape all the feelings overwhelming her.

“Your grace… my princess what’s happened?” Jackie sat beside her, stroking her hair and making soothing sounds. “Do you fear for the battle a head… I heard the fleet is to sail…”

"It’s not that… not really… my brother will destroy the Usurper well enough. He’ll sail to do so... to be with Jon."

"Then that means the King will join the prince soon? Surely this is a good thing!"

"Oh yes, they’ll surprise Robert and destroy his army and then my brother will be free to force into the arms of whoever he wants... not who I want… never that…" She nodded, looking up at her friend as fresh tears threatened to flow freely. “Rhaegar just won’t listen and I hate to be angry at him during all this… oh I sound so stupid…”

“You don’t. Of course you don’t.” Jackie made to stretch out beside her, enfolding Dany into her arms and cradling her gently. “These are dire times my princess but I am here to serve. Tell me all that troubles you. Let me be the sea around Dragonstone. Give away all your worries to me and feel them just wash away…”

“Thank you Jacqeline.” She whispered, moving closing into the young woman’s hold. “I’m so sorry I failed you in the capital. You’re too good to me.”

“No need to apologize your grace. I’m but a servant.” Jackie stroked her hair. “All will be set right in time…”

Dany wanted to believe her.

To think that Rhaegar and Jon would both return to her. That some peace could return to the realm with them and love would conquer Rhaegar’s obsession with prophecy. She wanted justice to be done by Elara and Bran. For the Starks to find some other lordling for Sansa to marry. Perhaps Aegon and Rhaenys could their way back into Rhaegar’s good graces and the prince’s vision of their happy futures coming to pass.

Despite all the harsh feelings, all the hurt, Dany wished the Targaryens could unite here now. In this castle she’d been born in. The one her family had fled to once before. When things appeared most dire indeed.

Yet soon she would be alone. Jon and Rhaegar, Aegon and Rhaenys, all far away.

Leaving her here alone.

All alone.

Chapter 12

Summary:

To act a knight. A prince. A king.

When the dragons face the stag there will be fire and blood.

BARRISTAN   

“The wind is good. If it holds we might make it.”

“There’s always a chance.” Barristan lied, allowing this ship’s captain to hope.

The pair stood at the stern of the Regal Rhaella, staring out at the churning water of the Bay of Crabs. The king’s fleet was deep within the bay, journeying deeper with each passing moment. More than forty vessels moving in a wide formation, this galley pulling up the rear. That meant Barristan and the captain had the best view of the sun rising back in the east.

Dawn was lifting back the night’s dark curtain, the sky lightening all around them. He’d seen thousands of sunrises in his life, many on a ship sailing across open water. This wasn’t the open sea though, to his right green lands made up the bay’s south shore. The north shore was too distant to make out but that mattered little, for it wasn’t where Barristan focused his attention.

The dawn was often a beautiful thing to behold yet this morning it was tainted. Dark specks dotted the brightening horizon. Distant foes, growing closer with each passing moment.

You knew they’d be there, he chided himself, as soon as we came upon that ambush near Wickenden, you knew.

I only hoped we’d outrun them. I prefer fighting with earth beneath my feet, not a rocking deck.

“Perhaps we should land the men now, make a stand here.” The captain suggested, something he’d repeated many times already.

“The king’s men still have a ways to go.” He answered, shifting how he cradled the helm with his arm. “That being said, I will not lie to you ser. You may get your wish for a stand soon enough.”

Ser Nelson took that in a stride. He was a man of middling age, a second cousin to Lord Edgerton and captain of one of the finest ships in the royal fleet. As nervous as Nelson acted, Barristan knew him to be a capable man, else he would not have survived to this point. The two of them were armored, though Barristan’s enamel plate was far heavier than the captain’s chainmail hauberk. That Nelson wore any mail at all marked him as brave, while armor could save a man from a blade it would doom him in the water.

If I am to sink beneath these waters I’ll take as many of the enemy with me as I can.

A noble death Arthur might call it… Oswell would mock me, something like I hate to bathe alone or some other foolishness...

And Rhaegar… I know my king, he will blame himself.

With that Barristan turned to looked across their deck and bow, where marines and sailors did all they could to speed their way onward. Ahead of this war galley scores of ships were sailing up the bay, many packed to the gills with soldiers for the fight ahead. If he squinted Barristan could see the flagship at the very front of the fleet.

The Dragon’s Song was the largest of these vessels and truly the most magnificent.

Its hull was painted a red the shade of the darkest wine, the sails made of black cloth  that disappeared by night and defied the light of day. The best feature of the Dragon’s Song was the ship’s prow, wrought in the shape a beautiful woman wearing a crown of roses. He imagined Arthur and King Rhaegar standing near that piece of craftsmanship right now, the two men focused on driving the fleet forward.

Fleeing one battle for the sake of fighting another.

A dragon leading the way.

While the king’s ship was a powerful triple-decked dromond, Barristan thought the Rhaella was a fine ship in her own right, named after a finer woman. The war galley’s deck was wide and full of archers, scorpions, and fighting men. Down below the oarsmen rested, ready at a moment’s notice to dip their oars once more into the sea. The sails were worse off, some having been torn apart from the recent battle. It made them slower but marked the ship a survivor nonetheless.

Would that Queen Rhaella lived so long. She would have surely been proud of this ship.

If I must die today... I could do so with pride on such a vessel.

He would have been a fool not to consider the possibility of death as they departed Dragonstone. Though he'd envisioned it happening on land, with an army of fallen sellswords to cushion his fall. Six days ago the vast armada had set sail to bring an end to Robert Baratheon’s savagery. More than two hundred ships seeking the Bay of Crabs and two very different battles. The fifty or so under the king’s command broke off near Crackclaw Point, making to hug the coastline. The main force under Monford Velaryon had continued north towards Gulltown, seeking Robert’s fleet of sellsails.

That whole time Barristan thought on the final farewells at Dragonstone and how sad his princess had been. Daenerys and her ladies had come to the port to see them off, whatever quarrel between her and the king forgotten in the specter of war. Some called Rhaegar distant and unknowable but the king held back little in terms of affection for Daenerys.

Watching the siblings during their farewell, sharing soft words and kisses upon each other’s cheeks, it was easy to imagine them as father and daughter. The same could be said for how Ser Arthur and Elara acted, for their embrace was filled with love as well.

Arthur cherished the girl, and Barristan felt a twinge of envy at that. Despite their vows to forsake wives and children, Arthur confessed once to feeling that he had cheated the rule. During the long ride to Winterfell, the two men had scolded Daenerys and Elara after they fell into a stream during some game. The knights became soaked pulling the girls out yet found themselves laughing along with the foolishness.

“As many headaches as she gives me, I thank the gods for her.“ Arthur told him afterwards. “It hit me hard when we lost Ashara… Elara’s letters were filled with such grief… Rhaegar might tell people he brought her to court for Daenerys, but it was I who asked for it. In my heart, she is the child I denied myself when I donned this cloak. Whenever I look upon her I feel that pride...”

When Barristan looked upon Elara he was struck by a far different feeling. The girl reminded him of a beauty who once tempted his own vows. The Lady Ashara, Elara’s mother and his secret love. Her eyes, her smile, her strength, Barristan saw much of his lady in her daughter. Though as beautiful as Elara was, he did not lust after her. He first met the girl when she was but a child and now cared for her in the same way he did Daenerys.

Had I been the one to come upon Prince Joffrey harming Elara, would I now be named Princeslayer?

I surely hope not. Yet the thought was tempting…

A shameful thing to think on indeed. Many times he imagined throwing Ser Preston Greenfield down at Rhaegar’s feet. How good it would feel to see the knight stripped of his white cloak. If Greenfield had any honor left in him it would never come to that. Dying with his blade in hand was the only fitting death. Kingsguard served for life, the finest knights in the realm.

Greenfield never belonged in the Kingsguard, he thought, that was a boon the king did for Cersei.

And Arthur warned Rhaegar on it. Not just any warrior can wear the white cloak. They must be chivalrous and honorable above all else… Aerys learned that the hard way.

The silent slight he made against the Kingslayer troubled him, for it could easily be directed against himself as well. He had betrayed Aerys as surely as Jaime Lannister. When Rhaegar proposed his own rebellion to Eddard Stark, it had struck Barristan to cut down the lords Stark and Reed and take his prince into custody. To do the duty he swore to and serve the king who sat the throne.

Such thoughts only lasted the smallest of moments. He could not longer stomach the reign of a mad man who performed unspeakable crimes against innocent people. Highborn or common, guilty or innocent, it didn’t matter to Aerys. His people were but fuel meant to feed the fires of his madness

So Barristan made his choice. To stand beside a prince who represented all that was good in the Targaryen dynasty. A warrior, wise and just, who offered hope where his father inspired fear. Rhaegar was the king Barristan chose. The king he stood beside through the end of the Aerys’s blood soaked reign and into the Greyjoy Rebellion, when they brought down the walls of Pyke.

It was King Rhaeger that Barristan stood beside when their fleet sailed into the teeth of an ambush.

All had been going well. The wind was in their favor, no storms to be seen, and the seas as calm as could be asked. The fleet entered the Bay of Crabs with nary a fishing sloop spotted by the watchers. After two days they were well past Dyre Den and moving beyond Wickenden when the alarm was raised.

Out of the morning mists they came, an enemy flotilla, armed to the teeth and ready for battle. It was a motley force, a mix of eastern warships and vessels captured during Robert’s victories. Rhaegar’s fleet outnumbered them two to one but it mattered little. Most of the royal ships were barges and transports, meant for ferrying fighting men to land and little use in actual battle.

And battle it was.

Barristan was on the Dragon’s Song when the fighting began, he and Arthur flanking the king while he directed the battle. From the beginning, it was clear that the enemy fleet had no intention of fighting warship to warship. The large ones drew fire while most of the smaller ships, quick and maneuverable, struck at the slow-moving transports. With flaming arrows and artillery, they went after the weakest and most vulnerable first, like wolves attacking a herd of cattle. 

The rest struck at the bull of the herd, at the Dragon’s Song. At Rhaegar.

No less than four ships tried to ram and sink them, clearly attempting to kill the king. Fortunately, the captains of the ships escorting the king's remembered their duty, doing just as Barristan would if an assassin came after him with a blade. They put themselves between the king and the threat. Ship after ship sailed into the path of enemy attacks, taking the brunt of rams meant for the Dragon’s Song.

Those noble sacrifices cost them four good vessels and hundreds of men. The White Hart and the Prince Aemon sank with all hands. The Sea Runner pulled down its killer with them, while the crew of the Evenstar leapt from their ship to the enemy's, dying with their blades in hand.

It was better than what the poor men in the barges got. They lost five in all, only a token amount being rescued from the sinking transports. More than a thousand were drowned or burned alive as flames engulfed their ships.

Rhaegar didn't look away from any of it. The sacrifice of his escorts, the killing of his men. It was a rare thing to see his king enraged but Barristan swore, as flames engulfed the Blessed Hope, Rhaegar’s eyes burned as well.

“We were betrayed.” The king's voice hammered the accusation like a ram against a gate. “They knew to target the army. They knew which ship I sail on. They knew.”

“How?” Arthur asked, angry as well and trying to usher Rhaegar away from the sight. “No ships left Dragonstone for days before us. None afterwards. You told Ser Richard as much when you left him behind as castellan.”

“A question we shall answer later.” Rhaegar held firm. “What matters now is that the surprise is lost. These ships came from where we mean to be and that is what troubles me most. This attack should not have happened.”

Rhaegar had looked to his protectors, fists clenched and face grim.

“Think on it. We outnumbered them two to one, so why come at all? Why not just choose a choke point and await our coming? A strong defense that could bleed us.”

“We would overwhelm them sire.” Barristan answered. “They would do us harm but there’s no doubt in my mind that we could persevere and press on-” 

The prince’s meaning dawned on Barristan as he looked to the upended and burning enemy vessels, for none had survived this ambush. Their own fleet had suffered losses, with several ships damaged, yet they could still sail.

“They meant to slow us down.” He spoke with a dread feeling washing over him. “These lot weren’t meant to kill us, only to wound us…”

“So others could finish the job.” Arthur added. Rhaegar shifted the crown upon his head, as if it had grown uncomfortable.

“Arthur, I want the fleet underway as soon as possible. Time is of the essence and our allies await us. My son needs us.”

The Lord-Commander had snapped to attention at the command, moving across the deck and collecting deckhands and sailors to get things in hand. That left Barristan and his king to survey the damage to the nearest ships.

“We are being hunted Barristan.” Rhaegar clutched the edge of the rail. “We are being hunted and there is no escape but to press on. No option open to me, save to reach my son.”

“I understand your grace. If we are being pursued, and are caught it would mean a battle against ships that are clearly faster than our transports. Likely powerful ones at that. In such a fight... I fear how many more men you would lose…”

His words were dire but honest, the king accepting them with nod. Silence had descended on them as they watched men working to repair damages to several vessels, including the Queen Rhaella.

“They dealt us a blow here.” He said, straightening to face his king directly. “It was a wise move. They sacrificed the few to give the many time to do what they must. We should do the same.”

“Launch an attack against a foe we have yet to see?” Rhaegar asked, eyeing Barristan with curiosity.

“Not exactly. I propose we continue our journey but select certain ships to protect the rear of the fleet. Should a sizeable enemy force appear, those vessels do what was done here. Turn around and take the fight to the foe.”

“It's a fool’s errand Barristan.” The king shook his head. “Men sailing to their deaths. Defeat would be all but certain.”

“A defeat with purpose!” He had argued. “We would aim to cripple rather than destroy. Burn the enemy sails. Break their rudders. Perhaps even enrage the foe so much that they give chase to us rather than the fleet.”

“You propose I order hundreds of men to their deaths?” Rhaegar asked, glancing to the ships around them.

“No, I am asking that I be permitted to lead those men in serving their king.” Barristan placed an armored hand to his chestplate. “I am Kingsguard. I protect the king in all things. Should the foe come for us, they will find me ready and waiting. Doing as I swore to do.”

While Rhaegar had considered his plan, heeyed Barristan sadly, a glimmer of the young prince he had once been shining through. Bookish and wary of blades, Rhaegar caused concern for many in his youth. Few wished to have a weakling as the king’s heir but Barristan had never shared those worries. Even before Rhaegar decided to take up the sword and become a warrior, this old knight had had faith in the young prince.

For Rhaegar always did the right thing. The just thing.

No matter how much it pained him.

“Choose your ships ser.” Rhaegar commanded, offering him his hand, those purple eyes staring into his. “Choose wisely, and I pray that you have no need of them. May we meet again my good knight, on the shore.”

“I swear to be by your side again your grace.” Barristan took hold of Rhaegar’s wrist, the king grabbing his as well. “In this life or the next, I will see my king again.”

They parted not long after that. Barristan took a rowboat across the water to the Queen Rhaella. Arthur helped him climb down into the small craft yet grabbed Barristan's arm before he descended, worry creasing his face.

“You best survive this old man.” Arthur attempted a smile. “Princess Daenerys will fill the sea with her tears if she loses her Ser Grandfather.”

“She will survive it, she’s a strong girl.” Barristan denied himself the thought of never seeing his sweet princess again. “Tell her… just tell her that she will be well protected by better men than me… swear that she will be Arthur.”

“I cannot.” Arthur’s strong jaw worked in worry. “There are none better than the Bold.”

“Safe voyages ser.” Barristan had looked away from Arthur's haunting, dark blue eyes then. “Protect our king.”

“On my life!” Arthur called down so that Barristan called back.

“By my vow!”

After that, Barristan had journeyed to his new ship, taking the command from Ser Nelson and of the fleet’s rearguard. From that point on, he had sailed far behind his king, wary and vigilant for any sign of the pursuit they feared. A full day and night passed. The fleet passed Maidenpool and onward with no threat to be seen. They were so close to their destination that he allowed hope into his heart.

The heart he now steeled. His hopes were for naught.

There was no doubt of it anymore. Still far behind yet growing larger with each passing moment, an enemy fleet was giving chase.

“I count… thirty sails?” He asked Ser Nelson, who gulped as his eyes scanned the horizon.

“About that… yes, about thirty.” The captain answered. “Ser, we have only ten ships. If the rest of the fighting ships were to stay, we would only be outnumbered by a few. Perhaps a pitched battle-”

“Could still result in a loss. At best we would lose the precious time our king needs, at worst the fleet itself.”

Barristan turned to head towards the front of the ship then. Men with spears stood at attention as he passed, sailors watching him fearfully as he climbed down the stairs of the bridge to the main deck. His white cloak moved in the breeze much like the sails above his head, his armor clinking like the scorpions being readied. When he came to the forward end of the bow he stopped, moving to the face the crew. All the eyes were on him. Sailors, deckhands, archers, oarsmen, even Ser Nelson, all looking to him for what would come next. There were nine other ships, full of men waiting for the same.

With one arm carrying his helm, the other resting against the pommel of his sword, he gave a curt nod to all who watched.

“The foe is on us. You know what you are to do.” He spoke as he had before countless other battles. “The king is depending on us, to do as king’s men must. Most people in this world live and die without knowing what meaning their lives had. After today, I swear to you, every man on this ship will know what they were born to do. The glory they were meant to earn!”

He pointed at the herald near Ser Nelson, breaking the man free of whatever spell had fallen over him.

“Sound the trumpet! Signal the rear guard for battle is upon us! Our lives are about to have some meaning!”

His tone was not to be denied and the man ran to the side of the deck, letting loose with the trumpet. It was soon answered by the two ships to either side of them. More distant came the replies of the others.

“Well snap to it then!” Ser Nelson found his courage, pulling his sword and pointing it about. “Get those oarsmen ready! Stoke the braziers! Archers to your posts!”

“Bring the ship around!” Barristan commanded. “Signal the rest to do the same!”

The deck sprang to life after that, men rushing about. Braziers being lit for the flaming arrows and artillery they would launch at the enemy. Marines readying their leather armor and blades should they be boarded. Young boys beaming with eagerness, for battle was always a thrill to the young.

To those who had never endured one before.

The ship swung about, nine others joining the Rhaella and breaking off from the rest of the fleet. He watched as the Dragon’s Song pulled away and grew more distant. It was foolish to think, but Barristan swore that he caught a glimpse of two men standing on its stern. Two warriors. One clad in black and red, the other pure white.

“On my honor.” He said to no one but himself. For his king and brother were too far to hear him.

Then his eyes were for the enemy closing in on them. As the distance between the two forces lessened, Barristan could see that these ships were mostly foreign. Lyseni or Volantene in origin. Robert had made many allies in his exile, and Barristan was intent on punishing them for their poor choice in friends.

“There’s too many.” An archer trembled near him, a young lad. “We can’t beat so many…”

“Those are slavers for sure.” Another whispered. “We’ll all end up in chains.”

“Warrior watch over me.” A marine prayed silently. “Mother grant us mercy. Father watch over my wife and girls…”

This won’t do, he thought, they cannot face certain death like this.

They need the courage to believe the impossible. They must hope they’ll make it.

“I spot Lyseni pleasure barges ahead!” He called out, causing many to jump. “Robert sends slave girls to fight against warriors true!”

A few men laughed but not as many as he needed.

“I thought I would see real battle this day. Not a rout of some trussed up eastern bedslave playing at war! Who here thought they would see a real fight?”

Some men shouted, raising spears and bows as much as the spirits of men around them.

“There’s such a lack of real men in the Free Cities, they weigh men down with coin to keep them from fleeing battle! Well I hope these men were well paid, for they’ll drown all the easier!”

A gale of laughter followed that and some other jests rose up from the crew. Soon it was not Barristan leading the call for battle but the men themselves. Some boasted of how many they had already killed, others of how many they would. Others guessed at how much gold they might find on the bodies of the slain. The most noble even yelled Rhaegar’s name.

Barristan was glad they were distracted, for the enemy had drawn closer. These were war galleys for sure, crewed by men who made their living by fighting and killing. Warriors who surely aimed to make a fine living today.

Three to one odds...

It matters not. Burn them, cripple them, slow them down. Give Rhaegar a chance.

I could die happy then.

The wind blew off the water and Barristan could smell the rich scent of the seas. He closed his eyes and enjoyed it as the calls for battle grew louder all around him. A vision of Ashara came to him then and his heart pounded.

Today he might see her again.

“More speed.” He declared, opening his eyes. “Drop the oars! We hit them hard and fast on their flanks!”

“Aye ser!” Ser Nelson shouted back and gave the order.

As the oars were dropped on the water, Queen Rhaella and other ships signaling to do the same, he made to shout again.

“Drums! Let them hear their death coming!”

A cheer went up as men stepped up to the drums. The rhythm took hold quickly, each man playing in union.

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

His own heart began to pound as he gripped his sword and the ships drove on through the water to the foe.

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

Water kicked up in the air, misting his face as the other ships began to beat their drums as well. It was a chorus of death, growing louder and louder. The enemy ships were so close now, he could see their crews scurrying about with fires and weapons.

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

“Ser! We’re almost on them!” Ser Nelson roared over the drums.

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

“Prepare to bank left on my mark! We take ships with elephant and tiger banners first!”

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

“Archers ready! Scorpions loaded!”

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

Barristan raised the helm over his head. His sword pulled free. Through the slit in the helm, he saw the world through a warrior’s eyes. The foe was moments away from being within range.

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

“For King Rhaegar!” He raised his sword and pointed it at the closest ship. “For Daenerys!”

BA-DA DA-DA BA-DA DA-DA

“Fire!”

 JON

 

“Hold.” The Blackfish spoke through gritted teeth. “Hold your fucking place.”

Jon's horse shied away from the knight's frustration with his nephew's forces. They sat their horses in the middle of the reserve, nearly five thousand mounted men, waiting along a raised swatch of land. Lord Beric and his squire Edric were nearby, as was his own squire Lucas and Ser Jonothor Darry. In front of them was the massive royal army.

Everywhere Jon looked he saw armed men. Mounted knights and free-riders, spearmen, archers and crossbowmen, men-at-arms, and levees drawn from farms and the streets of the capital. Scores of banners were raised, loyal houses from the Riverlands, Crownlands, and even the Vale.

The black gates of Nestor Royce’s house flew near the Bracken stallion. The Mallister eagle next to the weirwood of the Blackwoods. The bats of House Whent between the twin towers of House Frey and the Stokeworth lamb. The Tully trout, the Arryn falcon, the Staunton wings, the Connington griffins, the list went on and on.

Most of the riverlords were on the right, nine thousand foot headed by five hundred knights, all under the command of Edmure Tully. The center was led by Lord Connington, made up of thousands of mounted warriors and armored men-at-arms. Nestor Royce, as High Steward of the Vale, commanded the left and the remainder of their forces.

They outnumbered the enemy almost two to one, though someone had forgotten to tell Robert Baratheon that. Or his Dothraki horselords.

Hundreds of the savage riders were moving in startling coordination in the open field between the two armies. They were turning from their latest pass against the right, having just loosed hundreds of arrows at Edmure’s rivermen. Their next pass would be the third, and the cries of wounded carried on the wind.

The Dothraki were but a taste of what lay across the field.

Robert Baratheon’s army stood in gleaming, well-ordered lines. The sheer variety of cultures represented within it was a spectacle, almost comical in a strange way. The armored ranks of the Golden Company were spread in a long line but they were interspersed with strange sights. On their right, atop a short hill, were scores of black-skinned archers wearing brightly feathered cloaks. To the left were thousands of Dothraki riders with their strange backwards bows and curved blades called arakhs. At the center stood a line of warriors wearing spiked bronze caps, holding rounded shields and spears. The Blackfish had named them as the famed Unsullied warriors which gave Jon pause.

Though not as much as the war elephants he spied moving at the rear of the Golden Company. 

Their foes raised a variety of strange banners but two in particular overshadowed the rest. One was a black flag with a bundle of golden skulls hanging from a spear. The other was the golden banner of House Baratheon, though a black crown had been added above the stag.

If Robert seeks to crown his stag then perhaps he means to crown himself as well.

May we bury him in those ambitions.

“Fucking hell!” Brynden cursed again as the Dothraki wheeled about for another pass against the right.

“I told the Hand to name me the right’s commander.” Ser Jonothor Darry grumbled. The bearded Kingsguard barely concealed the rage he carried since learning of his kin's slaughter. “What good do I do in the reserve? I should be leading the vanguard.”

“Yes, you and every other lord who can sit a horse.” The Blackfish replied with scorn. “You’re a Kingsguard Darry. Your place is with the king… that man next to you, remember?”

Inside his helm, Jon sighed.

Once more he wore the black armor that his father had gifted him at the Tourney of Winterfell, the suit with the dark dragons wrought across the chest plate. Unlike the tourney though, where he'd scorned wearing a certain part of the armor, this time Jon wore the final piece. On his head sat his father’s former greathelm, adorned with a set of dragon wings from either side.

He had gained some height in the recent time, and all said that Jon shared his father’s lean body type. So when he donned the armor, even Ser Jonothor swore that King Rhaegar himself stood before them.

It was at Harrenhal that the Hand decided such a plan was necessary. That was where the three main forces opposing Robert Baratheon united under the command of Jon Connington. The lord was much as Jon remembered him, clean shaven with leathery skin and crow's feet about eyes. His red hair had begun to grey around the temples in the five years passed, but the man remained as severe as ever.

Before they left to face the Golden Company, the Hand convened an evening war council. In Harrenhal’s monstrous godswood of all places.

“I distrust walls.” The Hand growled when questioned on the matter. “In the Red Keep, words spoken within walls spread further than they have any right to.”

It was quite the assortment that the Hand had gathered. Edmure stood with Stevron Frey, heir to the Twins, the Lords Blackwood and Bracken, and several over riverlords. Nestor Royce was flanked by the newly-spurred Mychel Redfort and the short Ser Willem Royce. Jon arrived alongside the Blackfish and Lord Beric, an act which caused Ser Jonothor to frown.

“Prince Jon, I had not expected you to take part in this council.”

“I invited him.” The Hand waved away the Kingsguard's concern. “A prince of blood should act when the realm is endangered. Besides, he asked it of me.”

“Robert Baratheon threatens my family.” Jon had added. “I was raised to defend all of those closest to me. Even with my life if need be.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” Lord Connington gritted his teeth before turning to address the others. “The time has come. I’ve sent word to the King at Dragonstone that we are ready to march. It is time to take the fight to this Usurper.”

“Finally.” Edmure proclaimed. “Both Darry and Maidenpool are in my father’s domain. I demand the honor of leading the charge against these fiends who sacked them.”

“This is an invasion of the realm!” Jonothor snapped. “A Kingsguard should lead the van-”

“For the offense given against Lord Arryn, I believe a Vale man is owed the honor!” Nestor Royce spoke up, glaring at the Hand as he did so. Predicting a conflict, Jon thought to speak his piece.

“Perhaps it should be me. With Ghost at the fore it might-”

“I volunteer myself!” Beric stepped forward.

“I brought the largest force!” Edmure pushed in, only to nudged back by the Blackfish.

“I’m the most experienced.”

“I’m the tallest!” Ser Willem added.

“Enough!” The Hand whirled about, challenging every man with his gaze. “If things go to plan, it shall be Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who leads the attack. He will plunge Dawn right into Robert’s back!”

That silenced the lords long enough for the Hand to detail the king’s secret landing to the rear of the Golden Company. Their army was to march out and keep Robert’s attention focused on them, herding the enemy back towards an area where father hoped to land. When the king landed, and a rider brought word of his coming, the main army would challenge the Golden Company in a full, frontal assault, leaving their rear exposed to his father’s attack.

“I hope to keep Robert completely focused on us.” Lord Connington strode back and forth through the evening grass, dew collecting on his boots. “In fact, he’ll have no reason to look elsewhere. What he wants more than anything will be dangled right in front of him.”

“Robert wants nothing more than to kill the king.” The Blackfish crossed his arms. “We seem to be lacking one of those.”

“Are you sure?” The Hand had looked to Jon then. “I heard about Rhaegar’s gift to you at Winterfell my prince. I know that armor well… as does Robert.”

It turned out that Jon was to play a mummer’s dragon. Riding in his father’s armor, with a Kingsguard at his side, he would pretend to lead their grand host. Beric and Brynden protested strongly against this plan, mostly on the grounds that they believed the Usurper mad enough to attempt a charge straight at Jon. The Hand had smiled at that.

“Exactly.” The lord addressed Jon. “It would be a fool thing to try and we’d make him suffer for it. What say you my prince, is the risk worth the reward?”

“Yes… the realm burns and innocents suffer, so yes.” Jon tried to sound brave. “My lords, if I can end that, I will take whatever risk is needed.”

Others risked far worse than Jon so there was never much choice for him. In the North his cousin had gone forth to challenge raiders, Robb defending his lands despite his injury. When Jon heard of the raids his first thought had been of Arya and Sansa’s safety. In truth, a part of him wanted Edmure to march his army north, to aid Robb in this fight. He knew that could never be though. His father needed the riverlords in the days ahead.

While Robb’s marriage angered Lady Catelyn greatly it had secured the royal army a sizable contribution. Lord Walder Frey sent four thousand men marching to Riverrun, in the name of Lady Roslin Stark.

When it came time for Jon to join Brynden and Edmure on the march to Harrenhal, Lady Catelyn had begged a boon of him, seeking his leave for Ser Jaime to remain behind at Riverrun. Apparently Lord Hoster feared what Tywin Lannister would do once the Tully army left the castle, so his aunt offered for the injured Kingsguard to recover there.

To make Lord Tywin think twice of any treachery.

It seemed like the least that Jon could do for both her and the knight. Ser Jaime needed to heal and Lady Catelyn needed peace of mind. So he ordered his sworn shield to stay behind. This was quickly followed by ordering guards to keep Ser Jaime to his chambers, for the Kingsguard had not taken kindly to that.

His parting words to Lady Catelyn went somewhat better. The lady had been rocking back and forth in a chair by the hearth, sewing clothes for her new babe. It was an image that unmeasurably warmed Jon's heart.

“Jon, you’re riding out to battle against one of the fiercest warriors the realm has ever known.” Lady Catelyn had said fearfully. “I remember Robert Baratheon well. There’s a reason people rallied to him despite three hundred years of Targaryen rule. You must be careful…”

“There will be thousands of good men beside me my lady.” He’d spoken awkwardly. His aunt had a way of making him feel like a little boy again. “I will be well protected. It is the Usurper who you should fear for, not me.”

“You are to be my goodson.” Lady Catelyn touched her stomach then. “And I would like this babe to know you as a goodbrother one day. For the sake of my dear Sansa, please Jon, take no unnecessary risks. Not like you did for the sake of Bran.”

“For the Starks, I will try.”

Truly there’d been little threat until today. For days since leaving Harrenhal they'd been driving Robert’s army back. Cutting off his march on Antlers from a commanding position, driving him back towards the shores of the Bay of Crabs, all had been going according to plan. Until the day Golden Company just stopped, holding their ground and taking up the position they held now.

The Hand had sent scores of outriders out to scatter along the banks of the bay, waiting for any sign of the king to draw him to their position all the quicker. Yet no sign came. His father was, by all regards, missing. Unfortunately, it was no secret among the army that the king was expected to attend the battle. Much of the morale was now tied into his father’s appearance.

So a spectacle had been made of Jon leaving camp the night before... so they could feign the arrival of King Rhaegar come the morning.

I can’t believe anyone fell for this, he thought, Ghost ran right to me, yet people still called out my father’s name.

People see what they want to I suppose. They ignore all the rest.

Jon did not like lying to the men. He was annoyed even more by how little he could see with this greathelm on his head. Especially when the Dothraki were closing in on the right for their third pass.

“Oh fuck.” Brynden cursed. “No, no, don’t put them in the line of fire…”

“What?” Jon asked, confused and jerking his head about. “Who is doing what?”

“It’s Lord Edmure’s archers your grace.” Lucas answered, urging his horse between the Blackfish and Jon’s, pointing down to the front of the right. “He’s bringing them forward-”

“Trying to cut down the Dothraki screamers before they do anymore more damage.” Beric answered, though Jon could not see him. He only had eyes for what transpired next.

They were all correct. Threading their way through Edmure’s ranks were his archers, coming to fore of the army. In a long line, they notched their quivers and aimed for the Dothraki closing in once more. Yet as the Dothraki charged onward, they did not turn sharply to strafe the lines as Jon thought they would.

With a wave of his arakh, their leader set his men to spreading out in a wave, making it look like an actual charge. The Dothraki began letting loose horrible screams that seemed to shake the air, a chilling sound even from this distance. Jon could only imagine the terror those archers must be feeling, standing before such nightmarish riders as they waved blades in the air.

“Pull them back.” Ser Jonothor snarled. “They’ll be ridden down-”

“Order up a screen.” Jon found himself saying. “A line of men… give the archers heart or else-”

“Too late.” The Blackfish said. He was right.

At first ,only a few archers broke and ran back to dive within the ranks. Then it was scores. Soon all fled, hundreds of men struggling and screaming to hide behind the front ranks of spearmen. Few shields were raised when the Dothraki swung about again, abandoning their charge and raising their bows once more. A volley of arrows then fell upon the disorganized line. Nary a shield was ready to deflect the shots. In the span of only a few moments, the Dothraki loosed three volleys which took a grievous toll on the royal ranks. The right was in complete disarray. Too many to count were wounded or dead, and the Dothraki were circling about again for yet another charge.

“Edmure, reform your line.” The Blackfish demanded quietly. “Get control of things.”

Ghost must have sensed the tension, for he moved through their horse lines, coming to the fore of their formation. The wolf watched with them as Edmure finally decided upon an action.

Trumpets blared from the right as Edmure led his armored knights up the line. When they broke free of the ranks they formed up together, the Tully heir at the head. Somewhere from Lord Jon’s part of the army a rider came forth, beating his horse at a furious pace, heading down the line towards Edmure’s knights.

He did not reach them in time.

With a second blast of the trumpets and a wave of the Tully banners, Edmure’s horse charged forth, heading directly towards the harrying Dothraki. Hundreds of armored knights against unarmored savages did not seem fair but something worried Jon. Their foes were not just simple barbarians. The Dothraki were too organized, too coordinated in their movements to be taken lightly.

The horselords demonstrated their ingenuity once again. With Edmure’s charge chasing them up the field, their numbers suddenly split. Half went left, the other right, arcing back and around the sides of their pursuers. The speed of the maneuver left the knights at a loss. They responded sluggishly and began slowing their charge, with some clearly confused at what to do next. The Dothraki showed no confusion on their part.

While Edmure’s men made to turn about. their foe was already at their rear, bows at the ready. A volley soon flying through the air, most of the arrows clinking ineffectually off armor but some found purchase in exposed flesh of both men and horses.

“Pull back Edmure… gods lad.” The Blackfish urged his horse forward, the knight struggling to hold himself back during this display.

Edmure couldn’t hear his uncle’s pleas yet succeeded in turning his men around, so the Dothraki arrows faced shields as well. Then a strange horn sounded from Robert’s right, and Jon managed to spot a flurry of movement upon the hill. The colorfully-feathered archers were readying to loose. It was foolish though. Even the finest longbows would be too far out of range.

Yet with Edmure’s men showing their backs to Robert’s main army, those archers loosed into the air. Jon tried to follow the path of the arrows but they climbed too high. He expected the volley to land in the ground, far behind Edmure’s men. Perhaps close enough to give them a scare but nothing else.

Jon cried out when the deadly rain fell all along the line of knights. The arrows drove through mail and plate, sending men and horses tumbling to the ground screaming. The riders writhed in surprise and terror, their cries echoing across their quickly fraying line. The sound was nothing compared to the Dothraki screaming as they united again, charging directly at their former pursuers. Another flight of the longbow arrows came down and Edmure’s men were not ready in the least when the Dothraki followed.

Arakhs flashed, curved bows loosed, and men died as the Dothraki crashed into the faltering force of knights. Men abandoned their lances for swords, meeting arahks in terrifying combat. The Dothraki swarmed about Edmure’s men, bringing down knight after knight.

“It’s a slaughter.” Jonothor declared and Jon gripped his reins to watch it.

“We must help.” He said, looking back at the others. “Someone must stop this.”

“The Hand’s not budging.” Beric noted. In the face of this debacle, no move came from the center. Lord Connington held their army back while part of it died in front of them.

“It’s the right thing to do.” The Blackfish shook his head. “Damn him for it but it is.”

Someone on the right disagreed. With a gale of trumpets and waving banners, the strength of the riverlords began to move forward. Line after line of spearmen and men-at-arms marching to where the heir of Riverrun floundered. The Hand, whatever his opinions on this action, did not let the right march alone. Throughout the rest of the army, thousands of mounted warriors moved to the front. He spotted Jon Connington at the heart of it, between flying banners of the Targaryen dragon and the Connington griffins. When that line of war lances and gleaming steel began to ride forward, the rest of the army followed behind.

It set Jon’s heart to pounding.

“What of us?” He looked to Ser Jonothor, who had command of the reserve.

“We hold.” The Kingsguard spoke sourly, watching as the royal army closed the gap between them and their foe. “If Robert sent the Dothraki in force against the right and it broke, we were to crush them. Should any part of the line falter or our might be needed, we will be signaled. Until then we hold.”

So they held. Watching and waiting as the two armies began to clash.

The Dothraki swarming about Edmure’s men broke off and fled as the reinforcements approached. The river forces enfolded the survivors amongst their ranks and pressed forward, enduring a hail of arrows from the hilltop longbowmen. The Hand’s massive armored line began to pick up speed, bringing themselves to a trot as the knights raised their war lances. Jon took note of how much closer the Lord Jon’s infantry was following behind the mounts.

That’s where Lord Jon means to overwhelm Robert, he reasoned, hit it hard with a mounted charge then roll up the line with the foot.

Perhaps that is where we’ll be sent, to follow up the break.

Robert’s army was not idle in all of this. While the right stood firm, letting the longbowmen bleed the riverlords during their long march, the center was moving forward. The Unsullied led the way, their spears at the ready and spiked helms glinting in the midday sun. On the left, thousands of Dothraki were stirring as well and Jon thought perhaps they meant to meet the coming of the Hand's armored horsemen.

For those riders were coming.

The slow trot of the knights built up gradually, until now the mounted force was fully charging across the field. Earth and grass was torn away under the pounding of those hooves, so powerful that Jon felt the rumble himself, as far away as he was. With their curved swords lowered, the Dothraki continued to move about, as if struggling at the prospect of meeting such a wall of death. Jon hoped they would. To try and stand toe to toe against the knights and lances of Westeros would be madness.

That was when Ghost started to act mad. The wolf drew the eye, pacing back and forth in front of them with his teeth bared, his red eyes focused on the Dothraki.

“The beast is getting excited.” Jonothor observed. “Perhaps he smells victory.”

“No…” Jon said, a strange sensation moving through him, an understanding that forced him to follow Ghost’s eyes. “He smells other beasts.”

The Dothraki were indeed on the move, yet not in preparation for a charge, they were forming up into ranks. Like the infantry behind them, the horsemen were creating large holes in their line, pathways for the beasts Robert sent to meet the armored charge.

Scores of war elephants were being herded forward through the openings, their massive bodies and tusks clad in armor.

The tremors caused by royal charge were muted compared to the pounding of the war elephants. The roars from the great beasts were louder still as they thundered on, heading straight for the Vale part of the charge. Whether it was the elephant’s size or the terrifying sounds of their trumpeting, fear struck the royal force first.

Horses began to slow or jerk about, some growing so panicked that they reared or threw themselves against the rider next to them. This terror caused men to fall before the war elephants even reached them. Nary a lance was still raised when the first of the beasts crashed into the armored wave.

“By the gods!”

Lucas gave voice to Jon's thoughts as they watched the power of an elephant’s tusk lift knight and warhorse both, throwing them in the air, spinning end over end before crushing a fellow warrior. Others were gored by tusks in such a way, or trampled beneath the unstoppable size and power of the beasts. He saw maybe two elephants brought low by lances, yet even in death they did damage, collapsing on top of riders.

Behind the elephants came the Dothraki, finally ready to meet the knights of Westeros now that their momentum was crushed. The horselords swarmed over the divided and confused cavalry of the left, a great battle of riders unfolding.

Robert wasn’t content to just break the charge though, for this was an attack. Many of the war elephants pressed on against the men arrayed behind the horse, the Dothraki following as the beasts drove straight into infantry. The foot had less defense against the elephants than the riders. The swinging tusks, the stamping feet, it reminded Jon of when Rickon would play at being a giant in Winterfell. He would make tiny snowguards, only to kick and smash the little men apart. It was much the same on the left, hundreds falling before the Dothraki even reached the line.

He almost forget to look to the center, for that part of their heavy horse had held together, their lances crashing into the Golden Company at full charge. It was a relief to see the sides of the enemy line crumble beneath the weight of their armored riders, many knights driving within the enemy ranks. Yet his heart turned cold to see that the Unsullied in the middle had not budged at all. Their strange, square formation held up against the charge, their spears bringing down many good men in the process. Even now, as knights cut down at them, the Unsullied huddled behind their shields while those behind them rose up and hurled spears into the riders.

There was no break in the enemy lines.

On the right and center the foe held firm, fighting sword to sword, shield to shield. Arrows flew from both sides, trying to weaken the ranks behind yet no ground was given. The same could not be said for the left.

The elephants and the Dothraki were wreaking terrible carnage upon their army. The Golden Company had stormed up in the wake of that attack and now Nestor Royce's command was locked in a brutal struggle for survival. Men were being crushed, cut to pieces by arakhs, skewered at the end of sellsword blades. All while Jon watched.

“Our left is breaking.” He said, turning to Jonothor who gaped in disbelief. “We need to reinforce it.”

“We have no orders.”

“Connington might be dead!” The Blackfish shouted, whirling about on his horse and pointing down at the battle. “Or he will be soon if the left breaks and those Dothraki get around his rear!”

“I am not your nephew!” The Kingsguard shot back. “We do as ordered! The Hand was sure that if we made the king visible on this hill, Robert Baratheon would come running. We want him to come to us!”

“His whole army will be coming to us! Right over top of our men!” Beric grew wroth as well while Lucas stared at the left with worry.

“My father rode with the Vale men… they needed more horse…”

“They’re breaking!” Edric screamed, pointing down at the battle below.

The left was indeed falling apart. The field below had turned to a mess of dirt and blood, hundreds of men throwing down their weapons in the filth and fleeing through the muck. Jon could not blame them. The elephants, the Dothraki, the Golden Company, with foes such as those, he could not think of anything he could offer those men to stand firm.

It should be my father here, not me, he thought, if father was here, he would know what to do.

He would make Ser Jonothor help… he’d probably lead the men himself…

Jon jerked at the thought, his mind swirling with the implications of it as Jonothor and the others argued. Only the small group around him knew the truth, the rest of the men collected on this hill truly believed that Jon was the king. Even now many looked to him in worry. Some in anticipation. Others with hope.

My father would lead the charge… Uncle Eddard would too… I have no doubt on Robb either…

Jonothor and Brynden’s shouting died down as Jon kicked his horse forward, taking him to a spot before the army where all could see him.

“We shall go and relieve the left!” He shouted with all his strength, hoping the helm muffled his voice enough to disguise it. “In the name of your king! We shall go and win this day!”

A cheer went up from the men as Jonothor and the others crowded in around him.

“What are you doing? I said we hold!” Jonothor snapped but Jon turned his attention to Beric instead.

“My lord, I task you with bringing down those elephants. Take the remaining riders from the Crownlands to do so.”

“It will be done, your grace.” Beric said with a smile, throwing on his helm before he led Edric off to collect his men.

“Ser Brynden, lead our Tully bannermen against the Dothraki. Kill any who get in your way. I want the horselords dealt with.”

“You’re not in command-”

“About time, my king.” Brynden interrupted Jonothor’s protests, before moving off himself. That was when the Kingsguard took hold of Jon’s arm in a strong grip, something that Lucas protested against loudly and Ghost took note of.

“Prince Jon, I cannot let you do this.” The knight declared.

“We will attack the Golden Company and try to break their advance. Perhaps open up a hole we can exploit-”

“Listen to me!” Jonothor rasped, worry creasing his face. “By the Father, I barely recognize that little quiet boy I knew once, but Jon, this is not a time for foolishness. Those monsters down there wiped out most of my family. I will not let them kill a son of the family I swore to protect.”

“Then do your duty ser.” Jon said, looking to Ghost who was approaching silently. “Protect me. Follow your king.”

“You’re not- hey!” The knight shouted as Ghost leapt up and snapped at his horse. The beast reared, separating Jon from his protector.

Jon rode along the line then, raising his sword high as his warriors did the same. Below, the left was in worse shape than ever. Brave knights and men still fought in the thick of things but hundreds fled.

So thousands would come and help them.

“Ride for your king!” Jon shouted to his men. “Ride for King Rhaegar!”

“For Rhaegar!” Lucas yelled as he and Ghost followed behind, Jonothor kicking his horse to catch up. “Rhaegar!”

“Rhaegar!” Thousands called back, horses and riders shifting in anticipation. “Rhaegar! Rhaegar!”

“Jon!” The Kingsguard roared through the din, doing all he could to catch him. “Jon stop!”

Once Jon might have heeded him. When he was a scared little boy, afraid of every shadow in the Red Keep, he would have shirked away from this responsibility. That little boy was gone though. He was a man-grown now, a prince of the blood. Aegon led an army against the rebels in the south, in the name of their father. Jon would do the same here.

His father’s name echoed all around him.

“Rhaegar! Rhaegar!”

“For King Rhaegar!” Jon shouted, pointing his sword at the battle below.

With that he led the charge, his horse galloping down the slope as thousands drew up around him. Lucas and Ghost to one side, Ser Jonothor to the other. Others he recognized as well. Perwyn and Olyvar Frey. Brynden Blackwood and Hendry Bracken. Patrek Mallister, Alliser Thorne, Mychel Redfort, all fine men.

Yet as his horse tore up the ground and the battle grew nearer, it was not these men he wanted at his side.

Robb to his left. Uncle Eddard to his right. Oswell at his heels. His father leading the way. That was how it should be.

That was how he imagined it.

He needed all their strength to face the terror that lay ahead.

To act the prince he had to be. 

BARRISTAN

   

“For the king!” He roared as his blade lashed out, cutting through the wrist of his attacker. “For Rhaegar!”

The Volantene screamed to see his hand falling away, still grasping a blade. Blood spurted from the wrist, spraying all over the bright clothing that these easterners were so fond off. Barristan ended it quickly, grabbing hold of the Volantene and pulling him about to open his throat. He kept the momentum going, barely pausing as he spun around to face the next foe.

There was no lack of them to choose from. His last kill hit the deck just as the next came charging forward.

The Rhaella had been boarded. All across the ship, Volantene pirates clashed with the crew, the deck becoming slippery with blood. Off the starboard bow, the enemy vessel was pulling away, for its attempt to overwhelm them cost it dearly. Fires burned from bow to stern, courtesy of the flaming arrows and casks of oil that Ser Nelson’s men had unleashed upon it.

The captain still led his men from the bridge, impressing Barristan by kicking a Volantene sellsail so hard that the man tumbled over the side of the ship and out of sight. Beyond the Rhaella, the battle still raged. He spotted no less than eight ships burning, most thankfully belonging to the enemy. Others sank below the water, which was littered with debris and men, some struggling to stay alive, more floating away as corpses.

Barristan’s tiny fleet had come at Robert’s sellsails with only ten vessels to their name. Outnumbered as they were, they still inflicted a grievous toll on the enemy. Blood for blood, blow for blow, ship for ship, Barristan believed they came out on top. While he could only claim to see three royal ships besides his own, it heartened him to see far fewer enemy ships than there had been.

He believed Robert’s fleet to have lost ten vessels so far. An equal number of enemy ships were floating about, burning or damaged at least. Going by the position of the sun, they’d been at this for an hour or so. Barristan smiled to himself, for he could name this a victory.

We bought the king the time he needed. This fleet won’t be chasing anyone.

Not even when they finish us off…

“Die white bastard!” A Volantene spearman came charging at him, shouting in a heavy accent. “Dragon fucker!”

The rocking of the ship was routine to him now, so Barristan felt the dip coming before the deck angled down to the port side. His foe didn’t lose his footing, yet the spearpoint did tip for the smallest of moments, which was all Barristan needed. He struck down and sideways with a two-handed cut, swiping the spear aside before driving his armored elbow up and into the man’s face. With a crunch, the man’s nose exploded into a gory mess. He fell backwards and didn’t rise again, for Barristan’s sword was buried in his ribcage soon after.

“Get them away from the rigging!” The second mate yelled as he fended off the frantic cuts of a swordsman.

“Forget that! Just kill the lot of them!” Nelson shouted back, for the captain had no illusions of how this was going to end.

Their sails were ruined. The oars on their starboard side were all snapped off by the ram of a passing ship. The enemy had scattered what was left of their little fleet and were finishing them off one by one.

We shall lose this fight but we won the day. All that’s left is to take as many as we can down with us.

When the second mate tumbled against the mast, the dark-skinned swordsman was on him, though the finishing stroke never came. Barristan drove his blade through the man’s back, coating it once more in blood. It was dishonorable to kill a man in such a way but this was battle and his blood was up. Pulling the blade free, he charged at three men who actually cowered away from his approach.

He didn’t blame them. In this moment he felt like the Warrior himself. His blade dripped red, his armor was dented and stained with gore, his body soaked with sweat, and while the drums had stopped, his heart pounded a war beat all on its own.

Barristan felt like a young man again. The old aches washed away in the torrent of battle.

He’d only felt this way twice before in his life. During Duskendale he'd cut down more than a score of men in his quest to free King Aerys. His desperation to see the king to safety had driven him into a frenzy, the faces of the dead a blur in his mind. That was a stroll through a garden compared to the Stepstones, the last time that the Golden Company posed a threat the realm. Then it was a different usurper leading the sellswords, Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre Pretenders. .

He'd only made it so far through that vicious battle because of efforts from other good men. Like Brynden Tully, his friend, a fine knight indeed. Together they'd defied death itself and won glory that day.

Thank the Seven you’re not here with me now Brynden.

Perhaps it will be your turn to bring the Usurper low…

He was still in the thick of battle now. One of the Volantenes fell with a gut wound. The other two fought him at once, sword and spear cutting and jabbing in defense rather than attack. Barristan pressed them back. The Rhaella’s crew were finishing off the last of their enemy, cutting men down or tossing them overboard. Soon they might have control of the ship again. He wondered if they could divide the port oars and ram an enemy vessel before the end came.

That was when the end found them.

“Ram! Ram to the starboard side!” Nelson bellowed from atop the bridge. “Get the oarsmen out of the hold!”

With a quick look behind him, Barristan saw the Lyseni galley closing in fast. All of its oars were plunging deep into the sea, churning the water white and bringing its wicked looking ram closer and closer to the Rhaella's side.

“Now you whoreson die.” The spearman took this chance to stab at his middle. “Saan coming. Saan kill you.”

A slight turn made the point glance harmlessly off plate. His own sword cut far deeper, almost cleaving the man’s head off for his efforts. That was answered by a sharp pain in his left arm, for the swordsman had scored a hit. It was a relief to see that the armor held though. His arm remained firmly attached, though it throbbed horribly as blood seeped through the mail.

“Now it ends!” The swordsman spat at him, raising his blade for another strike. “Your head is mine you old shit-”

The man then spat again, though it was blood that spewed forth, for Ser Nelson had leapt down the stairs to skewer him through the gut. Both knights then turned their attention toward the Lyseni ship bearing down on them then. It was but moments away.

“Brace yourselves!” The captain warned both made to reach for the mast, seeking anything to hold onto.

His finger closed around a rope tied about the mast as the two ships collided. Wood cracked and men screamed while some were immediately thrown over the side by the impact. The force of it was so jarring that he flew forward, striking the mast and driving the air from his body. As the Rhaella rolled into the blow, somehow Barristan managed to keep his hold upon the mast.

Nelson had no such grip.

“Oh sweet Mother-” The knight cursed as he slid by Barristan.

He could only watch as the captain struck the ship’s rail, Nelson flailing in vain to save himself. One moment the knight was there, the next he was gone, fallen over the side and into the depths below.

Nelson’s ship was sure to join him soon enough. The ram had torn a great hole in the side of the Rhaella, part of the deck falling away as her killer began to pull free. The enemy oarsmen were rowing hard to disentangle themselves, the Rhaella continuing to lilt as water poured into the breech, filling the lower deck. With the screams of the oarsmen echoing in his ears, Barristan accepted the doom of this ship.

But not his own. Not quite yet.

“To me!” He shouted to what crew still remained, grabbing the first mate and dragging him to his feet. “The Rhaella is dead! Let us avenge her!”

The men gaped at him in shock yet Barristan’s path was clear. The Lyseni ship had not yet pulled away, close enough for an attempt.

“To me! For your captain! For Nelson!” He roared, running forward, sword in hand. When he came to the edge of the galley, Barristan climbed up and leapt with all the power in his legs.

For a terrifying heartbeat, the empty air and the open water was all there was beneath his feet. Then suddenly it was the boards of the enemy ship, his landing cushioned by the Lyseni sailors he collided with.

Those men fell backwards or shouted in fright as Barristan steadied himself upon this new ship. He was surrounded on all sides by Lyseni sailors and pirates, most armed with swords and spears, some with crossbows, all gaping at the blood soaked and armored warrior who stood amongst them.

“Surrender!” He demanded, his voice echoing in his helm. “Surrender in the name of the king!”

That was when the Rhaella’s second mate landed to his left and a marine to his right. Many of her crew were making the same leap, though many were less fortunate than him, slamming into the side of the enemy ship and then lost to the sea. As the men began forming up behind him, their foe bestirred themselves. One crossbowman raised his weapon, and in two short steps Barristan was there, slicing his head clear from his body.

Scores of weapons rose to threaten him then but he defied them still.

“Have at me then.”

A flurry of foreign curses were hurled at him as the enemy came on. Many charging to their deaths without knowing it. Barristan slashed and stabbed, dodging and lunging, killing and surviving all at once. While everywhere he looked there was violence and death, a calm came over him. There was no hope here. There was no victory to be found. Only the duty he had sworn to years ago. Each moment since the white cloak had been placed upon his shoulders was building to this. He fought to protect his king.

To earn his place in the White Book.

He cleaved an arm off at the elbow. Slit open a throat. Stabbed through a thigh. Cut open a gut to spill its contents out in a gory mess.

In the midst of this carnage, he saw the Rhaella’s men fighting and dying. One after another they fell. It took two men to kill the first mate, stabbed through the front and back. A bleeding oarsmen died dragging a Lyseni overboard with him. A cabin boy drove a spear through the groin of a warrior before a crossbow bolt took him in the heart. He glimpsed the last of the Rhaella’s bow disappearing beneath the waves as the last of her crew died aboard her killer. Barristan was soon to follow. He was being driven back, the numbers of foes pushing him towards the ship’s edge like a tide.

“Spare that one!” A sleek, smiling man with dark skin and white curls called down from the height of the bridge. From his immaculate dress and the way that Barristan’s attackers halted, he named him the commander.

“That’s a knight! Someone to ransom to make up for this folly!” The pirate lord fumed. “Robert promised easy victories and plenty of spoils. Instead I lose half my ships! I should’ve taken that beggar prince’s contract… a simple ferrying… quite profitable. You look like a valuable prize though!”  

“I am Kingsguard!” Barristan choked out, pulling in as much as air as he could, holding his sword up with both hands.

“Quite valuable then!” The commander called back. “The fight is over. You have lost yet you need not die. Lay down your blade and you will be treated well.”

He ached all over. His muscles and chest screamed with exhaustion. Death ringed him on all sides, the rail behind him the only thing standing between his body and the sea. All he had to do was surrender and this man might ransom him. Should the king be victorious, perhaps he could be returned to Rhaegar’s side. He might even see his little princess again.

Or they might torture you. Put you to the question, learn the weaknesses of the capital. Or even Dragonstone.

Your life is not worth endangering the king’s.

Your life is not worth risking Daenerys’s.

“My life is forfeit!” He answered, ripping his helm free so that all could see his face. “Look upon me and see Barristan Selmy! Knight of the Kingsguard! My only worth in this life is to serve my king! My orders were to fight! And I shall obey!”

With a mighty heave he threw the helm straight at the pirate captain, watching it sail through the hair and strike the man so powerfully that it knocked him back. A smile crossed Barristan’s face when they came at him.

His sword was ready. His stance was superb.

The first spear was thrown aside, it’s owner less a hand. He met a sword strike from one man before deflecting another. The second spear came then, driving into his shoulder with such force that it pierced his armor.

Pain coursed through his body as his blood poured free and onto the deck. He managed to stab one more man before his sword was wrenched away and the spearman pressed forward. A collection of strange, snarling faces cursing him, pushing Barristan back and over the railing.

Then he was falling, tumbling through the air, landing with a heavy splash into the sea.

The water was cold, the taste of salt filling his mouth as he sank deeper. He fought of course, his arms and legs struggling to pull himself back to the surface. His lungs found no air though and he was tired. The light grew more distant, everything becoming darker.

As the world faded to black, the water became a blue as dark as could be.

Like the eyes of a beauty he pictured with his last thoughts.

Ashara…

Ashara I’m coming…

I’m coming…  

 JON

 

Death was coming at him.

Ignoring hundreds of others. Thousands even. Death came for him.

What Jon had done to draw the elephant’s attention amidst this mass of carnage was beyond him. No rider remained on its back and the elephant came on with single-minded determination. When he chanced a few steps left the beast’s eyes followed, its massive form changing direction.

Seeking him.

This would not be so dangerous if he was still ahorse, yet Jon fought on foot now. It felt like he’d lost his mount leagues back in this bloody mess of a battlefield. The fighting raged on around him, knights dueling against Dothraki warriors, men-at-arms clashing with sellswords, body falling upon body.

The sky was grey, the sun’s golden rays scorning all this killing and death.

His armor was tainted by the blood of the dead. His ears assaulted by the screams of men, the crashing of steel against steel. Even his footfalls were haunted by it, for each step sank into the earth made soft by many hooves.

Or by the blood of the fallen.

The fight to throw back the Golden Company here on the left had been long and bloody. Jon’s men managed to hold together this part of the royal army and even gain some ground with the might of their charge. When Jon appeared, acting the king with thousands of men at his back, those fleeing took notice. Hundreds halted their retreat, finding some courage to follow him back into fight.

A great number paying for it with their lives. Some Jon knew by name.

Hendry Bracken died with an arahk buried in his neck. Ser Ellery Vance cut down by a captain of the Golden Company. Lord Lymond Goodbrook trampled by an elephant.

He was thankful for every familiar face he could see through the slit in his helm. He spied the Blackfish riding amongst the combatants, fighting two Dothraki at once, Ghost evening the odds by leaping up and pulling one horselord down to a grisly death. Fighting afoot Ser Willem dodged and weaved about as a longaxe was sent at him again and again, laughing as it cut high above his head. Closer still were Ser Jonothor and Lucas, who was still ahorse, both doing their best to deflect any attack from reaching Jon.

The bone-rattling trumpeting of the elephant caused his protectors to whip about, taking notice of the beast crashing its way towards him.

“Look out!” Lucas shouted, stabbing into a swordsman before gesturing at the charging elephant. “Flee your grace!”

Where shall I go? Winterfell is a bit too far and I’ve little enough strength left to swim for Dragonstone…

To spare Jonothor and Lucas harm Jon ran from them, trying to lead the elephant away. A warrior with a jagged sword and golden bands about his arm blocked his flight. Behind him the elephant sent combatants scrambling out its path, some falling to its feet and tusks. Either the ugly sot challenging Jon couldn’t feel the shaking of the ground or was too set on killing a king to care.

“My weight in gold if I bring you to Robert!” The fool smiled, swinging his sword.

Jon met the blow and threw it back before answering with his own cut. The man’s smile fell away and turned to a grimace when Jon pressed his attack. He had killed three men this day and would not balk to kill one more as the elephant drew closer and closer.

“Now Ned!” A shout came from his side and two horses galloped by.

Lord Beric and Edric charged on, the lord armed with a lance, the squire a torch. As they neared the elephant the youth tossed his torch high into the air, spinning end over end until it struck the thing’s face. Sparks and burning bits burst forth and the elephant jerked and roared, swinging its tusks towards his attacker. Ned was forced to duck low to escape losing his head.

With the elephant’s head turned away Beric had a clear target for his lance. The lord’s aim was good, the weapon steady, were this a joust he’d be in fine form. Beric drove the lance tip drove deep into the elephant’s chest. It broke in two and the lord rode on while the elephant staggered, blood pouring down its chest where the lance was imbedded.

“On your knees dragon!”

His foe chose this moment to throw a shoulder into Jon’s side, sending him falling sideways towards the ground. He did nothing to slow his fall, in fact he tried with all his might to spur it on. Rolling across the ground to escape what came next.

For the dying elephant collapsed right where he’d been standing. It hit the ground with a crash, the force of the fall driving the massive body onwards, tearing up the earth and crushing Jon’s unwitting savior.

“Now that was bloody something your grace.” Willem’s voice rang out above him, the knight pulling Jon to his feet. “If you’re taking requests for your next miracle get those wings on your head to fly us the hell out of here.”

“I’ll work on it.” Jon replied, throwing off the Willem’s hold. “Ready yourself!”

Through the chaos ahead a great press of golden mercenaries were fighting their way towards them. Willem cursed and moved in front of him, soon joined by Ser Jonothor and several others.

“That’s their reserve!” Jonothor spat blood, he’d lost his helm in the fight, as well as a couple teeth. “This is where we can break them!”

They could see little of the battlefield save thousands of men fighting in a great heap to the right of them. For all he knew Jon Connington had turned the tide and everything hinged on the left standing firm. If they broke Robert’s reserve here and now victory could be theirs.

Father will arrive to find the invasion finished… all this suffering will be at an end…

“The battle will be won here.” He declared, the tide of enemy reinforcements growing nearer. “Here and now! By us! We don’t stop until we reach the other side… we cannot stop…”  

“I’m with you, your grace.” The Kingsguard offered a bloody smile. “I stand with a man worthy of a crown.”

With that Jonothor stood tall and began to bellow, his warrior’s voice carrying over the din of battle.

“To the king! For Rhaegar!”

“For Rhaegar!” Lucas heralded whirling his horse about and swinging his sword to rally men to them. “Gather to the king!”

“For the king!” More answered, hundreds running or riding on to form up about him. Ghost jumping over a fallen horse to come to his side. The direwolf’s mouth was bloodied, nearly as red the eyes which stared up at Jon now. That gaze was welcome, a friendly one which gave Jon the strength to do what he needed.

“With me!” He shouted to his men “Forward! Forward and to victory!”

“Just a little behind us though!” Willem added as he and Jonothor shoved ahead of Jon in the charge.

The line of men ran over corpses and pits of muck, the Golden Company doing the same. A few on each side brave enough to carry banners rather than blades. The red dragon rushing towards the black stag and golden skulls. His armor weighed him down but he found a strength deep within to carry on, a need to meet the foe ahead.

Oswell always said battle got the blood up but I never imagined…

When the two forces met in a tumult of blades and spearpoints Jon was attacked almost immediately. A mounted knight stabbed a lance down at him but Jonothor blocked it with his shield. Ghost attacked the horse yet Jon saw little more, for a swordsman broke through the fray to drive at him.

A light rain began to fall as their blades sang, Oswell and Rodrik Cassel’s lessons  ringing with each strike of steel. Both Jon and his opponent were armored, so Oswell would make it a battle of placing the right blows in the proper places. Rodrik’s eyes would follow how the foe swung his sword or where he planted his feet.

He stabs low to slash high. He wants to open my gorget.

His armor parts about the waist… he turns to cut at my neck…

His teachers taught him well. His body made him quick. He feigned lowering his guard, an opening his foe was waiting for. Yet Jon jerked aside at the last moment and landed a blow of his own, cutting through the flesh above the man’s hip. A shriek followed but it did not last long, for it was his turn to slice at a neck.

And he did not miss.

Blood sprayed through his helm, Jon blinking it away. With a howl born of anger and pride he ran on, seeking another to bring low with his blade. He’d told his men not to stop until they reached the other side and he wouldn’t. Not feeling as he did.

A mercenary caved in the head of a Stokeworth man and Jon took his arm for it. Another swung a flail at him, scraping along his helm. Jon did more damage driving the pommel of his sword into the man’s face, bones cracking under the blow. All the years in the practice yard spared his life again and again. It brought him forward step by step.

He passed Jonothor killing a man just to his left. Lucas cutting about to his right. He even left Ghost behind as the wolf tore out a Summer Islander’s throat.

I’m leading the way to victory. Robb, we played at this so often but I’m really doing it.

Uncle… father… mother see me now! Dany! Sansa! I can earn your forgiveness!

I’m no bastard! I’m a prince!

“I’m a dragon!” He roared, knocking a man back punching another. The words echoing in his helm as lightning cracked above. “I’m a dragon! Of House Targaryen!”

It felt amazing to give voice to such. Even better to hear others answering it in agreement. Yet he soon realized it wasn’t his men chanting his words. It was the enemy around him.

“It’s the dragon! He’s right here!” A spearman shouted.

“The Targaryen is here!” Another echoed.

On and on it went, mercenaries backing away from him to challenge others. Jon gaped in astonishment, he felt mighty indeed but this reaction was too much.  Fearsome looking sellsword attacked Jonothor and died for it rather than facing Jon. Only the rain dared touch him as the strange chanting continued.

“Here!”

“The dragon is here!”

“Right there my lord!”

Something’s not right, Jon realized as he halted his steps, what’s happening here?

“Your grace get back!” Jonothor roared, cutting down a man and staring wide-eyed at something ahead of them. “No! Not now! Get back from there-”

“RHAEGAR!”

He thought only thunder could be so loud. The bellow was powerful enough for Jon to back away instinctively, his gaze turning to the heart of the enemy line.

Through the press three men stepped forward. The first was a knight, armored in gold and holding a blade of Valyrian steel, so confident he wore no helm. A cruel smirk spreading across his handsome face. The other was a horselord, a fierce looking Dothraki with bright blue markings covering his chest and bells jingling in his braid. He raised an arahk and cursed at Jon in a guttural tongue. 

Neither of those men held a candle compared to the third. A towering warrior clad in heavy grey plate with a Baratheon tunic hanging about his chest, a pair of antlers rising from his greathealm. His arms were thick with golden bands and in one hand he held a studded shield, in the other a long warharmmer.

A weapon he raised with ease to point at Jon.

“Rhaegar!” The warrior thundered, clanging the hammer off his shield. “You fucking coward! Fifteen years! Fifteen years you’ve been hiding from this fight! Well that’s done with! Your death has found you!”

“Robert!” Jonothor fought all the harder, trying to escape his current foe. “Robert you shall answer for what you’ve done!”

Robert… my gods this is Robert Baratheon…

“For the king!” Lucas’s voice rang out, Jon jerking about to see his squire charging onward, sword at the ready. “Glory to the Iron Throne!”

Before he could stop him Lucas rode by, heading straight for Robert. The warrior was shaking at the sight of the charge, yet not from fear. Robert was laughing, hefting his warhammer up lazily and waving his men back.

Lucas rode well and fought better from horseback. His mount was swift and shied from nothing.

Neither did Robert.

The warhammer moved faster than it had any right to, Robert extending it out to its full reach as he swung it up at Lucas’s mount. The blow struck the horse’s snout with such force the lower half of its face broke away in a red mess. With a hideous gurgling whine the poor animal pitched sideways, Lucas flying off to land hard on his back.

“Lucas!” He shouted, running to help.

There was no time though, Lucas barely had the chance to raise up on an elbow before Robert was there. Jon screamed for mercy but the warhammer swung again. The hammer caved in the young man’s helm, blood and gore exploding through the visor and neck. Robert had to press a foot to Lucas’s chest to wrench his weapon free, his squire’s body collapsing in a limp heap.

No… Lucas… you were going to marry Jayne… we made peace between your families…

You were going to wed in my castle… you had a future…

“Dragon loving filth.” Robert growled, stepping over Lucas’s corpse and continuing on towards him. More of Jon’s men rushed from the sides but the Dothraki and the knight were brutal killers in their own right. Blood spilled on the ground as the rain fell down, Robert coming closer and closer.

“Mago! Corbray! No one interrupts this!” Robert bellowed, steps away now. “This is my kill. For the life you stole from me!”

“Stolen life?” Jon trembled to look to Lucas’s body. “Stolen life?! Monster! Murdering monster!”

“You sound like a mewling child-”

Jon didn’t let him finish, somehow he found the courage not only to interrupt the beast before him, but to raise his sword in challenge. Robert laughed again, but it died away when his head jerked to the side. For Jon’s other protector came to attack the exiled lord as well.

“Usurping scum!” Jonothor roared, lifting his reddened blade high and charging at Robert. “For the king! For Darry!”

“I thought I killed all those fucking fools!” Robert cursed back as the knight slashed at his shield. “Come and let me finish them off!”

The warhammer swung at Jonothor who made to catch the blow with his sword. He succeeded, but the force of the hit knocked him off balance. Robert drove his shield up and into the knight, battering him horribly.

Jon could not stand idle any longer. Battle raged around him and there were no lack of foes to choose from. Yet the only one he hated was right before him, beating about a man sworn to protect his family. Robert Baratheon terrified him but when he knocked Jonothor off his feet Jon knew what had to be done.

He knew what his father would do.

“Robert!” Jon cried, coming between them and stabbing at the fiend. “It’s me you want!”

“It was Lyanna I wanted!” Robert roared, blocking his blow and bringing his hammer down to cave in Jon’s head.

He dived to the side, spinning about to cut at Robert’s neck. Only the cut never landed for the exile threw his body forward, hitting Jon so hard he nearly fell. He recovered in time to dive below the next swing of the hammer.

“Stay still!” Robert demanded. “You ran away with her! You took my home! The brother I chose!”

“You had a choice-”

The shield drove into his gut and lifted him off the ground, sending Jon tumbling down onto his back. He hit the ground hard, looking up in terror as Robert raised his hammer high. Yet the exile swung it sideways instead, for Jonothor had leapt forward in Jon’s defense, earning a blow to his side for the trouble.

A sickening crunch of metal and bone reached his ears as a flash of lightning cut through the sky. Jonothor’s sword fell away but the knight stayed on his feet, thunder crashing as he wrapped his hands about Robert’s neck.

“Leave him be…” Blood dripped from Jonothor’s mouth as the two men struggled. “He’s not the-”

“Out of my way!” Robert grabbed wrapped his arms around the knight in a bear hug. Wrenching his head back Robert then head-butted Jonothor with terrible force, the helm crashing into his skull.

The knight jerked about, the strength leaving his body as his legs did a strange dance. When Jon climbed to his feet Robert threw aside Jonothor’s body like it was a worthless sack.

“How many more?” Robert asked as they circled one another, a tight ring of his soldiers watching, rain pelting them. “How many more must die for you? My dear Lyanna… she deserved fields of flowers and the sunlight on her face… not your disgusting touch and a cold grave…”

“Don’t talk about her!”

Father and I are going to talk about her. After I kill you… we’ll talk about her…

I can do that… just remember your lessons…

Strangely it was remembering his lessons that filled Jon with terror. For he had been watching Robert fight. The man was strong and skillful. His stance powerful and blows sure. Jon saw no weaknesses in his armor, save the places Robert protected well. He had no idea how to win this fight, let alone defend against Robert’s next attack.

Until the trumpets sounded.

Over the thunder and sounds of battle trumpets were sounding but not from his army. These came from somewhere behind Robert’s lines. A royal tune belted out again and again in quick succession.

Jon Connington must have encircled them... victory can be ours.

Robert must have thought the same thing for he turned his head towards the sound. It was an opportunity Jon couldn’t pass up. With two quick steps he readied himself, with the third his blade was raised and Robert’s lower arm was exposed.

On the fourth that arm lowered but Jon attacked anyways. He struck powerfully but succeeded in only denting some armor. Now Robert’s gaze was back on him, lightning flashing behind the antlers on his helm. His foe’s shield rose up between them, almost knocking his sword away. Jon might have fled yet found courage enough to push forward, bringing himself too close for the warhammer to find him. Robert’s size and strength made it so Jon couldn’t budge him. He could feel the power building in the man’s arms, readying to throw Jon away.

He didn’t fight it, accepting the toss backwards so he could land with better footing than his foe expected. Robert had spread his arms wide to throw Jon away, which left him open to the one strike Jon could make. His blade flashed down upon the wrist of Robert’s shield arm.

“Fuck!” Robert roared in pain as Jon’s heart fell.

Whoever did Robert’s armoring deserved a knighthood, for it held firm under the blow. The steel saved the exile’s hand yet the attack forced Robert to drop his shield. Something Robert then punished him for. The warhammer came at him and Jon blocked with his backswing, his feet sliding in the mud beneath. He fought to gain his footing when his world exploded.

Something struck his helm so hard all he saw was stars. When some sense returned to him Jon caught a glimpse of a gauntleted fist coming at him. It slammed straight into his visor, smashing the steel into his face. He tasted blood as pain surged through him. Staggering, he could offer no defense as Robert took hold of the hammer in both hands, driving the middle up into his face.

Jon thought of Lucas as the left side took the worst of it. He feared that part of his face was caved in, for all felt numb there now. Far away words mocked him and thunder roared above. He’d fallen to his knees by now. He hadn’t meant to fall but he had.

A blinding pain struck his ribs after that, the bent slit of his helm showing a boot being pulled away. He tried to beg strength from the gods but words were lost him through the agony. Then the boot came again. And then again. He was on his back after that. The boot crashed down on his chest, crushing the life from him. Then it stamped down onto his ruined helm.

Forcing him deeper into the cold mud. His world was filled with blood and pain. He sank into it and the mud all at once.

Until he was being lifted upwards by a powerful arms, his own hanging helplessly at his sides.

“I wanted to look you in the eye Rhaegar.” Robert’s voice came through the darkness. “To let you see you never truly defeated me. Before you die know I’ll wipe my ass with your crown. Your dragonspawn will lay dead at my feet. I’ll take that sister of yours and fuck her silly-”

Jon’s helm was ripped away, the world becoming brighter and Robert’s words fading away. The rain struck his ruined face, washing the blood from his eyes. His vision was fuzzy yet he saw Robert gripping the front of his armor, his warhammer poised to strike. The blow never came though, the lord frozen in place and his eyes wide through the slit in his helm.

“Ned?” Robert’s voice weakened. “By the gods Ned… what are you- no… no. It’s you. It cannot be you…”

A flash of lightning and a series of shouts stole Robert’s attention away. A moment later Jon was falling again, Robert dropping him back into the mud. His head swam from the impact and he might have been weeping.

The sky surely did.

Thick, heavy teardrops that kept him lucid enough to see a blur of white appear beside him. With the snapping of his jaws Ghost drove Robert back and away from him. Robert and his men must have been terrified of the wolf. The ring they’d enclosed Jon within was breaking apart. Panicking even.

No, that was wrong. For the Corbray knight and Mago horselord were pointing behind them and raising their weapons. The thunder above was forgotten as the earth itself took to trembling. Suddenly the mercenaries broke apart in, for riders came charging through them, lances piercing through flesh and swords cutting men down.

Robert forgot about Jon as he was beset by some of these riders. All acted like he was but a corpse as the warriors clashed about him.

All except one rider.

A warrior who fought with a ferocity that matched Robert’s. A man who rode up to Jon, leaping free to kill a spearman who came too close. His dragonwing helm dripped rainwater, his black armor adorned with bright red rubies. Stones that flashed with another clash of lightning.

“Rhaegar!” Robert roared, killing a rider and bellowing in rage as another separated him from the king. “You sent her son! In your place! I’ll kill you twice! I swear it!”

“No! Jon?!” His father’s muffled shout came from beneath the helm. The fear came through clear enough. “Jon speak! Speak to me!”

Jon tried to call out as his father ran to him, dropping to a knee as his side. His helm was also thrown away, silver-blonde hair spilling out and sad eyes gazing down at him. Reaching up weakly, Jon sought his father’s help. So he could gain his feet and fight by his side. He tried to speak but his mouth ached so that he could only gurgle through the blood. Father took hold of his hand, a gentle touch despite the armor between them.

The pain went away in that moment, for his father had come.

“My boy… what has he done to you?” The king shook his head. “My brave boy… I promise you Jon…”

“Now!” Robert broke in, free of any foes and facing the king. The lord gripped his warhammer in both hands and straightened in threat. “Now you coward! Come to me! There are no others to hide behind!”

Father… no… stay with me…

No one heard him though, especially not his father. For he let go of Jon’s hand to grip his sword with both hands, rising up to meet Robert’s challenge. Only the rain stood between the two men.

“You did this to him.” The king’s iron tones echoed with the thunder. “You laid your blood-soaked hands upon my son! Lyanna’s son!”

“He should’ve been mine!” Robert came on. “You stole that from me! The son I wanted! The love I wanted!”

With that the two men came together. Lightning cut through the sky, thunder crashing as the warlords fought. His father moved so swiftly it was hard to follow. The king’s blade was like a bolt of lightning itself, flashing here and there, striking all over Robert as he swung his warhammer about.

Others came to finish Jon yet Ghost brought them all to an end. Beyond his father’s duel with Rhaegar he spotted a white-clad warrior, fighting his way through the press. Arthur Dayne cleaved about with Dawn, cutting a bloody path through the Golden Company. A rampaging elephant blocked Arthur’s advance but Jon cared little.

Lightning flashed again as Robert cried out in rage. Rhaegar had struck a blow so clean it knocked the man’s helm free of his head. The black haired warrior beneath was red with rage and soaked with sweat. His eyes and curses only for the king. Foul words were the only blows Robert landed on his father. Again and again the king dodged the warhammer, cutting high and low, even backhanding Robert across the face as he spun about.

“All of this!” His father snapped. “All this death! I lost a good friend today! Good men! All because you can’t accept she wanted me!”

“That’s a lie!” Robert spat, stumbling some from another blow. “Your serpent’s tongue… you raped her! I know you did! Again and again!”

Thunder cracked again and Ghost tore down a spearman making to skewer Jon. With a grunt of pain he rolled to his side, crawling to reach his sword. His father needed help and Jon would be there.

“I’ll do the same to that girl!” Robert continued as father and he pressed their weapons against each other. “Daenerys is it? After you’re dead! She’ll be my whore! These fucks will all bow to me with her at the end of my cock-”

“Never!” His father kicked at Robert’s leg.

What came next was a fury alien to the king. He attacked with an endless series of strike and slashes, the exile’s armor was hit again and again. Robert barely deflecting any, the warhammer too slow even in his powerful hands.

Jon would help end it. He was near to his sword now. So close…

With a roar of anger father hit the side of Robert’s leg so hard it buckled, a knee falling into the mud. The king stood above him, hair wet with rain, purple eyes flashing in the lightning.

“In my children’s name!” Rhaegar raised his sword. “This ends now!”

The arc of the killing stroke was perfect, the blade cutting through the rain towards Robert’s exposed neck.

Until the warlord reached up and caught it in mid-air with his armored fist.

“Hnnnngh!” Robert grimaced as the blade crunched deep into the steel of his gauntlet.

Then he was wrenching father’s sword away, bringing his hammer about at the same time. Jon shouted a warning but the blow landed against the king’s shoulder, knocking him away powerfully. Father staggered and fell, his arm swinging about uselessly.

Father… father I’m coming…

His sword was in his hand and he was crawling again, kicking and struggling through the mud to reach his father. In that time Robert rose to stand, warhammer in two hands again.

The king was only just rising to his knees as the warlord came to tower over him.

“Father…” He coughed out, blood misting the air. “Father… I’m here…”

Father and son looked to each other in that moment. Those purple eyes found his own, Rhaegar’s gaze filled with sadness. Rain ran down the king’s face like tears. Jon slipped in the mud and pain ripped through his body.

“Father… I’m here… please don’t…”

Robert ignored Jon’s pleas as he brought the hammer back beyond his shoulders. His father heard him through the thunder, scorning Robert to seek Jon, his eyes only for his son.

Father’s words meant for him.

“Lyanna hoped-”

The rest was lost as the warhammer came crashing down. The blow struck square against father’s chest, his armor crunching within. Rubies tore free from the suit, spilling into the air like a jeweled spray of blood. Rhaegar jerked with the force of it, head falling forward as his body tumbled backwards. The king landing in a deep puddle of mud.

“No!” He choked out, fingers digging into the muck. “Father!”

“Rhaegar!” Arthur screamed, fighting both Corbray and Mago at once. “Rhaegar! Robert you bastard! You’re a dead man!”

“It’s done.” Robert’s words echoed in his head. “Lyanna… I did it...”

“The king is dead!” A man shouted, backing away from his foe and pointing at father. “The king is dead!”

Jon didn’t care what he said. His father was alive. He could see him. Father lay on the ground ahead, his face turned towards Jon. His eyes were open.

He’s alive… father I’m coming…

“Rhaegar’s dead!”

“Robert killed him!”

“The king is dead!”

No he’s alive! Father just wait I’m coming!

Jon dragged himself through the muck. The pain was terrible but father was right there and he had to fight to reach him.

You’re looking right at me... you see me… I see you… just wait…

“Someone get the prince away!” Arthur roared as he broke free of his foes, charging right at Robert. “I’ll get the king! Retrieve the king!”

“That corpse is mine!” Robert shouted back, battling against the knight’s rage. “I’ll draw and quarter-”

Thunder drowned out the rest as fear filled him. For half of father’s face had sunk into the muck and Jon needed to lift him free… he could drown. Yet suddenly Jon jerked to a stop. His hands filled with mud but he didn’t move forward, instead he was lifted upwards.

“I’ve got you, your grace.” Ser Willem’s voice filled his ears. “We’ve got you… it’s done. Come on now.”

“My father…”

“We have to go my lord.” Edric wept as the squire threw Jon’s arm over his shoulder. “My uncle says so… I’m sorry…”

Jon cursed and struggled as the pair lifted him up and away. He needed to help his father. Arthur was battling Robert to do so. When Mago and Corbray came as well the knight fought them as well.

Yet Willem and Ned were pulling him away. Others were running too. His father’s men.

But not father. He wouldn’t get up.

“Please…” Jon begged, kicking and fighting as he was carried away. Wrenching his head around, he stared back to meet his father’s unwavering gaze.

“Please… he came for me... he sees me…”

“We’re going to talk… about my mother…”

Yet they wouldn’t stop. Nor would the rain. For it poured down in droves.

Arthur was fighting amongst that downpour, Dawn slashing about as Robert and the others tried to overcome the Kingsguard.

The last thing Jon saw was his father’s eyes. Still staring up at him.

His face sinking deeper into the darkness.

Chapter 13

Summary:

The aftermath.

New beginnings. Hard decisions. Turning points.

THE LOST PRINCE

 

He’d been here before.

The memory was dark and hazy but so was this place. It was night here, or it had been at least. He stood in a castle garden, long overgrown and untended, the sky above a black cloak bejeweled with glittering lights. The castle that rose up around him was a scorched ruin, where monsters likely awaited within every broken archway and collapsed wall.

At least the little boy he was believed so. He was small and the castle’s terrors loomed large. His face, wet with tears, sought safety in care of the tall man beside him. Holding Jon’s hand was the only person he wanted to scare away the monsters. A king with long pale hair and purple eyes.

His father.

“Father… I’m scared…”

“Hush Jon, there’s no need.” Father smiled down at him, pulling his small form along as they went deeper into the garden. “Come now, there’s something we must do.”

“Where’s Aegon and Rhaenys?” He asked, moving his little legs in a hurry to keep up. Jon didn’t want to be left behind in the dark.

“This is not for them. It’s something that you and I must do together.”

Father’s words sounded strange, like he was far away. Wild hedges and tangles of creeping vines lined their path. There were statues as well, of men and women wearing crowns, some laying in pieces along the trail. Most had vines creeping around them and were in danger of being swallowed by the garden. Jon was scared of the same thing happening to them.

Until father stopped and knelt to the ground. Pulling Jon down beside him, father began to dig up the earth with his hands.

“Help me Jon.” Father’s faraway voice said. “We must do this together.”

“Kings shouldn’t play in the dirt.” He argued. “Or princes. Stepmother will yell…”

“Even those wearing a crown must get some earth beneath their nails now and again.” Father took Jon’s hand and forced him to help dig. “This is why we must rule justly, so our people might till the soil, to harvest a brighter future. Sometimes that means dark times my son, times when graves must be dug instead of gardens.”

Jon didn’t want to dig graves yet he did help drag away the dark, rich earth. Together, father and him dug a shallow hole, the damp, cool felt good against his skin. It felt better they were alone in doing this. He liked it when it was just the two of them. He loved his father.

When the hole was dug well enough father stayed Jon’s efforts and then covered his eyes.

“That’s enough for now, just keep your eyes closed.” Father ordered and he did so, his eyes staying closed even after he felt father’s touch leave his face. “Open your hands son, there’s something we need plant but I cannot show you what it is.”

“But I want to see! I want-”

“You remind me so much of your mother… her willfulness… but please do as I say.”

He obeyed, cupping his hands together so father could drop several small objects onto his palms. Father urged him to drop the mysterious things into the hole, every so gently. It was confusing, to be given something only to have it taken away. When father set to pushing the dirt back within the rut, he guided Jon’s hands to do the same. Only after they were done was he allowed to open his eyes, the earth covering whatever gift father gave him.

“What was that father?” He asked, his eyes focused on the mysterious pile of earth he kept adding to. “Why can’t I have it?”

“You will, one day. For that was a piece of your future Jon. The one your mother wanted for you. That was why we had to do this together. To honor a promise I made to her before you were born.”

“Then why are we burying it?” His was moving the dirt by himself now, father’s hands having pulled away as the king backed out of his sight.

“Bury it? No, no I would never treat your future in such a way. We planted the seeds of your future here. My hope for you Jon, Lyanna’s hope for you. May it grow to become all it must be… much like you…”

Father’s hand was on his shoulder then. It should have felt warm and comforting. He remembered it had. Yet father’s touch felt cold and stiff. Wrong somehow.

“I’d never bury your future Jon… but where will they bury me? Where?”

With that Jon turned to face father and terror gripped him.

For everything had changed. It wasn’t like he remembered anymore. The garden was gone, as was the castle. Now they were in a battlefield, one littered with bodies with a horrible storm raging above their heads.

Father was still there but he’d changed too. The king knelt on the ground, his head lowered as a great hole in his armor’s chest plate bled rubies out upon the muddy ground. His silver-blond hair had gone to white and looked brittle. His flesh was pasty and mottled, his hands held out before him like gnarled claws.

“Father! What’s wrong? Father look at me!”

“You were supposed to burn me.” Father rasped, rain running down his matted hair and through his fingers. “You didn’t even bury me… the mud did…”

His head raised then and father’s purple eyes were gone. Instead they were as black and murky as the water collecting in pools around the corpses.

“You left me!” The monster screamed.

Jon drew back in fear, falling backwards into a pile of bodies as lightning flashed above. Trying to escape, Jon found the way was barred by Lucas, his head half smashed to a bloody mess of bone and flesh. In one hand the squire held his ruined helm, the other pointed at Jon. Lucas’s mangled jaw began to work as he rasped accusations.

“You left me… coward…”

When Jon made to flee again he found Ser Jonothor waiting, the knight’s forehead caved in and his eyes white and listless.

“You left me... you have no honor…”

More began to rise up from the mud to join in on the accusations. Dripping and mangled, corpse after corpse came alive in the storm, all seeking to hold him to account. Only one looked out of place in this battlefield. The dark-haired woman in a gown of blue, its skirts dragging through the bloodied muck. Wearing a crown of winter roses above her lovely face, she might have been called beautiful. If not for the flood of dark red tears flowing from her eyes.

“No… no…” He shouted. “Not you!”

“You left me... no heart…” His mother joined the chant. “You killed me…”

He looked about for an escape. Any escape. Everywhere he looked there were more people he’d failed. Except for one spot. A path even the corpses dared not cross.

For it would put them in the way of a monster. A massive warrior was striding towards Jon, flashes of lightning reflecting off his armor. His warhammer dripped blood. The antlers rising from his helm were so tall they looked like black bolts  of lightning.

“You left me.” The chant continued as Robert came on. “You left me.”

“I never meant to!” He screamed as his legs began to sink into the mud. “I wanted to stay! I wanted to fight! Father! Father!”

“You left me… you left me…”

 

“Come back to us my prince.”

“You left me…”

“Come back.”

“No!” Jon awoke with a scream.

Then he quickly gasped in pain. It was easier to bear the pain of his wounds when he was lying down. His face was swollen and cut, his ribs bruised and aching. He felt as poorly as this hovel looked, for it was burned out with kindling for a roof. It was a welcome sight compared to the nightmare he’d just escaped.

Though his nursemaid’s appearance left much to be desired. The tall, fat man was clad in stained red robes, his bald head catching what sunlight poked through the roof.

“Come back my prince, come back to the light of day.” Thoros of Myr smiled down at him, a cup of water in his hands. “Fighting battles in your sleep again?”

“I was making noise?” His voice came out as a croak so he accepted the water.

“Mostly grunts, a name or two…” Thoros made a clucking sound as some water spilled out from Jon’s lips. “Easy there, you must let yourself adjust to the lack of feeling…”

When Thoros made to clean his chin Jon pushed him away, for he hated when this happened. After the battle, he expected to find half his face lost to him yet it was largely intact. A black eye, some bruises, a cut stitched above his left cheek, at first glance that was all any would notice.

Yet Robert’s warhammer had done more than bruise him, it had robbed the feeling from the flesh around his left jaw, cheek, and parts of his lips. Everything still moved as his mind willed, though it was a strange thing to touch one’s face and feel nothing.

Why can’t my heart be so numb to all hurts? My mind to all this pain?

Robert was supposed to kill me. Not father. I was the one who led the charge. Not him.

He deserved better… he died for me after I showed him nothing but anger… and I left him.

I left him.

“How are your hurts?” Thoros asked.

“Better.” Jon lied, rising to his feet despite the pain.

Thoros helped him and soon he was standing, hiding the discomfort to cross the small room and collect his sword belt from where it hung on a hook. This had been a farmhouse once, on a good tract of land, likely home to a family. Yet when this small part of the broken royal army arrived here, they found nothing but scorched earth and burnt buildings.

“How long was I asleep?” He asked and the red priest shrugged.

“A few hours. Rest dearly needed after being up the whole night before. You push yourself too hard-”

“And what word of the enemy? Of our scouts?”

“That is why I came. Lord Beric and the Blackfish have returned.”

“Then let us go and see what they’ve learned.” Jon threw on his cloak, covering his grunt with a cough.

Together the two men left the hovel, finding an armed camp waiting without. The farmer’s field was wide and open, the buildings left standing hidden within a copse of trees with enough space for their needs. This was where his lords led the collection of men they could cobble together following the defeat. There were men here who marched from both the Vale and King’s Landing, Thoros included.

They were somewhere south of Darry, as safe a place as they could find after their defeat. The camp showed no signs of being a rabble though. While Jon was lost to fever dreams born of pain and illusions, dreams where he ran on four legs and saw more than he should, the world still turned. Ser Brynden had seen to the camp before leaving on a scouting mission. The order of tents and horselines befit a royal army, one that still flew his father’s banner.

Jon would have nothing less.

“How many now?” He asked. In the four days since battle they had gathered more and more men to their side.

“More than five hundred. Less than a thousand.” Thoros answered. “Mostly mounted remnants from the reserve.”

“The only ones fast enough to flee.” Jon shook his head.

Just as Jon’s charge into the battle forestalled a retreat, his father’s death had heralded one. When the news of King Rhaegar’s fall ripped through the army, the lines had shattered. The Golden Company tore through the thousands who turned to flee, scattering the survivors in all directions.

Jon’s outriders were to track down such men, to gather them to this camp and to learn all they could while doing so. Willem’s group was the first to return late last night, bringing news both welcome and dire. It was good to hear both Jon Connington and Edmure survived the battle. While the Hand led a retreat south, back towards the capital, Edmure and his fellow riverlords commanded several disorganized groups, their intentions a mystery.

Willem learned little of the Golden Company’s actions, save that its mounted strength was harassing Lord Connington’s retreat.

In a way, such was glad tidings, for it meant everyone north of the battlefield might be free of threats. Many spoke of seeing Arthur Dayne riding north, back to the bay where his ships awaited. Far more foul were the rumors of the knight falling while trying to retrieve his father’s body.

All Jon knew was that the royal army was divided and lacking leaders of such esteem like the Hand or the Sword of the Morning.

Or my father… who died for me…

Jon struggled to push that grief aside as he approached a group of good men. The battle commanders were gathered about a cook fire, enjoying what meager fare their scouring parties had brought in.

Lord Beric sipped of some broth, his red-gold hair a mess and dark bags under his eyes. Ser Willem scorned the broth in favor of burning a squirrel to some semblance of a meal. The Blackfish stood grim faced, arms crossed and joining Ghost in watching his coming.

A strange memory came back to Jon in that moment. During his recovery, he’d dreamt many strange things. Dreams where he ran besides the Blackfish and other men as they roamed the lands. The world had been alive with strange smells and sights, visions he couldn’t quite understand. One was of the Blackfish, hiding away in a darkened group of trees, weeping as he held a silver pendant in the shape of a swan.

There were no tears in the knight’s eyes as he alerted the others to Jon’s coming, all bowing in response.

“Stop that.” Jon grunted. “I should be bowing to all of you. For the brave deeds you’ve done while I’ve been resting.”

“None of us went toe to toe with Robert Baratheon.” Ser Brynden said as the others echoed agreement. “And none would begrudge you resting longer after enduring such. That fight was brutal-”

“What of Edmure?” Jon interrupted. “Or the riverlords?”

“Trapped we think, or soon to be.” Beric answered. “Ser Edmure has gathered several thousand men to him, mostly foot. They’re in a village some ways south of here. I learned such when I came across the forces of Lords Bracken and Vance. There were others as well but all seemed more intent on fleeing than reorganizing. Dothraki raiders have been keeping most from joining the Hand’s retreat south. Not that it matters much, I believe the riverlords wish to head west, back towards their homes.”

“It would be wise to reform at Harrenhal…” Jon's voice fell away as a series of grimaces formed on the men’s faces.

“That it would be… which is likely why Robert makes to take it for himself.” Beric sighed. “The Golden Company was not idle after their victory. Robert marched most of his foot straight at Harrenhal, war elephants and all.”

“It will fall.” The Blackfish grunted. “Lady Whent does not have the men to hold that massive ruin. I can only pray that she escapes alive.”

So did Jon. Once the Whents had sheltered Uncle Benjen, Oswell, and himself when they were in need. He hated to think of that kindly old woman at the mercy of the Golden Company. Yet those thoughts fell away as another fear crept into his heart.

“If Robert takes Harrenhal he can strike further west.” He looked to Ser Brynden and saw that the knight shared his worry. “At Riverrun… Lady Catelyn…”

“My nephew likely shares the same fears for our home.” The Blackfish answered. “As do the other riverlords. They are all clamoring to return to their seats rather than aiding Harrenhal. Marching right to the beat of Robert’s drum.”

He unstrapped his bow and used its end to mark two spots on the ground with some lines running between them.

“His horse is keeping Edmure’s men scared and divided. They won’t risk the Dothraki in the south to save the capital, not with their homes in danger. Likely my nephew believes if they can make it west of the God’s Eye quick enough, they’ll be safe.”

“It’s a choke point.” Jon saw it clearly, pointing at the two marks in the ground. “With Darry to the north and Harrenhal in the Usurper’s hands to the south, he’ll have a stranglehold on the lands between the God’s Eye and the Trident. The riverlords will be cut off from the northern Crownlands.”  

“Those that even make it back to their homes. I saw what happens if they try.” The Blackfish spat. “Robert’s already got parties of Dothraki hunting these lands for just such opportunities. A day ago Lord Vypren tried taking his men across the Kingsroad. We rode over hundreds of their bodies to get back here.”

“Add them to the thousands we’ve already seen.” Ser Willem added. “I’m not talking fighting men either. We've ridden by countless burned villages. I heard tell that the sellswords were impressing survivors into their ranks but the Dothraki aren’t taking prisoners.”

“This is war.” The Blackfish spoke grimly. “People die.”

Jon saw the old knight reach into his cloak then and he wondered if there was a silver pendant there. It was a better thing to think on than all those who had died. Of his father’s eyes sinking beneath the mud.

“Any word of Ser Arthur?” Beric asked, breaking both Jon and Brynden of their spell.

“Some.” Willem spat out a bone. “Came across a few Velaryon men-at-arms who swore Ser Arthur and the rest of his forces made it back to their ships. But if Barristan the Bold truly died in the bay who’s to say anyone else made it out?”

They all began to compare more of what they learned after that. Nestor Royce was among those they could confirmed as captured. Tytos Blackwood and Black Walder Frey both commanded companies of riders nearby, lying in wait. Whether or not some of the Dothraki prisoners Brynden had captured spoke truthfully of a nearby band of horselords, numbering in the hundreds.

Yet Jon was stuck on the fate of Arthur Dayne. His father’s closest friend, his most loyal shield, a better man than Jon could ever be. In all likelihood the knight had died during the battle, killed while fighting Robert Baratheon. Trying to rescue his friend’s body. Doing honor by a king’s memory.

Something his son should have been doing. I should have been the one to fall against Robert.

No wonder father kept me away all those years… when he came for me it cost him his life.

And then I left him… a good son would’ve fought harder… a true prince would’ve done more…

“Our best bet is to join Edmure’s retreat.” Beric argued. “His is the largest force.”

“Likely the slowest too.” Willem picked squirrel from his teeth. “We could always try and get around Darry, head to the Vale and seek shelter. My wife’s likely waiting at the Bloody Gate to give me a bloody beating-”

“What is this?” Jon asked sharply, drawing all eyes to him. His fists clenched and he felt his face grow hot. “What is this talk of fleeing? Of hiding? It’s nonsense.”

“We need to regroup your grace.” Thoros gently chided him. “We’re vulnerable. You’re vulnerable. Your father would want you safe-”

“My father is dead! King Rhaegar is dead!” He shouted, drawing attention from men gathered around other tents and horses. “Killed by a butcher! A rebel! A murderer! We should be bringing Robert Baratheon to justice, not fleeing his path!”

The commanders were all taken aback by the harshness of his words and they were shameful things to say in truth. Yet it set those watching to whispering, fighting men with blades and weapons at their sides who now sat idle. Warriors with no foes while fiends ravaged the lands all around them.

“Prince Jon, not a man here wants to flee.” The Blackfish spoke gruffly, stepping forward with anger in his eyes. “I want to fight. I want vengeance on Robert Baratheon as much as any-”

“We’re not talking about vengeance!” Jon challenged the knight. “This is about duty! Honor! The Usurper kills our men! He sacks our castles! Burns our lands! He won a victory, one victory, and suddenly he rules our every action? If we let him act as a king, surely he is one!”

“Your grace!” Beric protested, echoing an angry mutter moving through the gathering company. “None here will ever name Robert Baratheon their king!”

“Nor should they! My brother is king!” Jon moved as if in a trance, walking along the ranks of men encircling their group. His mind was alive with thoughts and images he struggled to put to words. “My father has fallen but he left the realm an heir! My brother! The king is dead! Long live the king! King Aegon!”

Heads started nodding at that and some even cheered to hear Jon speak his brother’s name.

“As we speak Aegon makes war against the Usurper’s allies in the Stormlands.” He continued, turning to face the commanders again. “I will not let him fight alone. I will not let anyone struggling against Robert’s butchery fight alone. I will not leave them.”

Beric and Thoros shared worried glances while Willem scratched his head. It fell to the Blackfish to speak their doubts.

“The royal army is broken. Our numbers are scattered. There are bands of Dothraki, hundreds strong, just waiting to fall on anyone they find.” The old knight gestured to the woods and fields around. “If we even tried to reform the army they would be on us, with no fortress to rally around it would be a slaughter. We should aim to beat Robert, not help him by making his victory an easy one.”

“Then we beat him by helping others.” Jon strode forward, pointing at the Blackfish’s drawing on the ground. “The riverlords need time to regroup. They want to protect their homes. I say we help them do so.”

His blood was up. The plan was barely formed but its possibilities filled his head with dead foes and bloodied Baratheon banners. It drowned out the hurt in his heart so he pushed forward with it.

“We strike now.” Jon spoke earnestly so the Blackfish would heed him. “Forget running, we strike at those set to strike against us.”

“What do you-” Brynden paused, his bushy eyebrows rising in surprise. “You mean to challenge the Dothraki?”

“That’s madness!” Someone in the crowd shouted.

“They’re demons!” Another added. “Devils on horseback!”

“They're not far off Jon.” Beric put a hand on his shoulder. “The horselords might look like barbarians but I’ve not seen a force more disciplined or organized. To face them in open field-”

“Then we don’t take them in the open field.” He tried to make Beric grasp this need for battle. “These are our lands, not theirs! Let us fight them on our terms! Use the hills, the fields, the trees themselves!” 

“Ambush them?” The Blackfish rubbed his chin in thought. “I did see a fine place for one myself… and the Dothraki are hunting us. They’re not expecting to be hunted themselves. Robert is doing us great harm in loosing them on our lands but he’s divided the Dothraki numbers to do so. The ones nearest to us are only a few hundred strong.”

“The Blackwoods and the Freys could help.” Beric’s eyes fell to the map then as well. “Perhaps even the Mallisters… I could have men reach them by nightfall...”

“So wait, we’ve given up on reason then?” Willem asked. “All for the chance of one possible victory? Suddenly I must be the voice of good sense? Well what if word gets out that Prince Jon is among us? How long before every screamer from here to the capital is up his arse?”

“Let them come.” Jon argued back. “If the Dothraki come after me then that means they spare others. If Robert’s eyes are on us then they aren’t on the capital. Or Riverrun! With a mounted force, we can have them chasing us wildly through these lands while our allies grow stronger.”

“Not strong enough!” A shout came from the mass of men around them. It seemed like half the camp was now listening to this. “They killed the Sword of Morning!”

“Barristan the Bold!”

“King Rhaegar!”

“Silence!” Beric commanded, striding forward as Jon tried to find a way to counter all their doubts.

How could he though? They were likely right. In his father’s case they were at least. Robert Baratheon nearly killed Jon himself and the Dothraki were great warriors. Their skills and fierce ways made them monsters in the eyes of these men.

It was like how Old Nan’s tales of the wildlings and their savagery once terrified Robb and Jon. They tried to act brave, yet even as boys of ten they would wake now and again in fear. His uncle came to soothe his nightmares in those days. Always reminding Jon that Starks for time untold kept the wildlings at bay. That he himself had killed such men when they raided the North.

Later, after Jon watched Uncle Eddard behead a wildling captured in his lands, they had not seemed so terrifying. He remembered watching Ice cut down and an idea flashed into his mind.

“Ser Brynden, fetch me your prisoners.” He felt like someone else was speaking, yet the Blackfish looked to him all the same. “The Dothraki. Bring them to me.”

The old knight needed little urging, for the pair of Dothraki had already been put to the question and yielded little in the way of information. Beric and Willem were still trying to calm the men’s fears when Brynden returned with the two prisoners, causing a hush to fall over the company.

One was older than the other, his braid longer and showing more bells. Both displayed cuts and bruises to their bodies, burns as well. Despite the signs of harsh treatment they’d received at the Blackfish’s hands, both remained defiant. Their chins were held high, their eyes challenging every man they set upon. Then it was Jon they glared at as the Blackfish and his men brought them forward.

“How did you capture these men?” He asked loudly, willing all to hear him.

“They were part of the force that attacked the Vyprens.” The knight answered, cuffing the older of the two. “While the others moved on, these two stopped at a farm nearby. We found the farmer and his children dead. The wife too… only after they’d finished with her.”

“May the Lord of Light guide their souls.” Thoros prayed silently to his strange god, yet Jon wanted something else from him besides prayers.

“You can speak with them?” He asked and Thoros nodded.

“The one on the left understands some bastard Valyrian dialect.”

“Then ask them if they deny anything the ser accuses them of.”

When Thoros did so the older of the two actually laughed. When he spoke in his peoples' guttural tongue, his friend smiled as well. The reply which came in a broken Valyrian dialect caused Thoros’s face to darken.

“He said the farmer died like a sheep yet the woman brayed like a mule when they took their pleasure of her.”

“Bastards!” A voice cursed and more followed from the crowd.

“They do not deny their crimes!” Jon shouted above all others. “Subjects to the Iron Throne, murdered and raped. Those poor people deserve justice, something my father… something King Rhaegar promised everyone in his realm. So for justice’s sake I must act… I hereby sentence these men to death… for them to lose their heads.”

With a nod, the Blackfish kicked out the knee of the prisoner in front of him. Soon both men were on their knees and the circle of watchers pressed closer, anticipating what was to follow. The Dothraki appeared to understand as well, for their eyes burned holes into Jon’s.

In that moment, the image of his father in the same position flashed into his mind. Save that his eyes had been full of sadness, not anger.

You left him… remember that…

“Look at them.” He choked out, speaking to the crowd now. “Proud. Fierce. Defiant. Many of you fear these men... for they do not fear death. Let me show you what they do fear.”

Jon strode forward, remembering well all that Thoros had told him of the Dothraki and their ways. Pulling a dagger, he grabbed the eldest one’s braid. He made to fight, only to be held in place by Brynden and his men. Sawing the blade back and forth, Jon cut the braid free, bells jingling as he raised it high and threw it on the ground in front of the Dothraki. As the prisoner stared in shame at the braid, Jon displayed his upbringing, speaking as simply as he could in High Valyrian.

“Listen horselord.” He spoke slowly, willing the man to understand his more refined dialect. “Your head shall be cut off. Then your body will be pulled apart, against your gods. For my father.”

At that the Dothraki’s eyes widened and he began to grunt and howl in his tongue, Ghost drawing close at the sudden burst of anger. The younger horselord began to do much the same when Jon came to cut away his braid. Holding it up to the crowd he pointed down at the doomed men.

“The Dothraki might not fear death but they fear defeat! They fear their precious braids being cut away! They fear their bodies being cut to pieces in death, so that they cannot ride into the afterlife! My father would never deny a man the peace of death but they helped kill him! If they wanted to die honorably, by their own ways, they should have stayed across the Narrow fucking Sea!”

Jon wasn’t even convinced of his words. It was dishonorable to treat men in such a way. To offend their gods… Uncle Eddard and father would surely protest. Yet Jon could not hear their words. They were blocked out by the sickening crunch of his father’s chest as Robert swung his warhammer. The cheers of the men around him now.

“Yes! Kill the fucks!”

“Blood for blood!”

“Look at them! Pissing their pants!”

As hundreds began to call for the prisoners’ deaths, the Blackfish stepped forward, hand on his blade.

“Allow me my prince. I captured them, it should fall to me.”

“No.” He knew better on this at least, waving the knight away as he drew his own sword. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

None argued as the old Dothraki was made to lean forward, his neck extended and ready for a blade. Jon had killed in the heat of battle. He’d watched men be beheaded before, had seen his uncle do so himself. Still Jon felt a sick feeling rising in his stomach as he held the sword above his head. His heart felt heavy in his chest, full of doubt for what he was about to do.

A bead of sweat escaped from his brow. He felt it tracing a line down his face until it reached the parts numb to him now.

Become numb to your doubt, he chided himself, he’s a killer… a raper…

Imagine this is Robert… he killed your father… he would rape Dany…

The thought of such a thing steeled him to action, his heart a forgotten thing.

“In the name of Aegon of the House Targaryen, sixth of his name…” Jon began, his mind focusing on the words, his soul numb to all else. “King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Jon Targaryen, Prince of the blood and Lord of Summerhall, sentence you to die.”

It felt like someone else did what came next. Another person who held his blade as it slashed downwards. Another prince who cut clean halfway through the Dothraki’s neck. Blood sprayed upwards and surely landed upon his cheeks yet Jon felt none of it, striking again and slicing the head free from the body.

The next man’s head came off easier. His neck was not so thick.

When Jon looked up, men were cheering and smiling. Beric and the Blackfish nodded in respect while Ghost eyed him in an odd way. Like the wolf no longer recognized him.

He wanted to think his father saw all this, yet it only made him picture something worse. His father’s face as it sank into the mud. His eyes as they disappeared into the black. Such a thing would surely cause him to weep so Jon pushed it away.

He would not let others see his turmoil so he hid it all deep within, thinking only of the battles and vengeance to come.

Doing all he could so his heart would ache less. Despite the heat of the summer’s day, he willed himself to grow cold to the hurt.

Letting his heart grow dark to everything else.

 

THE TRAITOR

 

The sun had set, the last bits of light slipping away from the sky.

The sun’s rays had come together, forging into a golden sword which was slowly sheathed towards the west. The windows of Dragonstone’s royal chambers offered a fine view of this. Usually Daenerys enjoyed watching sunsets over the sea.

Yet she could take no pleasure in this one, not like the knight laying in the bed beside her.

“As lovely as ever…” Ser Arthur smiled weakly, his face as drained of life as the sky was of light. “A fine thing to see… my friend had quite the view…

As long as she could remember Arthur Dayne was beloved by maidens for his looks and admired by warriors for his strength. That made it all the harder to see Arthur like this. His lower half was covered by a sheet, darkened about the left leg with a stain, his stomach and chest bare and covered in in bandages. A sheen of sweat coated the knight’s pale skin, his purple eyes cloudy with fever and pain.

Despite his hurts, Arthur somehow found the strength to smile and reach for the young woman sitting to his opposite side.

“Quite the view.” The knight spoke softly as he ran his fingers through Elara’s dark hair, wiping the tears away from her eyes.

Along the edges of the room stood Brienne, Ser Richard Lonmouth and the castle healer, all of them gathered in the finest chambers Dragonstone had to offer. Once Aegon the Conqueror himself had bed down in this room. Rhaegar would use them whenever he visited but that thought was too painful for her to linger on.

Pain came to Arthur anyways, his face twisting and a spasm of agony ripped through his body. He did his best to hide the hurt but even this great knight was not that strong.

“Uncle please.” Elara took hold Arthur’s hand, pressing it against her cheek. “Some milk of the poppy-”

“No, I’ll have my wits about me.” Arthur shook his head. “I wouldn’t let it ruin the sunset, I won’t let it spoil our farewell… my last moments…”

There was little doubt Ser Arthur was dying yet it still hurt to hear him say so.

All called it a miracle how the knight had endured his wounds for as long as he had. That he survived the battle with Robert Baratheon at all was the stuff of legends. For many others had not.

Like Rhaegar. The king. Her brother.

Arthur mourned his loss deeply as well. In truth the knight now faced his own end because of his dedication to Rhaegar’s memory. While the royal army broke and fled the Usurper’s wrath, the Sword of Morning had cut a path to Rhaegar’s body. Despite the odds, and showing his prowess with a blade, Ser Arthur defeated fierce foes to reclaim his king. Many said Arthur fought like the Warrior himself, wounding Robert Baratheon and forcing the other foes to the Usurper away to safety.

Wounded as he was, Arthur managed to carry Rhaegar’s body free of the fray. In defiance of all the perils involved, Arthur made it back to their fleet, braving the seas to reach Dragonstone again.

When Daenerys first glimpsed the sails of the Dragon’s Song in the harbor she held out hope the reports of Rhaegar’s death were false. A lost battle she could accept. She would welcome it if only to see Rhaegar walking out onto the dock, with Jon at his side and Arthur and Barristan following. Instead she watched as Arthur was carried ashore, no longer able to stand on his own power. Rhaegar came after, hidden to her sight by a shroud and carried by an honor guard of solemn men.

That alone should have been her end yet the Stranger punished her again and again.

For Jon was missing somewhere on the mainland, injured and likely at the mercy of the Usurper. Her dear Barristan was missing too, no sign of the knight or his ships had been seen by any of the vessels sailing the storm-ridden waters back to Dragonstone.

The storms had wreaked havoc on the seas for days, the victory at Gulltown sullied as violent waves and powerful winds destroyed many royal vessels. The Dragon’s Song was only one of a few score to return to Dragonstone so far, some having been scattered as far out to sea at the Fingers.

Lost ships were a worry for another time though, for it was the knight before her deserving of her prayers. Summoning up her courage, Dany made to sit to Arthur’s other side, careful not to jar him too much.

“Is there nothing we can do for you ser?” Dany asked, daring to meet his fading eyes. “If not medicine, then perhaps wine… a septon?”

“Sweet Daenerys… that’s what Rhaegar always called you.” Arthur put his other hand on hers. “He was proud of his sister… always comparing you to Queen Rhaella... I see it too now… Barristan will be upset with me… I was to protect you should he fall…”

“You’ve done your duty ser.” Dany blinked away her tears. “Please, anything you’d have of me… I would see it done.”

“Just swear to honor my king’s wishes. Let me do Rhaegar that last service.”

His hand trembled some on hers so she gripped it all the tighter, to ease Arthur through another bout of pain. She wanted to curse, to scream, to tell the healer and Arthur both they were wrong. To try and stop what was to come.

Yet she merely watched Arthur grit his teeth, a single tear escaping his eye. There was nothing in her that wished to see the kind man suffer like this. So Daenerys only nodded, fulfilling his final wish of her.

“I will, I swear I will.”

“I thank you princess… now I must protect you.” Arthur then looked to Brienne, who kept her eyes to the floor during all of this, holding a sheaved Dawn in her hands. “Lady Brienne… come closer please… let me see my family’s blade once more…”

With quick steps and lowered eyes, Brienne walked to the foot of the bed, unsheathing the pale greatsword so Arthur could gaze upon it. The knight’s eyes lingered there for a time, not blinking once. When that stare ended he turned his attention to Brienne again.

“Barristan spoke highly of you… he admired your skill with a blade… your devotion to the princess…” Arthur trembled again but fought through it while Elara whispered soft things into his hand. “Soon there will be no Kingsguard left here… Rhaegar tasked you to defend Daenerys… I ask you to continue doing so… with my blade until the princess has no need of it…”

“Ser Arthur, I’m not worthy.” Brienne raised her soft blue eyes then, wide in shock. “To wield Dawn, why only the Sword of Morning can-”

“This is true… so I must ask you to return Dawn to Starfall one day… so a future Sword of Morning will be as in debt to you as the last… can you give me your oath on this?”

Brienne hesitated for a moment yet when another pang of agony began to rip its way through the knight she dropped a knee, holding Dawn up with both hands.

“In the name of Ser Arthur Dayne, I do so pledge to protect Princess Daenerys. On the honor of House Tarth, I do so vow to return Dawn to the House Dayne. I, Brienne of Tarth, do promise all these things, to the Sword of Morning… a great man.”

“I think I like you my lady.” Arthur managed a rasping chuckle that turned into a hacking cough.

So terrible did it wrench his body that the knight tore open some of his wounds, his bandages growing dark. When Arthur pulled a hand away from his mouth there was red there as well. Yet when the healer came forth to aid him the knight waved him away.

“A waste of your efforts.” He said.

“You’re not a waste!” Elara snapped, finally giving in to the turmoil Dany watched forming behind her friend’s features. “You’re the finest warrior in the realm! You’re the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard! You’re too strong to let this happen! Why aren’t you fighting? Why are you giving up?”

“Elara-” Ser Richard made to intercede yet Arthur would not allow it.

“A Kingsguard serves for life and there’s little life left in me child. I’d not suffer this much longer… our new king needs all the help he can get… let an able warrior take my place… in death I can still act a knight of the Kingsguard…”

“You’re more than that…” Elara wept, shaking her head violently. “You’re my uncle… I love you, with all my heart. Why can’t you fight for me? Why don’t you want to stay with me?”

“Hush, come here girl.”

Arthur pulled his niece down into his arms, his embrace overcoming whatever resistance Elara gave. Soon her friend wept openly against his chest and another tear escaped the Arthur’s eye. Dany suspected this one was due to another kind of pain altogether.

“Did Ashara ever tell you what I said when I first laid eyes on you?” Arthur rasped as Elara shook her head. “I told her to forget names… to forget vile words and foolish whispers… this child… this miracle… she’ll do wonders in this world… for she has already enchanted me...”

“I love you.” Elara wept. “I don’t want to do wonders I just want you to stay… to be my father… why couldn’t you be my father…”

“I love you too Elara… with all my heart…”

Dany had to look away then, seeking Brienne’s strength while Elara sobbed. Yet even the powerful lady’s eyes were glistening as she gazed upon Dawn. Arthur whispered something too quiet for her to hear and it was then she felt a pang of jealousy.

Elara gets to hold her uncle before the end. She gets to be with him.

I screamed at Rhaegar not long before we parted… all I got to do was see his pale body… kiss his cold cheek…

Arthur cried out in pain then, an agony which  set him to gasping and tearing at the sheets. Elara stood up, looking to her for help but Dany had none to offer. Nor was it her help Arthur wanted then.

“Richard… Rich… it is time.” Arthur begged through gritted teeth and the other knight nodded solemnly. “Elara go to the princess… be away from here…”

“No. I won’t leave you.” Elara refused to budge as Richard moved to join her at Arthur’s side.

“Nor will I.” Daenerys said firmly, despite her fear. “You didn’t leave Rhaegar, I cannot leave you.”

Arthur’s eyes grew sad to hear so but after trying send Elara away one last time he accepted their presence. Elara made to hold Arthur’s hand to her chest so Dany did much the same. So he could hear how her heart beat for him. With a sigh the knight smiled, surprising all by laughing some.

“Oh if Oswell could see me now…” He coughed and laughed. “A Kingsguard… surrounded by beautiful women at the end…”

“You deserve nothing less Arthur.” Richard spoke hoarsely, moving a hand to the dagger on his belt. “Are you sure of this?”

“If I must die I will die by a blade. Like a Kingsguard…” Arthur grimaced as the pain shot through him once more, his eyes pleading up at the knight. “Please… if not by an enemy’s hand… by a friend’s mercy…”

“As you wish.” Richard nodded and pulled free his dagger. Elara’s eyes went wide at the sight and her eyes locked on Arthur’s. He offered her once last smile. A handsome thing.

“I love you Elara Dayne… child of my heart… I must be honest though… I hate that bird of yours.”

Arthur’s last jest brought a small grin to Elara’s face, something the knight appeared to bask in.

“There… that’s the last thing I wanted… that’s enough… do it ser…”

“No! Wait!”

Elara’s protest came too late, for Richard moved quickly.

In a blink of an eye Ser Richard lined the dagger up over Arthur’s chest, the next moment it was driven into his heart with a practice and skill terrifying to Daenerys. She felt a cry die in her throat at the calm violence of it, Arthur grimacing in discomfort before becoming his face became strangely peaceful. The light slowly died from his eyes as his grip on her hand became slack.

A choking sound came from Elara, who stood frozen as her face twisting in a silent scream.

Ser Arthur Dayne. Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard. Sword of Morning. A great man died right before her eyes and many in the room wept to behold such.

Daenerys went to collect Elara into an embrace, for her shock soon erupted into violent sobbing. Richard saw to closing Arthur’s eyes, the silent sisters here on Dragonstone would see to his dressing, and preparations would be made by the maester for the knight’s bones to be sent home to Starfall.

For those were the customs of House Dayne.

Those of House Targaryen were far less peaceful. For this night of death had only just begun.

It was a cruel thing, to go from witnessing Arthur’s death to facing the reality of Rhaegar’s.

There is no putting this off any longer… Rhaegar’s wishes must be seen to…

Out of respect for Arthur they’d held off burning Rhaegar’s body until he’d passed away. The knight wished to leave this world before his king was turned to ash. In truth Elara and Dany wanted it this way as well, for it spared Arthur the chance to object to what was to come.

For Rhaegar’s was not the only body to be burned this night. Nor would Arthur be the only life lost on Dragonstone before dawn.

She waited until Elara’s sobs quieted to the point she could understand Dany’s words. So she could remind her friend of the task ahead.

“Justice, Elara. It is time we have justice for Arthur. For Rhaegar. For all the others.”

With tears in her eyes Elara’s face grew hard, her body tensing. An understanding flowed between them. A strange feeling, like an cold breeze that chilled them to all doubts and thoughts beyond their need to do well by their loved ones.

To get vengeance for them.

So it was Rhaegar’s pyre Daenerys and Elara journeyed to next.

It took them well beyond the castle walls and into the dark, damp night air of Dragonstone. Brienne guided their way, torch raised before her as Daenerys and Elara walked hand in hand. The pyre was built at the foot of the Dragonmont, at the base of a steep seaside cliff.

What seemed like thousands were already gathered there by the time her party began the last leg of their trek. Warriors who sailed with Rhaegar to the mainland stood with sailors of the fleet, guardsmen from the castle garrison beside the island folk. All bowing their heads and offering condolences as she passed, some of the lowborn even weeping.

Those tears aren’t for me… they’re for the king these people loved… the king who cared for them just as deeply…

That king rest ahead, ringed by this great crowd of onlookers. His body was laid out atop a massive pile of wood and pitch. It was customary to bind the dead from head to toe in linens yet Dany had foregone that for Rhaegar. His head and face lay uncovered, the wind off the sea moving his long hair like ghostly fingers ran through it. Even in death her brother remained magnificent to Daenerys.

So her eyes could not linger long.

Instead she took in the setting they would mark Rhaegar’s departure from this world. Somehow, in a daze, Dany had remembered how her brother had always liked that spot. Where the mountain loomed tall above and the cliff fell sharply away into the sea below, a rare place where ascent and descent came together.

“Here you choose whether to rise to the greatest heights or sink to the lowest depths.” Rhaegar had once said during a visit to this place. “Some aren’t strong enough to take the harder path, or so driven to make the choices which hurt the most…”

“Daenerys.” Ser Richard barred her way, standing between her and Rhaegar. “I have to protest this once more. As a squire I served Rhaegar, as a knight I came to call him friend, he would not want this-”

“We cannot ask the king what he wanted.” Elara spoke with a hoarse voice. “Why do you protest more for a traitor’s sake than you did to plunge a dagger into my uncle’s heart…”

“I adored Arthur.”

“My lady, that is not fair.” Brienne put in but Dany would not have this devolve further. The knight had made his arguments before and she was not swayed then. With Rhaegar’s body right in front of her, she was not likely to change her mind now.

“Ser Arthur brought more than my brother’s body back with him, he brought his final commands should he fall.” She eyed Richard then. “What did the king bid of you ser?”

“That I hold Dragonstone and protect the ancestral seat of House Targaryen. That I serve the will of Princess Daenerys until King Aegon commands otherwise…” Richard took a step toward her only to have Brienne fill the space first, causing him to frown. “There was no word of me not speaking my mind. I offer my counsel on this princess. I beg you to see reason-”

“And I command you to see the prisoner brought here immediately. The hour grows late.” She felt strange speaking so to a knight, especially one she’d known since she was a little girl.

A gust of wind off the sea rose up and whistled around them, whipping her hair and Richard’s cloak about. In that moment a gulf grew between the pair, one far greater than the space separating them. Richard’s expression was a mix of disbelief and what could be disappointment, yet she cared little.

It only mattered that he moved out of her way, signalling to some of his men to do exactly as she commanded.

While Dany and her ladies took places to the front of the funeral party she looked to the dark, rolling sea and thought of all the other funerals they should be holding. Despite his victory over Robert’s fleet Lord Monford Velaryon was lost during the fighting at Gulltown. Ser Wendel Manderly was also counted among the dead for his ship was sunk in the battle.

Whatever the Manderly’s fate she dared to hope her dear Barristan somehow been rescued. Possibly on board one of the many ships still struggling to find their way back to Dragonstone following the storms. None of the returned brought any word of Barristan however. Only that Robert’s fleet sailed to Maidenpool. Ships blown as far as the Fingers told stranger tales, of a convoy of Lyseni ships sailing north through the Bite.

What we know of Robert’s fleet matters less than how the Usurper had learned so much of Rhaegar’s...

A series of high-pitched cries grabbed her attention then. The sounds beginning to rise above the sound of the wind and waves. They were coming from the path leading to the castle and grew louder with each passing moment. For the person begging mercy was being led through the crowd by a tight cordon of guardsmen carrying torches. The castle maester followed behind this group, a wooden box held in his trembling hands. The poor man jumping each time the prisoner offered a fresh shout of sorrow.

Yet it was not the maester’s mercy the prisoner begged. When Dany met the traitor’s eyes she swore a look of relief flashed over their face.

A familiar expression. For they were friends.

“Dany!” Jacqueline called out, reaching out with her manacled hands as if to hold her. “Princess thank the seven! Please you have to understand!”

Others understood well enough, for upon sight of Dany’s maidservant many began to spit or curse. They gave her a traitor’s welcome and Jackie certainly looked the part. The young woman’s hair was a mess, the roughspun gown her jailers had dressed her in was filthy and torn. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes pleading as they looked to Dany.

“Dany we’re friends! Please believe me! I was deceived! It was a mistake!”

No. The mistake was mine.

For my lips sealed Rhaegar’s fate… his blood spilled because of my words…

After Rhaegar’s fleet had sailed for battle no ships were permitted to leave Dragonstone. To keep word of the fleets movements quiet and surprise the Usurper’s forces. Yet Dragonstone’s defenders were surprised as well, for a ship did break through free from their grasp. Not the type of ship any sane people would think to cross these seas with. Few had batted an eye to see a simple rowboat plying the harbor. As it turned out the small boat was only meant to ferry those fleeing to a waiting Volantene smuggler. A vessel swift enough to whisk the traitors away before their galleys could stop them.

Though not all of the traitors escaped on that ship.

At first Dany had thought it a mistake when Ser Richard’s guardsmen dragged Jackie before her in the early morning hours. She’d been upset to see her friend so fearful and distressed, then confused as to why Jackie was dressed for a journey and clearly packed for one. Two heavy bags were carried in with the maid and dumped out for Dany’s inspection. Bags filled with more of Dany’s belongings than anything else. Fine gowns, jewelry, baubles, things Jackie had no business carrying around.

The bags had drawn the eyes of the harbor guards when they found Jackie wandering the docks. When her explanations became more frantic and desperate a commotion was raised and Ser Richard believed that was when the traitors fled. Leaving one of their own behind.

Jackie pled ignorance of course, Daenerys fooling herself into thinking perhaps this was all some mistake. Until they learned of the defeat. Of Rhaegar’s death. Of Barristan’s potential fall to an ambush that should not have happened.

It was Elara who first mentioned Jackie’s supposed lover in the village. The one who kept ravens as pets. Ser Richard set men to scouring the island but no sign of this Haldon was found. Many swore to seeing Jackie and this man together often, and of ravens flying from the village. Still, there was doubt. For few had known of Rhaegar’s intent to split off from the main fleet and take the Usurper’s force in the rear. Those who were privy to such things swore they never spoke of it in front of Jackie.

All save Daenerys.

A large wave struck the side of the cliff then, the loud crashing sound reminding her of how it felt to learn she killed her brother.

Rhaegar… Arthur… Barristan… Ser Jonothor… perhaps even Jon…

All because of me… because of my foolishness…

“Daenerys!” Jackie dropped to her knees before Dany, her face and hands pressing against her skirts. She was there for but a moment before Brienne took Jackie in hand, pulling her back far more gently than was needed.

“Yes?” She asked, the cold creeping through her. “Is there something you wish to say to me Jacqueline? Your sentence clearly stated you were only to open your mouth to me if you had truth to offer.”

“Mercy!” Jackie pleaded. “Oh princess please. I beg mercy! I admit I was deceived! I admit that now!”

“You betrayed the king.” Elara’s eyes narrowed on the kneeling woman. “My uncle was… my uncle is dead because of you. All because the Usurper offered you some tale of title and a marriage to a sellsword captain or exile.”

“Yes… yes I’m sorry yes… they led me astray, offered me a better life…”

Elara slapped Jackie hard across the face, Dany staying her friend’s hand herself to keep her from doing so again.

“My uncle deserved a better death!” Elara’s voice broke. “You deserve what’s coming to you! I hope it hurts! That you suffer like he did…”

“Mercy your grace…” Jackie rubbed at her cheek, looking up at Dany tearfully. “For all the years I served you faithfully… for the friendship we shared… for the blood we share…”

Our blood ties didn’t stop you from betraying Rhaegar. 

My betrayal was far worse of course… none could be more foul than his own sister’s…

She stepped away from Jackie, turning to face Ser Richard, the maester and the thousands of eyes looking upon her. The breeze was chilly yet it was nothing compared to the cold she felt within. Somehow it helped her eyes meet the gaze of others, for her to find the strength to speak to such a group.

“Hear me! Hear me and know King Rhaegar has left us. His body must be given away to the flames, as it was done in Old Valyria. Yet before we can do so, his final wishes must be honored.”

With a wave of her hand the maester came forward, an intricately carved box in his hands.  When he came close enough Daenerys unclasped its lid, revealing its treasures to all.

The torchlight gave the three dragon’s eggs a shadowy splendor that set many to gasping in wonder. All were of a similar size and shape yet each was unique in its own way. The one on the left was a deep green, with bronze flecks, the right a pale cream color, streaked with gold.

It was the one in the middle that stood out the most, for it was as black as the sea churning below the cliff. Instead of frothing waves the egg had scarlet ripples and swirls that came alive with the light from the hundreds of torches.

Her gaze remained on the dark one for the longest time. The whispers of the crowd and the wind lost as the egg drew her in. The freeze began to lift from her heart, for she could feel it beating within her chest again. Her mind was playing tricks on her of course. For she swore she could hear another heartbeat altogether. A fiercer pounding. One that came from the egg itself.

When maester’s trembling arms set the green egg to rolling against the black, it shook Dany free from the spell. When she looked up she found most gazing at her once more, their eyes looking like shadowy holes in the darkness.

“My brother wanted…” She started haltingly, having to back away from the eggs to find her composure. “Per my brother’s wishes these eggs shall escort his body on its journey through the flames! Maester if you would-”

“I’ll do it.” Elara interrupted. “In Marwyn’s stead, for my uncle...”

The maester made to protest but Dany nodded, allowing her friend to take the box from the man and make the journey up to the pyre. That left Daenerys to deal with Jackie on her own, despite this part being Elara’s idea in the first place.

“Jacqueline Azure! Rise!” She commanded and Brienne helped Jackie to her feet. “You have admitted your part in the king’s death! Your guilt in the deaths of a good many brave and fine men!”

“Traitor!” Some shouted while others made cruder accusations.

“Stag’s whore!”

“Grasping bitch!”

“You admit to all this! In exchange for mercy!” Dany continued, walking to her former friend, taking her manacled hands in her own. “You do beg me for mercy, don’t you Jackie?”

“Yes… mercy Daenerys.” Jackie clutched her desperately, eyes full of tears and teeth chattering either from the cold or fear. “I’m your friend… we’ve all made mistakes… even the Kingslayer was forgiven for killing your father…”

“My brother was not my father.” She said, jerking her hands away. “Unlike my father, Rhaegar disdained torture. So in his name I will grant your request for mercy. Your eyes and tongue shall remain in your head, your hands and feet attached your body, no torture shall be done to you…”

Elara was returning and their eyes met.

“So you can go to the flames whole. Just like my brother.”

As the meaning sunk and Jackie’s eyes widened Daenerys was already waving the guardsmen on, removing the servant from Brienne’s stunned grasp and dragging her toward the pyre. Then Jackie began to fight, screaming for more mercy than was in Dany’s heart to give.

For it had grown cold again, not even the sight of the dragon’s eggs atop the pyre could warm it again. They now sat in a line along Rhaegar’s side, her brother’s face still and unmoving while the terrified spy was tied to a pole at the foot of the pyre. Elara’s hand found hers then, gripping it as tightly as she had when the young woman first suggested this punishment for their friend.

“Vengeance Daenerys.” Elara had said when the healer proclaimed Arthur beyond saving. “In Dorne we answer blood for blood, the wronged being avenged by those who loved them. Let it be the same for you Targaryens… save answer blood with fire… for the men who should have been our fathers…”

Once Dany might have been ashamed at how easily she accepted the idea. Perhaps scared that Elara even thought of it. Yet in this the two friends were of the same mind. Their doubts lost just as surely as Rhaegar and Arthur were.

It was that cold reasoning which kept Dany standing tall as Jackie’s screams continued. Brienne kept looking between them, as if expecting Dany to change her mind. To send the lady forth to untie Jackie and show the mercy her brother was famous for.

Yet Rhaegar was dead. So when Daenerys did set out towards the pyre it was not with a knife to untie her friend. It was with a torch to set her brother to burning.

“This isn’t you!” Jackie pleaded, half retching in fear as she tugged on her ropes. “You despised him! You know you did! Deep down! You’re glad he’s gone! Now you can have your prince! Dany! I can still serve you! I got you your prince!”

Those cries all rolled off her as she stared at Rhaegar’s unmoving face. Perfect and comely, all save for a small scar running along his cheek.

“May all your hurts be at an end my brother…” She whispered, throwing the torch within the fire. “Forgive me Rhaegar… forgive me…”

The words sounded feeble as she spoke them, her steps backing away from the pyre unsteady and shaky. Jackie’s shouts had turned to curses, following Dany in her journey away from the growing flames.

“You’re just like your father! Do this and you’re as mad as Aerys! Nephew fucking bitch! Monster! No! No! Someone! Anyone! Help!”

The curses were lost to howls of pain as the flames grew out and up. They engulfed the lower parts of the pyre and crept around Rhaegar’s wooden resting place. The flames were hungry, moving swiftly to devour all they could. With a terrible symmetry, the flames consumed both Rhaegar and Jackie at once. The traitor’s screams giving way to an eerie, never-ending wail, like a song of great suffering, sung in a tongue too strange to comprehend.

Soon though it gave way to the cracking of the logs and flames. The blowing of the wind and crashing of the waves.

Heat washed over her, growing more intense by the moment but she felt no warmer. Behind her all watched the pyre burn, Ser Richard and Brienne with their swords raised to their chests. Even Winter had come, the white raven now perched on Elara’s shoulder. Her friend’s lips moved silently while both the lady and raven stared into the fire intently. At one point though, Winter’s gaze moved to her. The raven’s eyes as dark and cold as she felt inside.

For something about all this felt wrong.

Rhaegar’s gone… I killed him as surely as Jackie did yet only she burns…

Turning her attention back to the fire she tried to find where Rhaegar she had left her brother. Where the dragon’s eggs would be. All she saw was flames yet in her mind she heard something clearly enough. The voices of all those she failed were calling to her from the darkness all around.

Rhaegar… Arthur… Barristan… Jon…

Thousands more… men you betrayed…

The terrible cold within her grew until it was unbearable.

In desperation she took a step forward, seeking some comfort from the fire. The heat did offer some relief yet not nearly enough, so she stepped forward again. The names of the dead grew fainter as she did so and her heart felt stronger with each step. Another step forward and the flames were all the closer. They were consuming all her betrayals, all the wrongs she’d done.

“Princess… no closer…” Brienne’s warning came but she barely heard it, for something else caught her attention.

She swore with each beat of her heart an echoing beat came from deep within the inferno. Something among the flames was calling to her. Offering her shelter from all the pain and betrayal that choked her. Her steps became a steady stride towards the fire. Dany’s only wish to escape the cold and darkness she found herself in.

“Daenerys stop!”

“No! Get away from there!”

The words were but a whisper compared to the pounding in her chest and from the fiery world ahead. For she’d come so close to the pyre all her eyes beheld were flames. There was no world behind her anymore, only a shrinking tide of worried cries and pleas for her to return.

Yet she couldn’t go back. Not as the traitor she was.

The call of the flames was too strong. There was no doubt in her mind now. Within the inferno redemption awaited her.

Rhaegar waited for her.

I’m here… I’m coming… give me strength brother…

With a cry she passed into the flames. The heat was intense, any lingering cold was driven far away. It was like being bathed in light and heat itself. There was a pain but it was far away, like being embraced by a loved one too tightly.

Like Rhaegar would hold her. For he was with her in here somewhere.

She was needed in this world. Everything else fell away. Her clothes. Her hair. Her sight. Her mind itself. Only the fire’s embrace mattered and the great need she filled by being there. When the flames grabbed at her, seeking her care she offered it willing. Opening her arms to embrace Rhaegar again. Hoping to find Arthur as well. Barristan perhaps.

Instead something found her.

From the bright world of heat and flame some clawed at her. Grabbing at her flesh, pulling itself to her. As the flames climbed higher so did these spirits. Something beat the air around her body, fanning the air around her searing flesh. Smoke and embers whirling about.

The world was lost to her then. Burned away by the flames.

Torn away by the deafening screech that reached her ears.

The sound of dragon escaping its shell to seek the heavens above.

 

THE PRINCESS OF WINTERFELL

“I envy her, to sleep so peacefully.” Roslin’s words were barely a whisper yet Sansa heard them all the same.

The ladies were gazing up at the statue of her aunt Lyanna, the stone face of a queen who never was. All said her father’s sister had been a northern beauty and truly the statue was a lovely one, as much as such a thing could be. Still, Sansa found prettier the winter roses placed at Lyanna’s feet to be far prettier.

The bright, blue flowers they’d placed at Lyanna’s feet stood out in this dreary place. Sansa felt out of place as well, for the warmth of her skin and the fact she drew breath set her apart from the rest of the Starks here in the crypts.

My grandfather, Uncle Brandon, Aunt Lyanna, they are all dead and buried while I stand alive and well.

It seems wrong my aunt should be down here without her love… it would be a kindness to reunite the king and her again.

Rhaegar and Lyanna together at last… the poor man…

Sansa sighed at the thought of the dead king before chiding her goodsister.

“It is not a good omen to envy the dead Roslin.” She said, lowering her head in respect. “We came here to honor my aunt on behalf of the living.”

“Of course Sansa.” Roslin said quickly, putting a hand on her arm. “That was thoughtless of me… I only wish my sleep would be more restful. My dreams and worries are so great… my sickness…”

There was no denying Roslin looked sickly of late. There were dark circles under her eyes and her pallor had a nauseous green tint to it. Much of it could be explained away as exhaustion, for it was no secret the lady had been wandering the castle corridors at night, unable to sleep. Sometimes Septon Chayle would awake to find Roslin already in the sept, lighting candles for Robb.

Just as Sansa did for Jon.

“I should not have said it.” Roslin mistook her silence for anger. “You were kind enough to let me join you here. This is a special place for you Starks… I don’t belong…”

“You surely do.” Sansa forced a smile to ease her friend’s mind. “You’re Lady Roslin Stark now. One day you shall be the Lady of Winterfell and it will fall to you to chase Robb’s sons and daughters out of these crypts when they late for a meal.”

“You played down here?” Roslin asked, gazing around them in wonder and Sansa forgave her disbelief.

Even though it was daylight above them the dark passages and lit torches of the crypts made it seem like deepest night down here. The statues of long-dead Starks and cobwebs did not make it an ideal place to play yet Sansa recalled many pleasant memories with her siblings down here in the crypts.

Glancing down the passageway she could almost picture Robb and Jon pretending to be ghosts, chasing Arya and Bran as she carried a squealing Rickon. That was long ago though, for there were no children here now. The only other beating heart in the crypts belonged to Lady, who waited patiently for the ladies to finish at Lyanna’s tomb. Truly the crypts had only ever been so full of life when Winterfell was full of Starks itself.

Living Starks that is, she thought, you’ll never have to look far to find a dead Stark in the crypts.

“No wonder your family is so fearless.” Roslin said as they both curtsied before the statue of Lyanna. “Playing in crypts, keeping direwolves as pets…”

“Lady is more a friend than a pet.” She held out her hand so the direwolf could come forth and lick at it, a soothing feeling. “I take care of her and she of me. Just as Grey Wind does for Robb… as Ghost does for Jon.”

Both ladies fell silent as they began their trek out of the crypts. Sansa had led them down here to pay respects to Jon’s mother as her prince once did. Anything to make her feel closer to him, if only in her heart. For somewhere to the south her beloved was missing, little word of his fate reaching Winterfell save for his brave deeds during the Red Storm.

Her prince had acted a hero, fighting side by side with the king. Clashing with the Usurper himself while the heavens wept. Maester Luwin had not described it in such a way yet she saw the truth beyond his stale words. She only prayed Jon was spared the fate of King Rhaegar, for the Old Gods and the new kept him safe.

In the same breath she cursed Robert Baratheon. Once she might have found the spectre of two great men feuding over a maiden’s hand romantic but this was not some tale. Her aunt was long dead and King Rhaegar had been a kind and beautiful man. He’d only ever treated Sansa with the utmost care and played the harp in a magical way. For Robert to murder such a man named him a vile fiend, a brute, a monster! 

It’s because of him I cannot go to Jon, she thought, if there was no war I would be journeying south to Summerhall even now.

My prince would’ve been there waiting but I would surprise him nonetheless.

For he’d be expecting the girl he was betrothed to, not the woman I’ve become.

Sansa’s flowering came not long after Robb’s departure for his battles. The morning she awoke to find her sheets stained was a gift in a way, a welcome distraction from how empty Winterfell felt these days. Roslin had been in a foul mood too yet came alive when Sansa confessed to her the change. The lady’s support and suggestions of herbs to combat the pains in her middle helped greatly.

It made mother’s absence a little easier to bear. Sansa missed having mother brush her hair and wished it was her who shared in this precious time. She forgave mother her stay in Riverrun, especially after hearing why she lingered there so long. What better reason could there be than to deliver Sansa’s newest brother or sister.

Arya had laughed and jumped about to hear the news while Sansa tried to act a lady. Yet as Roslin clapped and encouraged Arya’s glee there was little to stop her sister from pulling Sansa into a wild, spinning dance of celebration.

They’d done much the same when more glad tidings came from Torrhen’s Square.

Much of the North likely celebrated to hear the horrors wrought by the ironmen there had been brought to an end. She knew little of the details save that Robb had used a combination of trickery and daring to drive the raiders from the Tallhart castle. While the enemy’s eyes were drawn to the Stark army approaching from the east Robb struck from the west. For her brother had cleverly snuck away from the main force early in the march, joining up with Robett Glover and his men in the Wolfswood.

When the reavers rushed to defend against the main attack on one side of the castle her brother led the charge to the opposite side. While Robb’s riders set fire to the raider’s longships his men used ladders and ropes to clamber up onto the walls. Lord Rodrik Forrester and Cley Cerwyn both earned great renown that day, yet more spoke Robb’s praises. Ser Rodrik beamed to say Robb was first through the gates first, fighting like a beast from atop his horse.

Though most of the raiders died that day Theon Greyjoy somehow escaped. The villain leading what few men remained to him in a desperate flight into the Rills.

Ser Rodrik said the ironmen’s only hope was to reach the sea and pray one of their remaining ships along the coast found them. Robb had begun a hunt across the Rills and Stony Shore, seeking to crush whatever raiders remained inland.

Each raven brought more word of another small but fiercely won victory and Robb’s fine acts inspired Sansa. While he proved himself as acting Lord of Winterfell she hoped to surprise him with a wife to match. Father always included mother in the goings on and running of Winterfell so she thought it be wonderful if Robb returned to find Roslin learning to do the same.

To her frustration, while Maester Luwin applauded her idea, he also insisted Sansa learn every bit as much as Roslin did.

“Winterfell is to be Robb and Roslin’s, not mine.” She’d protested, much preferring to go on rides with Jeyne and Beth than learn of ledgers and castle stores. “I’m to be the princess of Summerhall and-”

“Which is a castle that will need tending to as well.” The maester had clucked away. “Roslin is a stranger to the North, much as your mother was. Having the lady learn the ways of this castle would be a good start to her earning some esteem in the eyes of others. As it would reflect well upon Summerhall’s new lady if she was to arrive at your new home with a mind for keeping it in good condition.”

It was a frustrating series of tasks to endure, often numbing her mind with boredom. The numbers didn’t bother her so, adding up this column with that could be somewhat satisfying. Rather it was the tasks that went beyond counting she found annoying. Take Winterfell’s need for salt fish, why Sansa herself had pointed out how low their stores of the vile food had become. Yet, despite their letters to White Harbor, not only had no salt fish come but neither had any reply from the Manderlys.

“It is rather odd.” Maester Luwin had said while going over his parchments. “A rare thing for Lord Wyman to go so long without answering... or from sending word of the realm itself. Two weeks now I believe…”

It was so tedious.

She felt a fool for landing herself in such a predicament.

Arya laughed till she cried when Sansa confessed why Roslin and she now followed the maester about. All the while Arya got to run with the direwolves or disappear into the godswood, getting into gods only knows what trouble.

As they left the crypts her point was proven. Just as Sansa and Roslin emerged back into the light of day Arya appeared, running at full tilt and crashing into them.

“Shit!” Arya cursed as she struggled to keep her balance, much as Roslin did.

“Arya!” Sansa scolded as she took hold of Roslin, who nearly fell back down the stairs of the crypt. “Watch where you’re going! You nearly broke her neck!”

“I’m sorry!” Arya sounded sincere but Roslin appeared too shaken to hear it. The lady staring back down the steps, her hands about her middle like she was to be sick.

“Roslin I mean it.” Her sister persisted, holding up a bent blue rose before her. “I’m really sorry, I was just trying to catch up after you two left me in the godswood-”

“You told us to go on without you!” Sansa snapped, guiding Roslin away from the stairs. “A few moments you said. Well we were down there for a lot longer than that. All to follow that wildling about.”

“Her name is Osha! And I wasn’t following her! She was helping me!” Arya pointed back towards the godswood. “Nymeria’s still acting strange, she tried to bite Quent when he came too close and Osha helped me calm her down.”

That took Sansa aback. All knew Nymeria was wild yet for her to bite at one of the guardsmen was anything but normal. Nor was how Lady hung back in the entrance of the crypts, her head lowered and eyes moving about warily.

“Come girl, come to me.” She held out her hand.

The direwolf stayed put, disobeying Sansa’s command which was a rare thing in its own right.

She acts scared, she thought, but what reason does she have to be fearful?

Winterfell is safe and far from all the fighting, it’s everyone else who is in danger.

“It’s that trader.” Arya crossed her arms. “Ever since he came Nymeria’s been upset. I told you there was something wrong with him.”

“Oh Arya not again, really.”

This was a tiresome argument over such a silly thing. Only yesterday a trader far different than the regular variety they saw had visited Winterfell. This man and his small party claimed to have travelled all the way from Braavos, seeking to trade with the great houses of Westeros before returning home.

Ossifer Brown was no dashing bravo but an aging yet fit man. His brown skin weathered with age and his hair going from grey to white. To her his two most striking features were his large, dark, almond shaped eyes and a nose which had been broken at some point. When Ossifer was granted leave to attend them in the Great Hall and the opportunity to show his wares to the gathered ladies, it was his nose Arya asked about first.

“Did you break it in a fight?” Arya had inquired, frowning as Nymeria eyed the man warily.

“Why no my lady, only in a bad trade.” Ossifer had smiled and bowed. “I cannot always be so fortunate to trade with fair folk. Though today I appear to be blessed in dealing with a group of ladies as fair as can be.”

Sansa had cared less for Ossifer’s flattery than the fine silks and fabrics he showed them. Jeyne and Beth joined Roslin and Sansa in holding the brightly colored and ornate patterns up to themselves, marvelling at what gowns could be made of such material.

Ossifer’s tale was so simple she was almost embarrassed by how confused by it Winterfell’s castellans were. His party arrived at White Harbor to take a simple vessel up the White Knife, seeking the greatest family in the North. When Ossifer praised her eye on a splendid bit of silk, saying she had a princess’s taste in the finer things, Rodrik demanded to know how he knew of her betrothal.

“It was the talk of White Harbor.” Ossifer bowed to her. “I dare say many across the Narrow Sea will have heard of Prince Jon being matching to the North’s most precious treasure. And if they haven’t, I shall surely tell them so myself.”

Sansa enjoyed the man’s company and tales but it was a length of red satin she became enamored with. From it a truly striking gown could be made, one fit for a Targaryen. She could wear when Jon and her were reunited and truly look a princess for him. Yet Maester Luwin and Rodrik gruffly refused any trades. All they offered were excuses, such as Winterfell needing all they had for the war efforts being waged. That winter was coming.

Sansa refused to accept that yet her words counted for little. Ser Rodrik would not even allow Ossifer’s party to spend the night in the castle, telling the trader to seek rooms at the Smoking Log in the Winter Town.

It appeared such poor treatment was not enough for Arya. While Sansa tried to coax Lady out of the crypts her sister continued her tirade against Ossifer.

“As soon as he showed up the wolves became upset! Just like it was when the wildlings came-”

“Ossifer was a trader, not a wildling.” She sighed, finally going to take hold of the top of Lady’s neck and pull her out. “It’s okay girl. Don’t listen to Arya, our visitor was quite kind… he was always smiling…”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Arya shook her head and looked to Roslin. “It was his eyes. Didn’t you see his eyes? His smile never went to his eyes. They were cold and looked about at all of us, just like Domeric would when we…”

Arya’s voice fell away and Sansa was glad, for this was all utter nonsense. If Ossifer was such a foul man he would not have been so generous to her after all the slights given to him in her home.

“Arya what does it matter?” She asked. “I heard the guardsmen saying Ossifer and his friends left the Winter Town at first light. Heading back down the Kingsroad.”

“Well then why is Ser Rodrik leading out a patrol himself then?” Arya stuck out her tongue. “Osha told me so. It’s why I was running so fast, I wanted-”

“Oh.” Roslin cupped her mouth, twitching in discomfort. “Oh I do not feel well.”

“Again? Are you dizzy or is the retching?” Sansa came to put a hand on her back, Arya doing the same.

“Or Sansa’s horrible taste in friends?”

“My stomach.” Roslin said quickly. “Forgive me but perhaps I should retire…”

“We’ll take you and fetch the maester as well.”

“No, no… my family says it is poor fortune to seek a maester before…” Roslin smiled weakly then and moved away, moving to take the shortcut back to the Great Keep. “I hope to see you both again for the evening meal. Till then my goodsisters…”

Arya and Sansa shared a worried glance to watch Roslin depart. Her mind was eased some as Lady went to follow at the poor lady’s side, Sansa glad she did not go alone.

For Sansa was more curious why Ser Rodrik would be leading a patrol now, so late in the day. Or why he would so himself.

The worry fell away as Arya tried to convince her to go back into the crypts, something Sansa refused her of course.

Thus the day drifted by like so many others before. When that argument finished the sisters broke apart, only to find each other again during the evening meal. Somehow they took to speaking of whether mother would give them a new brother or sister. She had pleasant laugh when they learned both preferred a sister, for each was sick of little brothers. Sadly, that topic made Bran and Rickon come to mind and how they missed the boys so. And all the others.

Besides Arya and Sansa, only Septa Mordane dined with them. Roslin still too ill and Ser Rodrik not yet returned from his patrol, the maester far too busy and her loved ones much too far away. After the meal, while she walked through the corridors she thought on how the high table had been as empty as the rest of Winterfell.

If I cannot go to Summerhall to be a princess let a prince come to Winterfell.

These empty corridors would be filled with laughter then… drabness fallen away to radiance.

After Sansa closed the door to her chambers she sought some magnificence of her own. Something she had hidden in a trunk beside her wardrobe, buried deep beneath the rest of her clothing. When she found it a smile came to her face.

The makings of a future gown, fit for a princess to wear and a prince to behold.

Ossifer’s fabulous red silk.

It’s a sad thing when an eastern trader understands my heart better than men I’ve grown up with.

Ossifer saw how badly I needed to this. Why was only he moved by my plight?

When Sansa had gone to the stables to bid the trader farewell Ossifer had smiled brightly, pushing one of his filthier men far away so they might speak alone.

“Have you changed your mind, my lady?” He asked, bowing extravagantly. “Is there a trade we can make for that red silk you admired so?”

“Alas I have nothing to offer. I wished only to thank you and to beg your return should the fighting end.”

“So sad, such a lovely young woman to be so sad.” Ossifer shook his head before perking up all of a sudden. “I must say though, perhaps there is something you can offer me worthy of that silk.”

“I have nothing of value…”

“Nonsense. You have knowledge dear lady. I travel the world and take pride in all the wisdom I collect. It shames me how little I’ve learned of the famous Winterfell. If you would answer just a few of this old trader’s questions, that red silk can be yours.”

It was like a dream come true. She could have the gown of her dreams and all Ossifer wanted in return was to learn of cold, drab Winterfell. They were such simple answers too. Telling him how the First Keep was no longer in use and it was the Library Tower he saw spied from the stables. It was no great secret that the North Gate was the most fortified, or that the East Gate saw the most traffic by the Kingsroad.

As Sansa spun about with the silk she imagined she was already dressed in the beautiful gown. Jon leading her through a dance while her parents smiled to watch. Everyone would be there. Robb and Roslin. Rickon and Arya acting properly. Bran looking to her with both eyes.

If it was possible she would’ve crawled into bed and slept with the silk pressed against her cheek. Like she hoped Jon slept somewhere with her favor held to his heart. Yet Sansa was not so careless, hiding the fabric away once more before making for bed, expecting pleasant dreams after such bright thoughts.

Instead a far different dream came to her. Of a kind she’d been having of late. One she didn’t understand…

She could not understand.

Nor could her sister. The pair of them running back and forth through the small wood of this man den. Before when they’d been a pack of six they’d all play in these woods together. Sleep beside one another beneath the trees. Yet now it was just the wild sister and her. And there was no sleep to be had tonight.

Not with the threat they sensed in the air.

The man den and the little wood were dark. There was no moon to aid their eyes but it was not what they saw which caused the wolves to rush between trees and over rocks. It was another sense that troubled them.

On the weak wind they could smell the blood. They could smell the hunger of those who spilled it. The desire for more. The want to kill again.

And it was growing stronger.

Somewhere beyond the stone walls of the man den the scented wafted thick. She ran to a tall pine, sniffing deep of the air but still not finding exactly which direction it came. The walls confused the winds. The wild sister growled from her place atop a rock, for she found little better there.

All the more infuriating was the sense that the threat was not just beyond the walls, but within them as well. For some time now something had felt wrong. Like a predator was loose within their home. Threatening their loved ones.

The threat from without growing closer and closer with each passing moment.

The wild sister howled then. In anger and warning, trying to alert the men to what was coming.

She did the same, throwing her head back and letting the howl rise up and into the sky in a white cloud.

Again and again they did so. Moving through the wood to do so, growing more panicked the whole while. Men took notice, the ones atop the walls, loud voices shouting angry things back at them.

Still they howled.

The blood was in the air. Death drew closer. The den was threatened.

Their family was in danger.

She had run to the bone white tree with the blood leaves to howl again when the twig snapped. The wolves jerked about, teeth bared to find a form coming out of the shadows, a thin blade in their hands. Together they arched up and tensed to kill whoever had come to kill them.

Yet what came out of the darkness was no threat. For it was small. Small and known to them both. Loved by them both. The girl child was the wild sister’s… but hers as well. She claimed this girl as well.

“What is it?” Arya asked, her sword raised high, a cloak thrown over her nightclothes. “I can feel it… something’s coming… what is it?”

Danger. Great danger.

Fire and blood.

She howled again.

Sansa awoke with a start, catching the last parts of a wolf’s howl drifting away outside her window.

She saw nothing but black without and her eyes scanned the darkened edges of her room, for she was terrified. Her heart was pounding, her shift soaked through with sweat and she clenched her furs in fear.

Something’s wrong… I was having a foul dream… about killers… Arya was there…

Another howl came from outside and somehow she knew this was Nymeria. The one that followed was Lady’s for sure. Goosepimples dotted her skin to hear them howling so, for they urged her from bed.

What am I doing? She asked herself as she threw on a simple gown. Why am I leaving my rooms?

It’s not proper… it’s late… it’s not right… something’s not right…

The cloak was about her shoulders but she couldn’t say why she dressed so warmly. She simply intended to check on Arya. To make sure her sister was still abed. There was no reason to think she wouldn’t be but Sansa left her rooms all the same.

Her quick pace through the corridors and around a bend almost sent her crashing into another later night traveller.

“Oh!” Roslin and Sansa cried out in alarm. Both backing away and clutching at their chests.

“Sansa what’s wrong?” Roslin asked breathlessly and she took note the lady was also dressed to journey beyond the keep.

“I’m not sure… I just have to- wait, what are you doing?”

“I could not sleep. My illness and with the wolves howling…” Roslin trailed off as the wolves howled in unison, a haunting sound that echoed through the passages. “I thought to light some candles for Robb and my brothers in the sept.”

“Would you come with me to check on Arya first?” Sansa grabbed Roslin’s hand, far more desperately than she meant to. “Please we need to check on Arya.”

“Arya? Why-”

Sansa cut her off, pulling the lady down the hall while the wolves howled again and again. She needed Arya to be in bed. Safe and sound. If her sister was sleeping somehow her mind would be put at ease. The nagging feeling in her stomach would go away.

With great hope she opened the doors to Arya’s chambers.

Only to find her bed empty and a mess. A chest at the foot thrown open and clothing tossed all about.

“Something’s wrong.” Sansa spoke numbly, walking into the chamber and feeling chills as she did so. “The wolves… Arya… there’s danger…”

“Sansa she could just be sneaking food from the kitchens with Roderick again.” Roslin tried to comfort her. “Or perhaps playing a jest on us… nothing to raise the alarm over-”

Roslin’s words fell away as someone raised an alarm outside the keep. A chorus of shouts drifted through Arya’s window, followed by the howls of the wolves. The girls rushed to the window, looking through the glass and finding the first light of dawn awaiting. Except it was still hours away from dawn and they were facing the wrong direction.

“Fire.” Roslin said in shock. “The Library Tower… it’s on fire.”

The Library Tower… I was just talking about it…

Together they ran from Arya’s chambers, joining many others in rushing through the halls and stairwells of the Great Keep. When they burst outside and into the night air they found the Library Tower burning far across the courtyard. She watched guardsmen and servant folk running about, some carrying water, others doing as she did, merely watching in fear.

Joseth and Hodor hurried by them with buckets of water in hand. Quent and Desmond doing much the same. She heard Maester Luwin before she saw him, for he was near the burning tower, shouting with a hoarse voice.

“More men! More water!” The maester called. “We must douse it before the foundations weaken!”

While everyone else either went to save the tower or watched the fire Sansa eyes scanned the yard. Searching for any sign of her sister and finding none.

Arya… where’s Arya? What’s the fire have to do with all this?

“Sansa!” Septa Mordane cried out from behind her, exiting in the keep in wrinkled white robes. “Sansa this is no place for you! Back to your chambers at once! You too Lady Roslin! A woman in your condition!”

“Arya’s gone!” She protested, refusing to let the septa take hold of her. “We have to find her! She wasn’t in her room and she’s in danger-”

“What do you mean?” The septa asked as a new sound stole their attention away, a horn blowing from the East Gate just to their right. With many were gathered about the fire she was shocked there was anyone still over there to blow a horn.

“Ser Rodrik returns!” A strained shout echoed down from the gatehouse. “The late patrols! They come with prisoners!”

“Lower the drawbridge then!” Alebelly cursed, huffing and changing direction to rush towards the gate. “We need more men! Open the damn gates!”

Soon enough the shouts and cries from the crowd were being drowned out by the sound of metal grinding in the air. The gates were coming to life, clanking loudly and she was sure the drawbridge was lowering as well.

That didn’t seem important until a wolf’s howl added to the commotion. Sansa whipped about to see Lady tearing across the yard from the direction of the godswood, heading straight towards the gate. Her teeth were bared and eyes blazing as she passed by the three women without so much as a second glance.

Sansa’s leg bid her to follow before her mind even thought to give chase. Deep within her something told her Lady would keep them safe from whatever terrified her so. That Lady would lead her to Arya. That Lady would protect them both.

“Sansa stop! Clear the riders path!” Septa Mordane commanded, Roslin and her lifting their skirts to follow after Sansa and her wolf. She took notice then that Maester Luwin and Quent had abandoned the Library Tower, following far beyond the others, their voices faint with the distance.

“No!” Quent shouted, waving his arms. “Keep the gates up!”

“It’s not right!” The maester added, his older form running far slower. “Rodrik would never come so late!”

Sansa barely heard them over the noise so it was little surprise the gates ahead continued to lift. She counted Alebelly and three other men waiting as the entrance opened before them. Lady stopped far back from it, snapping and growling at the air. Her hair was standing straight up when Sansa arrived.

A jolt of fear shot through her as the sounds of hooves began to thunder ahead of them.

The riders charged inside with little restraint, most wearing the heavy grey direwolf cloaks of House Stark. Some wore cloaks of different shades yet all were hidden behind hoods. There were ten inside before the first ones drew close to the guards and she took notice of the lead rider. A huge man in a direwolf cloak. Save she knew of no man in Winterfell so large save for Hodor.

Then Sansa’s blood ran cold to see the stains on their cloaks. Dark stains collected about tears and gouges that should not be there.

“Blood!” She screamed and Lady growled all the louder. “There’s blood on them!”

Alebelly was turning back to her when the lead rider raised his head. Beneath the cloak a monster snarled at her. A dog’s head wrought in dark steel, metal fangs threatening them all. The sword he drew was far more terrifying to her. Poor Alebelly did not have the chance to see it before the monster hacked down so powerfully the blade drove deep through the guard’s shoulder and into his chest.

“Assassins!” Poxy Tim screamed before another man drove a spear through his throat.

Twenty men had ridden through the gates by now and all were tossing aside their cloaks, displaying swords, spears and crossbows. Only about half charged on to face what few guardsmen answered the attack, most leaping from their horses and charging towards the gatehouse. A member of their number began blowing a trumpet as another chose to come at her instead. She drew back in fear right before the attacker’s mount did the same, for Lady came to her rescue.

The man screamed as the direwolf’s jaws wrapped around his leg, pulling him down onto the ground. Lady’s teeth were buried in his throat when Septa Mordane and Roslin grabbed hold of her.

“You must run girls! Back to the keep! Now!” Mordane pushed the pair along as Desmond and Maester Luwin waved men forward from other parts of the castle.

“Who are they?” Roslin shouted as screams and the sounds of metal rang out behind. “Why are they doing this?”

“Get the gate down!” Desmond shouted as he and Quent drew swords to enter the fray. “They’re trying to keep the gate up!”

“Faster girls!” Septa Mordane screamed.

Another attack was bearing down upon them. Lady was nowhere to be seen this time and the man’s blade raised high as he bore down on the fleeing trio. It likely would have killed her had the septa not dove in its path at the last moment. A gasp escaped the old woman’s lips as the sword cut across his back, blood filling the air.

“Mordane!” Sansa wailed, flailing to catch her septa as she fell. The woman’s collapsing was so total that even when Roslin made to help they all fell. Somehow she managed to put herself between the woman and the ground, cushioning her fall. Weeping to feel the hot, dampness of Mordane’s blood flowing upon her gown Sansa rose up to cradle the trembling woman.

“Run girls…” Mordane begged, her face full of fear. “Flee Sansa… leave me…”

“I can’t.” She wept before looking about for someone to help. “Help us! We need help!”

Yet no help came. Only something far worse. For a new tide of intruders was pouring through the gate. Ten. Then twenty. She gaped in shock to watch as scores of armored and mounted warriors invaded her home. No matter how well their archers aimed their arrows there were far too many. The attackers kept coming, riding right over their feeble defences.

A man with a curved blade cut down Desmond. Quent’s head was split in two by an poleaxe. Even Maester Luwin was felled when a crossbowman loosed a quarrel into this shoulder. As the attackers swept beyond the gate and through the castle two swordsmen leapt free to come at the three women.

She raised her hands to shield the septa only for Lady to leap into the air and tear out the throat of the one man. The other lost his arm trying to protect his face but managed to stab into the wolf’s side as he fell.

Lady’s yelp was terrible, her stomach turning to watch the wolf hit the ground limply. Through her tears she found Lady’s yellow eyes, half closed and full of pain.

She wanted to go to her but Roslin needed her help to try and drag the septa away. Yet it was too late. For without lady to defend them and most of the Winterfell men nearby already dead, three riders now came towards her unchallenged.

One was the savage hound, his blade dripping blood, his helm still snarling as he reined up before them. The other two were hooded but the sight of the murderer was enough to break Roslin’s courage.

“Mercy! This is the Lady Sansa Stark! Spare her!” Roslin begged, looking to Sansa with fear. “Mercy for us both! Please… I am with child…”

“Well congratulations my dear.” A familiar voice floated down from one of the hooded men, who drew back his hood so he was a mystery no more. For looking down on her, with a smile and little sympathy, was Ossifer.

“Lady Sansa, a pleasure as always.” He leaned forward on his horse. “I think I shall have to insist on bedding within the castle tonight.”

“Why?” Sansa choked out as screams echoed throughout her home. “I was kind to you…”

“Weigh kindness in one hand and gold in the other and…” Ossifer mimed weighing two things. “Well you get the picture. Truly though, I do apologize. If it was up to old Ben Plumm here you’d still be sleeping peacefully in your bed. Of course I’m not the one paying for all this.”

During all this the third man had climbed down from his horse and strode forward with purpose. With not a word of warning he reached down and gripped Sansa’s wrist in a painful hold. While Septa Mordane and Roslin both screamed he yanked Sansa up to her feet, forcing her face to look into his. When he ripped the hood free she thought she was seeing a ghost.

For a moment she truly believed King Rhaegar had come to save her.

This man had the same handsome features.

A comely face. Long silver-blond hair. Purple eyes.

Until she noticed the differences. For this man was far too young. His eyes paler. The smile crueler.

“So you’re the bastard’s little wolf-bitch?” He hissed. “Well it’s taken long enough but he’s finally going to learn his lesson.”

“You should never wake the dragon.”

Chapter 14

Summary:

The cost of defeat. The price of victory. The innocents lost in between.

BRAN

“I thought you said you had a plan.” He hissed at his friend, staying low and in the shadows.

“Shutup.” Bronze Jon whispered back. “I do have a plan.”

The two boys were huddled behind a pile of stone at the edges of the castle courtyard. Ahead of them, partly jutting out of the castle’s inner bailey, stood Summerhall’s feasting hall. Its windows shuttered, its tall white oak doors closed and barred.

Being so closed off made the hall stand out in the open and inviting design of Summerhall. The partially rebuilt castle was divided into two main sections. Bran was in the Palace, the partially restored ruins of the old castle. Ringing the Palace were the newer fortifications built by his uncle Benjen, outer walls complete with a barbican, battlements, ramparts and numerous squat towers.

The Palace could not be more different and to Bran it was strange and beautiful all at the same time. The bailey consisted of four walls enclosing a large courtyard, with tall towers at three of the corners. At the southeast corner stood a large keep with a commanding view of the whole castle and the countryside for leagues around.

Its inner courtyard was the size of Winterfell’s godswood, consisting of a number of practice yards, private stables and a large garden. At the base of the inward facing walls were open verandas and walkways, higher up he could see wide arched windows and balconies overlooking the yard. Within the walls themselves were passages and rooms where light streamed in during the days and gentle breezes moved through by night.

Summerhall was strange yet beautiful all the same. Bran didn’t doubt for a moment Sansa would love her new home.

At least, after it was finished. 

He knew his sister and could only imagine her reaction to a castle in such disarray. Much of what he just described was still under repair and there was hardly a room in the Palace without some sort of work being done. Holes in the masonry, collapsed archways, charred and cracked beams of wood, the damage was so that only a third of Summerhall’s rooms were useable to the royal army.

The hall itself was mostly finished, save for a bit of covered scaffolding along its left wall and wooden blanks covering up a hole in its side. It was still the best place for the king to gather his guests and the newly arrived prince.

A gathering the boys were far too curious about. One Bronze Jon swore they could be a part of. 

Bran didn’t see how, just because most of the knights and Kingsguard were within didn’t mean the hall was left unguarded. Harold Hardyng and a bunch of other squires walked about in front of the main doors, sharing a skin of wine as they kept watch. The only way Bran could see his friend getting them to the scaffolding was by running along the edges of the courtyard and there was no way that would work. Even with the darkness of night there were enough torches about they’d be spotted for sure.

“This isn’t going to work.” He repeated, grabbing Jon’s arm. “They’re going to see us and Harry’s going to beat you worse than when you stuck horseshit in his boots.”

“That was worth it and you know it.” The other boy smiled back at him, his black eye still fading. “I’d take a hundred beatings to hear Aegon call that idiot Harry Hardung again.”

He’s right… that was worth it.

“Fine but he’d likely be on Harry’s side for this one. Robar and the ser will be wroth.”

“We won’t get caught.” Jon rolled his eyes. “I’m going to distract them and then we’re going to make a run for it. Silent and swift. Just like when the sers snuck through the rebel lines at Crow’s Nest.”

“They were being heroes, this is spying.”

“Fine, you stay here then.” Bronze Jon reached into the pile of rocks and picked up a small stone, tossing it up so it landed back in his palm. “When this lands in that archway across the way they’ll all look over. Then I’m going.”

“Harry’s stupid but he’s not that stupid.” Bran shook his head, though found himself rising up a bit to peak over the rocks. There was an empty archway within throwing range and none of the squires were paying attention, laughing and drinking their watch away. When Harry began miming pummeling someone much smaller than him he saw Jon’s face darken.

“Big dumb shit.” The squire whispered before winding back and hurling the stone. Bran’s mouth fell open as he watched the arc of the rock, for it didn’t fly towards the archway, it rose high before falling straight down.

Right onto Harry’s head.

The squire cursed in pain, hands going to his head causing his companions to look about and shout in confusion. Bran yanked his friend down again, covering Jon’s mouth as he began to laugh.

“What happened?” A voice asked and Harry continued to hiss and curse.

“Fuck! My head! Bloody bit of rock hit my head!”

“Fucking castle is falling apart!” Another squire said to a chorus of agreement. “Let’s hope the Dornish are close or we’ll never hold this rubble against the Usurper’s men…”

They don’t know it was us… gods they are dumb…

Jon began to struggle against his hold then, pulling Bran’s hand away as tears ran down his cheeks.

“Did you see it? Right off that thick skull of his-”

“You’re an idiot.” He whispered striking his friend’s chest hard. “You can’t even follow your own plan.”

Bronze Jon winced and struck him back on the arm. Bran answered that blow and was hit with another himself. Soon the two boys were slapping and hitting each other to the point they stumbled against the stones. Luckily none fell but they still froze in place, fearful they’d been heard. When none came to haul them off to the dungeons Bronze Jon grinned widely and put a stone in Bran’s hand before taking one himself.

“Come on, we can do this. Bronze Jon and the Winged Wolf, together. Just wink when you’re ready.”

“I’m always winking.” He pointed to his only eye.

“Then let’s do this.” Jon pulled him up and, despite Bran’s better judgement, he joined his friend in heaving the stones across the yard.

When the rocks disappeared into the distant archway a loud, clattering echoed within. One that drew the Harry and the other’s attention, all turning about and taking a few steps in the direction of the sound. With that Bran and Bronze Jon were away, running as quietly as they could through the shadows. His heart was pounding in his chest, every moment expecting someone to give a cry and discover them.

He couldn’t believe it when they reached the heavy wool covering the scaffolding, Jon lifting it up for Bran to dive within. Soon after his friend ducked under as well and let the wool fall so they were hidden from outside view, both boys grinning like idiots. Bran could only see Jon’s grin because of a faint light ahead of them. The boards covering the hole in the hall’s stonewall had gaps, light and voices escaping through them.

He crawled over the tools and materials to reach the boards, his friend coming along side him. Together they peered through the gaps, catching their first glimpses of the king’s council.

He spotted his Uncle Benjen first, for the wiry man was leaning against a wall near to their spying spot. The man stood close enough for Bran to see the worry creased on his usually cheerful face. He saw Lord Renly as well, standing with what few Stormlords were left to them. Ser Loras and Robar were near to them, both looking handsome in their new garb, the white cloaks of the Kingsguard.

With Preston Greenfield stripped of his place in the guard and the death of Jonothor Darry, two new knights had been needed to replace them. Many believed the rumors Lord-Commander Arthur and Ser Barristan were dead as well yet Bran held out hope, if only to keep up the spirits of his mentor. Ser Oswell was in the hall as well, next to the young man who refused to replace either of the famed knights until their deaths were certain.

Sadly, there was no doubt King Rhaegar had fallen. Hence why a new king now stood where a prince once had. King Aegon’s face was emotionless, his gaze unreadable beneath his newly made crown. It was a thick band of gold with rubies inset thoughout, hastily forged at the Castle Grandview during their short stay. Princess Rhaenys thought it lacked splendor and her face was once more twisted in disapproval. There was no doubt the princess was with child anymore, her hands grasping her swollen belly tightly as she glared at the man every eye seemed drawn towards.

The newest arrival at Summerhall.

A man with sharp features and black, viper-like eyes, half hidden behind lustrous, black hair. A warrior wearing a red silk cloak over a shirt of overlapping discs of copper. A prince who remained confidence and calm under the gaze of a king.

“Repeat yourself uncle.” Aegon demanded, his eyes narrowing. “We could not have heard you correctly. I thought I heard the great Red Viper of Dorne refusing to fight.”

“I never back down from a good fight.” Prince Oberyn eyed the crowd around him. “Most of these men know the truth of that.”

“Then why do you come to a battleground with only a few retainers?” Rhaenys pressed. “Where are the armies of the Dorne?”

“In Dorne I imagine, where Doran wants them.” The prince answered. “And I only need a few men to deliver my brother’s invitation. You are all welcome to return with me to Sunspear.”

“Invitation?” Renly looked stunned. “The king asks for the Martell arms and Doran offers a stay at the Water Gardens.”

“Cowards.” Ser Loras added to which Oberyn responded by taking a few, slow steps forward. Loras raised his chin at the challenge and the prince laughed, tapping the knight’s glittering armor.

“Pretty armor, pretty face, pretty rose.” He smiled. “Take solace boy, being a fool might be your only flaw.”

“Do not threaten him.” Renly warned and many tensed, causing Oberyn to raise his hands, backing away.

“The world is changing around me, when I was young a Kingsguard needed no protection. Not that I intended any threat, for as I said, I come as a friend. To bring all of you and my beloved kin south. To safety.”

“The fight is not in Dorne.” Aegon said. “It’s here, in the Stormlands. Or north of the Blackwater, where my brother fights the Usurper alone. The capital screams for relief Prince Oberyn. The realm needs its king. And the king needs the armies of Dorne. I cannot break out of this rebel trap without them.”

“Open your eyes. There is no breaking out of this.” Oberyn spoke sharply. “I come here and find what? Maybe five thousand men? Huddling within a ruin? I heard there are twenty thousand rebels perhaps a week away. If not closer.”

“That’s why we need men!” Rhaenys strode forth to her brother’s side. “My brother needs to be protected! To be kept safe! To fight his enemies he needs those men. Loyal subjects to my brother’s crown would never balk at such-”

“A folly.” Oberyn interrupted. “Loyalty hasn’t protected your armies from defeat. Ser Pretty’s father answered your call blindly and look what happened to him. Open your eyes. This fight, here and now, is lost.”

Bran couldn’t believe his ears. To hear a legend like the Red Viper of Dorne speaking of defeat was shocking. No matter how many defeats the royal cause had suffered of late.

Things had been going so well, the Usurper’s allies had been on the run, their army unstoppable. It had felt that way at least after Aegon broke the siege at Griffin’s Roost and the rebels fled back into the Rainwood. Lord Renly even predicted the southron rebellion might put down before the king crushed the Usurper.

Everything changed after King Rhaegar’s death. By the time the news reached them at the siege of Crow’s Nest most of the Stormlands knew Robert Baratheon had slain the king in single combat. That the royal army was crushed and on the run. One by one, those houses that remained neutral in the fighting began to join the rebel cause. All while the king’s army shrunk. At first it was only common men drifting away during the march. Then Lord Bryce Caron’s vanguard did not just lead the march, it went over to the reformed rebel host south of Griffin’s Roost.

Outnumbered and wary of what support he had left, the king led them away from battle. Renly and Rhaenys were united in pushing for a withdrawal to Summerhall. The princess believed Summerhall would be the ideal place to meet their Dornish reinforcements while Lord Renly expected to find the Tyrells waiting for at Jon and Sansa’s future home. By now he was certain Mace Tyrell’s barges would have sailed up the Mander, taking the Blue Byrn branch to bring tens of thousands of men to the edges of the Stormlands.

Yet when they arrived at Summerhall all they found was Uncle Benjen, a garrison of a few hundred and a herald of evil tidings.

While there was no sign of the Martell strength a few score Reach men awaited Aegon’s coming, led by an injured Ser Erren Florent. It was from the Florent knight they learned of Lord Mace’s catastrophic landings near the Grassy Vale. The Tyrell lord landed men to both sides of the river, intending to have his son Garlan lead a force north to aid the capital. While still making camp, thousands still disembarking, the Tyrells were ambushed. For every rebel lord of the northern and eastern Stormlands appeared at the southern bank, charging forth and surprising Lord Mace’s camp.

The losses were grievous, Lord of Highgarden only saved because Ser Garlan led a daring rescue across the river, taking arrows to retrieve his father and sailing away to safety. Others were not so lucky. Lord Alester Florent and his heir, Alekyne, were slain on the banks of the Blue Byrn. Ser Bryan and Edwyd of the red apple Fossoways and Ser Jon of the green, Luthor Tyrell, a score of other lords, hundreds of knights, thousands of men, all dead. The abandoned Reach forces on the north bank fled west, towards Bitterbridge and away from the fighting.

Which left the king’s army trapped at Summerhall, the rebels converging on them from all sides save the south. Their only hope being the Dornish.

One that was quickly fading with Prince Oberyn’s words. Words the king would not accept.

“Out.” Aegon demanded, glaring at the prince, who raised an eyebrow before the king continued. “Everyone but Rhaenys and Oswell, out. I need to speak with my uncle. King to prince.”

“Gladly.” Uncle Benjen rose from the wall, earning a laugh from Oberyn.

“I remember you being a more cheerful wolf, now you remind me of Whent here. The Dornish Marches don’t suit you Stark.”

“You came here out of worry for your nephew viper, to keep him safe.” Benjen walked right on by the dornishman. “That’s a luxury I’ve been denied… twice now.”

His uncle was joined in leaving by all the rest, although Renly looked to beg leave to stay Rhaenys gave a curt shake of her head, sending him off as well. As soon as the door shut Oberyn moved quickly, grabbing a chair by the tableside and pulling it out for Rhaenys to sit.

“Act strong all you want child, it’s in your blood, but sit for the babe’s sake.” The prince urged and Rhaenys managed to looked defiant even as she did as he asked. When she was seated Oberyn put a hand to her chin and lifted it so he could gaze on her admiringly.

“You look so much like your mother it hurts. My sister made such a beautiful daughter. She was so proud of her adventurous little dragoness…”

“T-thank you uncle… but we’re not here to speak on my mother.” The princess’s voice waivered some, her face twitching in shame.

“Well someone should have spoken to you of her. For you’re making all the same mistakes. Trusting in the wrong people. Marrying the wrong man.”

Bronze Jon gasped at that and Bran didn’t blame him. Nor was he surprised at the king’s reaction, for Aegon strode forward and spun his uncle around forcefully.

“My father was a great man!” Aegon roared, finger pointed right up into Oberyn’s eye. “He died a true king! Fighting a battle you are too cowardly to join! If Robert Baratheon came at you-”

“I would be joyful.”

Oberyn moved quickly, grasping Aegon’s face in his hands, holding him still as the pair stared into each other’s eyes. Oswell grunted and made to separate them when Rhaenys put a hand up to stop him.

“You’re angry. You’re full of hate and thirst for vengeance. I know that desire. I’ve been nursing it for fifteen years. For you I tamed it.” Oberyn made a fist in the air. “If not for you and your sister I would’ve killed your father years ago. Tywin Lannister as well. You lost a mother but I lost a sister. My Elia. Doran forced me to cage my fury for the sake of her children. Now I must ask you to do the same to spare Rhaenys Elia’s fate.”

Oberyn pointed to Rhaenys then, who watched all this fearfully, meeting Aegon’s confused gaze.

“If you stay here, she will suffer. She may die. I know you will die. And I will die with you.  And then we’ll all have to answer to your mother in the life beyond.”

Aegon pushed away from him then, clearly shaken and still angry with the prince, who reached to take Rhaenys’s hand in his. Whispering something too quiet for Bran to hear.

“I believe you.” Rhaenys nodded. “Please uncle, Oberyn, there’s nothing more important than protecting Aegon. You must see that. Uncle Doran must know that… I just can’t understand how he can strand us here. That he denies us the strength of Dorne…”

“He denies you nothing.” Oberyn patted her hand. “Doran hears much at the Water Gardens. You two have made many arrangements without consulting him… taking House Martells support for granted. Much like your father did. My brother does not intend to make the same mistakes twice, he wants guarantees…”

Things were just getting interesting when Bronze Jon cursed quietly. For behind them the wool coverings with being nudged and lifted up, Summer’s snout and bright eyes appearing to look at them with confusion. They tried waving him away, Jon kicking the air, Bran whispering commands as quietly as he could.

But it was all for a naught, for a few moments later someone tore open the scaffold covering fully. Towering over them both was a tall, wiry shadow, one that reached in to take hold of Bronze Jon’s ear. A moment later Bran’s own ear was in a terrible hold of its own and both boys were being pulled out in to the night crying out in pain.

“Little spies!” Uncle Benjen called out, dragging the two boys around to the front of the hall, shocked onlookers pointing and whispering.

He didn’t care about that, all he wanted to do was keep up with his uncle’s pace so his ear stayed attached to his head. When Benjen finally let them go it was to push them towards a group made up of Renly, Loras and Robar. The Royce knight glowering down at them both.

“I think one of these belongs to you.” His uncle sighed, shaking his head as Bran rubbed his ear. “Found the two of them listening in on the king’s talk.”

“We weren’t spying!” Jon protested, wincing to he rub his ear while cowering away from his knight. “We were just… um… well Bran got lost you see, he only has the one eye and it’s dark so he, um, stumbled in there and I was trying to get him out-”

“I can see!” He shouted, pushing Jon. “I don’t get lost in the dark!”

“Shutup stupid!” Bronze Jon pushed him back.

Bran hit him, then got hit himself, then the two boys set slapping and punching each other. Until Uncle Benjen took hold of their ears again and they set to begging mercy. All the commotion drew more attention than he wished, for the next time they were released it was to behold King Aegon and Ser Oswell striding out from the hall.

“What the seven hells is going on out here?” The ser demanded as his uncle released them again. “Stark, why are you hurting my Stark?”

“I found my adventurous little nephew, apparently stumbling around blinded, being rescued by the brave squire here. Both of them just happening to be gathered around a hole in the hall.”

“Give me strength.” Robar cuffed Jon upside his head. “If I knew what a pain the arse you’d be I would’ve told my father to send you straight to the Wall. This is the last straw, if this was your idea you can find someone else to take you as a squire because I’m done with you.”

His friend looked crushed and Bran worried Ser Robar meant what he said. The knight had taken Jon on as a squire as a favor to the Lord of Runestone, but now he was a knight of the Kingsguard. Robar could likely get a squire from a number of great families and his friend’s options were far more limited. With the king, lords and knights of the Kingsguard glaring down at him, Bronze Jon eyes began to water.

And Bran worried he might lose another friend.

“It was my idea.” Bran said, looking to Ser Robar. “It was my fault. I wanted to see what was happening in the hall and Jon tried to stop me-”

“No, that’s not-” Bronze Jon tried to protest but Bran dropped to knee before the king.

“Please your grace I beg forgiveness. Punish me and me alone.”

He hated lying to the king. To look so poorly in front of the ser and his uncle. Yet Jon was his friend. Whenever another mocked his missing eye, Jon would stand up for him, even fighting bigger boys over it. Standing with Bran no matter what. His best friend.

Through all this the king remained silent, Aegon’s face bearing a queer expression, his eyes far away even as he looked down at him. It was gone in a flash though, and Aegon shocked all in offering his hand to him, helping Bran to his feet.

“Thank you Bran. Thank you for reminding me…” The king smiled and looked to the others. “Thank you for reminding me just how little I miss King’s Landing. At least the spies here are of a nobler type.”

Uncle Benjen gave a laugh at that, Renly and several others joining in while Bran and Bronze Jon shared an incredulous look. It only grew stranger when the king put a hand on his shoulder, asking Bran to join him, for a walk in the garden. Before they departed Aegon commanded Robar to find Jon a brand new swordbelt, for surely he had shown his skill as a loyal squire tonight.

He had butterflies in his stomach as he walked beside the king, for he’d never done so. Following behind the ser as he protected Aegon was one thing. This time however, it was Ser Oswell following when the king led them within Summerhall’s garden.

The path they walked down was made of white washed stones, with wildflowers growing up through the gaps. Vines entangled trees of several sorts, including some with big, bright lemons. The statues of Targaryens long dead had vines creeping up them as well, some being swallowed up by untamed ferns and bushes. Summerhall’s garden was far more lush and overgrown than those at the Red Keep, reminding Bran more of a godswood.

Especially when they came to the tree at the end of the path. In the heart of the garden was a wide-open circle, someone having cleared away the growth around the tree at its center.

A tree with bone white bark and bright red leaves. Instantly Bran became homesick for Winterfell and his family, even though this weirwood paled to the heart tree of his home. This tree was a young one, maybe as thick as him, its highest branches just taller than Hodor. Truly, without a face carved into its bark, the weirwood didn’t seem right to Bran. Its truth hidden somewhere within.

It was then the king called him a liar.

“You lied back there.” Aegon spoke softly, running his hand along the weirwood trunk. “About the spying being your idea. I’m not mad Brandon. Boys will be boys. But Oswell is as strict a knight as can be and you risked grave punishment, so I must ask, why take the blame?”

“Will… will Jon get in trouble?” He asked and Oswell grunted from behind him, looking disappointed.

“The king asked you a question. You will answer.”

“And Jon Royce is safe from me.” Aegon added, staring up at the red leaves just above his head. “This is our secret. I swear.”

“Because he’s my friend.” He answered, shifting uncomfortably to own up to the lie. “I didn’t want him to get in trouble… as bad as the ser would punish me it be better than knowing Jon got worse…”

“That was very kind of you.” Aegon’s hand fell to his side, his shoulders slumping. “You grew up with my brother. He wrote me a couple times… it was plain he how much he loved you Starks.”

“I loved Jon too- I mean do love him.” He felt horrible to speak as if Jon was something from the past. His cousin had to be alive. Just like father beyond the Wall and mother at Riverrun. All of his siblings too, all alive and well.

Aegon sighed, shaking his head.

“I was a little jealous of that. Jon suddenly having a whole castle full of siblings. My own family is, well far more complicated. You more than most have seen how different all my father’s children are. We were never one family. Our mothers set each of us apart. For a short time though, when Jon and I were very young, it was different. I remember a storm once at Dragonstone, I got scared and sought Rhaenys’s chambers… but it was dark and a strange place… I became lost. When I found Jon’s room I was crying. He was scared too, I remember that… but he knew the way to Rhaenys. When we found her though, she took me in but pushed him back out… back out into the dark…”

Bran couldn’t imagine Sansa or Arya ever treating him that way. Nor could he understand why the king was telling him this but stayed silent, for Aegon was not finished.

“Once we were playing hound and the hare in the Red Keep. I was chasing Dany, Rhae and Jon all about the halls. There was an argument, something childish. I pushed Jon and he fell into a suit of armor… Aemon the Dragonknight’s… it came down with such a crash. Some of it fell on my brother and I should’ve helped him up but it was such a mess we ran. Rhae dragging Dany along and me leaving Jon there… just leaving him behind. Father was away so Cersei had him sent to bed without a meal… it was only just the morning and he must’ve been hungry but he never said a thing… he never betrayed me even though I left him…”

“You were boys.” Oswell broke in, adjusting his cloak awkwardly. “Boys do foolish things. I once stuck a bat in my cousin Minisa’s hair on her wedding day.”

Aegon rounded about on them, scowling and pointing to Bran.

“Your squire’s but a boy. He acted better. Surely a king should act so noble to be worthy of a crown.” Aegon pulled his crown off, holding it in his hands. “Father brought us all here to Summerhall, he planted this weirwood for Jon… so my brother could be with his gods when this castle became his. A kind gift but compared to the realm itself? It shames to me to think of how much more I’ve been given than my brother. That I was the heir, the son raised to be king one day, and it was me who failed father so in the end.”

Aegon tightened his grip on the crown, face darkening as he made to wrench it apart, to break it.

“Rhaenys and my plans. If we hadn’t been so fucking sure of ourselves I’d have been in the capital. I would’ve been in that battle. Beside my father and brother. Acting the son my father deserved. Standing beside the brother I never deserved. Not planning for the day I would have this crown. Running around trying to earn this fucking thing! This stupid fucking thing! Father’s was better! I owed him better!”

The king gave anguished shout, tossing the crown onto the ground with such force it bounced and rolled near to Bran. Aegon held his hands out before him, for they were bleeding from where he’d torn his skin during his efforts to rip apart his crown.

“Let someone else take it. Let me do what’s right.” Aegon looked between Oswell and him, as if they had any power to give him what he wanted. “To fight the good fight… when I was prince men followed me. They wanted to fight for me. I could do the right thing… I still can…”

The ser was stunned into silence and Bran had no idea what to say at all. Whatever Aegon wanted from them they could not offer, so he turned back to the weirwood, resting a bleeding hand against it leaning forward, as if to be sick. He’d never seen Aegon like this, even after hearing the news of King Rhaegar. Rhaenys had wept, for days she would just begin crying unbidden, until Aegon would come to her, offering comforting words and embraces, yet shedding no tears of his own.

Acting strong, Bran thought, like a king is supposed to.

Yet now Aegon seemed just like any other person. Somehow his suffering, the deep hurt he grappled with, it made the king just like the rest of them. More than anything, his youth shone through and it helped Bran to see something he might now have. In his mind’s eye she saw more than grieving grief or a scared young man, he saw a boy Oswell had forced to look into the mirror.

He heard a soft voice from a dream.

Barely knowing what he planned to do, he did what was trained to do. To act a squire. Bran moving to pick up his king’s crown from the wet grass, stained here and there with blood as it was, he used his sleeve and the dew to clean it. So he could return the crown to its honor in a proper way.

He went to the weirwood, which Aegon still leaned against, his eyes clenched shut and face full of grief.

“Your grace?” Bran spoke in a soft tone, holding the crown out in front of him. “King Aegon… you’ll do what’s right… I know you will…”

“I haven’t yet...” Aegon shook his head. “I’ve made so many mistakes… how can they ask me to do this? It’s wrong… I don’t care how many men they give me. I cannot turn my back on what’s right again. I can’t… go on squire… you have my leave… go on…”

“Bran, do as he says.” Oswell warned but Bran had to defy him. He was a squire and this was his king, and his king was in need.

“But you did the right thing for me.” He continued, balancing the crown in one hand so he could point to his missing eye. “For Elara too. You tried to punish Joffrey for us… you didn’t turn your back on me.”

“One thing Bran, one good deed against all the follies I’ve made. The wrongs they want me to make…”

“Things might be a little darker now.” He said, remembering the words he said to himself every time he put on his eyepatch. “So now you must work all the harder to see the light.”

Aegon stared at his missing eye, saying nothing as a gentle, warm breeze moved through the garden. The leaves of the weirwood shook some with it, their fluttering sounding like whispers all their own. He hoped they filled Aegon with courage. He prayed the king could find the strength to right all the wrongs beyond this garden.

“The boy is a defiant little runt.” The ser added, stepping forward with a grimace. “But he is right my king. Whatever mistakes you’ve made, they’ve been made and now it’s time to move on from them. Like your father once did.”

“My father never had to choose between what the good of the realm and his family-” Aegon paused, eyes widening and his throat moving, like he was swallowing something with difficulty.

“Your father made such a choice once.” Ser Oswell spoke, his voice carrying on the wind. “It damned some but likely spared the realm a fate far worse. It is fine to dream you are free of your burdens, but when you wake this is the life you were dealt. All men face trials, a king decides the fate of all. Our fates are in your hands, do not throw them away. Not like your crown.”

The king looked to be thinking this over, fighting some battle within. He saw little of the prince he once knew but less of the scared youth that had been here moments before. So Bran made to guide his king back the rest of the way, holding up a beacon to do so.

“Your crown’s right here.” He said, offering up the crown even higher, hands trembling with the effort. “It’s yours… just like the ser says. Our fates too… you’re our king…”

“Hurry up and take it your grace.” The ser urged. “The boy’s so weak he’s liable to drop it again.”

“No, not this boy.” Aegon straightened up, eyeing Bran in an odd way. “You’re a rare type of squire Bran Stark. When others talk to me of burdens these days… well men thrice my age speak with less truth than I see in your one eye. I’ve have a mind to put that crown on your head.”

“It wouldn’t fit your grace.”

Aegon laughed, glancing to Ser Oswell who happened to be smiling, something that quickly fell away when he caught their gaze. Holding his bloody hands before him, the king grimaced some. A moment later he was kneeling before Bran, inclining his head towards him.

“I dirtied my crown up enough for one day. Would you mind?”

He was honored, placing the crown on the king’s head with as much care as the first time mother let him hold Rickon. With Aegon wearing his crown once more, he rose up and put a hand to Bran’s shoulder.

“I’ve one more thing to ask of you Brandon Stark. If I was to lead the army from this castle, straight at the rebel foe, into the jaws of death itself, would you be with me? Would you lay down your life for a hopeless cause, only because I asked?”

“I always have hope your grace.” He said earnestly, smiling to see the king recovering. “I follow the ser. The ser followers you. You’re our king.”

He thought he spoke well but Aegon seemed saddened by his answer, lifting his hand away and leaving a stain of blood upon his shoulder.

“That is precisely why I cannot order you to do so. I will risk no more lives on foolish gambles. Men will die in this war. Their losses darken my mind. Yet I will defeat my foes. All those lost will be avenged. Victory will be ours, no matter how much it pains me to win. That’s the light I strain to see. The light I will fight my way towards… even if it means leaving my brother behind again…”

Bran’s spirits dropped.

I didn’t want to leave Jon behind… he’s fighting the Usurper…

That’s where they should be going... the king knows that… he has to…

Before he could say all this Aegon moved away, striding towards Ser Oswell, with purpose and strength he’d lacked only moments before.

“Come along ser, we have preparations to make.” Aegon commanded. “The Stormlands are lost. The Martells offer me an army to the south and I mean to take it. To avenge my father, we must go to Dorne.”

As both men left him Bran stood there in disbelief.

Alone in the garden, with only the weirwood and its whispering leaves to keep him company.

The king’s bloody handprints all about the bone white bark.

As stained with blood as the boy before it.

 

EDDARD

Ice felt heavy in his hands.

As if the greatsword was somehow weighed down by all the blood upon it.

That was nonsense of course, Ned knew that. His arms were merely exhausted from all the fighting. Only moments before he’d brought low the last man to challenge his blade. A bronze clad warrior with a bald head lacking any ears now laid dead at his feet. Ned’s lip was bloody, his ear might well be gone, for his foe managed to savage it with a bite before he was killed.

He reached up to touch his ear and was relieved to find it still attached in spite of how horribly it stung,.

I’ve no right to complain about it, he thought, I’m better off than thousands of others.

Stretching out in front of him were hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, Northmen and wildlings, men and giants, horses and mammoths. Far ahead, most of his army was still pressing onward, giving chase to their foe, slaughtering any who did not flee swiftly enough.

The bloodletting continuing on.

The battle had left the snow-covered ground a bright red. The only parts of the landscape spared that foul blanket were the river to the left of him and the dark wood to the right.

There was no doubt in Ned’s mind those woods were also thick with the dead. The river certainly was.

The edges of the Milkwater were lined with the corpses of those who’d died fighting along its length. More bodies joined them with each passing moment, corpses brought up onto the shore by the strong current of the icy waters. The newcomers were easy to spot, for few were warriors. He spotted greybeards and women, even some children. Disappearing or appearing at random as the river churned and frothed.

What the hell did Roose do up there? What kind of monster did I loose on these people?

What have I done?

“We have a victory my lord.”

Alyn’s voice broke into this thoughts, reminding Ned that he wasn’t alone here. Though they were once in the thick of the fighting, his men now formed the rear guard of the army. Alyn was sheathing his longsword while Jory stepped over bodies to join his side, giving Wyl and Heward a foul look.

“Where were you two?” His captain scowled. “That bald whoreson nearly killed Lord Stark.”

“Leave them Jory.” He said firmly. “They were fighting for their lives.”

It was the truth. Even as they faced certain defeat, a company of wildlings had charged straight at the center of the northern army. Hundreds of bronze armored men, trying to overcome the might of Ned’s thousands. All of them had fallen in a last, desperate gambit for victory.

Namely killing me.

“They fought like demons they did.” Alyn wiped some blood from his face while more stained his tunic. “I think you slew their leader my lord. When he fell, the one I was dueling cried out Magar or something.”

“Magnar.” Ned looked down at the corpse. “When he came at me, he made sure I knew his title. The Magnar of Thenn. Wherever that is.”

“Well these lot will never be returning to this Thenn, that’s for sure.” Heward smiled and the men laughed. It always surprised Ned that men could laugh after such butchery.

They deserve some mirth, he told himself, after weeks of hunting these cold and unforgiving lands, let them bask in this victory.

He looked to the north then, towards the Fist of the First Men, which jutted up out of the earth far behind the battlefield. Beyond the hill he could see dark plumes of smoke rising in the distance and he wondered how much joy he could take from today.

The long hunt for Mance Rayder’s army had come to an end here, on this snowy stretch of land at the edges of the Milkwater. Days passed before their outriders reported the wildling host moving down river, putting its number at a staggering one hundred thousand. It was little comfort that Theo Wull guessed only a third of that number were fighters. The northern army was still outnumbered three to one.

Ned had anticipated facing a larger host ever since leaving Castle Black and used the sluggish pace of Mance’s army to great advantage. They had days to ensure that preparations for the wildlings’ coming were readied. Qhorin Halfhand of the Night’s Watch and Galbart Glover kept the wildlings blind to this, slaying many of Mance’s scouts. So intent on blinding the enemy to their movements, one of the black brothers, an archer named Ulmer, had brought down an eagle of all things.

“Didn’t care for how it was following the Halfhand’s men m’lord.” The former outlaw had explained when Ned found some of the brothers cooking the bird. Edd Tollett shrugged away his confusion while chewing on a blackened leg.

“At least we know what eagle tastes like now. What I’d give for a good turnip.”

He would have preferred ten thousand more men himself yet he made due with what he had. Using the Milkwater as a bulwark he’d arranged the northern host in a line from the river bank all the way to the forest. Ned took command of the center, giving Jeor Mormont of the Watch the left and Rickard Karstark the right, which pressed up against the trees.

At the very front of their army was the vanguard, hundreds of heavy cavalry under Willam Dustin’s leadership. There should have been more horse among their number and so much had hinged upon Mance Rayder being ignorant of that fact.

Ned prayed for such when the wildling host had finally appeared. It was as the Halfhand reported. Mance had split his warriors off from the rest, leaving most of his people just a few leagues to the north as his army marched south. While Ned was hard-pressed to call the unruly mass of savage warriors an army they still made an impressive sight. Instead of approaching in ordered lines, the thousands of wildlings came on as separate bands merely pressed together. They wore boiled leather, furs, wicker, one strange group scorning any coverings on their feet. Few had any steel to speak of, most wielding weapons of bronze, stone, even bone.

Besides being outnumbered, it was the giants and their mammoths which worried Ned the most. No longer mere stories that Old Nan told to scare the children, the towering creatures posed a real threat to their army. It was almost unforgivable how poorly they were used in the formation.

Mance Rayder was surely a great foe and leader, to gather such a force to him in the first place made that clear. So he had used Mance’s numbers against him. The northern army arranged themselves on the open land between the river and tree line so the wildlings had no choice but to meet them head-on, their disorganization compacted by the small quarters. Denying Mance Rayder a chance to array his forces on a wide open field.

Those who comprised the wildling front ranks were the forces who moved forward with the most ease, not ones that Mance likely wanted there. The giants and their mammoths were far behind, a great commotion being raised to clear a path so they could move forward. With time, Mance might have gotten his ranks in line, yet time was not something Ned was willing to give him.

He struck first. Their archers moved to the front, loosing in unison and sending hundreds of arrows flying down on their foe. The effect was devastating, with droves of wildlings falling, unprepared for such a concentrated attack. The enemy archers began firing at will, doing little damage against the raised shields of the northmen. Meanwhile Ned had volley after volley rain down on the wildlings, terribly bleeding their front ranks. 

Mance clearly meant worse for his own. When he chose this spot as the site of the battle, Ned saw how the woods posed a problem. The wildlings could use the trees as a screen to flank them, something he could not allow. So Ned had tasked the Greatjon to deal with the threat. The lord would place his men throughout the woods, in newly made timber holdouts, to throw back any such attack. When Ned told the Greatjon he would likely be outnumbered, facing some of the fiercest fighting, the lord appeared giddy at the prospect.

“If Mance comes at our sides then my men will knock him on his arse!” The Greatjon’s laughed heartily. “I’ll pile their dead so high, they’ll be calling it Mount Umber!”

The lord lived up to his boasts. When wildlings came through the forest, thousands meeting the Greatjon’s men under the dark canopy, the Umber men held. That was the only attack that Ned allowed Mance to launch against them. Everything depended on acting first, keeping their foe off balance.

He sounded their own charge soon after, the long line of infantry following behind Willam’s horse. His friend did well, the vanguard’s charge was a stampede of spear points and lances that set hundreds of wildlings to fleeing before it even reached their writhing front. Willam cut through them like a knife through butter, driving so deep into the enemy ranks that Ned had hope, for a moment, that there would be no need to follow through on his plan.

His high hopes were dashed though, for those further back in Mance’s host had yet to endure what their companions had and were clearly eager to fight. By the time the northern foot crashed into the wildlings, Willam had been forced to halt his advance, the resistance growing too fierce to press forward. They gained some ground but not as much as Ned needed them to, nor as quickly. However stubborn the Greatjon defended their flank, it could still be broken with time. Each moment that passed was another Mance might use to loose his giants and mammoths upon them.

So with a prayer Ned gave the signal. A succession of horn blasts, a commotion loud enough to be heard for leagues. Or at least to the distant Fist of the First Men.

That was the signal for Stannis and Roose to unleash hell upon the wildling rear.

It was likely that Mance didn't even know that the Lord-Commander was a part of this army. From the beginning Stannis’s men had marched separately, far to the rear of his own. The man had ground his teeth terribly to be denied leadership of the army yet still accepted the wisdom of Ned’s plan.

For hidden atop the Fist were a thousand mounted men, under the joint command of Stannis and Roose Bolton. Upon hearing the horns they launched their attack, Stannis leading half the riders against the rear of Mance’s army, Roose taking the rest against all of those wildlings that the army had left behind.

After they had learned that Mance’s host included all of his people, including those not suited for battle, Roose Bolton himself had suggested that part of the plan.

“This King-beyond-the-Wall likely leads every wildling warrior there is. But he leads their families as well.” The pale-eyed lord had spoken, with barely a whisper. “There’s a reason men don’t march their wives and children alongside them in war. Most are too weak to bear the thought of their loved ones in danger. Imagine what an army would do if it suddenly learned an attack was coming down on their kin.”

He had been disgusted with the implications of Roose’s strategy. To attack women and children was a dishonorable thing to even consider. Yet faced with the crushing numbers of the wildling host, Ned considered it. In the end though, he’d taken a path he felt less monstrous. Roose would indeed attack the wildling camp, but he would not put it to the sword. He was to set fire to their tents and kill whatever guards were there, spreading terror and panic among the innocents.

The Lord of the Dreadfort was surely worthy of such a task.

Stannis had performed his own part in the plan admirably. Leading hundreds against thousands, the Lord-Commander’s force broke free of the woods and tore the guts out of Mance’s army. It was troubling to think that they might have won with just that one act, yet when the wildlings took notice of the horns sounding and the smoke rising up from their camp, his victory was all but assured.

Thousands had broken away from the fight, wailing in rage as they rushed back to their families. Most had stayed to fight but it meant little in truth. The northern army was too disciplined. Too organized.

Too ruthless.

Ned scowled as he watched more bodies float down on the river. More women and children.

“Your horse m’lord.” Wyl said, gesturing behind him as horses were brought forward from the rear for them. As soon as he climbed up on his mount he turned to issue commands to the other riders.

“I want Roose Bolton brought to me. Now.” He looked to Jory, for he trusted him above all others to dictate terms to the lord. “Alyn, get word to Lord of Barrowton. He is to take his riders and press the advantage over our foes. Heward, seek the Karstarks. They must go and reinforce the Greatjon immediately. There’s nothing stopping the wildings from trying another attack through the woods. Bring me my horse, I will go to confer to with the Lord-Commander…”

His words died away at the sight of a massive party riding across the battlefield towards him. At their head was Stannis, but he spotted Jorah Mormont and Galbart Glover riding with him.

“Lord Stark!” Ser Jorah hailed, a cut upon his cheek. “Many prisoners have been taken this day! One more valuable than most!”

When they reined up before him, Stannis waved toward a few of his black brothers from further within the group. Soon a man, tied and bound, was thrown down on the ground in front of him. A wildling of middling age, spattered with blood and wearing what looked to be a black cloak of the Night’s Watch, save for the red silk lining it. Stranger still, the man looked familiar to him.

“Good to see you again Lord Stark.” The prisoner smiled up at him. “This might not be the best time but I’d like to point out that you owe me some coin. My songs don’t come free you know.”

“What’s this about coin? Of songs?” He asked, full of confusion. Until he found himself remembering a celebration at Winterfell half a year ago. “You’re the bard! The one that came with the king’s party!”

“By the gods, it is!” Jory ran a hand down his face. “We shared an ale…”

“I would love to do so again.” The bard held up his bound hands. “I’m just a little tied up at the moment.”

Galbart found no humor in that, spitting on the prisoner before looking to Ned with a dour expression.

“My lord, allow me to present Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall.” Galbart spoke with derision. “The murderer of Daryn Hornwood and two of Lord Karstark’s boys, Eddard and Torrhen.”

“A turncloak and an oathbreaker.” Stannis continued. “By all rights Mance Rayder belongs to the Night’s Watch.”

“He was captured by northmen!” Galbart snapped, gesturing to Jorah. “It was Lord Mormont that defeated him! T'was Northern sons he killed!”

“None of that changes-”

“You’re Mance Rayder?” Ned asked, a deep hole opening up inside him. “You were in my home…”

“Ah yes, Winterfell... a fine castle, truly.” Mance smiled back at him. “There were flowers so beautiful there, I thought to steal them. I do hope Lady Sansa and young Arya are doing well. Arya would be ten and one by now wouldn’t she? Ten and two?”

He smelled the threat behind that smile. This revelation answered many questions that had been nagging him for months. Such as how the wildlings knew the North was coming, how they knew to begin killing outriders.

I let their leader in to my home… he ate in my hall…

He stood near my children…

“He killed those boys?” He asked of the others. “Rickard’s sons? Daryn?”

“They died fighting.” Jorah answered. “He looks common enough but it’s a trick, this man is dangerous. I wouldn't have prevailed against him if not for Torrhen Karstark.”

“My sword got stuck in his neck.” Mance muttered and it sparked a fury in Ned.

Those murdered boys were only a little older than Robb. Had he allowed Robb to join this march, it might well be his own son lying dead by this man’s hand. He kicked his horse forward, hooves crashing down dangerously near Mance’s bound form.

“Think carefully before you make jests of murdering those young men.” He snarled. “They died honorably. Treat them with some respect.”

“Respect? Honor?!” Mance jerked back, gesturing to the smoke still rising from the wildling camp. “There’s your honor right there Stark, going up in smoke! My wife is with child! How many men did you send against my love? It’s not enough that you invade our lands! You must kill our children?!”

The bodies in the river came back to him then. The small ones who had no right being there. His fury gave way to something more distressing.

“Silence this turncloak and put him under guard.” He was not shocked that Stannis quickly set his own men to the task. Galbart and Jorah looked ready to argue but he had other tasks for them. “I need you two to take some men and make for the wildling camp. Find out the truth of this wife of Mance Rayder and her child. If they are alive I want them in our care. And bring me Roose Bolton!”

The men did as they were told, Stannis appearing pleased that Ned raised no argument to his claim over Mance. He imagined there would be anger over this among his bannermen but it would likely pass. There was little doubt Stannis’s punishment for the turncloak would be a severe one.

Ned was more concerned with those prisoners who had not forfeited their lives. Leaders of the wildling factions he might treat with, for he had decided during the long march that this war should lead to something more than just slaughter.

These people want something, or else they would not be marching as one.

The Night’s Watch lacks allies here beyond the Wall and the strength to go without them.

Before this war is done, perhaps I can make some peace that doesn't rest on the end of a sword.

Yet there was little peace to be found as his men began making camp along the river bank. When the prisoners were brought to him the northern lords gazed at them with nothing but hatred. A red-haired wildling who granted himself the title Gerrick Kingsblood. The son of the man that Ned had slain, Sigorn of Thenn, who looked much like his father. A warrior called Soren Shieldbreaker, aptly named according to Willam. The list went on and on, each one of the savage lords glaring up at him with fury. None bent their knees without being forced down, no matter their wounds or heavy chains.

Later Ned was discussing those men in his tent with the Greatjon and Willam when Alyn announced the return of Ser Jorah. Throwing aside the tent flap, the knight entered looking like he’d been through a second battle, dragging a blood-spattered beauty in with him. Hers was a lovely face with thick honey-blonde hair tumbling about her shoulders. Beneath her bear furs he suspected she hid a shapely figure.

There was no hiding the fierce defiance in her eyes.

“This is Val. Of the Free Folk she says.” Jorah grumbled, sporting a black eye and a line of scratches down his cheek. “Mance Rayder’s goodsister. We found her with his wife and child. She did not come peacefully.”

“You kneelers were killing everyone in sight.” Val snapped, her light grey eyes burning into Ned’s. “Was I supposed to spread my legs and beg for mercy? To simply trust that you would spare my nephew?”

Ned looked to Jorah for the truth of this who looked ashamed to nod.

“It is as she says. When we arrived many were dead. Lord Bolton's forces were only just ending their assault. I told this one that we meant no harm and… well, as she said, she had no reason to trust us.”

“What of the wildling queen?” Willam asked. “Mance Rayder’s wife?”

“Dalla is dead.” Val kept her gaze locked on Ned.

“And the child?” He asked and Jorah finally gave him a welcome answer.

“A son, newborn. He lives. My niece Dacey is tending to him.”

“The Karstarks won’t like the sound of that.” The Greatjon shook his head. “Mance lives and gets a son while Rickard has to bury two of his.”

“That child is an innocent.” He rounded about on the lord. “A babe who is now under my care. He will be spared the follies of his father. Lord Karstark will have to find solace in Mance suffering for his crimes, not that child.”

“And what of your crimes?” Val asked, adding to the weight in his soul.

“Have her cleaned up and put under guard. No harm is to come to her.” Ned said, bidding Val to be taken away from the tent but bidding Jorah stay. “I want you here for this my lord.”

Messengers moved about the camp, gathering the lords and commanders of the army to him. Stannis arrived first, grim even in victory, with Qhorin Halfhand and Theo Wull at his side. Galbart made the excuses for Halys Hornwood, the man too bereft with grief to leave the side of his son's body. Whatever pain that poor lord felt, Rickard Karstark likely suffered it twofold, and looked the part when he joined them. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes distant. The lord numbly took a place to his side, for Ned would honor Rickard with nothing less.

His sympathy for Rickard’s loss, was eclipsed by his anger when Jory led Roose Bolton and Harrion Karstark within. Roose was clad in dark grey plate over blood red leather, with a pink cloak, embroidered with droplets of blood, flowing down from his shoulders. Ned wondered how much of that blood was truly embroidery and grew incensed at how casually the lord’s pale eyes took in the gathering before him.

“It is good to see you all well.” Roose spoke softly, pulling his gloves off and handing them to a squire. “A fine victory today, though I daresay the fighting is far from done.”

“Eh? We crushed the buggers.” The Greatjon clapped Theo on the back. “Thousands upon thousands, fleeing in every direction, shitting their breeches the whole way!”

“Precisely. The enemy lost a battle but many of their number escaped. Far too many to be tolerated.”

“So you noticed the survivors, good. It means your eyes clearly work. I worried, since your ears clearly fail you.” Ned’s tone drew all the eyes to him. “What were my orders Lord Bolton? What commands did I give you about the attack on the wildling camp?”

“Ah yes. That went differently than expected I'm afraid.” Roose replied with a small nod. “Still, the tents burned and the wildling army was drawn away-”

“Now I’m starting to believe that you might be deaf.” He cut the lord off. “It’s a simple question my lord. What were my orders? Perhaps in the future I can have them written down for you.”

Willam coughed at that, the only sound in the entire tent. Ned and Roose squared off, neither moving, neither breaking their gaze from one another. Cat once said that Roose Bolton’s pale eyes made her skin crawl, yet Ned felt only anger. Reflected in the lord’s eyes was a fool, a man foolish enough to trust such a monster.

“To fire only the tents.” The lord’s words remained quiet, yet still rang with threat. “To spare... innocents.”

“Then how is it, that Galbart Glover and Jorah Mormont report thousands dead at the camp? The old. The defenseless. The young.”

“It is a simple answer Lord Stark. When I arrived I found no innocents.” Roose looked to Harrion Karstark then. “Let my companion attest to that.”

“The lord speaks the truth.” Harrion nodded grimly. “These people are savages Lord Stark. No sooner did we ride into their outer guard, every matter of wildling rose up against us. Old, young, woman or child, they all fought. They tried to kill us with everything they had. Spears, rocks, even their bare hands. We had no choice but to give battle in earnest.”

“Their sheer numbers might have overwhelmed us.” Roose looked to the other lords. “So I ordered a push. With flame and spear we pressed through the camp, driving as many as we could towards the river. Those who ran we let flee. Those who stood their ground… well, we sharpen our blades for a reason, do we not?”

Not to kill women and children… we are not monsters…

It surprised him when the Greatjon gave a grunt in agreement.

“Could’ve buggered me with a sword when women joined that fight in the forest. All of them running at us, spears in hand. They fought just as hard as their fucking men.”

“Spearwives.” Qhorin added. “I was forced to kill one myself when we scouted the Frostfangs for you my lord. A young thing with pretty red hair. Nonetheless, she would’ve torn out my throat if she had the chance. Wildlings kidnap their wives. To them, a woman’s not yours unless you steal her. These people are taught to fight for everything, even the right to live and breathe, from birth. To protect what they have, to get what they want.”

“Hey! Jorah captured that Val woman, didn't he?” Willam guffawed. “That means she’s his now eh? Hear that Jeor? It seems you’ve got yourself a wildling princess for a gooddaughter!”

While Jeor and Jorah both grumbled at the prodding while Ned could not believe his ears. He wasn’t sure what upset him more, that the others appeared to accept Roose’s reasoning, or that he was questioning what he would have done in the lord’s place.

I would’ve found a way, he thought, there is always a way.

The North didn’t march here to butcher innocents… I didn’t leave my children to kill the children of others.

“What does this matter?” Lord Rickard rose up, coming to stand between Roose and the others. “My sons are dead. Killed because these savages threatened our lands. A hundred. A thousand! Ten thousand!! No number of their dead will fill the hole in my heart.”

“Father...” Harrion went to put a hand on the lord's shoulder but was rebuffed, Rickard jabbing a finger at Stannis instead.

“He dies! Mance Rayder! If you will not promise me that then give him over to me! My lord wants dead warriors? Well that’s one I’ll gladly finish myself!”

“The Watch does not answer to the whim of you northern lords.” Stannis crossed his arms. “When Mance Rayder dies it will be for his crimes against the Night’s Watch, for breaking his oath, not for your personal vendetta.”

“Just as long as he dies.” Rickard warned and Stannis set to grinding his teeth.

“There are other prisoners I wish to discuss. All of the wildling lords are being held be you Lord Stark. I propose that half be given over to me-”

“Half my hairy arse!” The Greatjon bellowed and once again it became Stannis against the North.

They won a great battle this day yet many were eager to continue the fighting, whether in this tent or in the days to come. Splitting the prisoners with the Watch was out of the question. Ned knew his bannermen would never accept that. The Greatjon was more interested in what prisoners they failed to capture, particularly the wildling raider who had bled the Umber forces something terrible.

“That would be Tormund.” The Halfhand grinned. “A raider I’ve both fought and treated with many times. Has more titles than men but he’s the one to watch. If any can reform the wildlings for a counterattack, it is him.”

“The Weeper also escaped.” Jeor Mormont put a hand to his blade. “That maiming whoreson will be trouble as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he uses this battle as a chance to try and get over the Wall again.”

He had worried on that himself. Giving chase to Mance and his army had left the Wall sorely depleted of defenders. This fear, combined with their newfound prisoners, led him to a decision that all were united in disliking.

He asked that Stannis take most of his men and return to Castle Black with the prisoners. The Lord-Commander objected to it as much as Ned’s lords, who wanted to press their advantage. He wanted that as well but was not inclined to give his prisoners a chance to escape, nor their foes an opportunity to launch any rescues. A couple would be kept behind, those most likely to help Ned communicate with their people. Stannis would leave Jeor Mormont, the Halfhand, and a company of his rangers with the Northern army. In return Jorah and his men would add to Stannis’s escort, as well as a strong force of northern riders.

Namely Roose Bolton and his men. 

The arguments went on until late into the night but in the end Ned won out. It was after nearly all had departed that he asked that Jorah and Willam stay behind, so he could properly explain himself. Jory fetched some wine and Ned joined his exhausted men for a drink then.

“I had not thought to leave the fight my lord.” Jorah said, not impolitely. He gestured to the bear-head pommel of his Valyrian-steel bastard sword. “My father gifted me his sword for this first campaign. I had hoped it would see more than one battle.”

“I chose you for this task precisely because you know when to keep your sword sheathed my lord.” Ned unhooked his heavy wolf-fur cloak and let it fall upon his bedding with a sigh. “That wildling princess, Val, she attacked you, even bloodied you. Yet you did not harm the woman. You subdued her without so much as a scratch, let alone using your blade.”

“I personally would have preferred to see her bodice ripped a bit.” Willam nudged Jorah. “That savage looks to have a set on her. A fine wife you have there ser.”

Jorah turned red at Will’s jest and Ned wondered how the poor knight got by at Bear Island, surrounded by Maege Mormont and her girls.

“Lord Stark I am a warrior.” Jorah grumbled. “A knight. A lord. I’m not meant to act as a maiden’s defender.”

“You think that one’s a maiden?” Willam laughed. “Gods Jorah, smile her way and you just might see the finest set of tits this side of the Narrow-”

“Will be silent.” Ned admonished the lord. “Ser Jorah, no matter Roose Bolton’s reasons, what he did to those wildlings will haunt me for the rest of my days. I will not have him continue with this march. If I am to make peace with these people I can’t have a butcher like that at my side. Nor can I trust him in seeing to the safekeeping of those prisoners, Val and that child especially. Can I put my faith in you?”

Jorah’s brow furrowed at those words, the man swishing the wine about in his goblet. He forgave that indecision. Were he asked to care for enemies rather than fight them he’d likely act the same.

“House Mormont has always been loyal.” Jorah finally nodded. “I will do as you ask of me my lord.”

“I thank you. Prepare to leave come morning.” He took Jorah’s hand in his, the two men trying to crush each other's grasp. Before the knight left, Ned had Jory give over their keg of wine to the knight, to ease his disappointment. As Jorah pushed through the flap, a gust of cold wind blew within, a sound carrying in on it.

A babe’s wailing.

A babe without a mother to comfort it.

“Ned I’m sorry about that.” Willam apologized, tugging on his beard. “I thought if I made that grumbling bear laugh he might-”

“It’s fine old friend. I am not truly angry with you.”

“Angry? Oh, I figured you were jealous.” Willam put an arm around his shoulders and leaned in. “About what I said of the wildling woman’s bust. Once I said much the same about Catelyn’s after your bedding.”

“Yes, I remember.” Ned smiled despite himself. “Something about wishing you had never been weaned.”

“You can’t blame my eyes for wandering. Barbrey’s are so small! I’m shocked my son didn’t starve.” Willam chuckled, like they were two boys watching a serving girl bathe in a spring. “I’ll tell you this though, best arse in the Seven Kingdoms. Even now, years later, I’d rather ride that rear over my finest stallion. Firm as can be, worth the stick I found jammed up there when we were first married.”

That broke through the barriers. Ned’s laughter shook his chest as Willam mimicked riding a horse.

“It’s been a hard day Will… I needed that.”

“Hard day? Fuck Ned, it’s been a hard year.” His friend raised up his goblet, urging him to do the same. “To our wives and their safety. I can think of no finer reason to fight such foul wars.”

As Ned met the goblet he thought of that wailing babe again. When Mance’s wife and child were first mentioned his mind immediately went to Catelyn at Riverrun. Of how far away his beloved truly was, of how long it would be before he laid eyes on her again. Cat and their newest babe.

A new child… I read all her letters again and it was so plain… her joy is clear through the words…

Ned felt that joy as well. To picture Cat singing softly to her round belly, holding a bundle in her arms and smiling. Raining soft kisses down upon a little pink brow.

The sorrow came when he realized that he would miss all of this. Just like it had been with Robb. He was away at war, ending lives while Cat ushered new life into this world. With no way to learn anything of the south while they marched, his mind became creative in finding new things to fear. He worried over Cat’s health, then the child’s health, for his wife was six and thirty now and had birthed five babes already.

Mance’s wife died birthing her first… and she was probably younger than Cat.

Did she call out for her husband? Will Cat cry out for me?

“Stop worrying Ned.” Willam shook him again. “Leave tomorrow’s battles for tomorrow. Let today’s victory ease your mind into some well needed rest. Jory, we need to help Eddard wash away that stern face of his.”

It was no face washing that followed, rather a drowning of sorts. Together the three men filled their goblets, Jory and Willam raising theirs to toast. Jory wanted to toast to those they lost but Willam wanted something more cheerful, something for him to cling to.

“To our families.” Ned said, looking between his old friends. “To those we love.”

“To my uncle Rodrik and his darling Beth.” Jory smiled to say their names. “May they bed down warm and happy this night.”

“To my proud boy Roddy.” Willam grinned ear to ear. “May his mother let him act a man one day. And speaking of Barbrey, may she be ready for a ride when I return.”

Ned knew what he wanted to honor above all else.

“To my children, who I miss dearly.” He gripped his goblet tightly. “To Cat, who I will hold again… and to the child who I wish to know.”

Thus the three men, with years of friendship and battles behind them, clanked their goblets together and drank to their loved ones.

Somewhere beyond the tent a babe wailed in the darkness.

The winds blowing louder until their harsh moans overcame the child’s cries.

The cold growing deeper, creeping within the tent.

His hope no guard against it.

 

CATELYN

“He’s in there m’lady.” Long Lew pointed ahead. “We’ve managed to drive the beast into the kennels but, well, the boy was too wild.”

Cat frowned as the Tully guardsman led her and Edmure on to the entrance of Riverrun’s gardens. The castle’s master-at-arms was inspecting the hand of one his guardsmen while captain of the guards leaned against the moss covered archway, clutching at his crotch.

“A few stitches.” Ser Desmond Grell released Elwood’s bleeding hand when he noticed her coming. “Robin, the lord and lady are here. Time to explain how a child bested you.”

“You’re the one that taught him that move.” Ser Robin Ryger said red-faced, wheezing to stand at his full height.

“What in the name of the Father happened here?” Edmure demanded, looking between Riverrun’s two most seasoned warriors. “I’m trying to keep the Riverlands from being torn to shreds and my own home is in chaos!”

“Lew told us what happened.” She pushed by her brother, to look upon Elwood’s hand, which had been torn a little about the palm. “Shaggydog bit you as well?”

“No m’lady.” The guardsman answered sheepishly. “T’was young lord Rickon. Bit me when I tried to grab him, after he kneed Ser Robin in the oats.”

“The lady doesn’t need to hear about my oats!” Robin grunted, sweating from discomfort.

Desmond mumbled a curse while Edmure pressed fingers to his own temples. If Cat had it in her to be so astonished she was numb to it now. Instead another feeling pulled at her, a need that drove out all others. A force deep within her that, as soon as she’d heard Rickon was in trouble, drove her here to protect her child.

He’s the only one I can keep safe here, she thought, Rickon and this little one.

She placed a hand on her distended stomach, so large now she could no longer see her feet while standing.

“Stay here, all of you.” Cat commanded, walking on into the garden without waiting for any to give argument. “I must see to my son.”

Most times this garden was bright and airy, its wildflowers and rosebushes bathed in the golden rays of the day. Yet it was nearing dusk and the waning light could no longer climb the walls to reach this place her mother so cherished. The lack of light didn’t trouble her though, for there was no need to search the gardens, for she knew where to go. Straight towards the sept father had built for her lady mother.

Inside the seven-sided sandstone building were the stone likenesses of the seven themselves, each placed in an alcove of its own. Cat found Rickon in a place that suited him, sitting at the base of the Warrior. Her son had his knees drawn up this his chest, his chin resting atop them. It struck her how much Rickon looked like Robb when her eldest was the same age. When Robb knew he’d done something wrong.

Robb would be too old to do so anymore… and he has done nothing wrong…

You cannot blame him for what’s happened… you weren’t there to protect them…

Making to stand over her youngest son she begrudged her belly, for it made settling to her knees too cumbersome a thing to attempt.

“Are you hurt?” She asked and Rickon gave a curt shake of his head, his thick auburn hair moving as well. Sansa’s was so thick. “For that I am glad, though I cannot say the same of the men I passed on my way here. Elwood will need stitches, Robin’s oats- well he is hurt as well, and Maester Vyman says the guardsman Shaggydog attacked will be walking with a crutch for a month.”

“Shaggy didn’t attack him!” Rickon looked up at her with fierce blue eyes. “Delp tried to stop me and I fell so Shaggy grabbed his foot! He didn’t mean to hurt him! He was protecting me!”

Where were the girls wolves then? Why didn’t a direwolf protect my sweet babe?

“And what of the others?” She asked, forcing herself to push the grief away, to focus on the child before her.  “Your wolf never made it so far. What do you have to say for who hurt them?”

Rickon said nothing to that, avoiding her eyes. As stubborn as Arya.

“Rickon Stark, I asked you a question.”

“They wouldn’t move!” He shouted, rocking back and forth. “You wouldn’t let grandfather take me here! He said there was a present for me! A fine present! Just for me!”

“Your grandfather was confused, you know how ill he’s been.” Cat said softly, hating to admit the next part. “He cannot leave his bed let alone journey all the way here Rickon. I told you there was no gift waiting-”

“You could’ve been lying! You’re a liar!” Rickon slammed his fists down to his sides, pushing himself up to run off again. She managed to get a grip on his arm, fighting to hold her boy in place. “Let me go! Liar! Liar! You say everything is fine but I know! I dreamed it! I dreamed about home! About Sansa and Arya!”

No don’t say such things… you couldn’t have… such things aren’t for a child to know…

Rickon’s reaction was the same as it had been in father’s chambers only a short while ago. He wasn’t meant to visit with his grandfather anymore, not without Cat to watch over them both. At times her father’s mind would become as frail as his body, and few besides her or the maester could spot the warning signs. She wanted to spare Rickon the hurt of seeing father enter one of those states, when he forgot where he was, who they were, sometimes weeping in fear.

Cat wept tears for different reasons these days.

She’d been with Edmure, listening to the latest reports of Robert Baratheon’s raids into the Riverlands. After her brother returned from the Red Storm, the river armies in tatters, he made to prepare Riverrun for a possible siege. Others followed suit, the riverlords all returning their own castles, awaiting the coming of the Golden Company, or worse, their Dothraki beasts.

Yet the only thing to come from Harrenhal was Lady Whent and her household, their distant kin seeking sanctuary. No army marched on Riverrun. Nor on Raventree Hall or Stone Hedge. Weeks now Edmure had been waiting for an attack yet Robert Baratheon seemed content to merely send mounted raiders into the nearest fields and towns west of the God’s Eye. Foraging parties rather than Dothraki.

Those who’d braved the dangers reported Harrenhal’s occupiers constructing siege engines with the wood of nearby forests, impressing captured men into service, mustering rather than marching deeper into her family’s lands. It was other lands the Usurper troubled instead. With the Unsullied and a few thousand more holding Harrenhall, Robert’s army continued his campaigns east, capturing the castles Antlers, Sow’s Horn and Rook’s Rest. Edmure believed the seven had smiled on them, that the riverlords proved too strong to attack.

Tytos Blackwood had told her differently, during his last visit and attempt to push Edmure into calling the banners again.

“It is not us Robert fears, the lords content to hide in their castles, but the prince’s men to the east.” Tytos had said while climbing his horse, , preparing to lead his men back to Raventree Hall.

“My boy Brynden was with those who draw the eye of the Usurper. The Blackfish, the Lightning Lord, Black Walder Frey, hundreds of others, all flying the white dragon banner. They constantly hit Robert’s foragers and his rearguard then slip away like ghosts in the night. The Golden Company and their Dothraki dogs have lost hundreds chasing the prince’s men all about the Crownlands. Those men are fighting the war, not hiding from it. They act to avenge Lucas... it shames me.”

It shamed her too. Robb, Bran, Jon, the boys she’d raised, the boys she loved, they were all fighting in this war. Doing more than their parts while she was trapped within these walls, unable to get Edmure to venture beyond them.

That’s what their argument had been about. Another in a long line going back to when he’d first returned. Edmure turning his back to her again.

“Cat, I caused the royal army’s defeat because I acted rashly.” Edmure spoke with his head lowered. “Thousands dead. The king himself… I will not let risk our home falling to the same fate. Nor you or your children!”

“My children are suffering the same fate.” She reminded him. “If you will not fight Robert Baratheon then go north! Viserys Targaryen has taken my home! A sellsword company at his back! Robb’s trapped fighting reaver reinforcements on the Stoney Shore! Gods Edmure, Robb would help you if Riverrun was threatened!”

“Riverrun is threatened!” Edmure threw open his arms waving them about the empty room. “I have less men now than I did! The only allies we have are far away or preparing to be attacked! For all I know Tywin Lannister is just waiting for me to march anywhere to pounce on us! Only the Stranger knows what the Vale will do now that Jon Arryn’s dead.”

It was a hard thing to concede that point. When word came from the capital of Jon Arryn’s sudden death due to illness Edmure had torn the parchment in half. Others had followed of course, from the lords of Vale themselves. All unified in naming their lord paramount’s death a murder. Some naming it Queen Cersei’s work. Others blaming the Hand himself. Lady Anya Waynwood cast suspicion on Tyrion Lannister, reminding them of the rumors of his role in the disappearance of Cat’s dear friend, Petyr Baelish.

All those lords agreed the Vale would not march until Lysa and little Robert Arryn were returned to the Eyrie. A demand the Hand steadfastly refused to concede to. Perhaps fearing the Vale might indeed march, but for Robert instead.

“We need help Cat.” Edmure had slumped into a chair, head in his hands. “Against war elephants, the Dothraki, the Unsullied… I can’t win against that in the open field. We need help.”

“My children need help.” Was all she could offer. “I must do something Edmure. I cannot let them suffer… I cannot fail anoth-”

That was when Rickon’s minder had interrupted them, the poor woman at her wits end. Her son had grown sick of her stories, preferring to hear some from his grandfather instead. Somehow using Shaggydog to keep her at bay while he ran to seek his grandfather’s rooms.

They’d found Rickon sitting to her father’s side, the ailing lord smiling weakly to stroke her son’s face with his skeletal hand. Speaking words that caused Catelyn to freeze in her steps.

“You must tell your sister I’m sorry…” Father had rasped. “I’m so sorry… I want to see her so…”

“Did you have a dream too?” Rickon had asked desperately. “About the monsters? The bloody dog and the girls? The warriors?”

“Warrior? Yes… yes…there’s a gift for you in the sept Edmure… but only if you listen to your sister.” Father continued on, cupping Rickon’s cheek, his eyes pale. That was when Cat had realized he was having one of his moments. “Your mother might be gone but you must heed Cat… she’ll keep you safe… my little Cat…”

“I’m here father.” She’d startled both. “And you remember my son Rickon. Edmure is right here.”

“Brynden?” Father had squinted at Edmure, then held out his arm, his finger pointing accusingly. “Brynden you’ll marry that girl damn you. It’s the natural way, marriage… your way is unnatural… the septon says so…”

“It’s bad this time.” Edmure had grumbled, making to take Rickon in hand. “Come along, he’s in no state for a visit son…”

“I’m not your son!” Rickon had screamed, jumping off the bed and causing father to howl in pain to be jarred so.

“Rickon!”

“I want father! I want Robb and Bran!” Rickon shouted, running between them. “Sansa! Arya! I want to go home!”

So did she. Cat wanted all those things too. Yet as Rickon fought and struggled with her in the sept, begging for all that once more, it was her turn to offer excuses.

“We can’t go home my love.” She held the little boy’s wrists in her hands as he tugged out of the sept and into the garden. “I’m sorry but we can’t. The babe must be born-”

“I hate it! I hate the baby!” Rickon screamed. “I want my real brothers! My sisters! And you’re lying! Shaggy knows! Something bad happened and you won’t tell me!”

It turned her stomach to remember the night Rickon came to her chambers crying. Terrified because of some nightmare he had of monsters and bloody hounds at Winterfell. Of Sansa calling for help and Arya all covered in red. She’d told him it was but a dream, that of all of them, his sisters were the safest.

Which made her a liar, though she hadn’t known so at the time.

It wasn’t until the raven came from Winterfell she learned the truth. In the maester’s writing but another’s words. A monster’s words, inked in blood. Words that tore Cat’s heart out and drew a cry from the depths of her soul. Shaggydog had echoed it with a mournful howl of his own. The wolf perhaps sensing the truth himself then, something she struggled to keep Rickon ignorant of.

To spare him the pain she woke to each day. The hurt that bid her to cry herself to sleep each night. To hold her belly, as if she feared monsters would come for the babe, out of the shadows when she least suspected.

As they had done once already.

“Let me go!” Rickon wept. “Let me go! I’ll go and find them! I want my family! I’ll find them! They need me! Let me go!”

She nearly did, for while Rickon struggled against her hold, another struggled within her. Her eyes shot down to her middle, like she expected to see it tremble. The feeling came again and Rickon must have sensed something changing, for his struggles weakened some. When her eyes rose she found her little boy staring with an expression born of frustration and confusion.

“It’s kicking.” She said quietly, feeling the baby kick at her once more. The first time she’d felt it do so. “The babe is kicking.”

“What?” Rickon looked to her stomach, eyes narrowing. “It kicks? Is it hurting you?”

“No my son, no, it doesn’t hurt.” Cat let go of his wrists to guide his hands to her middle. He resisted only a little, his eyes growing wide when he felt the kicking himself. “Your brother or sister is just letting us know they’re here. That they’re listening… that they hear us…”

“It can hear me…” Rickon gazed in wonder, pushing his hands harder against her. “All the way in there?”

“Yes, that’s why I sing to the babe so. You kicked very much when I sang. When your father and the others would talk to you. The girls would sing too-” Her voice caught in her throat and Rickon caught it, his blue eyes bright in the darkness.

“I didn’t know the baby could hear me…” Rickon whispered, his anger gone away as quickly as it came. Her boy now focused on speaking to her middle. “I don’t hate you. Not really. I just want to go home and play with the others… our big brothers and sisters. You’ll like them too… Robb will put you on his shoulders and Bran will chase you. Sansa and Arya fight a lot and it’s really funny and sometimes they sneak me sweets…”

That was the moment Cat decided the lie had to end. As much as she wanted Rickon to hold onto those memories that’s all they were now. Just memories. How long would it be before he managed to learn the horrible truth for himself? A misplaced word by a servant. Two guardsmen gossiping. Overhearing Edmure or her speaking. She glanced to the sept where she’d been lighting candles for days and days. Seeking some comfort, some strength to live with this horrible truth.

All while denying Rickon the same.

“My love.” She cupped Rickon’s face and ending his soft words. “My sweet babe… I have to tell you something… about Winterfell.”

Hours later, the pair laid in her bed. Rickon’s tears had slowly given way to whimpering and finally, little, slumbering breaths. When he’d been asleep awhile Cat felt able to let him go, rising from the bed to let him slumber in peace. Hoping he dreamt of better times.

While she went to fouler places.

Riverrun’s dungeons were the last place she wished to be after everything that happened today, yet Rickon’s misadventures had interrupted a very carefully planned series of events. Cat found her co-conspirators where they were supposed to be. Awaiting her at the top of the stone staircase leading down into the dungeons.

Maester Vyman and Utherydes Wayn broke off their whispered conversation, both nodding to see her approach down the empty corridor.

“How long ago was it delivered?” She asked.

“Several hours my lady.” The head steward answered. “The guard says he drank without complaint, save to mock them as usual. Most of the skin is gone, if not all.”

With a look to the maester the old man nodded.

“For a man his size and how much he seems to have consumed, I imagine he will be lost to the world within the hour. Perhaps earlier. For now, his senses and reasoning will be dulled… as you wished.”

“Then I beg your help in seeing to our guest Utherydes.” She said, bidding the steward to offer his arm so he could guide her down the stone steps.

This had been a plan weeks in the making. Every night their prisoner was given a skin of wine with his meal. For a while, he’d scorned the drink, preferring to squirt it at his guards. After a time though, whether from boredom or thirst, he began to drink. Usually finishing a skin before drifting off to sleep.

Tonight it would be different. Before he had rest Cat would have answers.

The dungeon guards opened the heavy doors or wood and iron to allow her to enter, Cat going on alone as all others waiting behind. It was within the windowless, dank dungeons she found the prisoner sitting on the ground of his rush-covered cell.

Leaning back against the bars, wine skin in his one hand, golden hair shimmering in the torchlight, sat a very drunk knight. One singing a familiar tune.

“And so they spoke and so they spoke… that lord of Castamere… but now the rains weep o’er his hall… with no one there to-” 

Jaime Lannister hiccupped then, laughing without mirth and drinking of the skin again. His white wool garments were filthy, his golden beard shaggy and unkempt, yet the man was clean enough otherwise. He might be a prisoner but she had not denied him water or rags to clean with.

Though she found little gratitude when the knight took notice of her.

“Lady Catelyn…” His voice came in a confident drawl, the man squinting at her middle with a wry smile. “I thought the Tully sigil was trout, not a whale.”

“And a good evening to you ser.” She replied, not rising to the barb. Truly she was too happy to see how empty the wine skin appeared to be.

Let him have some fun at my expense, after so much strong wine he’ll wish for death tomorrow.

Depending on his answers this night I might grant him that wish.

“It be far better if I had a proper bed to sleep in.” The Kingslayer gestured with his stump to a pile of rushes across from him. “You wouldn’t believe how cold and stiff it feels to bed down so… actually with Ned Stark as a husband, you might.”

Cat ignored the anger that arose in her, for she caught how slowly the man was speaking, how he slurred his words.

“You had chambers, as befit your station as a Kingsguard. You chose to try and escape them, wounding good men in-”

“I had no choice!” The knight roared. “My king was dead! His son in danger! And you lot keep me locked up! For what? A fucking dead drunk!”

Hearing him mention Jon in danger did hurt. For she had misled her nephew in her reasons for wanting the Kingsguard knight left at Riverrun. The raven from Robb and Maester Luwin outlining their suspicious of the Lannister knight had bid her to do so. There was little proof of their beliefs beyond Arya’s word, little enough to convince Jon, she knew that. So she lied in hopes to gather some evidence.

I must pray I am right in this, she thought, else I deprived Jon of a Kingsguard knight in dire times…

“Do you admit you murdered that groom now?” She asked, turning up her nose as the man tried to struggle to his feet. “The Lannister man who drowned on our journey south.”

“I’m not the bloody Groomslayer.” Jaime spat as he stumbled against the bars, waving his stump about. “Thieving shits took my hand… did they give it to you? Do you miss your husband that much? A golden tickle beneath the sheets….”

“You gave up the privilege of that golden hand when you tossed it at my brother.”

“Oh yes… hit him right in the oats.” The Kingslayer laughed, finally gaining his feet, pressing his face through the bars at her. His eyes unfocused and breath reeking of wine. “I’d do worse to Robert… let me go woman… let me kill the man who killed my king…”

“The king who took your hand? I fear you’d join the Usurper, you certainly have reason after Rhaegar maimed you.”

“He forgave me!” Jaime spat her. “After everything. The blood… the fire… failing her… I would’ve killed him if it had been Cersei that burned but Rhaegar forgave me. I swore an oath… I tell you same as my father… I swore a fucking oath to a good man… better than me.”

“You lie.” Cat hissed, backing away, suddenly fearful of the man’s reach. “There’s nothing but betrayal in your heart. You killed Aerys-”

“It always comes back to Aerys.” The knight shook his head. “I killed a mad man to serve a better man…”

“Liar! Oathbreaker! You killed Rhaegar’s father. You tried to kill his son and almost killing mine!”

“I want to protect him!” The Kingslayer shook the bars, spit flying from his mouth. “I remembered my oath! I remembered! I honored it gods damn you!”

“You were in the Jon’s berth before the tourney with that groom. Then Jon’s saddle failed him, my son nearly dying for it. A saddle gone missing in your care. That groom murdered in your company. Your oath is worthless.”

“No idea what you’re talking about... you’ve no idea…”

The knight began lighting thumping his head against the bars, closing his eyes and repeating the words over, again and again. Yet she had plenty more to accuse the man of.

“This was all a Lannister plot from the start. All of it. Trying to kill Jon at Winterfell. Maiming my Bran to draw him out for your father’s men. The Mountain kills all he faces, yet somehow you survived. I see collusion in that. Did you find some weakness at Winterfell? Some way for Viserys Targaryen to seize our home? What kind of a man puts innocent girls in such danger? What kind of a man would hand them to a monster-”

“No! NO!!!”

The Kingslayer’s eyes shot open, the man flailing backwards, away from the bars. He fell hard on his arse with a grunt, eyes looking about widely and hand to his head. His fingers pulling at his hair.

“Aerys made me get her…" The knight rasped. “I was sworn to obey so I brought them all… he made me bring them... called it a royal audience. Elia knew something was wrong the whole time. So did I… my father was outside the gates… why? Why were there pyromancers in the throne room? Why were they building a pyre? Why was Aerys smiling?”

“I’m not speaking of Aerys!” She gripped the bars and screamed at him. “I’m speaking of the truth! Of my daughters!”

The Kingslayer looked at her then, his face twisted in pain as he shook his head.

“No, there was only one girl... Aerys said he couldn’t trust Elia. A traitor just like her husband… but the children he could forgive if the girl proved herself…” The knight held his hands out before him. “My words meant nothing… Elia’s begging, all for naught. When the pyromancers came she put the babe in my arms… told me to save her children… but Aerys told me to watch… and I fucking watched. I watched them tie her to that pole. I watched them put the torch in the girl’s hand… her little hands…”

Cat’s heart stopped when she realized what she was hearing. She came hear to a tale of betrayal and murder but not this one. Not one from so long ago. A secret the Kingslayer appeared to lose himself in the retelling of.

“Burn her he said… burn her or I burn the traitor’s heir. Prove your loyalty. The girl wouldn’t… she couldn’t… not until Elia made her. Protect your brother… keep him safe… love him… do it for him… and she did.” The knight began to beat against his ears with his hand and stump, trying to drown out something she couldn’t hear. “The fucking screaming! Everyone was screaming! Elia! Rhaenys! The prince! And he was fucking laughing! Laughing and laughing!”

Then the knight retched, vomit pouring out down his chest. He managed to turn to his side, weeping and pouring forth all his filth. Cat was disgusted but she could not look away. When there was lull in his sickness the knight’s head hung low, long hair dangerously close to the vomit covered floor.

“It wasn’t enough. All because she wept… he said a dragon wouldn’t cry… a dragon burns and takes joy in it…” Jaime made a fist and looked up at her, his green eyes red-rimmed and filth collected in his beard. “The girl looked to me. She didn’t run. She looked to a knight… a fool sworn to protect her… Aerys told me to give her the babe. So they could go together. And I did. And then I pulled my blade and killed every fucking one of those bastards.”

He choked down another bit of bile, gritting his teeth to continue.

“I killed the king last because it didn’t matter anymore. I’d already broken my vow. I let her burn…”

“If this is true, why did none ever speak of it?” Cat asked, feeling sick herself. “Why are you not called a hero?”

“So all can call the girl a murderer? It’s bad enough she knows what she did.” The Kingslayer rose to his knees, slipping some in his filth. “I could be called an oathbreaker for that. I could protect her. Rhaegar trusted me to do that…”

“Jon trusted you.” She chanced this again. “Did you try and kill him?”

“No. I tried to save him… I thought I saved him.” The Kingslayer closed his eyes, swaying back and forth. “That whoreson, I caught him cutting the straps, I smacked him silly… never thought they’d try again… he died for it.”

“Who’s they? Why didn’t you just bring this all forward?”

“The things you do for love…” Jaime swayed. “I swore to protect… protect all of them… even from themselves…”

There is it, there was a plot, that man tried to kill Jon, a Lannister man.

Sent by someone he loves, it’s just like Maester Luwin suspected, just like Arya saw.

While basking in the truth of things something troubled her. For if she believed everything else about this man, one part didn’t make sense.

“Arya saw you.” She said, needing to hear this part. “She saw you both in there. She could have told us then and there. Why not kill her?”

“I should have.” Jaime chuckled before spitting. “Thought about it… could’ve done it so simple and no one in that fucking castle would’ve been the wiser…”

The knight opened his eyes, staring at the hand he raised up before him.

“She touched me. Gently. Softly… softer than I deserved.” He swallowed. “And her eyes… a little girl’s eyes… looking to me for help… grey eyes…”

Arya’s eyes came back to her. Her soft, sweet little eyes. So much like Ned’s. The first time they’d opened and looked up at her, when Arya was but a bundle in her arms, Ned had smiled to see those eyes. Defiant even then, Arya had wailed so, filling Winterfell with the sound of her screams. Cat’s littlest girl was the loudest of them all. The screams would stop if she cradled the little one long enough. Arya just needing to be held, to be loved, to feel protected.

Now all Cat could think of was Arya screaming again.

Screaming for her.

My babe… my sweet babe…

“You should’ve done more.” She rasped, gripping the cell bars so tightly her knuckles were white, her middle pressed up against them as tears well in her eyes. “Why didn’t you do more? Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you save her!?”

“I didn’t hurt her…” Jaime rasped, looked up at Cat in confusion, kneeling in his own filth. “I didn’t hurt your daughters…”

“Daughter.” Cat choked out, the sobs wracking her body. “I have one daughter now… only one…”

As her strength left her and her body began to slide down the bars a monster’s words came back to her. Viserys Targaryen’s. Written in blood.

‘Catelyn Stark,

Know that I, Viserys Targaryen, Third of his name, have taken Winterfell and made it my seat until the Iron Throne is returned to me. I’ve put many wolves to the sword in its taking, for your family’s traitorous acts against my father.

I have your castle. Let the bastard prince know that. Let him know I have his bride. I have your daughter. Her life in my hands.

Just as her sister’s was. Until she woke the dragon.

One daughter left. Just one.’

Arya’s eyes. Her face. Her laugh.

Cat held all of it in her mind’s eye then. Yet in her hands she had no daughter to hold. Her little girl lost to her.

So as a knight knelt in shame, she sank into her grief.

Both imprisoned in their own way.

Chapter 15

Summary:

Trapped by evil. Escaping death. Rushing headlong into horror.

 

DAENERYS

 

“Fly! Fly to me!”

Her voice echoed down the castle walls, causing many in the courtyard to look up towards her and away from the spectacle. The chattering rose to a mob of voices, yet it was the beating of leathery wings that Dany wished to hear. While she stood atop Dragonstone’s battlements her children were in the courtyard below.

Fighting with one another for their first meal of the day. Daenerys trying to convince them to seek her instead.

Her words surely travelled down to their hearing but her children ignored her, too focused on the fine cuts of sheep that the cooks had left outside earlier. It was embarrassing for others to witness her failure in this, for she’d sworn to one in particular that it could be done. The same man who, only steps away, now tapped his staff upon the stone in an impatient manner.

“Valyrian.” Marwyn’s husky voice chided her, the squat archmaester taking a swallow from his skin of wine. “High Valyrian Daenerys, how many times must I tell you? To command dragons you would do well to use the tongue of the great dragonlords.”

“I thought the Common Tongue could work.” Her face burned as hot as the slabs of sheep meat down below. “Muna sovegon! Sovegon!”

Now the little ones turned their attention to her, for this was the language she used when singing to them. The three dragons were as large as cats in body, yet once their wings were spread they became thrice as wide. With the burnt meat smoking below them, bits of charred flesh hanging from their mouths, the dragons cocked their heads to see her so far up.

“Fly to mother!” She shouted again in High Valyrian. “Come to mother!”

It was the white one that heeded her first. With a screech it beat its wings and raised its cream-colored body up into the air, climbing higher and higher. When he landed upon her arm she ran a hand down the warm scales atop its head. His wings bones, horns, and spinal crest were all golden and complimented his pale white scales well. A white warrior, content to be at her side, his name had come easily to her.

“Baraxes.” She said with a smile.

The other two were coming as well, the green one far quicker, taking the time to fly around her once more before landing in a graceful arc upon her other arm. His scales were dark green, like moss in the deepest forest, yet as the sunlight hit them they gleamed like jade. Dark and light all at once, graceful and fearsome to be sure.

“Rhaegal.” She whispered. For her brother, beloved and not forgotten.

A screech called her attention to the last arrival. The largest and most commanding of the three landed on the ledge directly in front of her. His scales were the darkest ebony, his horns a blood red. All who gazed upon the hatchling agreed that there was a great power in this one, power as terrifying and beautiful as Balerion the Black Dread. Spreading his wings wide the dragon lowered his head and distrustfully hissed at Marwyn.

“Arturion.” Daenerys smiled at her most impressive child. The strongest of them, a warrior like the Sword of Morning who left them by night.

Barristan, Rhaegar, and Arthur. May your names forever be spoken when men sing of the return of dragons.

“Yes, yes, fine names all.” Marwyn then pointed to a gargoyle mounted on a tower near to them. “Now impress me and make them fly to that gargoyle. Quickly now princess.”

You don’t rush a dragon, let alone dragons, she thought, one doesn’t have to be a maester to know that.

Still, she made to do as Marwyn asked, lifting Baraxes in the direction of the tower, urging the white dragon to fly where she commanded. Baraxes swished his tale back and forth but made no move to do as she asked and it was much the same with Rhaegal as well. It was Arturion who did his duty, the black dragon taking flight with a hiss and a snap of his jaws.

Not content to be left behind his brothers followed after, Arturion leading them straight towards the gargoyle. She was content to watch them gliding through the air until Arturion suddenly veered away, diving straight down into the courtyard. Instead of heeding her will the dragons engaged in a mad race for the last bit of sheep. Rhaegal reached it first and stole the meat away with his talons. As fast as he was, he could not escape before Arturion sank his teeth into the meal himself. When Baraxes arrived it became a three-way battle, the dragons flapping and screeching above the courtyard and making quite the spectacle.

One Marwyn was not impressed by.

“They’re named well enough but trained for shit.” The maester grumbled, pulling at the whiskers in his one ear. “We must get you a whip.”

“A whip?” She asked incredulously. “You wish to whip them? They are but hatchlings!”

“I forgot how young you are.” Marwyn clucked. “When I tried to fill your head with knowledge and found you daydreaming about this and that, I often threatened to have your hide tanned, did I not?”

“You did.” Dany remembered how Aegon would make faces behind the maester’s back while Jon tried to mouth the answers to her. “You said men would pay good money for boots made of dragon leather.”

“I’d never say such a thing.” Marwyn waved her words away. “Nor would I ever hit or beat a princess. You merely feared I would. Fear is a powerful tool when it comes to dragons, who by the natural order of things should fear none. Crack a whip near to them, frighten them when they disobey, teach them to fear and respect your will.”

“I want them to love me, not fear me.” She argued, watching Arturion best his brothers and break away with the meat towards the spire of a nearby tower, scorching his prize as he went.

“This is why I never threatened to tan Elara.” Marywn muttered. “That girls heeds wisdom instead of speaking foolishness.”

Dany hated how Marwyn still treated her and Elara as children. Elara was a woman grown now and Dany had walked through the flames to bring dragons back to the world. Rescuing them from fire so hot that everything else burned away, including Rhaegar and Jackie's bones. Only Dany and her dragons were found amongst the ashes when dawn came. Brienne had wept to see her standing there and while Elara cried as well, it was the dragons she stared at as tears streamed down her face.

“I was never afraid for you.” Elara later admitted. “Don’t ask me why… I mean, I spoke a charm that Marwyn told me… about fire and death… but that’s nonsense… it had to be nonsense.”

Neither of them could explain how or why the dragons were born from the flames. Marwyn’s arrival at Dragonstone had raised some hopes that he could reveal some sort of secret about their birth. Hopes that the man quickly dashed, for he was far more interested in learning all he could about that night while dodging every question Daenerys posed to him.

“The girl was alive when you put her in the flames?” Marwyn had smacked his forehead at that ugly part of the story. “Yes… yes… she burned with Rhaegar but her blood still flowed. That’s what Aegon the Unlikely had wrong at Summerhall! Aegon the Incorrect it seems. Ha!”

How Marwyn could be so giddy in these dark times was beyond her, for his companions' moods were as foul as the news coming out of the war. The archmaester had wanted to return to Dragonstone weeks earlier but the presence of sellsails near Gulltown forced him to be cautious. Not too cautious though, for somehow he had led to the ruination of the family who sheltered him.

Something one of Marwyn’s traveling companions wished all to know.

“He burned down my home!” Lady Tess had raged, the fair-haired Royce woman jabbing an accusing finger at Marwyn and his pyromancer. “My husband went south to fight for the king! Offered these men the hospitality of our tower and in return they burned it down!”

“It was an accident… a failed experiment.” Marwyn refused to meet the woman’s gaze. “The royal treasury funds my quest. I told you that they would cover the costs of rebuilding your little husband’s little tower-”

“You also said your sorcery was of no danger to us!” Lady Royce had shot back. “I wasn’t going to trust your word on this matter until I heard you speak to a proper Targaryen with mine own ears.”

Dany had of course promised Lady Royce that the royal family would help fund the rebuilding of her home. Such a promise was the least she could offer, for the lady’s husband was missing somewhere in the Crownlands, still fighting the Usurper, while her son was a squire with Aegon’s forces. She offered Tess the hospitality and hearth of Dragonstone for as long as she wanted. Marwyn had gone a step further, suggesting that Daenerys honor her lady-in-waiting and allow Tess to tend to her, if only to distract the woman from worrying over her family.

In truth she had no option but to accept, for Marwyn’s arrival had torn Elara from her side. Their lessons had begun again in earnest, private lessons that kept Elara locked away in towers, following Marwyn up the steepest paths of the Dragonmont. Sometimes Elara would return from her lessons reeking of smoke and flame. Other times her clothing would be clean but her lips would be darker, almost blue. Brienne worried that something unseemly was afoot, for Marwyn always appeared very pleased after the lessons while Elara looked so drained.

“It’s not proper.” Brienne had confided in her. “I’m not one to speak on what’s appropriate behavior for a lady but this is Ser Arthur’s beloved niece, I fear this man is… misusing his influence over the lady. He clearly has an interest in young women.”

Dany saw her point, for among Marwyn’s companions had been a young, dark-haired beauty from the Vale. This Mya Stone appeared harmless at first yet Dany was enraged to learn that she was a bastard of Robert Baratheon. A child of her brother’s murderer, sheltering in this castle of their forebears. She’d taken her rage to Marwyn who laughed it off.

“You wish to shun that girl?” He asked, tugging on his chain. “For the sake of Rhaegar's memory, your brother who cared so much for the downtrodden? For the unpopular? The shunned? In his name you wish to punish a child who knows her father only as a half remembered memory? Rhaegar thought better of you girl.”

Arguing against that had been hard and in the end Dany accepted Mya Stone’s presence on Dragonstone but only if Marwyn swore that he taking no liberties with her. Or with Elara.

“Define liberties.” He’d asked. When she explained the maester began laughing. “Oh yes, I see now. Well don’t worry your grace. My interest in those girls does not extend to what lies between their legs.”

“Must you be so foul? Explain things to me then.”

“I can tell you that Elara has always intrigued me.” Marwyn had said in an oddly respectful tone. “Rhaegar felt the same. Her bloodlines along with some words from a woods witch have led me to believe that Elara is capable of great feats. Things she can only accomplish with my guidance.”

“Her bloodlines?” Dany was shocked, for Elara’s father was a mystery to all and Marwyn refused to elaborate.

“Yes, the blood is powerful. Hence why I brought Mya Stone here. Daughter of Robert Baratheon, who is himself the grandson to a Targaryen princess. That’s kingsblood running through her veins. There’s no blood more valuable.”

That should have troubled her, yet there were people out there far more worthy of her worries than Mya Stone. People she loved.

Jon had survived the battle with the Usurper, the Rykkers of Duskendale wrote as much in their reports of the war. The port town had been attacked several times by the Golden Company yet its gates stood, even if few of their men did. They credited their survival with the fact that their attackers were never able to lay a proper siege. Every time the Usurper’s men tried to set up supply lines from Maidenpool or Harrenhal they were bled dry by Jon and his men.

That’s all she had of Jon, the words of others. Wherever he was in the battlefield of this war he could send no ravens, nor could she send word to find him. To tell him of what she’d done here on Dragonstone. That they had dragons to help them now.

Aegon and Rhaenys were ignorant of that too. There were no ravens that flew to Summerhall and as far as she knew Aegon’s army had marched into Dorne with no idea of what transpired here on Dragonstone. She wished more than anything to know that they still lived. That she could be reunited with Aegon, Rhaenys, and Jon one day, that their family need not lose any more members.

You left some names off that list, she reminded herself, two children whose fates likely rest in your hands.

Rhaegar would have wanted them safe.

Rhaegal flew by her then, his green scales a reminder of the children that Dany feared for now. Marwyn interrupted her thoughts by banging his staff against the stone, making such a racket that Rhaegal hovered above them rather than landing, hissing in anger.

Daenerys turned her back to the old man, happy to see a pair of friends approaching from the nearest stairwell.

Elara and Brienne walked side by side, garbed as differently as could be. Brienne donned grey mail while Elara wore a silken gown of purple so dark that Dany nearly mistook it for black. Their accessories were just as striking, for Brienne had the greatsword Dawn slung across her back while Winter perched upon Elara’s shoulder. The white raven drew the eye, yet Dany was still struck by the bronze necklace that Elara had taken to wearing of late, the one that Marwyn had gifted her. It had strange runes adorning it and a bright red ruby at its center.

Something about Elara’s appearance bothered her yet both Elara and Brienne were far more troubled by the racket Marwyn was making.

“Gods, must he do that?” Elara rubbed her temples. “I was up all night studying those bloody chants you old fool, in three languages! Three!”

“It antagonizes the beasts princess.” Brienne eyed Rhaegal as the dragon continued to screech. “Needlessly so.”

“You’ll be happy when they’re bigger!” Marwyn answered their criticisms, finally halting the beating of his staff.

The green dragon shot Marwyn a final threatening look before coming to land on Dany’s arm. She liked how his talons gripped tight yet spared her flesh from their sharpness. It was even more pleasing how Rhaegal rubbed the side of his head against her chin, hissing in contentment.

“Amazing.” Brienne spoke with wide eyes. “Truly marvelous.”

“You’re welcome.” Marwyn interceded, coming forward and prodding at Brienne without a hint of shame. “Did you do as I asked? Attempt to circumvent Ser Lonmouth’s guard of Rhaegar’s treasure?”

“I did.” Brienne furiously slapped the man’s staff away. “Impenetrable. I could not get within twenty paces without being noticed.”

“Thirty be better.” Marwyn grumbled. “I’ll have to speak to him-”

“Ser Richard has more important things to do!” Dany snapped. “Like readying Dragonstone’s garrison for battle.”

Elara made to take her hand but the closeness set Winter to cawing at Rhaegal, the dragon hissing back at the bird.

“That’s what we were coming to tell you.” Elara said, backing up a step. “Lord Connington has sent a raven. He urges Dragonstone’s men to hasten at once. The Usurper’s army is moving on the capital.”

“A sizeable force princess.” Brienne added. “Fifteen thousand coming from the north with siege weaponry, another twenty thousand or more from the south. The Hand reports that he has three thousand at most...”

That felt like a slap in the face. The last estimates that Jon Connington had sent regarding the strength of the capital were nearly double that. He’d warned that some men were fleeing the city in fear of Robert but she had never expected the numbers to be so high.

Fear is Robert’s true power over us, she thought. Until he is challenged in battle again he is but some shadowy monster who killed our beloved king.

Others feared he could do worse and it was Elara that gave voice to it.

“Richard and the other lords fear even with our reinforcements the city will be overrun.” She shot Marwyn a strange look. “Imagine men dying on its walls and others in the streets, buildings and towers weeping blood. Fire Daenerys, there will be fire… a rain of fire and stone-”

“Bah! Dreams born of drink!” Marwyn interceded, forcing Elara’s silence. “The capital and that silly throne are not important! They were built by Aegon the Conqueror because of the dragons he raised here! Here is where your men should stay! Where you should stay! Raise your dragons to their full size and none will be able to stand against you.”

“And how many die in the meanwhile?” She asked, Beraxes and Arturion landing to either side of Marwyn and snapping at his robes. “Aegon rallies Dorne, Jon continues to fight as we speak, and you’d have the Mother of Dragons act as a nursemaid? My family is in danger.”

“Full grown men in their own right!” Marwyn shook his staff at the dragons. “While these are but children!”

“So are Myrcella and Tommen!” She answered back. “My brother’s youngest children. I shall not leave them at the mercy of a man who murdered their father.”

Ser Richard and Daenerys had begged for Myrcella and Tommen to be sent away from the capital, writing letters to the Hand and Cersei both. Jon Connington might have agreed but just as the Queen refused to part from the throne, she would not allow her children to be taken from her. Richard suspected that the only reason the Hand did not force the issue and send them away was because Cersei controlled a third of the remaining men left at the capital.

Which meant it fell to Daenerys and what was left of Rhaegar’s army to protect his children. She owed him that.

“Dragonstone cannot be my safe haven alone.” She spoke firmly. “Nor can I horde its strength and allow Robert Baratheon to sack the capital. Rhaegar trusted me to rule this castle and I shall answer Lord Connington’s call for aid.”

“You mean the garrison shall.” Elara raised an eyebrow. “The men stationed here will go to the capital.”

“No.” Dany finally felt ready to speak the truth. “I mean I shall lead these men to King’s Landing myself. When the army leaves Dragonstone I will go with it.”

A chorus of disagreement rose from that, which caused the collected beasts to begin raging as well. Arturion viciously beat his black wings while Baraxes shot a burst of flame into air. Winter cried out, the raven's voice somehow eclipsing all other sounds, and Dany reserved a special glare for the critical bird. Rhaegal scorned all of it, choosing to leap from her arm and circle above, whipping his tail furiously.

“Silence, all of you!” She wheeled around, focusing on Brienne first. “Was it not you who said breeching the walls of King’s Landing would take a massive effort if they were well-manned?”

“I did but… I never meant you should man them yourself-”

“Elara!” She turned on her friend next. “You’re always going on about the importance of names! Robert’s name inspires fear! Well imagine how hearing of my return to the capital will raise the spirits of its defenders!”

“They’d prefer Aegon and you know it!”

She ignored Elara’s outburst to jab a finger right in Marwyn’s chest, the old maester growing red in the face.

“You believe the dragons are our best hope!” She reminded him. “That’s precisely what I mean to bring back to the capital! Hope! Hope and dragons!”

“What?!” Marwyn sputtered. “No! You cannot take them with you! It’s too risky!”

“I can and I will!” She narrowed her gaze at the man. “You yourself have told me they are not the last.”

That shut Marwyn up, for what she’d just mentioned was a closely guarded secret between a select few, one that Brienne and Elara weren’t privy too. Before they could inquire or put up any more protests, Dany prodded them for more information.

“What else did the Hand’s letter say? Any word of the Hand’s strategy? Allies to our cause?”

Brienne choked back whatever protests she had to answer.

“There was mention of Summerhall falling. Rumors of King Aegon sending word to the retreating Tyrell forces before the Marches were overwhelmed. Something else about reaving in Reach as well, an attack against the Shield Islands. There are tales of ghosts and white dragons out near Darry-”

“Something odd out of Dorne as well.” Elara broke in. “A prison escape at Ghaston Grey.”

“Ghaston Grey? The prison isle?” She could not conceive of why this was important but before she could wave the matter off Marwyn stepped forward, his face pale.

“A breakout? What about a breakout?”

“Strange thing to mention, isn’t it?” Elara turned her dark eyes to him. “A ship was forced onto the island by a storm, one that came out of nowhere, or so the surviving sailors say. Apparently the prisoners were ready for it. Prince Doran writes of a red witch leading the escape.”

“Oh fuck.” Marwyn cursed, twiddling his thumbs nervously. “That’s not good at all… told Rhaegar that one would be trouble… she’ll be pissed…”

“Who?” Dany asked.

“What?”

“Who? Who will be… um… pissed?”

“How should I know?” Marwyn shrugged before pointing at the dragons again. “And how can you think of endangering them?”

“Because it is Myrcella and Tommen who are in danger.” Dany clenched her fists. “I will not betray the trust that Rhaegar put in me.”

Not again at least… never again…

“Listen girl-”

“Princess.” She corrected the archmaester, finding herself exhausted by his ways. “That’s enough for now, my companions and I will not need your counsel anymore today.”

With that she strode away from Marwyn, bidding her friends to join her, her children as well. No commands needed be said, for the dragons all took to the air to follow Dany’s journey into the heart of Dragonstone itself. At the entrance to the inner corridor, servants waited with cages for the dragons. Sadly it was too narrow for the beasts to fly. They begrudged their cages but Dany knew she would loose them again soon enough. Sometimes mothers just needed a few moments to themselves.

She sent Brienne on to seek Ser Richard, taking with her a command to ready the men to sail within two days. Her protector broke off from their group, clearly unhappy with her decisions yet nevertheless going forth to obey.

Strong yet so eager to serve, she thought, I want to believe it is because Brienne has such a true heart.

But what if it is all a ploy? A way to earn my trust?

Those thoughts troubled her as she entered Aegon’s Garden alongside Elara and the dragons. The garden was enclosed by walls with tall trees at every side and wild rose bushes growing between them. It was a good enough place to have the dragons fly free again and they flapped happily up into the branches of the nearest tree.

Winter did not have to be told to take its leave. The white raven flew from Elara’s shoulder and disappeared within a tall pine. The dragons watched the bird’s journey with hungry eyes.

“Don’t even think about it.” Elara added, crossing her arms to glare at the Arturion. “Especially you. I’ve not forgotten how your namesake felt about my pet.”

Arturion bared his teeth but did little else in reply. Dany closed her eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying how the scent of pines overtook Dragonstone’s constant smells of brimstone and the sea.

“It reminds me of our journey to the North.” Elara sighed. “When things were simpler… when things were better.”

“I was just thinking the same.”

She took hold of her friend’s hand, leading her towards a rose bush nearby. This was Dany’s attempt to make it feel like old times, the two girls wandering about a castle together, enjoying its beauties and free to speak of anything their hearts desired. Yet something was different. To speak of their hearts served only to remind them of all they’d lost, or still stood to lose. Just like Jon, Elara’s cousin Edric was missing in all the fighting, and it was clear she worried on the rest of her family back in Starfall. Elara sought any and all word that came from Dorne ever since they learned that Aegon marched to raise its armies.

When Elara cupped a rose in her hands she ran a thumb over its petals.

“It’s strange, but after Winterfell I think I prefer the winter roses.” Elara said before her face darkened. “I wonder if Viserys has done as much cruelty to them as he has the Starks.”

“Monster.” Dany hissed, shaking her head and balling her hands into fists. “He was always a spiteful, horrible fool but to do this? To the Starks of all people? Monster.”

None of it seemed real at first. Lord Manderly’s letter told of a number of ships sailing right by his city and journeying up the White Knife. They only received his warnings at Dragonstone in case this was all a plot of the Usurper’s, for it was Winterfell the Manderlys warned first. None could explain why those ravens went unanswered, how Viserys could have taken a castle as mighty as Winterfell.

Viserys certainly hadn’t explained such in his proclamation, for his boasting of brilliant leadership and martial genius sounded as empty as his claim to the throne. It terrified Dany to think of Roslin in Viserys’s grasp and her fear for Sansa was no less genuine. It was true that the young lady stood between Dany and Jon, but to be at the mercy of Viserys was a fate she wished on no one.

A fate that young Arya had not been spared.

“To kill a little girl...” Dany choked out, staring down at the roses, remembering Arya and Bran playing in Winterfell’s glass gardens. “I shouted at her once for hurting Jon. It was an accident of course, a child’s games. Truly Jon was more put out by my treatment of her… he loved Arya so.”

When she touched a rose a stinging pain forced her to hiss and draw back. A red drop of blood was forming from where a thorn had pricked her finger. For a brief moment she pictured Winterfell’s glass gardens stained with blood, Arya laying among the roses, her body red and still. The memory of Bran weeping through his gouged out eye came back and she felt sick to her stomach.

“Monsters.” She said. “Joffrey and Viserys… for what they’ve done to Bran and Arya, to the Starks. No family deserves such pain.”

“No… no they don’t.” Elara’s voice was but a whisper. “Whatever else I- what anyone might think of them, the Starks are good people. It will be hard for Jon to hear of all that’s befallen them… for they are his family… his blood… family…”

Elara took a silken cloth from between her breasts then, but it was not to dab at her eyes. Instead she made to wipe away the blood on Dany’s finger. She wondered if there would be more blood on her hands, for heeding Ser Richard and leaving Viserys to be dealt with by the northmen.

“You understand that I want to save them?” She asked as her friend tucked the red-stained cloth away and held her hand still. “Roslin and Sansa? I want to Elara. I love Roslin like I love you but Rhaegar trusted me, and with Myrcella and Tommen at risk-”

“I understand. Family comes first.” Elara’s voice had a forced evenness to it. “I’d rather be helping my own than learning at Marwyn’s side but we all have our parts to play. He says my lessons will help, that these things he’s teaching me can spare hurt and suffering. Perhaps even grant sight…”

She grasped Elara’s cheeks, forcing those dark blues eyes to meet her gaze. Within them she found something akin to fear and Dany could not ignore that.

“What is he teaching you Elara? If it is dark sorcery I cannot-”

“Just because something is dark does not mean it must be evil.” Elara answered before glancing up at Winter, staring down on them. “All know that fire burns, yet here you stand, Daenerys the Unburnt. He’s showing me wonders like that… rites of the children of the forest, eastern magics I've never even heard of. When I drink the shade of the evening I see so much… much more than when I’m flying…”

“Flying?” Dany felt a chill crawl up her back. “Elara that’s impossible.”

“For us yes but not for them.” She pointed to the dragons and the raven watching them. “So many things are possible Dany. The return of dragons. Seeing through the eyes of others. Making it so others see only what you will.”

She bid Dany to look up then, to behold the red comet still bright in the blue sky. The septon proclaimed it a sign of dark times yet Marwyn laughed that away, arguing that the comet was a tad too bright to herald darkness. He argued that it meant a return to times long forgotten. When magic was wielded alongside the sword.

“I didn’t believe my eyes.” Elara continued breathlessly. “There was no moon the other night. If not for the brightness of the comet I might have missed it. The fire Marwyn built was too small against the winds of the mountain but the leech burned…”

“Why would you burn a leech?”

“For the blood within. Kingsblood. Without it I don’t think I could have done it… I’m not even sure if it was me truly… not even when I saw myself standing right there… I thought the shadows played tricks but the glamour-”

“Elara enough.” She pulled away, breaking her friend of her spell. Elara blinked a few times as if she’d forgotten where she was and then her face took on a shocked expression. “Are you working blood magic? Accursed rites?”

“Oh of course not, I must have sounded silly.” Elara forced a smile, flicking fingers through her hair like she was a tittering lady. “I merely got wrapped up in things I’d read… it’s all the studying Dany, forgive me my imagination. Let’s speak of other things.”

She lies. Why does she lie to me?

She looks right at me and smiles and jests like a friend… when did that become a cloak for lies…

“No, we will speak of this.” Dany moved to Elara but the lady backed away, acting as if she truly did have something to hide. “You lie to me Elara. I’ve had my fill of liars, of betrayal, and will not suffer you to keep secrets from me. If Marwyn has you performing foul rites I would hear of it now.”

“Then tell me of Rhaegar’s treasure.” Elara replied, halting her retreat and looking Dany up and down. “You're a fine one to talk of keeping secrets. You’re my friend and he’s my teacher, but neither of you will tell me what you protect so fiercely in this castle.”

“Rhaegar wanted it so!” She felt her voice tremble. “And we’re not talking about that! We’re talking about what is happening to you! How strange you’ve been acting. You’re changing-”

“Me? I’m not the one who walked through fire and woke the dragons.” Elara scowled and shocked her by turning away. “I’ve said all I will on this, just leave-”

“You do not have my leave!” She shouted and Elara cringed as if she’d been struck. The lady halted her steps yet would not face Daenerys, nor would Winter abide being so close to her. The raven flew down from its perch to land on Elara’s shoulder, who acted as if it was expected.

“I have never needed your leave before.” Elara’s voice came back cold and stiff. “I had your trust.”

“Things have changed.” The dragons hissed and beat their wings then. “I trusted too easily before and I will not make that mistake again. Whatever Marwyn and you are doing, I don’t like it. Will you force me to ask him of it, or act my lady in this? One decision earns my trust, the other-”

“Your wrath?” Elara’s hands clutched at her skirts. “The wrath of you Targaryens is a horrible thing Daenerys. I’ve suffered it once before. Just as Bran and Arya did.”

The world came to a stop then, the wind itself dying away as the meaning behind Elara’s words took hold. Dany had not been building towards a threat but she felt one coming now. To be compared to Joffrey and Viserys built a fire within her. Dany would not stand for it. Her anger almost spilled forth when Jackie flashed into her mind.

The traitor’s agonized face, disappearing behind a wall of flames, her screams ringing in her ears, worse than the ones she’d heard the night that Bran lost his eye.

“I’m not like them.” Dany spoke more to herself than Elara. “I’m not… and it pains me that you would say such a terrible thing… my own friend…”

“It hurts doesn’t it? Not to be trusted.” Elara turned her head slightly, a haunting dark eye looking back at Daenerys. “You call me friend but treat me as a servant… I wanted to take care of Bran and you forced me here-”

“It wasn’t safe! And you’re my lady, not Bran's! I have every right to question when you keep things from me.”

“When did you start agreeing with the others? That I’m so lowly? That us bastards are born evil… treacherous by nature. Dangerous even.”

It was a strange thing to think on but everything about Elara right now made her think of Rhaegar’s treasure.

Dangerous yet beautiful… guarded secrets… steeped in magics I do not understand….

Tucked away in the deepest chambers of Dragonstone, hidden behind barred doors and under heavy guard, was Rhaegar’s last great triumph. For Marwyn’s mission had been a success. The lair of one of the realm’s last dragons had been discovered. Rhaegar’s hopes realized.

I could barely look at Elara without being reminded of it… even the colors are all there.

A shade of purple, nearly black, much like Elara’s gown. A dark blue, like the sea during a storm or her friend’s eyes. A polished bronze that glinted in the light like the necklace about Elara’s throat. Even the bright red of the ruby within that necklace pulled at her memory.

Of a treasure she guarded fiercely. Of a truth she hid just as desperately.

“Trust me Daenerys.” Elara asked of her then, the lady’s expression softening. “Please. I have so little left I care for as dearly as you but there are things I cannot speak to you of… there always have been. We became friends despite that and I ask you treat me as a friend now… and if you cannot, give your servant permission to go.”

Rhaegar trusted me… with his secret… with Dragonstone… with doing the right thing…

And he died for it.

“Things have changed.” Dany repeated numbly. “Answer my questions truthfully, prove you are loyal to me above others. I can have nothing less Elara.... if you cannot do so, then you have my leave.”

It hurt how quickly Elara did leave, her dark hair whipping about as she strode away. Daenerys standing like a statue, watching her friend leave the gardens without once looking back. Only the white raven eyed her with its dark gaze, though it shifted towards the dragons at the last moment.

Above her head her children now flew about, rising higher and higher, leaving her far below.

Alone with the thoughts of all the loved ones she had lost. Of the family and friends.

All because of betrayals.

Or the fear of them.

   

SANSA

 

“Fight! Fight for your king!”

Viserys’s cackling laugh mingled with the rest of the shouting. The sellswords filled the Great Hall with cheers and laughter, many on their feet or standing on tables to watch the spectacle. To Sansa’s disgust, her seat at the high table beside Viserys offered her a perfect view of the violence below.

Two large men, both bare chested and sweating, battling for the mad prince’s amusement. The sound of fists hitting bare flesh was horrible to hear.

Though not as terrible as the crying.                                                   

“Hodor!” Hodor pleaded, trying in vain to escape through the ring of men who pushed him back towards his tormentor. This was no true fight. Hodor was one of the gentlest people that Sansa had ever known, it wasn’t in him to hurt anyone. Not even against the vicious knight who seemed content to continue brutalizing him.

“Stand and fight fool!” Ser Godry Farring shouted as he drove a fist into Hodor’s side, the poor stableboy gasping in pain. Hodor clutched at the new hurt, which left him open to Godry’s strike against his jaw.

“Yes! Crush him!” Viserys laughed, spilling some of his wine. “Beat some sense into that simpleton!”

“Hodor…” Hodor wept as he crawled across the filthy floor. His body was black and blue with bruises, bloodied from the cuts that Godry had given him. The lash marks that Viserys had left upon him were worse, his punishment for failing to address the prince as ‘your grace.’

Sansa’s own lip stung from her most recent punishment. She’d done nothing to deserve the prince’s slap. She never did. He struck her whenever another raven arrived rejecting his claim to the Iron Throne. It was worse when lords of the realm mocked him. A reply from Bronze Yohn Royce had nearly led to her rape. The marks that Viserys left on her thigh were only just healed, yet the memory of the prince bursting into her chambers and prying her legs apart still haunted her dreams.

Had Maester Luwin not found Brown Ben Plumm in time she would’ve suffered worse. Far worse.

Sansa need only look to the other side of Viserys where Jeyne sat. Her friend had scratch marks and bruises about her neck and chest, one eye black from a blow, yet it was the dead look in her gaze that worried Sansa most. Brown Ben had forbidden Viserys from taking Sansa’s virtue or using her in any way. He extended no such protection to Jeyne though. The night that Jeyne was taken to Viserys, her cries and screams echoed throughout the castle, drowning out the tears Sansa wept for her friend. Her pleas on Jeyne’s behalf the next morning were for naught.

“Sorry my lady.” Brown Ben had shrugged over his morning meal. “His royalness  prefers to pleasure himself with highborn women, whether it pleases them or not. I have my hands full keeping him off of you, part of my pay depends on it. Don’t misunderstand me, the lady’s suffering and your pleas do weigh on this old soul. Just don’t weigh as much as gold.”

She hated the man for his greed, for his indifference to Viserys’s rape of Jeyne and his other crimes in her home. She hated the prince’s knights, the sellswords, every single one of them. Almost as much as she hated herself.

It’s horrid of me to thank the gods each night that it’s not me with the mad prince… just as I pray that his keeper returns soon to keep Viserys at bay.

She wished that whatever evil Ben Plumm and his sellswords performed beyond the castle walls would end. Sansa doubted any crimes they did out there could be as horrible as what happened within Winterfell’s own walls.

“Hodor!” Hodor’s cry rattled her, for his crawling escape from Godry had ended. The knight grabbed Hodor by his leg and dragged him back into the center of the floor again, the poor stable boy clawing desperately at the ground the whole way.

“Get up!” Godry roared, delivering a kick to Hodor’s side. “Get up and fight like a man!”

“Or a giant!” Another sellsword shouted as Godry kicked Hodor’s ribs again and again, his large form buckling over. Godry kicked him so hard that his cry became a long, drawn out own moan. That was when Hodor’s bloodied, tear streaked face looked up to Sansa. His one eye was swollen shut but the other looked up at her in pain and fear.

Pleading for mercy, for the gods, for her.

“Please.” She whispered. “You’ll kill him…”

“Let him die in the filth!” Viserys raised his goblet. “For providing me such a poor show he should die! Killed by the Godry the Giantslayer!”

“I like the sound of that!” Godry bowed before he began stamping down on Hodor’s back. The stableboy’s eyes were still for her.

“Hodor… Hod-” The boot cut off the rest but still she spoke up.

“Your grace, stop.” She turned to Viserys, whose cruel eyes locked on her while widening in anger. “Please my king, I beg it of you.”

“Why should I give a damn for some northern slut’s pleas?” He reached around to take a handful of Jeyne’s hair in hand, yanking so hard that the girl screamed in pain. “I hear this one’s cries every night yet it does not stop the dragon from taking its due.”

“I beg not for mercy…” She looked to Hodor and swallowed down her bile. “But for you to be honored as you deserve. The lackwit is clearly no match for Ser Godry’s might… perhaps you might find a foe more worthy of him elsewhere. My family kept simple oaf in the stables for a reason.”

Viserys’s free hand gripped her upper thigh then, sending waves of terror and pain through her heart. She sat paralyzed, only able to watch as he slid the hand further up.

“You presume to tell me how to run my castle?” The prince hissed in her ear. “By rights it is mine now… everyone within is mine to torment… my northern bedwarmer… that stableboy… you…”

“I m-meant only to p-please you your grace.” She stammered. “Forgive my manners, we are n-not used to such fine m-men here…”

Viserys grunted in an agreeable way, releasing her with a smile and clasping his hands together.

“How true! You northmen were barely civilized to begin with. Having my brother’s bastard shelter here could have only made it worse.” Viserys watched Hodor’s beating for a few moments longer before nodding. “Yes, yes, this does bore me. Godry stop! Stop at once!”

A chorus of disapproval answered that but all Sansa cared about was Hodor’s unmoving form upon the ground. His eyes were closed and she could not see if he still drew breath. She prayed that she’d acted in time. That she’d been able to save at least one of her people.

“Godry, your strength is wasted on that fool.” Viserys said before pointing over at a knight much fatter but just as foul as Godry. “Boros! Boros ready yourself, you shall challenge the dim-witted giant next!”

The ugly man, who oft times struck her when Viserys could not be bothered to do so, was not pleased as others jeered him to take up the fight. Someone showed the sense to point out Hodor that was no longer conscious and the prince scowled.

“Then wake him up! Get cold water! Lash him!” The prince then pointed to a cage at the far side of the hall. “If he does not rise to entertain me… then perhaps the beast will get another meal today!”

Despite her heart bidding her not to, Sansa looked to the cage as well. Within, covered in filth and far too thin, was her beloved Lady. On one side of her gaunt body was a long, ugly scar, the result of Maester Luwin’s tending to her after the battle. At the time, Sansa thought Viserys allowed him to do so as an act of mercy. That is until he locked Lady in the cage.

For weeks now he’d starved the poor thing, insisting that Lady’s cage be placed in the hall where the smell and sights of food would torment her every day. Lady’s weakened whines were drowned out in the noise of men but whenever it grew quiet Sansa had wept to hear her, begging to feed the wolf from her own plate.

“A dragon doesn’t bend to the will of a beast.” Viserys had sneered before having Boros see to silencing Lady’s whining by having men beat at the wolf with clubs. Her yelps were far worse to hear than her pleas for food so Sansa did not ask again.

Lady was quiet now, likely too weak to whine, yet when the wolf caught her eye Sansa found them as bright a gold as ever. They seemed to shine as the wolf rose shakily to her feet, coming to the bars and pressing her snout through them. As if to touch her.

With an eye to Viserys, she dared to slowly raise her fingers and show Lady what she wished to do, even if she couldn’t.

I’m sorry Lady… I’m caged too… and I dare not beg them to feed you again…

To spare you a beating… or what Viserys would be tempted to give you to eat.

The sellswords had succeeded in waking Hodor, dragging the stableboy to his feet, laughing as he stumbled about in a stupor. They laughed all the louder when Boros entered the ring, shirtless with a sagging belly and breasts that Viserys shouted were larger than Jeyne’s. The laughter continued when Boros took his anger out on Hodor, his first blow striking him square in the mouth.

“A fine blow Boros!” Viserys cheered as Hodor spat blood upon the ground with a wail. “You knocked out the fool’s tooth! Now do it again!”

The fat knight did as he was told, knocking Hodor back into the ring, several men struggling to hold him up. Boros did not wait for him to be thrown back, punching Hodor again and again, his fat face red and damp with sweat already.

They’ll kill him… they’ll kill him and then Lady will have to-

“Enough!” Maester Luwin’s voice somehow broke through the cheers, the old maester hobbling through the press. His injured arm, maimed in the fighting, hung in a sling across his chest while his other arm waved at Viserys. “Mercy! In the name of all that is good! Please spare his life!”

“What is it with you people interrupting my fun?” Viserys slammed his goblet down and pointed a finger at the maester. “Shouldn’t you be tending to the last idiot I corrected for trying my patience?”

“Young Roderick rests, his fever has passed.” The maester shot a look to her, a great weight lifting from her chest. “I believe he shall live.”

Roderick Dustin had courted the Stranger for a week now, suffering in his chamber as the maester did all he could to save him. Watching Sansa be beaten by Viserys in his presence had proved too much for Roderick to take. The young man had gallantly put himself between her and the prince, knocking Viserys back. Without Plumm around to hold it in check, the prince’s rage had been swift and brutal. Sansa and the others were forced to watch as an axeman cleaved off the arm that Roderick had struck Viserys with.

The prince had not let the arm go to waste, ordering it tossed into Lady’s cage. Watching how eagerly Lady teared at the flesh had caused Sansa to retch. Deep down though, she could not blame her, not in her starved state. She saved all her blame for the monster beside her.

Viserys crossed his arms and glowered down at the maester.

“That’s a pity, the beast was hoping for a new meal.” He gestured to Lady’s cage before narrowing his gaze on Hodor. “Might be all this one is good for. He’s not very entertaining.”

“Perhaps his grace would prefer a ride outside the walls… or a song. Some of these men have been heard to play-”

“A song!” Viserys clapped, turning his evil eye upon her. “You’ve a sweet enough voice for a northern slattern, get down there and sing for your king.”

She opened her mouth to argue but caught a glimpse of poor Hodor, now fallen to his knees, and thought better of it. So Sansa nodded instead, and then numbly made to take her place below the high table under Viserys’s gaze. She knew she had to sing, to spare Hodor and the maester, to spare any and all of her people… but she couldn’t. Not with the cruel prince threatening her wordlessly with his eyes. Sansa was robbed of her voice.

So she closed her eyes, willing the vile prince away. She pictured another prince altogether. Her prince. The one she was promised to. The one she would always be glad to sing to.

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,save our sons from war, we pray.” She sang loudly, clutching her skirts for support. “Stay the swords and stay the arrows,let them know a better day.”

She chose this song because somewhere Jon fought evil men, just as Robb and Father did. Sansa sang and willed the words to guide them back to Winterfell. To save them. To spare everyone left any more suffering. Her mother and sister coming to mind next.

“ Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way…”

Viserys must have sensed her hope then, for he hurled his goblet down at her feet in a rage.

“Pious shit! I’m sick of this boring backwater ruin! Lys offered delights worthy of a king!” Viserys leaned forward, leering at her. “Their slave girls knew how to honor me with their voices and their bodies, sometimes at the same time… it seems I must bring civilization to this hall. Show me what my brother meant to give his bastard. Strip.”

“What?” Sansa blinked in disbelief, shocked as the crowd all seemed to step forward. “Your grace… my k-king… I c-cannot…”

“You dare disobey me? Boros! Discipline her.”

“Wait! Don’t!” The maester’s pleas were lost in a flash of pain that filled her mind. Boros’s fist landed just above her cheek, causing her to stumble and lose sight of things through the tears welling in her eyes.

“Godry! Help do as I command!” Viserys hissed and the knight was all too willing to step forward and take hold of the top of her gown. With a heave, the front of her dress and her small clothes beneath were torn away, her breasts exposed to the hall. She sobbed and made to cover herself before Boros backhanded her once more. Her feet tripped up and she fell, sprawling amidst the blood left from Hodor’s beating.

A growl rose up from Lady’s cage but was cut off with a yelp as a sellsword jabbed the butt of his spear into her side. The maester watched helplessly, clutching at his chain as Godry and Boros both reached for her again.

“Please…” She begged, covering her breasts and holding out a hand to ward them away. “No… no I can’t… be good men-”

“Leave her be!” A hoarse bellow boomed from the behind the ring of men, causing all to jump in fear.

The crowd began to part but not nearly quick enough for the company of men striding forward. The Hound lead the way by knocking two men aside as he came to stand between Sansa and her tormentors.

“Back the fuck away from her.” Sandor Clegane threatened with a hand on his sword. She could only see the ruined side of his face at that moment so she could not tell for certain, but the man sounded furious. “Back up now!”

Boros did so quickly, jowls quivering in rage yet Godry stood his ground, barking back at the man.

“I don’t take orders from the likes of you!”

“You do when they come from me first.” Brown Ben’s voice heralded his arrival within the circle, the commander of the Second Sons sighing to see her upon the ground. “And here’s another. Someone cover Lady Sansa and help her to her feet.”

The Hounded ripped away his dark cloak and bent down to cover her, acting so quickly that she flinched away.

“Yes, I’m ugly little bird.” The Hound grunted, wrapping the cloak around her with gentleness she had not expected before offering her his hand. “You should be getting used to ugliness by now girl.”

“I thank you.” She whispered, taking his hand and suddenly feeling safer as the large man lifted her up, keeping himself between her and the eyes of Viserys and his brutes. The prince was far more interested in challenging Brown Ben over ruining his fun.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” Viserys demanded, rising to his feet. “You’re supposed to be crushing the forces that the northmen sent against-”

“Oh no, you’ll be shutting up now.” Plumm spoke in a tone that sent shivers through her. “It’s you who will be answering my questions. Why do I find the one girl I told you to leave be lying here, bleeding and ravaged? Why has that Dustin boy been maimed?”

“They woke the dragon! Through their defiance! I will impose my will here as I shall across the realm! I am not subject to your commands-”

“Oh but you are. You signed the contract that made you a Second Son like all the rest here. You are bound to obey me under penalty of… well penalties.” The sellsword commander then gave a wide smile before bowing. “And yet, I can understand a man of your breeding and stature needing a little leeway. It won’t do to punish a king… your men will do.”

With a smile still stretched across his face, Plumm looked to Godry and Boros before gesturing to Sansa and Hodor.

“Sandor, the same treatment, if you would.”

Godry did not react in time to defend against the Hound’s attack. His strike cracked across the knight’s cheek, sending him reeling onto the floor. Boros made to flee but the Hound took hold of him, spinning the fat man around and driving a fist into his face. He did so twice more before Boros fell senseless, coughing up several teeth as he did so. The Hound then kicked into Godry’s side with such force that Sansa heard his rib crack clearly over the knight’s cry of pain. A second kick into Godry’s groin turned his cry into a high pitched wail.

The Hound’s brutality was so ugly Sansa pitied the two men then. Surely it could only be a fit of madness to feel so, for the knights had beat her and likely would have done worse. She found her hand reaching out and felt a protest about to leave her lips before she stopped herself.

What are you doing? They are your enemy. Why should I feel pity for them?

Am I truly so weak? Think of what they’ve done to the weak… to young girls…

Brown Ben grew tired of the display soon enough and called the Hound off after one last kick to Boros’s face. The sellsword commander then strolled up to the high table, taking a pitcher of wine and filling a goblet.

“So as not to repeat this lesson again, let me repeat myself now, your grace.” Brown Ben sipped of the wine. “Those I say cannot be harmed cannot be harmed, namely the Stark ladies and the Dustin heir. We both know why. We came here expecting to find more hostages than we did. I cannot endanger the ones left to us.”

“I piss on these filth.” Viserys trembled with rage. “One missing heir and a dead bitch, and suddenly all this traitorous scum deserve to coddled!? This one was going to wed Rhaegar’s byblow! He thought he could wed so well and gain a castle belonging to House Targaryen? After he woke the dragon?!”

“Apparently.” Brown Ben drained his cup. “If it is northmen suffering that you desire then take solace Viserys, for I’ve just killed a few hundred of them. We caught the force that the Hornwoods and Cerwyns were raising unawares. It is broken and fleeing south down the White Knife… straight towards the barges that the Manderlys send this way-”

“A victory!” Viserys smiled. “In my name! Just like that comet in the sky above, it shows my reign is fated! Now loyal lords will begin to gather to my banners. Reinforcements will be coming any day now.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Plumm put his goblet down, looking to Sansa and causing her to clutch at her cloak tightly. “Until then, the hostages will not be harmed. In fact, I am naming Clegane as Lady Sansa’s protector. Any, and I mean any, who make to harm her will answer to him first, and if they live, then me.”

Viserys did not take this well, he looked to his men still sprawled out on the ground and then at the Hound with a mad rage. Cursing, he grabbed Jeyne’s arm and made to drag her from the hall. Her friend started to cry and reached for Sansa as she passed. Without thinking, she tried to take Jeyne’s hand but Viserys yanked her away, leaving Sansa to watch as her friend’s suffering continued.

“My lord.” She tried once more to plead Jeyne’s case to Plumm. “Lady Jeyne is highborn as well… my family would ransom her-”

“That girl is serving her purpose.” Plumm shrugged, picking from a plate and licking his fingers. “She makes the royal monster happy and besides, who’d pay for a steward’s daughter? Especially a dead steward’s daughter. Oh, that reminds me. Someone get those fucking heads off the walls, I’m sick of looking at them.”

“Might I be permitted to tend to the remains?” Maester Luwin asked, his tone sad. “Some dignity for those that have been denied it so far?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll have them brought to you. Later though.” Brown Ben nodded before making to leave the hall, waving Sansa and the maester along with him. “Come, come, it’s been awhile and we have much to discuss.”

She had hoped she would be permitted to tend to her torn gown but after her rescue at the hands of the Hound, she did not argue when he gently urged her on. It was a relief to hear that the heads would be taken off the walls, if only to rob Viserys the option of forcing her to look upon them anymore. One of the first things that Viserys had done after the Second Sons took the castle was have the heads off all of Winterfell’s fallen. It mattered not to him whether they were defenders or innocents, if they were truly dead or merely wounded.

Maester Luwin had tried to comfort her by saying that Septa Mordane would not have survived her wounds. He could not bring himself to call Viserys driving his sword through the woman’s heart a mercy though. Such was how her septa’s head came to sit upon a spike above the East Gate, rotting there for weeks alongside so many others. Quent and Hullen, Septon Chayle and Alebelly, Joseth and his daughter Bandy.

During their journey towards the Maester’s turret, Sansa spotted Shyra, Bandy’s twin, carrying the soiled clothes of the returning Second Sons. While those men laughed and played strange eastern games in the courtyard, Shyra walked as if in a daze. Her grief was interrupted when she took notice of Sansa, offering a small nod. Before Sansa could do the same, Shyra looked to the Hound and sobbed, covering her face before continuing on.

“What’s with her?” The Hound asked gruffly as Plumm and the maester spoke amongst themselves. “That weeping wench?”

“Her father is dead.” She answered. “You killed him during the attack.”

“That’s what happens when you raise a blade against me.” The Hound growled. “Man’s dead and done with. More will die before the end of this. Back to the maggots, like some of ours. Someone should tell you ladies crying won’t change that. Why don’t you sing her a song little bird, about her father’s glorious death?”

“She mourns her sister as well.” Sansa added, not really knowing why, perhaps to shame the man for being so callous towards poor Shyra.

“Can’t say I had a hand in that, but there are plenty of girls in the ground. Men, women, children, they’re all meat in the end, and we’re the butchers.” The Hound’s words caused her to cringe away and he watched it, with something akin to shame. “Right then. Forgot about your sister. Might be best if we stopped talking altogether, lest you start weeping too.”

“I won’t weep.” She spoke truthfully. Her tears were mostly spent in the night now, when they were hers and hers alone, so Viserys or these other monsters wouldn’t take pleasure in them.

She wondered what Brown Ben wanted with her, for when they reached Maester Luwin’s study she saw no reason for her to be there, especially after he ordered the Hound to wait without. Parchments lay strewn across tables, ravens squawking from within cages, but Sansa saw little that the man could torture her with here. Until he sat her down at the maester’s table and had a bit of parchment and a quill set before her.

“I need you to write a letter for me my lady.” The man smiled. She saw how right Arya had been, it never reached his eyes. “The first one is to that knight of yours, Rodrik Cassel. He knows your writing yes?”

She nodded, trying to hide the joy she felt to hear that Ser Rodrik lived, apparently spared in the Second Sons’ victory over the Hornwood and Cerwyn forces. The gods must surely be on his side, for this was twice now that he’d escaped death. It was after the castle was lost that she learned of Ser Rodrik’s patrol that night, meant to ensure that Brown Ben’s “Ossifer” character truly left their lands. Sadly, their pursuit of him led them straight into the arms of the Seconds Sons, who had camped their men just south of Winterfell. Most of their men were killed, save Ser Rodrik and a guardsman named Rodwell, who were cut off from warning them of the coming attack.

Ever since then, Ser Rodrik had been rallying support to retake Winterfell while Robb battled his way home through the reaver reinforcements in the Rills. So she was shocked when Plumm pressed the quill into her hand and set her to writing.

“Say, ‘Dear Ser Rodrik.’” The sellsword paced behind her. “Prince Viserys is a monster.”

Sansa stopped writing at that point, fearful of what would happen if the prince heard that she wrote such. Plumm pushed down on her shoulders, urging her to write it just as he said.

“The prince has beaten me. He threatens to ravage me. He has complete command over the Second Sons, five hundred brutal killers. They have killed many. They threaten to kill me if any force appears before our walls. Please ser, don’t let me die. Please. Not like my sister. Not like…”

The sellsword paused then, tapping his chin.

“His daughter is among the dead correct?”

Sansa’s mouth opened wide, the quill shaking in her hand as she struggled to form words when Maester Luwin spoke for her.

“Beth Cassel is among the missing. Lost to us since the night you took the castle. We of course pray for her well-being.”

“Missing? Perhaps she made off with that wildling who killed my inside man?” Plumm picked his teeth and shook his head. “A true loss him. Skilled enough to hide in your stables and set that tower alight without being noticed, only to be killed by a prisoner of your very own! If the wildlings that Lord Stark battles are as hard to track as that one, then I think his absence during all these events can be forgiven.”

The man appeared to abandon the issue of Beth for the moment, forcing her to hold back a sigh of relief. The sellsword began flipping through parchments then, growing particularly dissatisfied as his search went on.

“No word of the young lady’s betrothed coming to rescue her?” Brown Ben took hold of the maester’s chain, making as if to inspect it. “No pronouncement of Prince Jon marching north? Of Lord Tully?”

“Prince Jon wars in the south as far as we know.” The maester slowly lifted his chain from the man’s hands. “Lady Catelyn and her brother have sent yet another offer to ransom Sansa’s freedom. Lady Stark offers safe passage out of the North as well… but only if Viserys Targaryen is surrendered to justice. For the murder of Lady Arya-”

The sellsword disgusted her by laughing then, as if the topic of murdered young girls was a jest.

“Sadly Viserys is not the prince I’m meant to see dead.” Plumm turned away from the maester who pressed the issue nonetheless.

“The ransom offered by the Tullys and Freys both is quite substantial, more than any-”

“They could never match the reward I’ve been promised.” Plumm said, holding up a hand to half any more words from the maester. “Now Sansa time for that second letter. Write exactly what I say now. Understand?”

“Yes my lord.” She dipped his quill in the ink once more.

“My lord.’” Plumm began, though in a serious tone. “I have been beaten but am untouched otherwise. My features remain beautiful. I remain virtuous. My sister’s death was an accident. Unintended and tragic. The Second Sons depart Winterfell. They leave a garrison of thirty men behind. And me, Sansa Stark.”

When she finished writing the disparity in the two letters confused her. One was threatening, the other sounding comforting in a strange way. Something troubled her as Plumm made to collect them.

“The second letter? Who should I address it to?”

Plumm grabbed her chin in a vice like grip, wrenching it up so she looked straight into his cold eyes.

“Did I say to whom it was addressed, my lady?”

“N-n-no.” She stammered, her neck hurting from the extreme angle. “I only meant-”

“What matters is that you do what I say.” His sour breath wafted over her face. “For instance, speaking not a word of this to the prince. Not one. Or I take the Hound away and send you to the prince’s chambers as naked as the day you were born. Do you understand?”

She nodded fearfully and the hand was pulled away, Plumm’s smile wrinkling his face once more.

“Speaking of Viserys’s vile desires, one of these letters needs to be delivered to Ser Rodrik by a courier he knows. I believe he will be with the Manderly army coming this way, so it shall have to be someone who knows these lands and can ride a horse. One able to ride swiftly and whose words of the horror that Viserys has visited here will be trusted by the knight.”

Before Maester Luwin could offer a name, Sansa leapt from her chair.

“Jeyne! Jeyne Poole!” She cupped her hands together. “Please! Send Lady Jeyne! I’ll say nothing to the prince if it is Jeyne, I swear it!”

“A fine idea my lady.” Plumm urged her towards the door then. “I shall have her prepared right away. Now Sandor will escort you back to your chambers. Your gown looks a fright.”

She did just that, not wishing to give the sellsword any leave to change his mind. Whatever the truth behind those letters, it meant Jeyne could escape Viserys’s clutches. It meant her friend would live. She’d lost too many friends to allow such a thing to happen again. There were others she wished she could save as well. Shyra of course. Mikken, who she spotted helping Old Nan tend to Hodor’s many wounds near the forge. It hurt her heart to see the large stableboy weeping into the ancient woman’s arms.

Sansa had done much the same the morning after Winterfell’s capture. Not from pain like Hodor did, but from grief. Instead of Old Nan’s embrace however, it was another woman who comforted her, a lady that Sandor allowed her to visit after changing into a new gown.

Roslin was kept in her mother’s chambers now, under heavy guard by the Second Sons. Her friend looked to have been pacing back and forth, until Sansa’s arrival set her to backing away and protectively putting her hands over her middle. The fear on Roslin’s face fell away when the Hound closed the door behind her, leaving them alone for the first time in over a week.

“Oh Sansa they’ve beaten you again!” Roslin came to her, tears in her eyes and dark circles beneath them. She gingerly touched at Sansa’s face, shaking her head at the new bruises she saw. “How can they treat you so while leaving me be? You’re the eldest daughter of House Stark, a true beauty, betrothed to a prince-”

“All of that is why I am beaten.” Sansa took Roslin’s hands in hers. “Viserys is a monster, one I hope Jeyne will be far away from soon.”

“Truly?” Roslin pulled her over to the window, far from the door. “I swore I heard her cries not so long ago.”

She pushed down the imagery of what Viserys had done to Jeyne after the hall. Instead she tried picturing her friend on a horse, riding far from the castle. For a shameful moment, Sansa pictured it being her escaping instead. It was a hope she struggled to pull herself away from.

“Jeyne will soon be sent to Ser Rodrik. To deliver a message.”

One that threatens to kill me if they attempt rescue… one that carries a lie not of Brown Ben’s making…

“Rodrik?” Roslin’s eyes filled with hope, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If Jeyne reaches him then she can tell him the truth. He can tell Robb… just imagine if he already knows? If she’s alive she might have managed to reach his men-”

“There is no if. She is alive. Robb will find her.” Sansa put her hand on Roslin’s middle. “Then they will come for us. We only have to wait a little longer… we can make it. For everyone who hasn’t… we must. ”

Septa Mordane… Vayon Poole… Quent… Joseth… Bandy…

Sansa had no idea what happened to her sister the night of the attack. When dawn came, and the dead and wounded were being sorted out, Brown Ben and Viserys were in a rage to find that Domeric had left Winterfell weeks earlier… and Arya missing.

Sansa and Roslin were holding each other when one of the sellswords reported that a postern gate had been opened during the fighting, the tracks of a horse and a giant wolf leading away toward the Wolfswood. Plumm was convinced that some guardsman had fled with Arya until two of his men arrived, dragging forward the mangled corpse of a young girl.

She had screamed to see it of course. Sansa recognized Beth’s body, as did many others. The sellswords had been hunting for Arya when they first spotted Beth hiding in the First Keep. Their efforts to catch her led to a chase to the heights of the tower where, in a panic, Beth had attempted a half ruined staircase that gave away, sending her tumbling out of a window and to her death.

Yet Plumm didn’t see Beth in that smashed body. Only a young girl in highborn clothing.

And in that moment Sansa made a decision.

To save her sister, she killed her.

“NO!” She had screamed in a voice not of her own making. “Arya! ARYA NO! My sister! Arya! My sister! No!”

Roslin and Maester Luwin had stared at her in a shocked silence for a long, terrifying moment before Ben Plumm spat and cursed.

“Another bit of the treasure is lost to us it seems.” The sellsword had grumbled. “A piece we needed for the bargaining to come…”

Maester Luwin quickly caught on, speaking to Plumm on matters of properly burying Arya’s body while Sansa and Roslin simply grabbed onto each other crying.

Just as Roslin and Sansa held each other now. They had once wept and screamed to behold the dead body of “Arya Stark.”

Now they held each other for a difference reason, one of hope, that her sister was still out there somewhere. Like all the others.

Far away from all this horror.

 

BARRISTAN

 

My left leg for a better view.

The old knight scowled once more at the chain running from his leg to the dungeon wall. It chafed painfully as he tried to press up against the opposite wall, where the cell’s only small window opened up to the courtyard. It was higher than he could reach with his manacled hands but he could still hear noise and see bits of the world beyond.

The dungeon was below ground level so climbing up to the window would only give him a rat’s view of the yard beyond anyway, yet the gods would not grant him even that. The chain pulled taut and his leg couldn’t stretch far enough. So while a great commotion was raised in the yard outside, all Barristan could see was a small view of the night sky and the top of the ruined tower.

The Kingspyre tower, he reminded himself, you must remember the layout if you are to escape.

Your last visit to Harrenhal wasn’t that many years ago… far more pleasant though.

His cell here at Harrenhal was not the worst he’d ever seen. Despite King Rhaegar’s compassionate ways, the Black Cells of the Red Keep were far darker. Five paces wide and a few more across, it was quite spacious compared to what he’d expected. Many dungeons lacked the clean rushes this one did. The leaky bucket that served as his chamber pot was almost a luxury. He had no illusions on who to thank for such fine treatment. When Barristan looked to the heavy door of his cell, he prayed to see the narrow, iron slit of the spy hole slide open.

For a pair of comforting blue eyes to be there. For news on what all of the noise was about.

Men were shouting, horses bellowing, he even thought to have heard the clash of blades.

Perhaps the river lords have stormed the gates. Or Prince Jon’s men.

I beseech the Warrior to free me, put a blade in my hand, if only that I might avenge my murdered brothers, my fallen king.

Let me act as a Kingsguard once more.

He was not much of one at the moment. His hair and beard were long and unkempt, rough spun wool garments taking the place of his armor. The only hint of the knight he had once been was the white cloak hanging from his shoulders. Filthy as it was, he clung to it dearly each night. The feel of it reminded him of his vows.

Of a little princess out there who needed him.

Why the gods had deemed fit to spare him while his king fell was a mystery. Barristan had been prepared to die so that Rhaegar might live. When he sank into the sea’s depths, he was sure his time had passed. Instead it was Jonothor and Arthur that died in his place. His king falling in battle instead of him.

All better men than I.

It wasn’t how he wanted it. Ashara had been coming for him. Her lovely face had been within reach. Her soft embrace was there for him at last.

Except it wasn’t Ashara that took hold of him, just a Lyseni deckhand. That was what Sallador Saan told him when Barristan awakened on the ship as a prisoner. The Lyseni pirate had acted magnanimous to declare Barristan the only survivor of their battle. Hence why the sellsail had sent his men diving into the sea after him, in the hope that a Kingsguard knight would fetch a high enough bounty to pay for some lost ships.

They made for Maidenpool, still firmly in Robert’s control. It was there that Barristan had learned the outcome of the battle between his king and the Usurper’s forces. The invaders cheered it as the Dragon’s Fall. He called it a crime.

His stay at Maidenpool was short. When Robert Baratheon learned of who Saan held prisoner, he had one of his captains open up Lord Mooton’s treasury to pay the snivelling pirate handsomely. Afterwards Barristan was put into the care of a Ser Franklyn Flowers, a shambling hulk of a man with a scarred face and no ear, wearing a lord’s ransom in gold rings upon his arms.

“Alright, I’m to take you to the commander.” Franklyn had grumbled. “Don’t give me any trouble and the journey will be easy on your old bones.”

“What trouble could an old man cause you?” He replied, while already considering many different forms of trouble.

So, under a heavy guard of Dothraki riders and sellswords, Barristan was strapped to a horse and carried across the burning and blackened lands of his dead king. They were forced to bind him, for he killed three of his captors one night when they trusted him to be free to eat a meal.

Wielded properly a spoon could be quite deadly.

Those bodies were nothing though compared to the endless number of corpses he saw during their ride. Most looked to be mere farmers, village folk, the innocent, the ones who did not flee their burning homes fast enough. Men, women, children, all cut down. The Dothraki would point and laugh at the bodies they would see strung up from the trees.

The horselords’ laughter turned to screams of rage whenever they came across the remains of their own people. He remembered the first pile of Dothraki dead clearly, and there was no other word for their state than pile.

Several dead horses lay about the edge of a creek but Barristan couldn’t rightly say how many Dothraki bodies he spied beneath a nearby willow. They’d been hacked apart, heads, arms, legs, torsos, all the pieces thrown together into a pile of rotting, writhing, maggot ridden flesh. At the top of the grisly cairn sat a lone head, its mouth jammed full of severed braids of hair. 

The Dothraki had howled and cursed, pulling free their arakhs and cutting through the air in fury. Some had pointed those blades at him and it fell to Flowers and his sellswords to hold them back. The entire time, the Dothraki kept spitting a phrase he’d heard from many of the other horselords who’d crossed their path during the journey. Always said with such anger.

“Zasqa zhavorsa!” The Dothraki cursed. “Zasqa zhavorsa!”

“What is that?” He’d asked Ser Franklyn. “Saska Savorsa?”

“White dragon.” The sellsword spat with a wary glance to the lands and trees about them. “They curse the white dragon. Him and his bloody ghosts.”

That confused him at first until Barristan remembered that young Prince Jon had taken a white dragon as his sigil. That the king’s son survived the battle had been a blessing to hear. To learn that Prince Jon was responsible for bringing low some of their foes raised his spirits. He knew there was little honor in such butchery but after all the slain smallfolk they passed, Barristan thought it well deserved.

If Jon was responsible he’d certainly been busy. They rode by a score of similar sights just on their straight path to Harrenhal. At times during the day, Barristan could feel eyes watching them from the brush or within ruined farmhouses. By night the howls of a wolf could sometimes be heard in the distance.

All of that grew less frequent as they neared Harrenhal.

And then his imprisonment began.

The last time he had seen the open sky was before they dragged him through the castle’s massive gates. It wasn’t the lines of Unsullied warriors that caught his eye, nor the large trebuchets and catapults being constructed, it was something far more heavenly.

Something Barristan could see even through the bars of his dungeon window at times. A comet that appeared in the skies shortly after his capture. It was a striking red color, with a long, wide tail that was bright by day and outshone the moon by night. The Dothraki and the sellswords likened it to a bloody wound, often arguing over whether it was a sign of good fortune or ill.

To Barristan, it was something far more important. It could not be happenstance that the comet appeared so soon after the king’s death. Red like the Targaryen sigil, he truly believed that it was a sign from Rhaegar himself.

Rhaegar will not let us lose hope. Even in death, in the darkness itself, my king lights the way.

With that thought in mind, it hurt all the more to realize that the sounds from outside were dying away. No more shouting, no more blades clashing. Instead he only heard the distant pounding of hooves that grew fainter and fainter.

He seized on a different sound then, one far closer and growing nearer. Footfalls that echoed in the corridor beyond his cell door. When they stopped just outside, the spy hole slid open and a pair of eyes beheld him.

Familiar eyes. The eyes of an enemy… yet a friend as well.

“Ser, it’s me.” His voice was youthful and full of worry. “There’s not much time-”

“What happened without?” Barristan walked forward slowly, holding his hands up to show that he meant no threat. “I heard a commotion, fighting.”

“The Dothraki, they’re gone.” The young man answered. “All of them! They just up and rode off. They wouldn’t listen to any of the captains and they cut down whoever stood in their path. I think some of them were even fighting each other.”

Dissension in the Usurper’s ranks? That’s an opportunity if loyal lords are watching for such.

“Please ser, heed me, they’re coming for you.” The voice pleaded, his eyes moving back the way he’d come. “You must bend the knee. You’re a good man, a good knight, don’t give them reason to kill you. My father will spare you if-”

“I thank you Gendry.” Barristan nodded. “For all you’ve done, for the good company you’ve been to me… but I cannot do as you ask.”

His words were not meant to deceive the young sellsword, for Gendry had truly eased his time here at Harrenhal. Barristan knew the dark-haired youth was the reason he had clean rushes and his skin was not as grimy as it could be, for each day he brought Barristan a bucket and a cloth to bathe with. Yet with his powerful build, coal black hair, and deep blue eyes, there was no forgetting who sired this unlikely ally.

The Usurper didn’t seem to care much for his son, bastard that he was. During their long talks through the cell door, Barristan learned that Gendry was no true jailer or guard but a blacksmith’s apprentice. Whatever his profession, Gendry showed Barristan a kind of awed respect that he was somewhat acquainted with. As a knight of the Kingsguard, he long ago became accustomed to the adoration of young men who grew up with tales of glory, yet he hadn’t expected to find such a lad amongst the Golden Company.

Nor to hear a name he knew from long ago.

“Hefstus?” He repeated the first time Gendry made mention of it. “Hefstus the armorer? You knew him?”

“Yes ser.” Gendry had answered through the door. “He was the company’s armorer, it was him that my fa- that the commander gave me over to. Did he truly ready your plate during the War of the Ninepenny Kings?”

“That he did lad.” Barristan found himself smiling when recalling the intense, dour smith. “We were younger men then. There was no finer blacksmith to be found than Hefstus. He armored the lot of us. Brynden Tully, Tywin Lannister, Gerold Hightower, even Steffon Baratheon, your own grandsire.”

Gendry had almost smiled to hear such, for he admitted to harboring doubts that his mentor spoke honestly about those days. Barristan remembered hearing that an accident had almost killed Hefstus and that he’d had to seek work across the Narrow Sea. To learn that his old friend was smithing for the Golden Company was only a small surprise, for they were clearly well armored. When Gendry let slip that Hefstus was dead, a shameful twinge of relief washed over Barristan, for it denied Robert a valuable resource and spared him killing an old friend.

Gendry found no blessing in Hefstus’s death though.

“Mago murdered him.” Gendry had spoken hotly. “The shit was drunk on victory and demanded Hefstus hammer out a knick in his arakh. He was busy though, there were many others that needed tending to first. His duty was to serve the captains before any, he said so. They took to arguing and-and I tried to break it up but… it was too late.”

The young man clearly mourned his mentor deeply yet his rage was far more powerful. From all Gendry said, he sought justice for the old armorer but Robert, while furious at Mago, would not risk angering his Dothraki allies. Gendry hadn’t accepted such, insulting both Mago and his father, earning himself a demotion. Instead of overseeing the armory, Gendry now oversaw the dungeons.

The pair of them had bonded over being denied their true trades.

Although Barristan suspected that Gendry was underselling his own worth. He’d even asked him about it not long ago.

“You’ve got a strong build to you lad.” He’d observed when Gendry brought him his meal one day. “From the look of you, I’d wager it’s been that way since you were young. I must ask, how have you not taken up a blade? Surely Robert Baratheon could find someone to teach his son to be a warrior in a company full of them…”

“When I was little my father taught me himself.” The youth’s face had darkened then. “Mostly just wrestling, prodding me with wooden swords. Then mother died and Taena came along. He handed me off to Tristan Rivers after that. ‘A bastard knight for my bastard’ he said. That was alright for me at the time… until we sacked a Myrish settlement for the Lyseni. The men were taking their pleasure of the women… raping them… old mothers or young girls, it didn’t matter. Tristan told me to keep watch on a couple of them but I let them go.”

Gendry’s eye had sought his in that moment.

“Father said I was too weak for war so he gave me to Hefstus. He said that if I couldn’t be trusted to wear armor I could make it instead. Hefstus told me I was right though. That what I did was chivalrous. That the great knights of Westeros he once smithed for would’ve done the same. Like you ser.”

“As a boy, I never faced such a decision.” He refused to lie to Gendry in that moment. “But if I had… I would hope that I had the courage to act as you did Gendry.”

That was the first time he had seen Gendry smile. A far cry from the face he made now, pained at Barristan denying his pleas.

“Ser please, they’re coming.” Gendry once more looked away and this time Barristan could hear sounds growing closer as well. “Something’s not right. Bend the knee. Hefstus would tell you the same. I know he would.”

“That man was a sour, angry miser, but he knew real honor when he saw it. Thus his praise for you.” Barristan answered calmly. “Step away from the door Gendry, lest they think poorly of you.”

Gendry looked pained to do so yet he did as Barristan asked. He was thankful for it at first, but soon yearned for a blade when the cell door opened. In strode a man who had openly bragged of his part in not only the king’s death but Arthur’s as well.

“Robert summons you old man.” Lyn Corbray sneered at him as a man came forward to unhook his leg chain. “Do you think you can handle the stairs? Or will your knees crack under the strain?”

He did not rise to the knight’s challenge, staying silent as he stood. Corbray scowled to be ignored and soon had Barristan brought out of the cell, a pair of sellswords holding his arms. More stood without, all armed and looking wary of him.

Flowers must have told them what I did with the spoon.

“You as well bastard.” Corbray pointed at Gendry. “He asked for you to join us.”

“Me?” Gendry gave a look of concern then. “I’m to escort Ser Barristan?”

“Escort? Listen to you.” Corbray and his men laughed. “Just shut your mouth and follow bastard.”

For the first time in what felt like months, Barristan walked more than ten steps without being stopped by a wall. He passed by other cells in the dark dungeons, nary a torch to light the way. They climbed damp steps leading up to main floor of the Widow’s Tower but did not stop. Instead they simply kept climbing and Barristan stole glances out the windows that they passed. Everywhere he looked, Robert’s men were gathered around fires or practicing formations yet the massive size of Harrenhal’s yard made the castle look almost empty.

Far more interesting were the bodies that some sellswords were carrying. Before Barristan was led too high to see, he counted three dead Dothraki. All killed by cuts that looked similar to those caused by the curved blades that the horselords favored.

With a glance to the red comet above, he wondered if Rhaegar’s favor had led to these deaths.

Or perhaps something far better.

Barristan knew where they led him, for he’d been brought to Robert once before, when he first arrived at Harrenhal. A stone bridge connected the Widow’s Tower to the Kingspyre Tower where the lord’s chambers were located. Barristan’s legs were aching by the time they climbed high enough to reach them. As ugly and misshapen as the towers were, their chambers and rooms still displayed a grandeur that few castles could match.

Robert made good use of it seemed. When Corbray pushed the massive doors open, the huge, well-lit chamber was displayed to him. Fine chairs and couches lay farther than could be seen in one glance. What seemed like an entire castle’s worth of tapestries hung along the walls and more than a score of hearths burned brightly. All was just as he remembered.

Unlike last time though, he did not find Robert in the middle of rutting with his mistress. That the man had allowed their entry, even while a shapely woman bounced upon his lap, marked Robert as the type of degenerate that Barristan always believed him to be. This time Robert stood surrounded by his captains. His mistress was there as well, though this time fully dressed and sitting far from where the men gathered. Taena of Myr watched over two young boys playing at her feet, neither older than ten, both with full heads of black hair and bright blue eyes.

“Gendry!” The taller of the two cried out happily. “Look Ly, it’s Gendry!”

With a laugh, the two boys rushed towards their number, coming to Gendry and pulling at his arms and swordbelt. There was no doubt in Barristan’s mind that he was looking at two more of Robert’s sons, though these two were darker in complexion.

“Where have you been?” The youngest asked but the elder pushed him aside.

“You were supposed to make me a sword!”

“Steffon! Lyonel!” Their mother snapped, pointing to her feet. “Come here at once! Act as the Baratheons I’ve raised you to be!”

The woman made an impression, even when clothed. The sultry, black-eyed beauty somehow managed to move seductively even when bidding her sons to her side. They did so reluctantly while Gendry’s face burned. Robert showed no such shame however as he broke free from his men and laughed.

“Barristan Selmy!” Robert gestured to him with his powerful arms. “To come before me in such a state, you must be bold!”

Laughter rang out among all in the room, save Gendry and himself. Barristan kept his face calm and held his chin high. If Robert thought to break him he would have to do better than tedious taunts. As Robert finished laughing, he had them led fully within the chamber, shaking his head when inspecting Barristan’s clothing.

“Just a jest ser, forgive me that.” Robert smiled down at him. “It was not I who put you down in those dungeons, remember. That was your choice. Most of my highborn captives reside in castle chambers.”

“Not my king.” He said, looking Robert straight in the eye. “For you murdered him. I shall not accept the hospitality of a usurper.”

A twinge of fury flashed across Robert’s face but it fell away as the Myrish beauty came to his side, smiling brightly.

“Come now dear ser, there is no need for harsh words between you and my love.” She purred. “Has he not been gracious? A captainship in the Golden Company is a great reward. A share of the spoils, whether gold, land, or women… glory even! All you Westerosi knights dream of glory. More than any of that, you’d serve a warrior, a victor, a man far more worthy of your service than some corpse or his cowardly sons.”

“She speaks the truth Selmy.” Robert growled. “Rhaegar’s brat has fled my allies in the south. Scurrying all the way to Dorne it’s said! The fat flower Mace Tyrell is driven back to Highgarden. The way to the capital is open to me now. My armies are three times the number that Connington can raise and far better trained. The reign of the dragons is at an end. Bend the knee and earn your place in the future of this kingdom.”

Before Barristan could speak to that, Robert’s eyes moved to Gendry and he grunted.

“Speaking of doing away with the past… I’ve decided to take you away from gaoler duty boy. The smiths I’ve got can’t do what I ask and I’m hoping Hefstus taught you more of his skill than he did sense.”

“Hefstus was a great teacher and a better man.” Gendry spoke sharply. “I’ll gladly show anyone what he taught me, if only to spite his killer-”

“Shut it!” Robert snapped, his face red all of a sudden. “Still whining about Mago are you? Well you can stop that now. He’s dead.”

Mago? Mago was the leader of Robert’s Dothraki. His death might explain some of the strangeness around here…

“The White Dragon killed him!” Robert’s youngest son proclaimed, playing at battle with his brother. “They fought and they fought and Mago lost his head-”

“Lyonel enough!” The Myrish woman moved quickly, grabbing the boy’s ear and ushering him and his brother from the room.

“Is that why the Dothraki left?” Gendry asked. “They’re scared of the prince?”

“They are not scared!” Robert bellowed, sending his son a step back. “They’re fucking fools is what they are! I told them to choose a new leader. I even let them decide by fighting it out, ‘as is their custom’ Haldon tells me. Then when that Pono whoreson killed all the others, then he took the rest on a bloody ride for some fool’s idea of vengeance!”

Barristan could not help but laugh out loud then, for this was the sweetest music to his ears. Robert was admitting to losing his horselords, or at least having no control over them. In that moment, he wished that Prince Jon was there, just so he could knight the young man for enraging Robert so. His good humor was not lost on Robert and the sight of Barristan laughing somehow broke him free of his rage.

“Back to what I was talking about.” He pointed to Gendry again. “Since I didn’t get to shove it up his bloody arse like I wanted, I’m going to have Rhaegar’s precious fucking sword melted down so that you can make me a warhammer out of it.”

Gendry paled at the words, which confused Barristan, for Rhaegar had never held his sword to any great esteem. It slowly dawned on him then, the horror that Robert proposed, when one of the captains rushed forward with a sheathed blade he had seen only once before. Many years ago, that sheath and that blade had been in the possession of Maelys the Monstrous, on the day that Barristan slew him on the Stepstones.

“Blackfyre.” Barristan couldn’t help but speak the name in a whisper. “You have Blackfyre… Aegon the Conqueror’s blade…”

“I got what was left of it.” Robert smiled. “Can’t break Valyrian steel, true enough, but your battle with the last Blackfyre must have really been something Selmy. The guard and the grip were a mess. I had Hefstus remake them before I made my return to Westeros.”

Robert pulled the ancestral Targaryen sword free from its scabbard and Barristan stood in awe of it. Larger than a longsword but smaller than a greatsword, it was a bastard blade in truth, but that description insulted its majesty. The sword was a gleaming piece of artistry. It’s steel looked smoother than ice and the edges glinted with a fearsome sharpness that even Barristan feared to touch. At the base, where the blade was at its thickest, were ripples with black designs, including words etched in High Valyrian.

Even to Barristan’s untrained eye, he could tell that the replaced guard and handle matched Blackfyre’s splendor perfectly. The guard was done in the shape of dragon wings while a dragon’s head laid where they joined, a pair of bright red rubies shining in its eyes. The handle itself looked to be banded with black steel yet he could not be sure, for Robert’s large hand closed around it

“Here.” Robert made to hand Blackfyre off to Gendry. “Make use of this castle’s forge while you can. We start our march on the capital-”

“Father… I-I can’t.” Gendry protested, holding his hands up in a plea. “Only master smiths can work Valyrian steel the way you want. Hefstus taught me a little about melting the metal down but reforging it into a hammer-”

“He disappoints as a smith too.” Taena leaned up to whisper in Robert’s ear but he shook her away, pressing Blackfyre into Gendry’s grasp, the lad cradling it as carefully as a newborn babe fresh from the womb.

“Fine, no new hammer for me then. I can wield the one I killed Rhaegar with gladly enough. All that matters is that you melt the blade down. Aegon the Conqueror had the swords of his vanquished foes treated so and I’ll do the same. Let all hear of it.”

“But-but it’s art.” Gendry looked down at the blade sadly. “Father, please, Hefstus said that the new handle was his greatest work… his mark on the finest blade in history, he said. This was his legacy-”

“We’re not here to talk about a dead bloody smith!” Robert turned away from Gendry in disgust, facing Barristan again. “I don’t need a Targaryen sword in my hand but I would gladly have one of their shields at my side. Come now Selmy, I won’t allow you to reject me again. I’ll even sweeten the offer. Forget your Kingsguard oath, I can give you lands and title. Harrenhal itself if you want it, the seat of kings! As a sign of good faith, I’ll even hand over my son as a squire.”

He and Gendry looked to each other then. The youth’s face pulled somewhat out of his daze, a sign of something behind his eyes. Perhaps hope.

“I would squire for Ser Barristan?”

The light in his eye died away quickly when the question was met with a guffaw from Corbray and a smattering of laughter from the others. Robert’s mistress covered her mouth as she tittered.

“We would offer the ser better than that.” The woman strode forward, her hips swaying as she placed her hands upon her bountiful chest. “Robert and I would be honored if you took our eldest Steffon to squire. He’s a lusty boy, full of strength and so very eager.”

“Seven hells, take Lyonel too.” Robert grinned, patting the woman’s rear. “With both of them serving you and out of my hair, I could get another on Taena.”

“My sons would serve you well.” Taena smiled, looking Barristan up and down. “They would certainly attend to your attire better than my husband’s bastard has.”

“Forget clothing!” Robert pulled at his own tunic. “Let us dress ourselves in victory! Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold! One of the finest swordsmen still alive in the Seven Kingdoms, fighting alongside the Slayer of the Dragons! Bend the knee to me ser, and you will rise to the highest heights of glory. With you at my side, who alive could stand against us?”

Robert became so enraptured by his own words that he dared to place his hands on Barristan’s shoulders, squeezing them as if they were old friends. The man’s thick fingers crumpled his white cloak, ignoring any sign of it. Barristan on the other hand had ignored nothing. He hung on every word and action he’d witnessed here. The captains in the room cheered as Robert began to laugh, all the while Barristan eyed the Usurper carefully.

“You’re scared.”

His words tore the smile from Robert’s face and killed the good cheer in the room instantly.

“You’re frightened of something… or someone.” He continued, turning his head towards Gendry and Blackfyre. “You don’t want your men to see it. That’s why you’re willing to destroy such a wondrous blade. A childish act of vengeance, a temper tantrum, all to do what? Show your men how strong you are?”

“Hold your tongue.” Robert painfully tightened his grip on Barristan’s shoulders but the knight pressed on.

“That’s why you want me at your side… I see sellswords, pirates, slaves, but few enough true men in your ranks… other than the ones you threaten with hostages.”

“You forget my loyal Stormlords!”

“Aye, you have them… but who else?” He glared into Robert’s narrowing eyes. “No one else is joining your murderous campaign against the throne like you expected, are they? You think having me turn my cloak might win you some favour? A man who marches at the head of slaves and beasts on horseback…”

He looked to an empty window then, ignoring how Robert was now taking hold of his cloak in rage.

“Beasts who’ve abandoned your cause… you can’t even keep your own men in line! Do you want to know why Usurper? Because you lie. Because you are unworthy. There are still good men who stand against you. Rhaegar’s sons! King Aegon! Prince Jon! True dragons until the end!”

“Cowardly boys!” Robert sent spittle flying into his face. “One flees all the way to Dorne while the other hides behind leaves and smallfolk! I’ve already beaten that shit once-”

“Yet he lives! Prince Jon lives while your men continue to die!” Barristan snarled back. “The White Dragon, your men whisper! He hurts you so badly, even your little whelp sings his praises! A prince stands against you while the Dornishmen rise for our new king! He may be to the south but the king will return! He’ll come for you! The dragons are coming for you Usurper!”

Robert threw him back into his guards then, red-faced with rage as he pointed to Gendry.

“You told him about that foolishness at Dragonstone!?” Robert crossed the room, taking holding of Gendry’s tunic and jerking him violently. “You stupid little shit! This is why I can’t have you around! You’re too soft! Act a man for once in your miserable little life! I curse the day that your mother spread her legs for me!”

“I said nothing!” Gendry struggled to free himself. “I swear! You said it was all nonsense! The dragons are dead! I didn’t-”

“Something scares you at Dragonstone as well?” Barristan asked, tearing free of his guards and stopping Robert’s manhandling of his son. “What is it? Does my princess raise an army against you? Do you fear a young girl as well Robert?”

“Enough of this.” The Usurper released Gendry and pointed at Barristan, his other hand a raised fist before him. “Bend the knee. Swear fealty to me now. This is your last chance old man.”

“I am Kingsguard.” He held his manacled hands up. “There may be no blade in my hand but I remain a shield to the true king ever more. No bribe you offer will ever change what I am. What I swore to be.”

“Fool.”  Robert shook his head. “This is not how I wanted things. Everyone here saw me try. Lyn, you take this pathetic old codger back to his cell and then seek out our spymaster. Come dawn, have him put this stubborn sot to the question. If there’s anything more to learn of the capital’s defences, I want it torn out of his flesh.”

“And when that’s done?” Corbray asked. To his credit, Robert hesitated for a moment, meeting Barristan’s eyes for a flash. There was a strange expression of remorse there. If Robert continued to feel such he didn’t say, for the Usurper showed him his back to seek some wine from a table.

“He wants to die a Kingsguard so we’ll give him his wish.” Robert said between gulps. “I’ve killed Rhaegar. I will destroy the legendary Blackfyre itself. I will have brought low the fiercest of the Targaryen warriors… no dragonspawn will stand for long after that.”

“Father no!” Gendry shouted, pushing by Corbray. “He’s a knight! A knight that swore a vow! Keep him prisoner, please! It’s not noble to kill him for doing as a knight must! Whatever evil Rhaegar did-”

“Be quiet boy.” Robert ignored his son, waving them to the door. “Corbray, get Selmy out of here.”

His captors obeyed. The last thing that Barristan saw of Robert was Gendry continuing to plead for mercy while all that Barristan hoped was that the boy would be silent.

When he was back in his cell, chained to the wall once more, Barristan began pondering how he would remain silent. The torturers would be there by dawn, and while his will to endure any treatment was great, his body’s resolve against all pain as firm as steel… even the greatest of steel could break.

That was not a risk he would take.

A man with no tongue can betray no secrets, he reflected as he ran his tongue over teeth, Oswell would be proud to hear that my last words were used to insult the Usurper.

He wished Robert had given more away towards the end. Something had occurred on Dragonstone which clearly worried him. Something about dragons. Whatever it was, Barristan could only hope that his little princess was safe. He hoped she could forgive him for not returning to her side, though it was foolish to think that Daenerys would ever mourn him in the same breath as Rhaegar.

It was the thought of Daenerys at risk, that perhaps the torturers would not be deterred by his lacking a tongue. He would still be able to write. Should the questions turn to what he knew of Dragonstone… Barristan could still pose a threat to his beloved princess.

Holding his wrists out before him, he sighed. Working down the manacles so he could open his veins with his teeth was the easiest option.

I’d prefer falling to a blade. To fight when they come for me. One last good fight.

But there’s no guarantee they would kill me… and death is the only guarantee I can depend on.

He shuffled to stare out the window again, smiling to see Rhaegar’s comet burning across the heavens. It wasn’t Ashara’s face but it would do for comfort while the life bled out of him. A final blessing to end a long life. A good one he hoped.

Yet when he heard the footsteps coming from outside the door, he cursed himself for not ending that life sooner. He thought he had more time! Robert had said dawn and the night was still young. The steps were hurried and so were Barristan’s efforts to force his manacles down.

The door was being unbarred by the time his teeth lined up with his right wrist. They were clamping around the flesh when the door swung open and a sack flew within, landing at his feet. A cloaked figure stood in the doorway, a sword hanging from his waist.

“Hurry ser.” Gendry hissed, the young man looking back and forth between him and the corridor. “The key for the chain is in the sack.”

“Gendry?” He stared in shock, realizing that there were no others with the lad. “What is this?”

“Killing you is wrong.” Gendry answered, sounding impatient. “You’re just doing your duty… just cause some brute wants you to do different, that’s no reason to kill you. If that makes me soft then so be it.”

“Bugger soft, it makes you my hero.” Barristan smiled to bend down and began rummaging through the sack. Within he found clothes, a cloak, a dagger, some bread and cheese, and most importantly a key.

The chain about his ankle was gone in the blink of an eye but removing his manacles required his young savior’s help. Gendry began to gently tap at the bolts of his manacles with a small hammer when Barristan took notice that his savior looked poorly. There was a bruise forming on his cheek, with a red cut at its center.

“There’s not enough men to keep watch.” Gendry whispered. “The walls are too big and most of them are watching for the Prince’s men out there, not within. There’s a small postern gate that the men use to go visit women in the village. I can get you through it.”

With his hands freed, he tore off his wools and his sullied cloak to dress in the simple garb that Gendry had brought him. The boots were a tad snug and he was sure to get blisters, but that they would be welcome ones. Donning a heavy cloak and tucking his Kingsguard’s whites back into the sack, he was shocked when Gendry untied his own swordbelt and offered it over.

For hanging upon it was Blackfyre.

“The guards at the gate won’t recognize you, not with that beard.” Gendry whispered, leading him towards the doorway. “But once you’re out you have to move quickly. The Dothraki are gone but there’s still patrols about and if they catch you-”

“Catch us.” Barristan took hold of Gendry’s arm. “You can’t stay here. They’ll know lad. Robert might accept me escaping on my own but with Blackfyre missing as well… Gendry they’ll kill you.”

“Maybe.” The lad said softly. His sad eyes reminded Barristan of Robert’s momentary look of remorse. “Probably. My father might give me mercy though… and I can’t stand against him. I would gladly fight the lot of these buggers but I can’t abandon my father. He’s all I have left in this world.”

“Then there’s time you found something else.” Barristan said, squeezing the blacksmith apprentice’s arm while reaching into the sack. “Come with me Gendry. You’re too good a man to stay with this sort.”

“No.” Gendry shook his head, pulling him out into the corridor. “Saving you is good enough. I don’t care what happens to me after that.”

“Well I do.” He sighed, pressing the dagger’s edge against Gendry’s throat. “You’re coming with me lad. One way or the other.”

“Ser? Why-”

“Because I will let no more good men die in my stead.” Barristan answered, pushing him down the corridor, hoping Gendry would not force him to use the dagger to quiet him permanently.

“I have a feeling I’ll need a good man by my side in the days to come.”

“There aren’t many of those left in the world Gendry.”

"And with you at my side, who can stand against us?”

Chapter 16

Summary:

The cost of missteps. The weight of the past. The choices that must be made.

ROBB

 

The snow wafted down in the breeze, swirling about the hills and rugged landscape of the Rills. Were he not riding at a breakneck speed Robb imagined it would have been a peaceful thing to just be still and enjoy this summer snow. To open his mouth and let the flakes land on his tongue since he'd done as a little boy in mother's arms.

Except he wasn't a little boy anymore and this snow was not for tasting. It caught in his mount's mane and his own thick hair and beard, yet any flakes that struck his face melted away.

His foes had tried much the same, fleeing from the northern charge until there was nowhere left to run. Robb had chosen this battleground for its abundance of creeks and waterways. A river at the far end of the gully had cut off the enemy retreat, a ragged group of riders trying to force their horses into the waters but the beasts were having none of it. Behind them Robb and his men charged onward, Grey Wind right at his side.

"The kraken is mine!" He bellowed, Rodrik Forrester and Cley Cerwyn raising weapons high in agreement. "We end this now!"

Far behind them the rest of his cavalry were putting an end to the raiders who still fought on. The banners of House Stark waving back and forth alongside a score of others, like the bull moose of the Hornwoods and the mailed fist of the Glovers. Their enemy's banners were tattered and plain things, displaying only painted emblems too crude to properly make out. There were few enough left at any rate, many having fallen as their bearers were cut down.

The two forces had formed up on hills opposite one another, a stream intersecting it. Robb's cavalry against the hundreds of hedgeknights and freeriders his foe had gathered to him. They must have thought the northmen fools when they charged down into the gully, making to cross the stream and exposing themselves to attack. Yet these men were strangers to the Rills and Roger Ryswell knew them well. While Robb sent a few score riders across the rest of the men milled about, acting disorganized. The reavers had smelt victory and rushed forward.

I made our poor position far too tempting to ignore, he thought, just as father taught us Jon.

The two boys had still been young then, sourly outmatched in their ambushes of guardsmen with snowballs. Whether they attacked bravely and fought hard or hid behind trees and sought cover the older guards always defeated them. When father saw his heir and ward trudging into the hall covered in snow once more he'd set them straight.

"Boys, if you're outmatched or in a bad position then seek an advantage your foe does not expect." Father had said after leading them to the godswood. "Use your wits boys, when we have nothing else it can be what's within ourselves that sees us through."

He'd stayed with them, going over their many battles with the guards until Robb and Jon came to a plan. The next day they'd attacked in a familiar place, the men laughing to see them coming. Until they realized the boys had stockpiled snowballs the day before, a frozen solid arsenal that the guards could not match and fled from.

Robb still remembered catching father watching it all. The smile he'd offered the boys. A look of pride on his face.

It was a feeling he knew well, for his men filled him with it. When the reavers had come apart in their frantic charge to crush the northmen's slovenly crossing of the stream Robb had given the signal. The stream was deceptively shallow at several points, just as the Ryswells had said, and that's where his men rushed across all at once. Overwhelming the enemy force with their numbers and sheer ferocity.

The same kind of fierce bloodlust that drove Robb and the others on now. For ahead, with nowhere else to run, was the cause of all this. A rider desperately trying to rally his panicked men to him before the northmen arrived. The one wearing a black tunic with a golden kraken.

Theon Greyjoy wore a helm so Robb could not see his foe's face. What he did see was the man raising his sword and signaling for a ride about their right. It was folly of course. Robin Flint led the men there and was not about to lose this chance to end the kraken's flight.

When they came together, horses bellowing and metal crashing, Robb could taste the blood. Before he even drew blood himself he tasted it, for Grey Wind had pulled down a screaming man, tearing his arm off at the shoulder. Robb himself lashed out at a man in a halfhelm, one who raised his hands up in surrender too late for Robb to halt his attack, burying his blade deep into an eye socket.

The reavers were outmatched and outnumbered. Robb's men full of hated and bloodlust.

"For Ironrath!" Rodrik Forrester roared, hacking his sword down into a poorly armored foe until he fell a crumbled mess of blood and metal. Cley reined up beside Robb and drove a spear through the back of a man afoot, the bastard trying to skewer his horse.

"For the Starks!"

"For the Starks!" Robb answered Cley's cry, and he nearly screamed in rage to find his men had denied him any more foes.

For he meant his words. All he did now. Every battle fought. The day after day of endless of riding. The agony that was his leg. It was all for his family. His loved ones.

Those he needed to save, and the one he'd lost and needed to avenge.

That time was almost at hand. The last of the reavers were being brought low, the northmen pressing them against the stream's edge and sending many a body into the water. Robb cared more about the one man trying to escape the fight by leaping into the stream itself.

"The kraken's trying to swim!" Robin hailed, pointing and causing many of the men to start laughing and jeering at the Greyjoy's flight. Robb could not do the same, he rode to the water's edge until his horse shied back. Yet still, his will was done, for Grey Wind was in the water soon after.

When Greyjoy spotted what was chasing him his efforts became frantic, swimming hard for the other side. It was no use though, Robb had named Grey Wind well, for there were few faster than his friend. When the wolf took hold of the man's cloak Robb could smell the fear on the raider, finding himself struggling against the temptation to release the cloth and sink his teeth into flesh.

"To me!" Robb shouted, regaining control and command of the situation. "Bring him to me Grey Wind!"

Soon enough, the gasping, shivering form of Theon Greyjoy was dragged onto the shore before him. Robb glared down at the now helmless man, upset that his imagining of his rival did not match his imagination. For rather than a hard-faced, scarred reaver Theon Greyjoy proved to be a lean young man, barely older than him with a handsome enough face.

His dark hair was matted about his features but Robb caught the burning hatred in his foe's eyes well enough.

"By what right do you look at me so reaver?" He asked, pointing his red-stained blade down at the man. "You, Theon Greyjoy, who have invaded my family's lands, ravaged its peoples and forced me to waste my men and efforts on honorless trash like yourself?"

"Give me a blade cripple and we'll see who's the better man." Theon smiled cockily, something that fell away with the snapping of Grey Wind's jaws and a threatening snarl.

"Kill him now my lord." Cley urged while Robin and many more nodded in agreement. "This coward fled us at every turn. Showed no mercy to the defenseless, he deserves none now."

"In honor of Winterfell." Rodrik added, the heir to Ironrath and a growing friend to Robb riding up to his side. "Let his blood be shed for the loss of Lady Arya."

Grey Wind growled again and Robb tensed, gripping his blade tightly at the thought of Winterfell captured and the little sister lost to him. He wanted to argue, to say Arya couldn't truly be dead, that he dreamt of her still and she felt so close. Yet his desire to do exactly what his men suggested was even more powerful.

It's his fault Winterfell has been seized, he thought, his fault Roslin and Sansa are held at blade point.

His fault I've shamed my family so... a stain on the honor of House Stark... what would father think...

Theon continued to glare up at him, doing his best to remain defiant and appear strong. Yet when the youth's eyes flickered to the blade in Robb's hand he saw the truth. This man was scared and at his mercy. A prisoner taken in battle, helpless in defeat.

"Your life is forfeit." He spoke through gritted teeth, angling his sword so that blood dripped down upon Theon's face. "You're at my mercy Greyjoy... like the Tallharts were at yours. We both know what you did to them and the kind of man you are."

That was when Robb lifted his blade up and away, looking to his men.

"If there is honor in killing this man now I cannot see it. As firstborn son of Eddard Stark, I show mercy-"

"Robb he's a murderer!" Cley protested but Robb cut him off.

"And I am not. My father entrusted me to lead the North and I do so in this. I ride with you all in battle but there is more to leading than that. Our land faces many foes and more questions about them. Answers this man might have. I shall have Theon Greyjoy answer for his crimes but before those who have suffered most by his hand, namely the Tallharts. If I must take his head, I shall honor them by doing so in their presence."

"My father would ransom me!" Theon shouted as men made to collect him off the ground. "I'm worth my weight in gold! Get off of me! I'm heir to the Iron Islands! Act a man Stark! Fight me!"

"I have." He answered. "And I have beaten you."

Or near enough to it. Whatever scum still wander the Rills and Stoney Shore will have to wait.

Winterfell is where I'm needed. It is time to go home.

They were days away from Torrhen's Square and farther still from Winterfell but there was no doubt it would soon be the Starks again. Lord Rodrik Ryswell and Gregor Forrester led their foot further ahead, driving the last wave of raider reinforcements towards the seat of the Tallharts. Once he reunited their horse with the rest of the army they could crush their foe beneath the walls of Torrhen's Square. Then it was on to the siege of Winterfell.

A rider from a loyal castle had brought surprisingly welcome news of the state of things at his home. While his men won victories here in the west most tales to come of Winterfell involved defeat. Finally it appeared the tables had turned, Rodrik Cassel joining his forces with those of the Manderly's to besiege Winterfell. With Robb's strength added to theirs Viserys Targaryen's fate was certain.

No, nothing is certain, Robb told himself, thinking that way led you to all this folly.

I was certain these were only simple reavers but now I face mounted cavalry.

I was certain Roslin and the girls would be safe at Winterfell... that father was on his way home...

Ideally Robb would let his men rest after such a victory but there was no time for it.

There was light left in the day and every moment they wasted celebrating over the corpses of the dead was another Viserys held his loved ones captive. When they arrived back to Robett Glover and the main force of riders his first command was to prepare for a ride. That had to wait while men roared and cheered to see Theon Greyjoy bound and gagged upon a balding nag. Robb had given the Greyjoy's dark stallion over to Roger Ryswell, for his keen advice and a sign of respect for all his family had done. After finding a bow and quiver strapped to the horse Cley and Robin had slung both over Greyjoy's shoulder to the amusement of many.

"No wonder he lost boys!" Robin jeered. "What kind of a warrior carries a bow to battle?"

"Can't ride! Can't fight!" Rodrik added. "I see now why he fled us for so long! No kraken can last on land!"

That bothered Robb, for a glance to the dead men at their feet betrayed the truth of their foes. A rag-tag group of men, wearing mismatched armor and boiled leather. Few with any markings to speak to their loyalties and those with sigils were of their own design. He rode over one of their fallen banners, a filthy bit of cloth with what looked to be a wolf impaled with spears or some other type of weapon. A banner Grey Wind decided needed to be pissed on right then and there.

Good boy.

Soon enough the ride continued on over the rolling hills of these lands, with streams and brooks creasing the terrain like wrinkles on an old man's face. He was taking in the view when Robett ambled his horse up to the Robb's, the haggard man cursing to shake snow from his greying brown hair.

"We looked over the dead." Robett spoke quietly. "It's just like we thought, few ironmen to be found among them."

"Of the prisoners?" He asked, noting a score or so bound men at the center of their line. "Any of note?"

"Freeriders and hedgeknights all." The Glover man scowled. "Hired on by Greyjoy they say. Recruited from all up and down the Sunset Sea. A couple from Oldtown... most from Lannisport."

"I wager we'll find much the same in the force Gregor Forrester is chasing." Robb frowned. "Maybe at the start this was reavers we were facing but now? Those weren't longships we burned two weeks passed. This is not an invasion by the krakens... this is something else."

This thought dampened the mood of his protectors but it did worse for Robb. It only led to more questions, more uncertainty. The men they'd fought at Torrhen's Square had been ironmen, fighting under banners he recognized from lessons with Maester Luwin. Few he could put a name to though, for other than the Greyjoy kraken all seemed minor houses.

When they'd set to chasing Greyjoy across the Rills and Stoney Shore more foes had arrived, waves of invaders who no longer carried axes but swords and crossbows. Reinforcements who scorned salt-stained armor and longboats for boiled leather and horseback. Their landings had been so scattered it boggled the mind, for Robb's army fell on each small force, earning victory after victory. Yet when word came of Winterfell there was no doubt in his mind he'd been drawn away on purpose.

Father never would have let this happen. He would've seen something was amiss from the start.

As soon as word of Bran came he would have known... sensed what I was too blind to see...

Theon Greyjoy might be the heir to Pyke but he had been held hostage elsewhere. At Casterly Rock, the same castle Prince Joffrey sought refuge in after maiming Bran. A castle lorded over by the same man who ruled the lands most of their new foes were drawn from. The father of the knight and queen who'd made Robb a cripple.

Tywin Lannister.

When nightfall drew close and camp was thrown up besides a narrow brook, it was that name on Robb's lips when Theon Greyjoy was brought into his tent. Only Robett and a chosen few were there to watch their foe thrown down on his knees, arrow and quiver still slung around him in insult.

Despite that, it was Theon who smirked to behold Robb. He was off his horse now, leaning on his weirwood cane to support the weight his ruined leg no longer could. It was agony to stand, his leg feeling as if it were on fire, for long bouts of hard riding often set it to hurting so. Back at Winterfell Roslin would rub oils into it on such days but he swore the relief came more from the soft touch of her hands.

He could not think on Roslin now. It weakened him at a time when he had to show strength.

Like his father would.

"Tywin Lannister." He declared, watching the smirk fall away from Theon's face. "Yes Greyjoy, I now know who my real foe is. Not some arrogant fool but the Lord of Casterly Rock himself. My question to you is what is the point of this? What is the Lannister plot against the North?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about." Greyjoy shrugged, causing the arrows in his quiver to rattle about. "I am a son of House Greyjoy, not a Lannister."

"You're a whore." Rodrik stepped forward, cuffing the prisoner. "Taking gold like a Lannisport slattern. Do you let the lions use your body too? I hope he paid you well for what we're going to do to you."

"Try it!" Theon shot back. "My father's fleet is massive! Hundreds upon hundreds of ships! The ironborn could set this whole god awful land to flames if Balon Greyjoy wished!"

"So clearly he does not wish to do so." Robett put in, rubbing his chin. "We counted what? A thousand ironmen with you? I saw no signs of the Blacktydes, the Harlaws, nor any other Greyjoys among our foes."

"Only southron rabble." He said, moving towards Theon with labored steps. "We know some of your ships escaped weeks ago. Word of your failure here likely reached Pyke long ago... unless it was not the Iron Islands they sought. It was freerider filth that came to save you, brought by cogs and carracks. Where are your father's longships Greyjoy? Where's your family?"

Theon's face had been darkening with his words until the very end, when Robb stood above him and the man began to laugh. His cocky smile returned and Theon shook his head as he took in the breadth of his captor.

"How about we talk about your family Stark?" Theon smirked. "Look at the future of House Stark. Its cripple heir. His brother a mewling cyclops. His sister, sorry the one that's still alive, she's probably spreading her legs for Aerys's get right now. Same goes for that weasel you let into your bed. Her standard's can't be so high if she took a crippled fool into her cunny-"

"YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!"

The rage was on him and the cane swinging through the air before Theon knew what hit him. With a loud crack Robb struck his prisoner straight across the mouth. A satisfying crunching sound came from Theon's mouth as Robb moved quickly to steady himself, for he'd nearly fallen for his efforts.

"You fucking-" The Greyjoy tried to curse but was forced to gag and cough, blood spilling from his mouth and some teeth landing at his knees. "I'll kill you Stark... I'll-"

"You'll remember." Robb snapped. "Every time you smile and people cringe you'll remember when you forgot to speak respectfully of the Starks. I showed you mercy Greyjoy. Remember that too. Don't tempt me to regret it."

Theon showed no gratitude for his life, nor would he speak to anything of Tywin Lannister or his plots. Roger Ryswell suggested they continue his questioning when they reunited with the foot, for among the Ryswell men was a questioner who used to serve Roose Bolton.

Robb was shaking after Theon was taken away, yet not from weakness. From the fury he felt thinking any of the raider's words could be true.

You know what you've dreamt... of a sister beaten and starving... of screaming and cries...

That's what you left them to... if Roslin had known sooner I could not have left her...

His anger was interrupted when Robett went to the tent flap and waved in his ward, Larence Snow arriving with a skin of wine and cups for all. Robett poured Robb's himself, ignoring his attempts to refuse.

"No man can deny himself after hearing such things." Robett spoke gruffly. "I admire your strength Robb. Were it my wife and family held captive by such fiends... I would have to be chained myself to keep from killing Greyjoy for his part in all this."

"I wanted you to kill him. At the battle and just now." Robin added, earning a scowl from the older Glover.

"And if he had we'd never have witnessed Greyjoy refusing to speak of Tywin Lannister. Why say nothing if the Lannisters truly have no part in this? Who's to say what else we can glean from Greyjoy later?"

"Greyjoy and the Lannisters will pay." He drank of his wine, relishing the taste and praying it relieved some of his pain. "After Viserys Targaryen. We must take back the heart of the North if it is to be strong enough to face our enemies."

"Hopefully by then our fathers are back." Cley nodded. "I don't care what anyone says, they'll be marching through the Wall any day now."

It was a strange thing to think word of the northern victory over Mance Rayder instilled such worry in everyone. Mostly because little more had been heard since. Ravens had come to the Ryswell keep declaring the victory yet ominous answers came when Robb inquired of his father's march south. Apparently Castle Black had heard nothing more since from the northern army. They spoke of ravens returning to the rookery but no messages attached.

No sign of the Stark army. Nor of Lord-Commander Baratheon. Only talk of cold winds blowing from the north.

"We must pray for their swift return." Robb agreed. "Yet we must act with what we have at hand. At least one more battle awaits us before the way to Winterfell lays open. Roger, are you sure that the men your sister has sent from Barrowton will arrive in time? The Tallharts can hold their castle but the Dustin men will allow us to surround the last of the reavers."

"They'll be there." Roger drank somberly. "Barbrey's out of her mind worrying about Roddy. Only child she's got so you better believe she's sticking a spear in the hand of every green boy and greybeard she can. Hell, she's got our father writing to the Dreadfort, demanding Domeric march out and help his family."

"It be good to have the Boltons at Winterfell." He said with a look to the blood on his bone white cane. It stood out like Domeric's pink cloak had against Winterfell's grey battlements. "With the Dreadfort's strength beside ours and the Manderlys the castle will fall all the sooner."

They spoke of tactics sometime more but they were days from the next battle and many were wary. Or, like Robin and Cley, eager to celebrate with the others who drank about cook fires and sung songs. So, while some of his men sought their tents or the fires, Robb went his own way.

Men bowed to him as he passed, Robb nodding back and continuing to limp off towards the darkest edge of the camp. Not alone though, for Grey Wind was at his side as soon as he left the tent. Robb knew his friend was there before the wolf gave any hint of his presence.

"I always know where you are." Robb spoke to the wolf, who looked up at him with gleaming yellow eyes. Even as they left the light of camp Grey Wind's eyes stayed bright.

"Do you understand how bad that is?" He asked as they neared the slow moving brook ahead. "That of all the people I love, you're the only one I know for certain is safe? Mother and Rickon, far too close to the Usurper and the lions. Roslin and Sansa... locked away with some monster."

When he came to the water's edge his cane began to sink deeper into the soft earth, Robb staring out into the current, almost hopefully.

"Bran and Jon are off fighting in their own war. Domeric left... and Arya..."

He searched the waters, desperately searching for a little girl who could be hiding within them. It would be a gift from the gods to see Arya standing in the shallows again. Just like she had the day the wildlings attacked her and Sansa. He'd been so mad at Domeric that day but deep down, he was proud of Arya. She'd been strong, far stronger than any little girl should have to be.

That's why he wanted to believe in the dreams. Those nights when Robb would run and hunt in the darkness. Moving far more swiftly than he could in real life, for in his dreams he ran with four legs. He would climb to heights of the tallest hills, throw back his head and call out for his family. They never answered back but sometimes he saw them.

In his dreams he saw them. The fierce brother in a land of rivers, protecting dear ones. The quiet brother in lands full of danger, staying to the shadows with the smell of death thick around him. Worst was the gentle sister, for she was hurt and hungry, strange men causing her great suffering. Farthest was the brave brother, who ran over coarse sands in a desert which whispered in the night.

It was his closest sibling that gave him hope though. For the wild sister was not far. He saw her drinking of a stream, in lands so familiar to these. When she howled it was a sky he howled to as well. He could almost make out the faces of the pair she was with. The little one he needed to see.

Right now though, Robb saw nothing.

No sign of Arya in the water. No sign of Nymeria drinking of the brook. Nothing to show him his worst fears weren't true.

"If I kill Viserys... it won't bring her back." He tightened his hold on the cane, for his leg throbbed and trembled in exhaustion. "Father... father why did you trust a cripple..."

Once his fears had not been so terrible. Having to face his parents after marrying Roslin had been a constant worry after the wedding. It wasn't like he had a choice though. Father had told him to treat Roslin with honor and respect. While Princess Daenerys had helped him keep Roslin by his side it was Robb's duty to convince his parents she should be his bride. That had been his plan at least, to have father and mother return to Winterfell to find Roslin tending the castle and acting a proper northern lady. Surely they could wed then.

Until he'd let his lust overtake him. Roslin had come to his chambers to ease his anger and hurt over Bran's maiming. It was Robb who eased her into bed. The weight of everything put upon him since father's march, the thought of Bran's eye being gouged, the anger the girls felt towards him, it all came together then. It made him weak while Roslin gave him strength. Her lips took it all away, her touch pulling all his worries away.

The night they made love was the night Robb knew he would marry Roslin. He had disobeyed father in one sense but would keep his word not to dishonor Roslin. The blame would be his to carry but Roslin was worth it.

When father returned Robb would stand and accept whatever punishment he was dealt. He did not fear that nearly as much as disappointing his father's trust in him. The faith he'd spoken of the day father left for the Wall, pulling Robb close for an embrace.

"Your leg will never be the same." Father whispered into his ear. "You will never be the same. But you are my son and that will never change. I love my home, my wife, my children... and I trust my son to look after them. Tell me now if this is a burden you would not have. I will not think less of you..."

"I can do it." He'd answered, holding the lord tight. "Leg be damned, I'll protect Winterfell and the North. I swear it father. I'll be a son you can be proud of."

"I am... I am sure of it..." Father's voice had grown hoarse and Robb swore he felt the brush of lips against his hair. Yet they'd said little more after that.

Robb hadn't needed more. He'd had his father's trust. That was what he set out to be worthy of when he left Winterfell.

A trust he'd betrayed by losing Winterfell.

That's when his leg gave out, the agony to unbearable to ignore anymore. Robb fell back then, setting his arse down hard upon the wet ground. Driving the cane into the earth, he leaned upon it as he fought back tears. Grey Wind whined and licked at his face but it wasn't the wolf he wanted right now.

I want you to live father... it's you the North needs... not me.

Domeric was right... I make the Starks look weak... I can't do this alone...

That's what Robb had said in his letter to Domeric at least. Whatever pride that kept him from reaching out to his friend before all of this changed when the horrors of Winterfell became known to him.

Dom,

I regret our harsh words. I do not regret what I said but I wish it had not led to us parting ways. Winterfell was your home once and I ask you help me liberate it from a madman.

I love you as a brother. I loved Arya more. They killed her Dom. Roslin and Sansa need us. We saved them once before. We can do it again.

For whatever love you hold for me, help my family. Help them.

My sister. My wife.

My child.

He opened his eyes and glared at the cane. The white wood stained with Theon's blood. In the darkness it looked like the red sap that dripped from the eyes of the heart tree the day he wed Roslin in the godswood.

When he swore vows to care for her. And the child she now carried.

It was the thought of that child that shamed him then. For while Roslin and Sansa were held prisoner, he sat in the mud mewling like a coward. His ruined leg lay sprawled out in front of him, feeling like an invisible force was gnawing on it with terrible fangs.

My enemies are never clear to me. Only what I must do now.

Father trusted me. Roslin trusted me. They deserve more than a cripple whining in the mud.

"Grey Wind." He rasped, reaching out swinging an arm over the direwolf's massive neck. "Help me my friend. We do this together."

The wolf offered no reply save to stand firm while Robb pulled himself up. Forcing his cane into the ground, gritting his teeth and silently screaming to put weight upon his leg again, he rose. Grey Wind did not move an inch during his struggles, the two of the same mind in this.

For a moment or two he escaped the pain somehow. Watching himself rise and steady his body through another's eyes. In a body that felt far stronger. With eyes that saw much and more.

He nearly cried out when he came to his senses, for the pain returned with vengeance. Robb bore it though, meeting Grey Wind's yellow gaze and nodding. Pushing away from the wolf to begin the long journey back to camp.

"Let's go wolf. We've a few more fights left in us."

"We need rest to meet our foes. Our loved ones need us at our best."

"Perhaps we'll dream of them."

Grey Wind remained silent but somewhere in the dark a wolf did howl.

Calling its pack together again.

   

JAIME

 

Heir to Casterly Rock. Knighted by the Sword of Morning.

Kingsguard. Kingslayer.

Now I’m a bloody thief in the night.

Jaime smirked to himself at the last part, pulling the hood of his cloak tight about his face as he followed after his rescuers. The group moved swiftly through Riverrun’s nearly empty corridors, just short of an outright run. 

The first steward they came upon caused him to tense, yet the Tully man passed on by them with a barely a glance. Why would he take notice? This late at night surely it was normal to see a troupe of guardsmen on patrol.

Each of the five men wore a cloak bearing the leaping trout of House Tully yet their loyalties lay with finer families altogether.

“Was this my father or Tyrion’s work?” He whispered to the nearest of the men, the thick one with a beard.

“We serve the lion, not the Imp.” The reply was as brusque as the hush which came back from their leader. A tall, fair-haired man who looked more suited to singing than stealing prisoners away from castles. The blood Jaime had spotted on his sleeve when they broke into the dungeons betrayed this man’s true skills.

I’ll have to learn their names, he thought, never a bad idea to know who father’s got suckling at the Lannister teat.

That and Tyrion might like to learn which of his future men mock him so.

Despite Tywin Lannister’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge Tyrion as the rightful heir to Casterly Rock that’s how Jaime saw his brother. Smarter, craftier and somehow contented by tedious matters a lord must deal with. Hearing petitions, haggling with merchants, even overseeing drains and cisterns, Tyrion excelled at such things. Or at the foul tasks that lords must perform to demonstrate their might.

Jaime had always depended on his sword to handle such situations whereas Tyrion relied on his wit.

That matter with the Martells and Littlefinger proved his worth. I would’ve pulled my sword and died in Sunspear.  

If father wasn’t so focused on what Tyrion lacked he’d respect the attributes my brother has.

Jaime cursed all the things he lacked right now, namely that gaudy golden thing he called a hand and, more importantly, a sword. These men had broken into the dungeons, freed Jaime from his cage and tossed him a cloak, yet they’d neglected to arm him. It had been a tempting thing to reach for the weapons of the two dead Tully guards hidden behind the door but father’s men pushed him on before it could be done. 

Thus, in this desperate flight from his imprisonment at Riverrun, Jaime was as helpless as he was clueless to all that transpired.

A fine Kingsguard I make. Tricked by a pregnant woman. Held captive by a halfwit heir.

Rhaegar if you could see me now you’d never have put your faith in me…

“Slow up.” The fair-haired man spoke, bringing them all to a halt. Ahead was an archway and Jaime spied what looked to be a dark yard beyond. It appeared empty enough but the sounds coming from somewhere in the darkness troubled him. Loud growls and snarling, echoing along the walls and reaching their ears.

“The Stark beast.” Jaime cursed. “The wolf not Lady Catelyn. If you lot busted me out just to get my arse gnawed on by that miserable creature- again, I mean the wolf-”

“Be quiet.” The leader admonished again. “They have the wolf trapped in the kennels. Denys, go see if the boat is here yet.”

“Fear not ser.” A dopey looking youth said as moved up to the front. “It’s been making a racket like that since we got here. Wouldn’t be risking this otherwise.”

The youth calmly walked out into the yard and headed for stairs leading up to the battlements when Jaime realized how badly he needed to piss. It was impossible to keep his mind off of it so he thought to question his rescuers to distract himself.

“Since there’s a lull in the action... care to tell me how the hell you lot got in here? None of you look like exemplary swimmers and the Tullys have little love for lions.”

“That’s why we came as stoats.” The bearded man smiled, pulling his cloak aside to show a tunic with the twin grey towers over blue of House Frey. “Lots of Freys gathered outside the walls. The best of them and their men were welcomed to the castle for a feast tonight. One brought Ecbert with him, as a singer. We’re his band.”

“We came with your cousin Cleos.” Ecbert looked back at him with a less than impressed look. “The Lady Gemma sends her regards.”

Aw, my father’s darling sister and her scrawny runt of a Frey son.

Looks like her marriage to Emmon Frey finally came in good for something.

Something about their words confused him though, for while Jaime had few visitors in his dungeon, he could hear snippets of conversation from time to time. From what he could gather, Robert Baratheon had left Harrenhal and Riverrun was no longer threatened. The guards had been arguing about whether they would be among those mustered for the Tully march to Winterfell, to free the Stark castle from Viserys Targaryen’s blood soaked control.

Aerys reborn that one but even I couldn’t predict Viserys doing as he’s done.

What I didn’t have the strength to do… letting Arya Stark live was as much a folly as I feared it would be.

She was doomed one way or the other… nothing I could do…

“You say the Freys are still camped here?” He pressed the talkative one, earning glares from the others. “The river lords haven’t marched north yet?”

“Army’s still out there but Lord Trout ain’t sharing his plans with us.” The man shrugged. “Probably what he summoned Cleos and the others for-”

“There it is.” Ecbert smiled, waving them all on. “Denys just gave the signal, the boat’s outside the walls. Let’s go. Like we did before, calm and orderly.”

While he did as he was told Jaime begrudged the man’s tone. Once he had served the greatest of dragons, Rhaegar Targaryen, and the truest knight, Ser Arthur Dayne. His father had never inspired Jaime to submit so easily to his dictates. He could even overcome his mad lust for Cersei and defy her will. The king and the Lord-Commander were the only two men Jaime respected enough to follow through any one of the seven hells.

And I betrayed them all... I acted a lion and not a Kingsguard…

He pushed that thought away, moving through the deserted courtyard. Only a score or so men and servants were milling about or seeing to tasks that didn’t concern him. Becoming a Kingsguard again was all he needed to be concerned about. His place was at the side of Rhaegar’s children. He cursed the day that he allowed Prince Jon to impress him into staying here. To protect the royal fool he had to free himself from Lady Stark's gentle embrace.

His drunken admission to her ears alone was not enough for Edmure Tully to condemn him with and all those that could speak to his guilt were dead. A thought that didn’t comfort Jaime like it should. In truth his dreams were haunted because of it. The faces of two little girls who looked at him with fear, who hoped for a knight to save them. Two girls he'd saved in real life but in his dreams one was burning, the other crushed beneath a horse.

A long howl erupted from the kennel near to them, the whole structure shaking like some great monster was throwing itself against the door. The hinges and door appeared sturdy enough though and the rope binding it held firm. He was actually thankful that Smellywolf was making such a racket. It made many in the yard cringe away or seek other places to speak, far away from where Jaime and his party skulked.

The night air felt good on his skin after being locked up for so long and the scent of moss and dampness filled his nose. The stars were hidden behind dark clouds but a few that he spotted made him remember the many times that Rhaegar would stand atop the towers of the Red Keep. When Rhaegar would force Jaime into helping him rename constellations.

“Doesn’t seem like a good use of your time.” Jaime had observed one night. “King of the Seven Kingdoms and you're dreaming up names for stars that no one will ever hear. It might be more fun to just start renaming people. You can do that you know. ”

Rhaegar had laughed. A rare enough thing but the king had not been convinced.

“You will remember Jaime. That matters. We have so little control over our fates… even you and I. Sometimes it's important to remind ourselves that all men have the power to believe what they will. To value things in their own way. To name the stars themselves.”

It felt like a betrayal of his king to be thankful that the clouds blocked the stars this night. This part of Riverrun’s battlements had few enough torches as well, for it guarded only the river beyond. When they reached the top of the walls, Jaime leaned through a crenel to look down at the river. The water was black and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust so that he could spot the dark shadow drifting along its edges.

The group pressed down, the largest man lifting aside his cloak to show a rope wrapped all about his middle. With one end securely tied around his heavy waist, they tossed the other down towards the boat.

“Jared, Denys, you first.” Ecbert whispered, shaking his head when Jaime made to protest. “We want to make sure that rope holds before we send you down it.”

“I’m touched.” He shifted his stance, still needing to piss something awful. That and he feared hearing a cry suddenly going up and alerting the castle to his escape. It made the wait unbearable. Only the sounds of the direwolf carried up to him, yet Jaime still felt strangely on edge.

I'm escaping a castle in the middle of the night, of course I'm nervous.

And yet...

“What about my cuz?” Jaime asked as Denys began his descent down the rope. “Won’t the Tullys punish poor Cleos in our stead? I can’t see my aunt going along with that.”

“He’s ignorant of all this.” Ecbert tapped his sword uneasily. “But the last of our number is to fetch him. Lord Tywin said to have you safe in the boat first and foremost, getting Cleos and the Stark lad are second priority.”

“Stark lad?” He narrowed his gaze and took a step closer to the man. “Are you telling me that you’ve got men running about this castle trying to steal Rickon Stark?”

“No, Cleos is the only one they’ll be bringing here.” Ecbert answered back and the bearded man gave a snicker. The direwolf howled again in that moment and a chill crept up Jaime’s back.

“Then why are they seeking the boy?”

Ecbert’s mouth moved in a mirthless smile as he leaned against the crenel.

“Your father said the trouts need to be taught a lesson. You cage a lion, you lose a wolf. Well another one from what I hear.”

Oh fucking hell father… it’s not enough to get me out of here? You have to prove one of your bloody points?

Catelyn Stark is not Lady Tarbeck! I'd wager she's at least thrice as big at the waist.

This reminded him of Winterfell all over again. After the Stark heir had fallen and Jaime was forced to dispose of the saddle. He'd met Cersei in the crumbling First Keep of the castle late into the night, at the hour of the wolf.

“I told you to leave it be!” He’d raged, circling Cersei as she stood beautiful and defiant. “You have no idea what you’ve done by pressing this!”

“It was meant to be the bastard on that horse!” Cersei had snapped. “He needed to be taught respect! I’ve been dealt too many slights because of him! This whole awful tourney... Lyanna’s brat slights my children by demanding it of Rhaegar! His heart has always been too soft for the bastard! Gods, if only Jon had fallen and broken his neck, Joffrey would be next in line for the throne!”

“Except he didn’t and now Robb Stark might die. I saved you and Jon from this folly once. I protected you both from it but I'm not sure I can do so again. If it had been him who fell-”

“You would serve your queen.” Cersei took hold of him, bringing their faces so close that they almost touched. “You would protect me and Joffrey and all my other children as well. Our valiant protector. Our golden knight.”

It was moments like that that made Jaime forget Cersei’s rejection of him after he lost his hand. How could any woman be expected to want a cripple? How could he be worthy of Rhaegar’s trust while he lusted after his wife? How could he be asked to chose between the king he served and the sister he loved?

“I shared my berth with the prince Cersei.” He’d pointed out, becoming lost in her eyes. “Let’s say Ned Stark gets his thick head to thinking. Say someone gets suspicious?”

“Like who? You can deal with the groom later. It’s not like anyone else knows.”

That was another betrayal to add to his list. He’d kept the truth of Arya Stark coming upon the first sabotage from Cersei. Once he might have considered killing the child for his sister. It was a mark of his years as an outcast that he even took note of Arya to begin with. Compared to the radiance of Sansa Stark the girl was a shadow... yet Jaime often looked to the shadows now.

In his head, keeping his mouth shut about Arya was his own gift to the Starks. A payment on his debt for their crippled heir.

The little girl’s death weighed on him as Ecbert urged him towards the rope. He was but a short climb from freedom... but all he could think about was why Prince Jon tasked him to stay here in the first place. To keep Lady Stark and her family safe in his stead, to keep Jaime’s father at bay so that Jon and Edmure Tully could go and fight for Rhaegar. The only shred of comfort he took from being absent from the Red Storm was that he did as his prince bid him to.

Like Rhaegar had once bid him before riding out to the Trident.

Look after his family… Rhaegar asked me to look after his family…

I hesitated and Elia burned for it… if I escape now a child dies for it…

The wolf howled again and the kennel creaked and rattled not far below them. Ecbert and his two companions began hissing and waving at him to start his climb.

“Hurry up ser.” Ecbert took hold of his arm. “If they kill that boy and you’re not in the boat we could be buggered.”

“If that wolf was free you would be buggered. It’ll go right to the boy. Just like Bran Stark's did for him at the Red Keep…”

“Aye, the beast mauled Prince Joffrey good.” The bearded man pushed at him. “He still got that Stark boy’s eye in revenge though. This lad tonight and what Prince Viserys did to that girl up north, these wolves will learn better than to trifle with Lord Tywin soon enough.”

Jaime held firm then, surprising the man by turning his back to the rope and facing him. 

“It was Viserys that was lucky.” He said, letting the mummer watch his eyes drift to the sword on his belt. “If Prince Jon had been there he would’ve died before he could touch that girl.”

“That'd make him a kinslayer.” The man scratched his head and Jaime shook his.

“No, no, you're right, Jon killing his uncle is a foul thing.” He smiled. “But I would have been there too and killing a prince is a milder sort of evil for a Kingslayer.”

“What-”

The man’s confusion was cut off by Jaime’s headbutt right into his nose. As it crunched beneath his forehead, blood spurting onto his face, Jaime wrapped his left hand around the fool’s sword handle. He pulled it free and spun around in his first act of grace after months of confinement. There was no doubt it was a clumsy act but the other two were too shocked to respond properly.

“Say hello to Denys.” Jaime quipped as he kicked the rope man’s back, sending him toppling over the side of the wall. A moment later a crash and shouts of surprise and pain rang out.

“Bloody idiot!” Ecbert rasped, backing away and reaching into his cloak. Jaime caught the way his eyes darted behind him so he held off his attack to spin around. The bloodied lout had drawn a dagger but dropped it soon enough when his throat was opened by Jaime’s slash.

Look at that Rhaegar. Weeks out of practice, using my wrong hand...  

Looks like those lessons paid off after all.

Ecbert interrupted Jaime's self-praise by throwing a knife at his head.

“Hey! I thought you were supposed to save me!” He snarled as he advanced on the man. Ecbert began running backwards, reaching for a new knife.

“I’m not fucking dying for you! You’re as mad as Joffrey!”

“Believe me, he takes after his mother.”

Jaime chased after his would-be rescuer turned killer. Another howl from below and he saw how close their battle had brought them to the kennels. When Ecbert pulled free another knife there was no time to strike with his sword, so Jaime made a leap of faith instead.

Lunging forward he tackled Ecbert around the waist and the two men toppled over the battlements as one. Jaime had only a few seconds to prepare himself. They hit the thatched roof of the kennel hard, pain shooting through his body. The structure proved to be as sturdy as he thought, for the two men rolled off the roof rather than falling within. Landing on the ground in front of the door sent another wave of pain through Jaime's back.

He only kept his wits because of the incessant sound of snapping jaws and growls from behind the shaking door. When he rose shakily to his feet he spotted men appearing in the courtyard, gaping with confusion at what looked like two guardsmen fighting.

“Hey put down the blades you drunks!” One man chided them as Ecbert pulled out another knife and Jaime raised his blade. “I mean it! Ser Robin will… oh! Fuck me, that’s the Kingslayer!”

“Jaime!” He shouted back, swinging his sword again. “My name is Jaime!”

Weapons were being raised, crossbows pointed, and Ecbert was readying to throw a knife when Jaime's sword sliced clear through the ropes like butter. A moment later the door exploded outwards. A snarling black blur shot past Jaime but poor Ecbert found himself right in the demon’s path. The man managed a choked scream before the direwolf leapt up and tore his throat open with but a passing snap of his jaws.

When the beast landed, Ecbert's body hitting the ground soon after, it rounded about and bared its bloody fangs at Jaime. With its fierce green eyes looking at him like a piece of meat he was reminded of Cersei then. The moment passed quickly for the direwolf took off, rushing toward an archway that led to the main keep. While men jumped out of its way Jaime sighed in relief to have been scorned by the beast.

Now it really reminds me of Cersei.

“Halt Kingslayer!” A spearman rushed at him, a score of others joining the brave man’s charge. “Drop the sword or die where you stand!”

He was soon surrounded by a ring of blades and spearpoints, arrows aimed at him as well. Jaime rapped his fingers along the blade again, relishing the feel of it in his hand. His bloodlust was up and he could die happy in a fight right now.

But his life wasn’t his to throw away. So he threw down his sword instead.

As it clattered on the ground, a great tumult was raised from deeper in the castle. The sounds of screaming and a hell beast’s fury echoing down to those gathered here in the courtyard. Many of the Tully men looked back at the tower and then at each other. Soon they were looking to him, as if to hold Jaime to account.

“Don’t look at me.” He shrugged, opening his pants and pulling out his cock. “I was just looking for a place to piss.”

The relief that came from finally pissing was a small boon compared to what he felt later when the guardsmen led him to the Great Hall of Riverrun instead of the familiar dungeons. With men holding his arms, he passed a good lot of onlookers on his way there.

It seemed like half the castle was alive by that point, an hour or so having passed since abandoning his escape attempt. Yet the only people awaiting him in the hall were three lords and one fat lady.

That wasn't fair of him though. He knew few women who took well to being with child but truly Lady Stark was one of them. She was only a few months at most from being set to burst yet little bulged about the woman save her belly. Once in this very hall, a younger Jaime had thought Catelyn Tully a beauty and that thought still held true.

Even as the exhausted woman looked ready to kill him.

“What have you done?” Lady Catelyn demanded, rising from her seat with the help of Tytos Blackwood. “Was one of my children not enough for your family?”

“A good evening to you too my lady.” He said before Jason Mallister made to block her path and glare at Jaime. The older man’s chiseled face held no fear as he was joined by Edmure and Tytos in challenging his presence.

“We have six dead men within Riverrun’s walls.” Edmure declared hotly. “Two of mine own, four who acted as a retinue to Cleos Frey. I suspect the ser abused his family’s good standing here.”

“And yet I do not see him standing here.” Jaime pointed out. “Which leads me to believe that you’ve already spoken to my cousin and found him quite clueless to all of this. So yes, now try asking the man who’s been locked away in your dungeons to explain what's happening within your own walls.”

As the four fumed, Jaime looked to Lady Stark, curiously thankful to see more rage than grief in her face.

“The boy? The wolf got to him in time?”

That took the lady aback, her rage falling away to confusion.

“Shaggydog fell upon two men but steps away from Rickon’s chambers. He was unharmed… with little thanks to the Lannisters!”

“Well at least one Lannister.” He added and Lord Mallister raised an eyebrow at that.

“Are you trying to say you meant to loose the beast?”

“No, it was an accident. Just like when I killed those men who tried to free me.” He scowled, jerking his head back the way he came. “Don’t act like you haven’t spoken to every single man in that yard. You know damn well what I did out there. I did as Prince Jon commanded me-”

“A prince you tried to kill!” Lady Catelyn shot back but Edmure raised a hand to silence her.

“I’ve no idea what has happened in my home this night, save that Tywin Lannister has shown that his reach can extend even here. His desire to see you freed threatened my dear nephew. Perhaps even my sister and father.”

Edmure ran a hand through his red beard then, his eyes moving between his sister and Jaime in an uncertain way.

“I cannot free you Kingslayer, not with the charges my sister levels against you.” The Tully heir then turned from the lady. “Nor can I allow you to remain here. Your father might be tempted into repeating such invasions. So my lords, it appears we have captured the first prisoner in our renewed march.”

“Edmure no!”

“Not the North again!”

Lady Stark and his own objections to the lord’s plan were so loud that Edmure jumped back. He couldn’t allow this. Of course Jaime wanted his freedom back but his fight was with Robert Baratheon, not against Viserys. Even if the thought of skewering the mad princeling for that little girl’s sake pleased him as much as killing Aerys for Elia had been.

“You cannot do this.” Lady Stark followed her brother as he fled to a pitcher of wine, waddling after him and holding her stomach tightly. “Taking the Kingslayer is risky enough, but please Edmure, please, I beg you one last time, reconsider what you’re doing. Tonight I almost lost another child to fiends. You cannot ask me to endure leaving more of my children to blood-thirsty monsters!”

“Robb marches on Winterfell as we speak.” Edmure tried to ignore her. “Cat, I said we could not act without allies and now we have them. I have to redeem our family’s honor for the defeat I caused at the Red Storm. We have a duty to do as the king commands. Our scouts confirmed all that he wrote to us from Blackhaven-”

The lady took hold of Edmure’s goblet, spilling some of its contents over his doublet as she lowered it away from his face. With what looked to be a struggle, Lady Stark held her chin high and managed to look poised.

“Duty and honor come after family.” She said with conviction. “My children are your blood Edmure. We both know what father would do.”

“I’m the one deciding things now Cat. Your family is my own, If I did not think this helped us all I would not consider it… but your eldest is winning great victories. Doing the king’s bidding now will win your second son titles, possibly to lands that our mother-”

“Excuse me.” Jaime spoke up, struggling against his guards to remind them all of his presence. “But would someone please explain where the hell you’re taking me? Unless it’s to my sister or the king, stick me on a horse, hand me a blade, and let me do my fucking duty. I was raised up to fight for my king and I’ll-”

“Just as likely stab him in the back.” Edmure wiped at his doublet. “Nevertheless, you’re coming with us. Get him out of here. I’ll have to endure his company for some time and I’d enjoy some peace for now.”

Neither Jaime nor Lady Catelyn were content to end matters so peacefully. He was dragged from the hall fighting and she continued pleading the case for saving her children.

I saved your children, he thought, two of the little buggers anyway… it’s not my fault people keep putting them in danger.

That girl’s death is not on me… I made my choice… I made the right choice, I know that now.

Once, after they’d taken his hand, he’d felt much the same. When he awoke from the feverish aftermath of his maiming to find a bloody stump in place of the finest sword hand the realm had ever seen, he’d been overcome with thoughts that he’d made a mistake. That serving in the Night’s Watch as a whole man would’ve been wiser. That death as the best he’d ever been would’ve been more honorable.

He could accept that easier than being a maimed cripple.

All his doubts had washed over him and he began to sob. That was when Rhaegar revealed himself, for the king had kept a vigil over Jaime from the shadows. He pressed a cool cloth to Jaime's forehead, allowing his tears to fall silently for a long time.

“I shouldn’t have argued.” Jaime had finally whispered. “How could I let you do this to me?”

“Because it was the only way.” Rhaegar had looked down at him with a distant look of sympathy. “The only way I could spare the life of a good man and keep him by my side. Jaime Lannister, you more than most know how important it is that the king abide by his own laws. I wanted to spare you. I wanted it to be me in your place. But to disregard the law is but the first step in becoming the type of monster you slew with that hand…”

“I let her die.” Jaime told him. “I let Elia die… I let Rhaenys… I wasn’t strong enough with both hands. What good can I be to you like this?”

“I trust you Jaime. Men will call me a fool for sparing you. They will call you worse but when I look at you... I see you for who you really are Jaime Lannister.” Rhaegar's voice had made Jaime's tears stop then. “The knight who saved my children.”

Jaime had no words, simply staring into the silver prince's eyes, a face he wanted to hate. The prince who should hate him yet offered only kind words.

“You killed my father, whom I loved despite all he did. He killed Elia, whom I loved yet doomed with my actions. I cut off your sword hand, which you treasured even though it’s not your finest feature.”

Rhaegar took hold of his left hand, his only hand left to him, and pressed it upon his chest, forcing Jaime to feel his own heartbeat.

“It would be easy for your heart to waver now, but I pray it beats with the same conviction it did when you said your vows. Who else can I look to should I fear myself falling into the same darkness that claimed my father? Tell me Jaime Lannister, are you a man I can trust to keep my family safe?”

The guards forced him onwards, though not through the doors of the dungeon and towards his cells. Instead he started up some steps in the guest keep, taking a path that Jaime recognized.

“You're taking me to my old chambers?” He asked the guards.

“Lady Catelyn's orders." The guard said, shocking Jaime at the turn of events. The man ruined things a moment later. "Far too good for your like Kingslayer."

Jaime flexed his remaining hand again at the slight. Thinking on how Rhaegar had not only taken his hand but personal responsibility for Jaime’s path to becoming a warrior again. Most nights, for years on end, the king and his one handed knight dueled and practiced atop the highest towers of the Red Keep.

Bruises, cuts, anger, that was the worst part of their lessons. Yet where his father was ashamed of how Jaime subjected himself to Rhaegar’s judgement, or how Cersei turned up her nose at his stump, he began to feel pride again. Men called him a Kingslayer yet his king helped Jaime rise whenever he fell. Rhaegar guided him every step of the way, pressing Jaime to overcome his own doubts. To never regret the cost he’d paid to keep his white cloak.

It was when they were both winded that Rhaegar would force him to look at the stars. To choose names for the patterns he saw there. His small defiance toward the power of fate.

When the door closed shut behind him, leaving Jaime in a cramped shithole of a chamber, he felt thankful. He sat down on a bed for the first time in months and stared out his window. A strange peace fell over him then as he looked to the night sky, searching for the gaps where the stars might shine through.

You were wrong in one thing Rhaegar.

A man can choose his fate.

I chose to stand by you. I chose to spare that girl. I chose to do my duty.

And Jaime was at peace with his choices this night.

 

 

JON

 

“No prisoners!” The Blackfish shouted, loosing another arrow. “No prisoners!”

“No prisoners!” Answering cries came from around him. The shouts were drowned out by the screams of dying men and the clash of blades. It was too dark to see the full scope of the battle at the moment, and the Dothraki trying to kill Jon was more deserving of his attention in any case.

“Zasqa Zhavorsa!” The spry warrior bellowed as he sliced at Jon, his arakh slashing swiftly and barely visible. On any other day, Jon might be dead by now.

Thankfully the horselord was as blinded by the darkness as all the others. Jon’s men had stormed the Dothraki camp under cover of night, the only light coming from enemy cook fires. Then later their burning tents.

It was a well-ordered camp, thrown up with sentries and scouts, all to attack them at a nearby castle. It was a good plan that would have worked in time but Dothraki were not learned in siege craft, so they left gaps in their defense. Jon had forced his men into a night march, Ghost killing any scouts along the way, and attacking before the horselords realized the true danger.

Darry was a battered and beaten looking castle, having been properly sieged and taken by the Golden Company months ago. The main gate was nearly destroyed by a battering ram, which made it all the easier when Jon led his men in retaking the castle a week passed. The skeleton garrison had fallen to their blades, just as the Dothraki later fell for this trap.

Loyal men were scattered throughout the war ravaged lands, small bands devoted to raiding their foe or guiding the innocents from the fray. Often enough they were watchers as well, keeping tabs on the Usurper’s dogs. When word had reached Jon that the Dothraki were riding as one again, seeking vengeance for his murder of Mago, Darry became their best hope.

They made it no secret that he was among those who took the castle back, riders and friends spreading the news far and wide. It was like lighting a fire at dusk. The Dothraki had flocked to the castle, finding its gates reinforced but very few defenders. With his white dragon banner flying on Darry’s walls, the Dothraki camped without, screaming and taunting his men within. Denying them one last night of rest before their death came. The enemy even took to killing some captured men, gutting the poor souls and leaving them to die slow, noisy deaths.

He imagined it was hard for his men in the castle to endure that screaming. It was torture for Jon, for he was far closer to the sounds.

The Dothraki were right in thinking he’d been a part of taking Darry but there were few enough men left within the castle itself. Jon was waiting outside the walls the whole time along with the bulk of their loyal men left in the Riverlands. Darry meant little to him, keeping it even less so. The castle merely served as a rallying point for his men to rally around after weeks apart.

When the Dothraki drew near they melted away until darkness fell. Under the cover of night they returned, guided through the black by a white direwolf. They moved slowly, clumsily, almost fearfully, for fighting in the dark was a fool’s errand. Yet with numbers equal to their foe Jon knew they stood little chance against the Dothraki in the open field.

Blind as they were, so were the Dothraki. Their true advantage was surprise.

On this night they were the hunters.

But their prey had teeth.

“Watch it Jon!”

Willem’s cry came a split second too late, the arakh nearly splitting Jon’s head open. He managed to draw back in time but lost some strands of hair to the slash, Willem cursing as the knight battled two foes to his rear.

“Watch yourself!” Jon replied, meeting the next blow and driving the Dothraki back. It was a relief to do so and not just because the man was trying to kill him. His enemy happened to stink of sour milk.

The burning camp offered such weak light that this was all Jon could say of the man, save that he was deathly fast. When the arahk cut at him again out of the darkness it was at an upwards angle, clashing against Jon’s blade as he delivered a cut of his own. Undeterred his foe then spun around to slash at his legs.

He leapt away from it, catching a glimpse of some of the carnage near a burning tent ahead. The Frey brothers, Perwyn and Olyvar, fought back to back against two horselords of their own. A trio of Dothraki rode by, loosing arrows into the fray at Jon’s men. Something whistled by him and a cry erupted from one of the riders as he fell from his horse. The other two cursed to see an arrow jutting from their comrade’s neck, raising their curved bows to loose a volley back at his murderer. The Blackfish ducked behind a cart just in time while behind him Lord Beric and Khal Pono were locked in battle upon their horses. The men’s mounts circled one another as their blades sang again and again.

When Jon spun back around to face his own attacker he found the sour Dothraki charging him again. His path was blocked when a bloody mess of a man was flung at his feet, Willem having kicked away one of his opponents after opening his throat.  

“Some! Bloody! Fucking! Mess!” Willem spoke with each of his cut of his sword. “Get out of here Jon!”

Not likely, he thought, this is where I belong.

This time it was he who ran full tilt at the sour smelling horselord. From the man’s stance and all Jon had learned of the Dothraki he sensed the defense before it was raised. The Dothraki stepped aside with a hiss, arching his blade around in hopes of finding Jon’s back exposed.

Instead Jon had stopped short and cut down, slicing into the exposed meat at the back of man’s thigh. With a guttural scream the Dothraki dropped to a knee, a sound cut off by Jon smashing the pommel of his sword into the man’s face with a brutal, two-handed blow.

He felt the crunch of flesh and bone, a very different sensation from the smooth scraping of his blade tip against the man’s ribs. Jon did not even look down as he finished the kill. For that had become a routine to him.

All part of a dance. A far bloodier one than the kind the girls taught him at Winterfell. But a dance all the same.

“Perwyn! Perwyn no!”

There was no hiding the terror in Olyvar’s scream, his anguish breaking through the sounds of battle. The young warrior was on the ground, scrambling to his feet while his elder brother stood above him in protective way. Perwyn was holding back the blade of one Dothraki even as another forced an arahk deeper into the knight’s side. The Frey’s stubborn defense gave way soon after, Perwyn swaying and falling into the foe he held at bay, his killer ripping the arahk free and spraying Olyvar with his brother’s blood.

“NO!” Olyvar stabbed upwards and into the groin of the killer. “Bastard! You bastards!”

Jon had little time to reflect on the loss of another good man, for more Dothraki rounded the edges of the burning tent, moving to overwhelm Olyvar. He moved quickly, rushing forward so that the white dragon on his chest might catch their eye. When they spotted him the four men screamed in their strange, terrifying way. They wanted his blood and he wanted theirs.

Jon wasn’t the cowering little boy Robert Baratheon had crushed beneath his boot anymore.

He was a killer.

A dragon.

Two never got to realize that. One fell with an arrow through his neck while the other jerked back violently, Ghost’s jaws sinking deeply into his leg. The last two attacked as one, an older warrior lacking an eye and a younger man lacking sense. The youth’s downward slash went wide, giving Jon more than enough space to swing left and meet the elder’s strike. He was the more dangerous of the two, as seasoned in battle as he was in years. Jon earned a backhand to the mouth and stinging gash across his back before a horse, thick with flames, ran between them. Through the acrid smoke it left in its wake Jon thrust his blade forward, opening up the man’s neck.

The Dothraki youth sought to take his sword hand for it and Jon withdrew too slowly, the arakh striking his blade powerfully enough it was knocked free of his grasp. His foe’s face lit up, a smile growing across his beardless features as he realized what he’d done.

You’ve disarmed the white dragon. You think you will be my death?

“My sword is not my life.” Jon snarled, throwing himself forward, closing the gap between them. The youth hadn’t yet lifted his arakh above his waist and was unprepared when Jon hooked an arm around him, pinning the blade arm to the Dothraki’s side and taking hold of his braid.

“Nor my only blade.” He pulled the dagger from his belt, forcing it into the gut of the Dothraki. The youth jerked and cried out but Jon held firm, yanking back on the braid so that their eyes met.

Except it wasn’t the Dothraki’s dark eyes he wished to see as he dragged the dagger upwards. He willed them to be sly and purple, eyes that shone with cruelty rather than fear and agony. The youth spat blood and screamed as he was gutted while Jon imagined himself becoming the most accursed of men.

Let the gods damn me as kinslayer, he thought, I’ll gladly suffer a thousand hells.

If only to have Viserys dead at my feet…

Sadly it wasn’t Viserys he let crumple to the ground when the deed was done. Just another dead Dothraki, like the scores of others he’d killed. Just another slack, lifeless face to add to his nightmares.

More faces filled his vision then, for the Blackfish and Willem appeared and shoved Jon behind them while more of his men moved to encircle him.

“Form up!” Brynden shouted, bow at the ready. “Protect the prince!”

“About time we started.” Willem grumbled, shooting him a sideways glare. “Who told you to act like a tavern whore and take on so many men alone?”

He ignored the question and pushed aside a man to take in the battle. The reason he had protectors now was obvious, for there were less Dothraki to fight. Normally demons upon their mounts but most had been caught unprepared, unable to reach their horses or too drunk to climb the saddle. Even Pono was no longer ahorse, battling against Beric afoot, the lord roaring with fury at the blood covered Dothraki. Jon tensed and made to join the fray when the Blackfish stopped him and instead sent an arrow into Pono’s leg.

The hobbled man staggered and quickly found himself at the mercy of Beric. Jon wondered if the lord would do the honorable thing, as he so often argued passionately for.

There was no mercy in Beric this night.

With a shout, Beric cleaved his blade down into Pono’s shoulder. Ripping it free in a mess of gore he hacked down again. Then again. Then again. The lord would’ve likely cut the dead man to bits had Edric not run to him, staying Beric’s hand and ending his rage.

As Jon’s men pushed on through the camp, the cause of Beric’s fury became clear. Propped up against the side of a dead horse was Thoros, his face pale, his faded crimson robes a far deeper shade of red about his middle. Jon sent Brynden on to finish the rout of their enemy while he went to tend to the man who had once tended him.

The red priest trembled to hold his innards yet somehow managed a smile when he saw Jon and Beric approaching.

“My prince… Beric had R’hllor’s favor…” Thoros rasped, a bloody dribble tracing its way down his mouth. “Sadly my blade did not…”

When Beric knelt to his friend’s side Jon saw the remnants of one of Thoros’s burning swords, its flames dead and the blade itself broken in two. Beric put a hand to the priest’s shoulder and shook his head.

“You should have let him finish me.” Beric said. “My own damn fault for falling-”

“It was worth it to see you rise… my friend…” Thoros winced and gasped as a bit of his entrails quivered through the gash. “Some wine… for old times…”

“Here.” Willem spoke up, untying a skin of wine from his belt and ignoring everyone’s incredulous looks that he had brought wine to battle. “Owed you a barrel or two you flaming cheat.”

Thoros laughed. “The flames show me much but not how to win at our games…” He grimaced before Beric gently pressed the skin’s top to Thoros’s lips. The man drank greedily, until his belly could not take it and he spat both wine and blood into the air.

“Oh my… this cannot stand…” Thoros looked to Jon next. “Remember what the flames showed me my prince… honor Jon… honor…”

“I will.” He spoke simply and Thoros nodded, turning to Beric next.

“Mercy Beric. I gifted you life… I ask that you gift me death…”

Beric did not deny Thoros this. As the sounds of fighting and dying grew fainter in the burning battleground around them, one more man died before his eyes. Once Jon might have cringed like Edric to see Beric slip a blade into Thoros’s chest… but he’d seen too many good men die in worse ways.

He was numb to it now. To remind himself of that he reached up to touch at his cheek and jaw, no feeling to be found there. He willed that numbness to spread further, throughout his body and into his heart.

That is how I survive, he thought, that is how we win.

No pain, no fear, no feelings… the price I must pay for victory.

The last shreds of resistance were crushed but their victory proved to be a painful one indeed. Besides Thoros and Perwyn Frey a third of their number now lay dead or wounded. Men who had fought beside Jon in the darkest of times following the Red Storm. Men he had led to their deaths in the dark.

The dawn laid bare the carnage to him. His eyes moved across droves of Dothraki dead, slaughtered nearly to a man, for only the weak among them would ever flee. A few scattered bands had escaped the encirclement but for all intents and purposes, the Dothraki threat to the realm was ended. This slaughter was merely the latest brutal action he’d seen in the weeks upon weeks of battling the horselords and the rest of the Usurper’s forces.

Never staying in one place for too long, rarely forming into companies larger than a few hundred, his men had become ghosts. Attacking by night and disappearing come day, ambushing their foes and rarely engaging in open battle, Jon had succeeded in what he set out to do. The Usurper’s gaze stayed far from Riverrun, his army seeking Jon’s men rather than Dragonstone’s shores.

Yet as he joined Beric and others in setting fire to Thoros’s body, he doubted any of them felt like celebrating. The pyre was the only one of its kind in the open field, for most of their dead were being buried towards the forest, along the tree line so they could enjoy both sun and shade. Olyvar was somewhere out there, having pledged to dig Perwyn’s grave himself. Indeed most of the men were either digging graves to lay their fallen comrades to rest or setting out to deny the Dothraki theirs. Armed with axes, groups of the king’s men hacked apart the enemy dead, a grim ritual that Jon would be happy to see the last of.

Beric found no joy in honoring Thoros's own death rites. After lighting the pyre, the lord stared into the flames, watching his friend slowly disappear amongst the fire and smoke.

“I should have said his words.” Beric spoke in a distant tone. “Those damned red prayers of his… Thoros said them so often over the dead. I never thought to put them to memory. Now he lies dead with none to pray for him.”

“I’ll pray for him.” Edric said, moving beside his lord. “He was brave and fearless. A real wizard… I’ll never forget Thoros of Myr.”

“Nor shall I.” Jon said. “He fought well. He died a hero.”

“He died for a cause you now abandon.” Beric shot back, his eyes red rimmed and full of accusation. “Thoros was meant to fight for the king, not some foolish quest of vengeance-”

“He had a choice. We all did.” Jon’s blood turned cold so he turned to take his leave then. “I shall leave you to grieve a good man. You’ll be free of me soon enough my lord. Take solace in that.”

He scorned the sights of grave digging and carving up of the dead to seek the farthest edge of the battlefield. There he found a deep ravine, a sluggish creek barely struggling along its dry banks. Some of its edges had eroded away below him, creating an earth ledge that when he climbed down to sit within, he was lost to sight.

His hands, still caked with dirt and blood, trembled to dig within his pockets. There he found what he was looking for, pulling it free and holding it up to the faint light of the new day. The favor had become filthy and stained in places, as befouled by the war as he felt. Yet the grey direwolf’s stitching had not frayed a bit, the beast still staring up at him. The perfectly sewn red weirwood leaves remained as well but his eyes could not ignore the crimson stains marring the favor now.

“I’m sorry…” He choked out to no ears save his own. “Gods… I’m so sorry… forgive me please…”

Jon wept then, safe from the eyes of his men, sobs wracking his body. He should’ve been weeping for all the men he’d just let die. All of the others who’d died because of him.

Thoros and Perwyn. Lucas and Jonothor. Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy. Martyn Cassel and Mark Ryswell.

Father… Mother…

“Arya.” Jon clenched his fists, stretching the favor taut. “Arya… no…”

His tears fell upon the favor, still as thick and heavy as they had been when word came of Viserys’s attack on Winterfell. They’d been celebrating, or at least his men had been. Jon had penned Mago and his force within the pine barrens of Crackclaw Point. There, with help from the fierce warriors of Houses Bogg, Brune, and Crabb, he’d brought low the fiercest of the Dothraki. Their duel was a haze to him now, his mind at the time was lost to fury as he battled one of Arthur Dayne’s killers.

Mago’s death earned him some glory yet it left a sour taste in his mouth.

For he’d been a fool, a blind, selfish fool. The gods did not show mercy to fools the likes of him.

Nor to little girls, whose only crime was loving him. That Viserys had attacked Winterfell and sullied a place Jon’s heart called home was not enough. He had to butcher poor Arya, apparently bragging of her murder for the whole realm to hear. None had heard Jon’s weeping that night, for he hid it away like he’d told Arya to hide that little sword he gave her.

And where was it when Viserys came? She needed you to be there to protect her.

She needed you! And you put a sword in her hand! A little girl! What was she to do?!

Jon’s anger threatened to tear the favor so he eased back his grip, wiping at his eyes and looking to the sky above. He let its growing bright blue color remind him of what he had to do now.

Arya was lost to him… but Sansa still lived. Trapped in Viserys’s clutches, he could only imagine her terror. He had no doubt that Robb was pushing his army hard to retake Winterfell and Jon would be there with him. He made the decision as soon as they learned the Dothraki were on the warpath and the Usurper was on the move. His men had gathered at Darry not just to draw the Dothraki in but to ready for a march north.

Many had protested, Beric and Thoros included, arguing that with the Golden Company moving on King’s Landing their duty was to see to its defense. Others, like the Blackfish and the Freys, had agreed with him, declaring that Roslin and Sansa needed to be rescued.

Let Aegon defend his own fucking throne, he thought, my men have been fighting and dying out here and where is he?

The Starks are suffering and where am I?

“There you are.” Someone spoke above him.

Jon jumped, wiping his eyes just as another man landed on the ledge beside him. Willem adjusted himself so that he could lean against the earthen side of the ravine, the knight's smile fading away as he took in the sight of Jon.

“What the hell do you want?” He asked hotly and the knight raised his hands in defense.

“To find you is all, wasn’t that hard…” Willem jerked a thumb upwards. Above them, watching silently with his red eyes as he always did, was Ghost. “That beast reminds me of my son. As soon as he learned to walk he followed me everywhere! Led to more awkward moments, let me tell you. Try explaining to a three year old why you’re wrestling mama naked.”

“Is there something you need?” He asked unamused.

“I could’ve used a better excuse for having Tess bent over than ‘that’s how you win.’” Willem grumbled and Jon gaped at him. “Our watchers say that another company is coming in, riding hard. Stragglers who missed the fight, the lucky bastards.”

“Lucky for us. We need the men.” Jon replied, making to rise when Willem grunted and pointed to the favor in his hand.

“Your lady make that for you?”

“My lady?" Jon said, feeling foolish that the man caught him in such a way. Yet he would not feel ashamed of such a splendid favor. "Well… in a way. Lady Sansa and Arya made it together... they never did anything together but fight. Save for this… they made this for me…”

“Ah.” Willem nodded. “I see. My wife gave me a lock of her hair. I hold it a bit before I sleep each night. Hell, sometimes I kiss it to keep my heart from breaking.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Figured it’s only fair. Once we’re out of this ditch we’ll have to pretend I didn’t find you as I did. Until then, your grace, forgive me for saying so but you’re a young lad in a tough place. You should know that even grown men struggle with how shit awful the world can be. There’s no shame in it. No shame in shedding a tear for those poor girls who made that favor for you. If my Tess was ever… well, let’s just say, I wouldn’t be handling it half as well as you.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that. The knight was good company on the ride, able to make him laugh when he thought himself incapable of cheer, yet never had Willem sounded so sage. Willem didn’t smile or jest then, he merely watched as Jon gently folded the favor and stuck it back within his pocket. When they made to rise again, Willem gestured to the dagger hanging on his belt.

“Speaking of handling things well, good work with that blade.” He cupped his hands together so Jon could use them to climb up over the top of the creek. “Thought you were dead for sure when that bastard disarmed you. Beating a Dothraki with a knife is no small feat.”

“It was nothing.” Jon gulped down bile to remember gutting the youth, reaching down to help pull Willem up out of the creek as well. “Finer men have done finer deeds in this war.”

“No argument there.” Willem shrugged. “Remember them dead sellswords we came across last month? Still can’t wait to meet the man who did for them like that! Spoon sticking right out the one’s-”

“I remember.” Jon chuckled, rolling his eyes to hear about that again.

Their arrival back to the edges of the castle grounds was met with shouts of relief and curses of annoyance from the Blackfish. The old knight was not pleased at Jon’s impromptu disappearance.

“Man needed to take a piss.” Willem shrugged. “What’s the harm?”

“There could still be Dothraki about and I’d have him guarded by better than a stunted smartmouth.” The Blackfish shot back, narrowing his gaze at the knight. “Or do you think carrying two swords makes you twice the man?”

“Won’t die for a lack of swords, that’s for sure.”

“You care to test that theory?”

“I prefer that to explain wrestling to my son again.”

“End it there, trust me.” Jon said before the Blackfish had to learn more than he wanted of the Royce family. At that moment he spotted a score of riders emerging out of the forest at the far end of the field. They were a ragged lot to be sure, led by the man Willem affectionately called Pisscloak.

The archer Anguy was among them, Jon spotting his mop of red hair quite easily out of the riders. Most looked familiar enough, save for what looked to be an unkempt old man at their center.

“Are they bringing smallfolk with them?” Beric asked, joining the welcoming party with the slightest of nods to Jon. “More helpless seeking safety from the war?”

“That’d be foolish.” The Blackfish squinted as the party grew closer. “They knew they were coming to battle, why bring innocents…”

The older knight’s voice caught in his throat and Jon swore he staggered, as if struck by some invisible force. Others took notice too and Edric moved to steady the Blackfish. An act Brynden threw off, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared at the approaching party.

“It can’t be.”

“What?” Jon asked, putting a hand to his sword. “What is it?”

“Prince Jon!” Anguy’s cry interrupted them, the archer joining his comrades in riding straight up to their group, reining up as if in a panic. “Prince Jon you won’t believe what I found!”

“What you found?!” Lem bellowed, drawing far less attention than the white haired stranger who was dismounting his horse.

A tall, thickly muscled youth rushed to help him yet the old man proved to be more than capable, leaping from his saddle with grace unbefitting his size, let alone his age. His hair and beard were wild but Jon could not spare a glance to his face when he saw the magnificent sword the man wore on his hip. Its pommel was a work of art and its sheath just as masterful.

Jon's adoration of the blade was broken when the Blackfish strode by him, marching straight on towards the stranger.

“You were dead.” Brynden spoke hoarsely, opening his arms and embracing the man tightly. “By the Father they told me you were dead.”

“Not yet old friend.” The stranger answered, patting Brynden’s back as the knight continued his hold.

Then it was Jon’s turn to feel like he’d been struck. Beneath the man’s unruly hair he spotted a lined, weathered face, one that held more experience and warmth than age. His blue eyes were lively if sad and when they looked to Jon a smiled creased his face.

“Ser Barristan!?” Jon asked, blinking in shock. “Barristan Selmy!?”

“Stranger take me, it’s him.” Beric started while Willem whistled in surprise. Every man around them was just as rattled. Like a boulder dropping in a pond, excited cries and shouts moved out in waves around them.

“That’s right!” Anguy pulled at his tunic and held his head high. “Sorry we’re late and all… we were just finding Barristan the bloody Bold himself!! Saved him from a bunch of sellswords-”

“The ser rescued you.” The mysterious dark-haired youth replied. “If we hadn’t come on you during their ambush you’d be dead.”

“That’s alright Gendry.” Barristan finally freed himself from the Blackfish’s grasp, taking in the battlefield and the war worn army around him before his attention moved to Jon. All the strength the Kingsguard’s body held disappeared in that moment, the man half falling as he dropped to a knee.

“Prince Jon, thank the merciful Mother that I found you.” Barristan lowered his head, not so far that he didn’t catch the rest of his number either standing or still mounted. “Act as the servants of the crown you are! Bow before your prince!”

The youth named Gendry did so and Barristan’s command held such weight that most of his escort rushed to bow or kneel as well. Lem scowled and Anguy raised an eyebrow towards Jon at the display. They weren’t being rude, they were just used to things being a bit… different.

“Rise ser, please.” Jon said, walking forward to help the knight up. “Our number moves too often and too quietly for such formality. I cannot say how happy I am to see you alive.”

“And I cannot bring myself to call you anything but true and noble, my prince.” Barristan rose, shaking Jon’s hand firmly. “Let the Usurper call you White Dragon, for I see a good and honorable warrior, a prince I dared not hope to find in all this madness.”

“We brought him here!” Anguy once again sought praise and earned a cuff from Lem. “Hey! We did that at least!”

The tale was a daring one. Lem and Anguy’s men had been moving about in the woods just south of Harrenhall, harassing the enemy sent to gather wood for the Usurper’s siege engines. When the Golden Company moved south, their web of smallfolk informers let Lem learn of the summons to Darry. Unfortunately Robert’s rearguard was hunting high and low through the forest for some escaped prisoners. Lem's men were ambushed by those hunters and would have been overrun had Ser Barristan and Gendry not appeared.

“Never seen anything like it!” Anguy gushed, men pressing close to hear the tale. “The ser leaps out from the trees screaming ‘Death to the Usurper’s dogs!’ Sword moving like a... a... a fast sword! He must’ve cut down three men and twice as many horses before they knew what hit them.”

“I shouted gibberish in truth.” Barristan whispered to Jon. “They would see a mad man. I thought to help them believe I was. There’s nothing more terrifying than a man without sense.”

“You did kill three mounted men ser.” Gendry added shyly, his eyes on the ground, something about him bothering Jon. Barristan showed no such unease, clamping a hand down on Gendry’s shoulder and pulling him in for Jon’s inspection.

“And you brought low one yourself.” Barristan smiled. “My prince, this is Gendry, my rescuer. If not for him I would be dead now. In reward for that service I have taken him as my squire and will see that he is knighted one day.”

“Then you have my thanks Gendry.” Jon said, taking note that Barristan made no mention of a family name, nor how this man had come to rescue him. “You have my thanks, as well as my protection, for as long as I can offer it.”

Gendry shifted uneasily but Barristan urged him back, hand on his swordbelt where the magnificent sword lay sheathed.

“Speaking of protection.” Barristan tapped the blade. “Gendry has helped procure us a fine weapon for just that. A symbol to rally loyal men to the defense of the throne. The Warrior smiles on us that I can now deliver it you my prince. That I can act as your Kingsguard for the battle against the Usurper-”

“My battle is elsewhere.” He dashed the man’s hopes, backing away to find many eyes watching their discussion. “Your arrival is a good omen ser. With you at Lord Beric’s side, I’m sure you can keep the Usurper’s eyes at his back. I can head north knowing this fight is in good hands.”

“Head north?” Barristan asked incredulously, a similar reaction to that of the Blackfish who broke in next.

“Jon, Ser Barristan is a Kingsguard, something you lack right now. Surely he should join us in our fight against the mad prince.”

“I don’t understand.” Barristan continued, shaking his head. “You’ve heard that Robert marches on King’s Landing, have you not? His army is a formidable one! His allies number more still and he drags with him trebuchets and siege engines-”

“I know who we’ve been fighting!” He snapped back, gesturing to the battlefield and the men around. “It’s been months of this! Fighting with help from no one but each other and the smallfolk who have everything to lose! Where is our relief from Jon Connington? Where are the Lannisters? The Martells? Where were all of these so-called loyal king’s men when Viserys murdered Arya Stark!?”

“There was no way to predict such a thing.” Barristan spoke calmly. “That child’s family has my sympathies but my loyalty lies with your brother, King Aegon. He was encircled and without allies, you know this. We must hope he rallies support from Dorne to help save the capital. Its walls cannot stand without help. Nor can Viserys when the northern lords move on him. Let the Starks defend their own while you lead us to save your family-”

“To hell with my family!” He spat, jabbing a finger right into Barristan’s hardened chest. “None of them have ever given two shits about me! Let Cersei Lannister take her children and flee west for all I care! If Robert sacks the capital let Aegon pick up the pieces! Go and fight for them if you want, I shall do honor by a better sort!”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. All now knew the darkness in his heart. Cersei and Rhaenys and all their whispering panderers could run screaming before Robert’s wrath for all he cared. He’d rather picture that then Sansa under Viserys’s thumb. Whenever thoughts of innocent Myrcella and Tommen came to mind, it was Sansa he focused on. It wasn’t hard. His youngest siblings had been but little children younger than Arya and Bran when he left them. If he happened to think on their rare moments together he thought of Arya screaming instead. Of Sansa crying and in fear for her life.

Tywin Lannister sheltered Joffrey from justice, let him march to spare the rest of his family.

Sansa needs me… I left her and she needs me…

“What of Daenerys?” Barristan’s voice was gruff, his brow furrowed as he searched Jon’s face. “Whatever you might think of your duty to the queen and your siblings, surely you would not abandon Daenerys to Robert’s wrath?”

“Dany is safe at Dragonstone.” He scowled, not wanting to hear anymore. “She has a sea, a castle, an entire army to guard her. I’ve just over a thousand men and horses and no ships. Like I said, you are free to lead as many of them as you want in Aegon’s name but I-”

“Daenerys is in the capital.”

Barristan’s words stopped Jon’s departure mid-step, his head whipping about to seek out the lie there. It had to be a lie. It would be madness for Dany to leave Dragonstone. Yet Anguy stepped up to Barristan’s side then and spoke in favor of madness.

“Heard it with our own ears your grace.” Anguy spoke haltingly, glaring at Lem for refusing to join him. “We had to take a long ways to get around the enemy search parties and every person we passed raved about it. How the princess brought an army to King’s Landing. Dragons too.”

“No, no that’s not right.” He tried to make them see reason. “Dany acts rashly sometimes but whoever’s in command of Dragonstone would never let her leave.”

It’s nonsense. It has to be. Just like all these rumors about dragons being back.

“Rhaegar left Daenerys as Princess of Dragonstone.” Barristan answered, though clearly miserable to do so. “Ser Richard Lonmouth is bound to heed her will… as the king wanted.”

“Why!?” He demanded. “Why would she do this?”

Barristan stood tall then, his hand going to his swordbelt. This set off many of Jon’s men, Willem and Edric included, to grabbing at their own blades. The Blackfish glowered at them all while Barristan succeeded in unhooking his swordbelt, pulling the sheathed sword free to hold before him.

“For the same reason Rhaegar gave her such power.” Barristan intoned. “He trusted Daenerys to do what was right. To protect his children. To care for his people. To defend the realm.”

“She has to flee.” Jon shook his head. “You have to ride hard and make her leave! You can get her out of there! Myrcella and Tommen too!”

“And where shall they flee? If Robert Baratheon takes the capital and sits the Iron Throne, how long will it be before he crushes all remaining resistance in the realm? Do you truly think Daenerys would leave a city full of people at the Usurper’s mercy? A city teeming with those you helped flee this fighting? What was the point of all this then, if not to save them? What would your father think?”

He thinks I left him, he remembered his dream. I escaped to safety while good men died to retrieve his body.

“Father promised me to Sansa.” Jon clenched his fists. “He sent me to the Starks… they need me…”

“Viserys needs you.” The knight replied. “My prince, think on this please. We both know Viserys enjoys his cruelties… that he is half mad if not worse. He was always worse to Daenerys when he knew you were watching. If you show up outside Winterfell’s walls, think what Viserys might do to Lady Sansa. Robb Stark has more men and is closer still. You and your men are needed here.”

With that Barristan pulled free the blade, its black rippled steel catching the light and the adoration of every eye that settled upon it. Jon himself was lost in its beauty, for besides Ice he had never seen a blade of such artistry. Valyrian steel to be sure, with strange inscriptions that, upon closer inspection, Jon recognized.

He’d seen this sword before though only in drawings in Maester Luwin’s books. Drawings of Aegon the Conqueror.

“Blackfyre… is that truly… how can-”

“It is. Aegon the Conqueror’s blade returned to us!” Barristan laid it on his palms and offered it to Jon. “The sword he used to forge this realm. The sword you must take to save the realm.”

Jon’s head was spinning. He thought of Aegon holding his hand in fear at Summerhall. Sansa’s shy kiss for him before he left Winterfell. His father promising to speak of mother. Uncle Eddard holding him as he cried in front of her grave. Dany’s smile. Arya’s grin.

Robert Baratheon standing over his father’s body as he sank into the mud.

Viserys laughing over Arya’s corpse.

“Help me avenge your father and my murdered brothers-in-arms.” Barristan continued. “Help me defend your family and thousands upon thousands of innocents.”

“I promise you that Winter is coming for Viserys. Let the northmen see to that while we give the Usurper his due.”

“Fire and blood.”

Chapter 17

Summary:

Those moments when our eyes are opened.

When the world offers as much promise as our dreams.

Or the horrors straight from our nightmares.

BRAN

 

He stumbled backwards, his hand stinging and lip bloodied. Sweat streamed down Bran’s face as he reached to pick up his practice sword off the sandstone surface of the training yard.

It was so hot here the heat wafted off the ground, the Dornish sun as merciless as his opponent, who circled Bran with a confident look on his face. Edgar Allyrion was only a year or two older than him yet had bested Bran twice in their last two bouts here in the yards of Sunspear.

A poor showing for a squire of a Kingsguard, he lamented, come on, you can’t give these Dornish another reason to mock you.

A glance to the sides of the wide-open yard showed a number of the youngest members of the Dornish court laughing at his latest defeat. Trystane Martell waved his own practice sword about smiling while the three girls closest to him clapped loudly for Edgar. They were the three youngest daughters of Prince Oberyn and his paramour Ellaria Sand. Obella, Dorea and Loreza Sand were all lithe young women with their father’s lustrous black hair and mother’s smooth olive skin.

Oberyn’s natural born daughters were called the Sand Snakes, a title Bran didn’t think all that kind. Although their dark eyes did follow him much like the vipers kept in the mud brick shops of the shadow city.

“Two for Edgar, none for the beast.” Obella called out, earning a giggle from Loreza.

“The one-eyed beast.” Dorea added before speaking in a mocking tone. “Really Edgar must it take you so long to defeat a half-blind northman?”

Edgar looked embarrassed but before he could respond one of Bran’s supporters stepped up. To the opposite side of the yard Bronze Jon broke away from Ser Oswell and Summer to throw down a half eaten peach and glower at the Dornish.

“Don’t listen to all that hissing Bran!” His friend spat a peach pit in the direction of the Sand Snakes. “Go back to your Water Gardens! Tend to some flowers! Act like girls why don’t you?”

“Watch it Royce.” The ser warned, his eyes never leaving Bran.

“Why ser? Those ladies are mocking Bran when they should be off playing with dolls…”

“Because their older sisters don’t play near as nicely.” Ser Oswell grunted. “Stark, I told you to watch your left!”

“Yes ser.” He replied, holding back a grumble of how he was missing an eye to do so.

Instead he held his tongue and raised his sword with both hands. Edgar did the same and they began to circle one another again.

When the other squire struck they were teasing blows, high and low, Bran deflecting them but giving ground to do so. As fast as the Allyrion boy was Bran was sure he was stronger and better trained. All that held him back was how Edgar kept hitting him in his blind spot. He felt angry and helpless, just like when Joffrey had taken his eye in the first place.

That made him try something he’d held off from doing so far. A skill he hadn’t tried with other people watching before. With Edgar still circling Bran chanced to close his one eye. With a grunt of concentration he began to feel a strange skin tingling, a strange strength. 

Then he opened all his eyes.

And he was in two places at once.

He still saw through the eye of the boy but now he could see through a new set of eyes as well. Eyes that beheld two boys circling one another. His powerful body moved so he could find a better angle to watch the frail children circle one another yet made no move to interfere. This was a challenge his second self wished to fight on his own.

Most often the boy would slip into his skin to share in a hunt or a run through these strange, hot lands. This wasn’t like those times though. His body remained his, save for his eyes. That’s all the boy had need of now. Eyes to watch the challenger he faced.

It all happened quickly but to a hunter the child’s movements were clumsy. The other boy tensed and readied his back leg, planting his one foot firmly against the ground.  His next attack obvious. He would leap to the right, strike with at the left. Now!

Bran moved to his left cutting down with his sword, catching Edgar unprepared for such a swift defense. He barely held onto his weapon as Bran launched an attack of his own. With two-handed cuts and stabs Bran drove Edgar back, his second set of eyes warning him whenever the other boy made to strike his left. Summer gave him the advantage he needed to turn the tide. When Edgar ran out of yard he shouted in surprise to find his back pressed up against a stone column. 

Bran knocked his sword away and for half a moment was tempted to do worse.

His hand still stung where Edgar had hit him. His lip was swollen and his shoulder ached. He could get a hit in on the boy and it would feel good to do so.

It would feel good to hurt him.

His second set of eyes betrayed Bran in that moment. He saw himself standing there, with Edgar at his mercy and he could not bring himself to swing the sword.

"Yield?" Bran asked, shaking himself free of Summer. "Do you yield Edgar?"

"I yield." The boy answered, nodding in relief to see Bran lowering his weapon. "How did you do that? Were you just tricking me with those last two matches?"

"No. You won them." He smiled, offering his hand. "Two to one for you Edgar, you fought well."

"Thank you." Edgar shook his hand before backing away from Bran, scratching his head in confusion as he returned to Trystane and his other friends.

Whereas Bran was almost tackled by his, Bronze Jon wrapping him up in a bear hug.

"There you go! Just like I planned" His friend laughed and shook Bran.

"Like you planned?"

"Of course! I knocked the Dornishmen down a couple pegs and let you finish them off- ow! OW!"

Ser Oswell's grip on Jon's ear forced the squire back, the Kingsguard only releasing him to inspect Bran's own hurts. The knight took Bran's chin in hand, turning his face side to side, eyes narrowing at his split lip.

"You need to be more careful lad." The ser said, his face softening some then. "That last match made me proud, but if this was battle I'd be proud of a corpse. You'd be twice dead and food for the crows."

"Yes ser."

"Don't 'yes ser' me. We must redouble our training to account for that eye of yours. Jon's been too soft on you in your duels. I've been too lax in your lessons. I won't have any squire of mine falling to a foe as pitiful as that Allyrion. You know I'd have to be the one dragging your bones back to Winterfell to join the rest of your kin-"

The knight's words caught in his throat then, Ser Oswell swallowing hard as he backed up a step. Bronze Jon paused at rubbing his reddened ear, gaping as the Kingsguard dropped to a knee and took Bran's shoulder in hand. The ser's light green eyes lacked their usual scorn and disapproval.

"I did not mean that as it sounded." The ser squeezed his shoulder. "Five years is a long time to spend as a guest in any castle... as I watched over Prince Jon, I watched you and your siblings grow up around me. I might not show it, but I mourn your sister lad... it is alright if you wish to as well-"

"There's nothing to mourn." Bran jerked free, suddenly angry. "I told you it's lies! Arya's not dead!"

"Bran..."

"She's not! I'd know it if she was!" He snapped, causing Summer to growl and drawing the eyes of everyone else in the yard. The ser caught wind of it too and his scowl returned, sending many of the onlookers to lowering their eyes or looking away.

When his mentor rose, he made no further effort to argue with Bran for it was no use. He served Oswell Whent in all things but there was no power in the world that could make Bran believe Arya was dead. His dreams showed her to be as warm and breathing as all the others. Wherever she was, Nymeria was with her. He didn't worry about Arya because Nymeria wasn't worried. Nor was Shaggydog scared for Rickon or Mother.

Robb and Jon were different though. Grey Wind and Ghost always felt on edge, wary of attack. It was worse with Sansa and father, for he feared for them the most. Lady was hurt, suffering, and deep down Bran knew Sansa was too. Father on the other hand had no wolf with him. He had no way of knowing how his father's war with the wildlings was going, for few cared of it here in Dorne.

None of that stopped Bran from dreaming of father anyways.

They were dark dreams, with an old voice rasping his father's name over and over. The screams of ravens and the beating of wings blowing a cold wind all around him. A red eye opening in the darkness.

"Let's get out of the sun." Ser Oswell commanded then, wiping sweat from his brow and squinting up at the sun. "No use cooking your brains anymore than they already are. I'm speaking of you Royce. We shall continue our lessons when the air cools."

Bran and Bronze Jon set to putting their weapons away, earning derisive looks from the three young Sand Snakes as they did so.

"Wow do they ever hate you." His friend shook his head. "I mean Trystane and Edgar aren't so bad. Better than Harry really, but those bastards really can't stand you."

"It's because of Jon's mother." He sighed. "Uncle Benjen said that my aunt Lyanna is cursed by many here in Dorne. They say she stole King Rhaegar away and that it's my aunt's fault that the king set Elia Martell aside. Her fault that their beloved princess died."

"I thought it was the Mad King's fault." Bronze Jon made a face as they stacked the practice swords along the wall of the yard. "He's the one who burned her. Besides, why should the Sand Snakes act so put out? Prince Doran welcomed you himself!"

"Because they are Oberyn's daughters." Uncle Benjen's broke in, both boys jumping to find the northern knight standing behind them. "And you'll both watch how you speak of them. In Dorne, even we direwolves need fear the vipers, allies or no."

"Allies?" Bran felt hopeful at the word.

"Apparently." Benjen gestured back towards the ser where Ser Robar and Lord Renly were speaking excitedly with him.

Those men and his uncle had been ensconced in the Tower of the Sun much of the day negotiating with the Martells. As it had been for weeks now, ever since the king's army arrived at the Sunspear. They'd found ten thousand Dornishmen waiting for them here, yet rather than joining Aegon's march king's army had joined the Dornish in waiting.

While the people of the Sunspear had cheered for Aegon and Rhaenys's arrival, throwing flowers and fruit at their feet, it was spears the king wanted at his side. Something the Martells proved reluctant to give. Bran knew little of Doran Martell, save that he was a soft-spoken older man, long confined to a wheelchair due to his gouty legs. It was whispered among the king's men that while the Prince of Dorne lacked strong legs, he made up for it in strong demands of the throne.

The smile playing at his uncle's mouth gave Bran hope that the throne had finally won out. Ser Oswell certainly felt a need to leave the yard in a hurry, for he spared not even a glance to Renly and Robar in seeking the Tower of the Sun.

"Come along boys, the king and the prince will be making their announcements shortly." Benjen turned and waved them along. "Aegon asked for you specifically-"

"He asked for me?!" Jon lit up until Benjen laughed.

"The day the king sends for you, run lad. If only to escape the dungeons or the Wall." His uncle patted the squire's back to lead them both away, Summer following. "It's Bran he wants there. A good sign too, I think Aegon means to follow up his promise in declaring Viserys's life forfeit. Didn't get a straight answer on that though, a good number of ships just arrived from the capital and their envoys were granted a private audience so I figured to find you lot myself."

If the Dornish were finally joining their side, King Aegon could lead them back against the Usurper. Then against his evil uncle, the one who had attacked Winterfell.

The one who is hurting Sansa... the one who lies about Arya....

If I was there I'd stop him. I'd beat him like I beat Edgar.

That led him to a troubling thought, of what he would do if he had Prince Viserys at his mercy. Could he show mercy to such a man? Would he do as his father did to the Night's Watch deserter?

Those questions haunted him while they passed through the bright, hot corridors of the Old Palace. It was alive with smiles and excited chatter. When they entered the Tower of the Sun, the noise grew even louder as scores of lords, ladies, and knights packed the Martell throne room. Many thick windows of painted glass decorated the large and round room but other sights drew Bran's eye. Above their heads was a massive dome of gold and leaded glass. While many parted at the sight of Summer, padding along the pale marble floor, more kept their distance from a raised dais where two carved seats overlooked all. The Martell spear was carved into the back of one of the chairs, the other featuring the blazing sun of the Rhoynar.

Prince Doran sat in the spear throne while Princess Arianne, his daughter and heir, reclined in the sun chair. She was dressed in red silks that displayed her curvaceous figure in such a bold manner that Bran blushed to look. He took note that King Aegon stood between the two Martells, speaking quietly with Arianne who smiled and laughed. To Prince Doran's opposite side sat Rhaenys, an ornate chair having been placed upon the dais for the pregnant princess to sit. While Lord Renly stood behind her, Rhaenys held her uncle's gnarled hand in her own, whispering something that bid him to nod. Below the dais stood a line of men, Prince Oberyn joining his nephews Quentyn and Trystane, along with Ser Manfred Martell, in wearing the bright tunics of their house. The Kingsguard were arrayed beside them, Ser Oswell standing with the sers Robar, Loras Tyrell, and Richard Horpe.

Bronze Jon whistled.

"Look at how nice our sers shine." He said with pride, nudging Bran. "Any brighter and you'd have to shield your eyes- er, eye."

"Shutup." Bran replied as Uncle Benjen led them to the very front of the assembly. "Admit it, my knight looks the best. I shine his armor twice as long as..."

His voice fell away, for Summer had stopped suddenly, the direwolf turning to look at the right of the press about the dais. Bran smelt what Summer did then. A familiar scent, a sweet one from when he lay upon a sick bed in a city far away from here. Bran's eye found her before Summer did. He couldn't help himself. Like the direwolf, Bran sensed her presence. He only had to push aside a couple people to see her.

"Elara." He said the name, expecting to wake up from a dream.

This was no dream though, for standing just across the room from him was Elara Dayne. Her gown was black silk, far darker than her usual dress and her hair no longer flowed freely, instead bound in a wide, thick braid which fell over a shoulder. Around her throat she wore a strange necklace of bronze he didn't recognize, one encasing a red ruby which gleamed in the light.

Despite all these changes, when their eyes met Bran could not help but smile. Nothing about Elara's eyes had changed. They were still as dark and warm as he remembered. Just like he dreamed.

"Elara." He repeated, raising a hand to wave. "Elara! It's me!"

"Silence boy." A gruff lord he didn't know shoved him back. "The king's about to speak."

"Elara!" Bran persisted, catching a smile growing across Elara's face to match his own.

Until it fell away suddenly, her eyes breaking from their gaze and the lady turning from him just as quickly. She'd seen him, he knew it, so he was startled by Elara's actions. He made to yell again when Benjen took hold of his shoulders, forcing him to behold the dais where a herald was now calling for quiet from all those gathered.

Some were still murmuring but that fell away when Aegon walked to the fore, hand on his sword and adjusting his crown slightly.

"I could address the Dornishmen first." The king's voice echoed in the hall. "Or the stormlords who have travelled with me here. Or perhaps those who have been with me from King's Landing and before. It seems silly of me to do so, not when we are all gathered together like this."

A warm smile stretched across the king's face as he raised his arm to move over the crowd.

"Loyal men! Loyal men and women from the finest families with the purest hearts of the realm! I speak to you now! For this day marks the end of the darkness that has plagued the Seven Kingdoms since Robert Baratheon landed on our shores!"

"Hear hear!" Ser Robar bellowed and a hundred echoed the sentiment, Bronze Jon among them. The king raised a hand to quiet all once more before looking to Prince Doran.

"My dear uncle and I have found common cause in restoring the realm to its former glory. We mean to create a better kingdom! One united under a just king, ruled by a just throne! To do so we must unite the best of us so today. I have the honor and pleasure to announce the promise of such unions!"

"Oh hell." Bronze Jon whispered to him. "It's like Harry said, they're making him marry Arianne... as fine as she is there goes the Reach..."

"Hush up and listen." Benjen scolded them while Aegon did indeed turn to behold Arianne who raised her chin up and arched her back some.

"Let all know that today I have secured a betrothal between my lovely cousin, the heir to Sunspear, the Princess Arianne..." Aegon's pause seemed to last forever. "With the handsome heir to Highgarden, Willas Tyrell!"

"Oh shit." The boys said in unison, both earning a cuff from his uncle for their language. It was nothing compared to the excited chatter and shocked sounds erupting from within the throne room. It took the Martell guardsmen a full minute of banging spears upon the marble floor so Aegon could continue.

"Please! Please! The good tidings do not end there! Nor do unions for the Martells and Tyrells! In honor of my mother and her brothers, I announce the betrothal of Prince Quentyn and my dear sister, Princess Myrcella!"

Bran didn't know to think of that. Quentyn seemed nice enough but none would call him handsome. He'd heard many ladies here call him plain. Surely nothing compared to the Princess Myrcella's radiance, a golden beauty if there ever was one.

"Your grace" Rhaenys drew all the eyes to her then. "My dear brother, you're so eager to match others yet here you stand, proudly unpromised, tempting every maiden in the realm! Grow a mole for the sake of their soft hearts!"

Laughter tore through the hall, many Dornish ladies calling out the king's name and a group around Lady Valena Toland being sent into a flourish of tittering at some whispered words. All the while Aegon waved his arms like he was being falsely accused.

"It is my own heart that I will speak on next. My war against the pretenders to the throne could be a long and hard one. The throne is surely worth it, but what inspires a man to greatness more than love? I apologize to all the fair maidens of the realm, for my heart has been given to the fairest of them all. The most beautiful rose there is, the Lady Margaery Tyrell."

Rhaenys led the charge in joyfulness then, Renly helping her up from her seat so she could go forward to embrace her brother. First she kissed his cheeks, then he kissed hers, both turning to face the crowd, smiles wide across their faces.

Only Bran knew it all to be lie. He'd known much of this before Aegon announced it.

Here in the Sunspear, Summer was not free to wander beyond the walls of the Old Palace. Oberyn declared that it was for the safety of his brother's subjects. Uncle Benjen claimed it was for the safety of the wolf. Either way, Summer still had freedom of much of the palace, going to places that Bran would be barred from.

Aegon's chambers for one. The king often laughed to hear the wolf pawing at his door, usually carrying a plate of meat so he could toss pieces through the air for Summer to catch. One night not too long ago, Rhaenys had been in Aegon's chambers too, fully dressed and quite disappointed when Summer was allowed within.

"You're a king, not a hound keeper." She'd scowled. "Send it away Aegon. I cannot understand why you insulted Doran by insisting it be welcomed within these walls."

Aegon ignored her by going to a table, snatching some snake meat from a plate and tossing it Summer.

"This wolf has fought for me while the Martells have not. If our uncle ever rose from that chair he could shove the insult up his arse."

Rhaenys had not been pleased by his comment and the pair fell into a spate of bickering. Something they'd done much of during the journey to the Sunspear. Summer had not cared, nor did he mind when the snake meat stopped coming, for it was the king's words he took interest in.

"Thank the gods Willas was open to the match." Aegon had said, lifting his crown and staring at it with derision. "Mace and Garlan are ignorant to my actions here, hopefully doing as I've instructed, but Willas assured me in his letters that his father would go along with this. Mace is not likely to pass up his heir ruling both the Reach and Dorne."

"Foolishness." Rhaenys had snickered. "Lord Tyrell can envision planting some roses here in the sand, but in truth Doran is loosing a snake into Highgarden. The Martells now make a home in the castle of their rivals. You did well resisting Doran's push for you to wed Arianne yourself-"

"Come off it Rhae, that was a ploy and you know it." Aegon scowled. "Doran learned of our arrangements with the Tyrells before we arrived. He's too clever to think I would trade the might of the entire Reach for the spears of Dorne, no matter how desperate I am. I was allowed that hollow victory, all to soften the blow to my pride for everything else I gave away."

"Quentyn is a prince of Dorne and a good-hearted man besides. He will treat Myrcella well I've no doubt. Accepting Oberyn and Lord Yronwood onto your small council is no great hardship either. Their experience will probably be useful."

"Yes, but I had to balance their appointments with others from the Reach! And more marriages on top of that! I swear, I've arranged more betrothals in the Sunspear than Doran offers me men yet somehow his gaze wanders into matters not his concern! What interest is it of his who inherits Brightwater Keep? He oversteps his bounds!"

"Yes, the Florents stand in our way again." Rhaenys nodded. "By rights with Alester and his heir dead, Brightwater should go to his daughter Melessa. Sadly for us she's married to Randyll Tarly, a neighbor that the Dornish are smart enough to fear. You can't even pass Melessa over for her sister Rhea because she's married to a Hightower, a family Doran fears even more."

"No worse for us than Axell Florent's claim." Aegon chuckled wryly. "That whoreson has the gall to recall all the Florent swords to Brightwater, ignore Willas's call to muster at Highgarden, and then submit his claim to me? The man has balls. No rightful claim, but balls as big as his floppy ears."

"Giving Tarly Brightwater could work out well for you." Rhaenys smiled and made to hold Aegon's hand which he allowed. "Mace will take solace to see his right hand rewarded when you name Oberyn your Hand-"

Aegon pulled free of his sister's grip, careful not to strike the bulge about her middle yet clearly wishing to be free of his sister.

"Oberyn may sit on my council but he will never be Hand of the King. Nor Lord Yronwood or Mace Tyrell. These noble men are only loyal in so far as it befits their own interests. They promise and promise while I present them with gift after gift for their empty words. A good Hand stands for the king when he is not able, fights the battles his king cannot, like my brother does now. Jon shall be my Hand."

"You can't! Aegon open your eyes! He's covering himself with glory and gathering men to him, he eyes your throne like I always said he did! If you make him Hand it only gives Jon more legitimacy! More power to steal away your crown! He might even get a hold of the dragons if he marries-"

"The North has no dragons, save our fool of an uncle. I've decided that Jon's betrothal to Sansa Stark will stand. I cannot insult the Starks at such a pivotal time. Oswell's notion for who to name the Whent heir is a good start but it's not enough. Even lands as great and rich as Harrenhal will never appease such a hard people. Our family owes them a blood debt for their murdered child Rhaenys, one I intend to pay. It will not only mark my reign as beginning with an act of justice, it might even forestall a northern rebellion."

"What of Daenerys though? Aegon... we promised her."

"And look at all the joy our plotting has brought us." Aegon lifted a goblet to his mouth but slammed it back down with disdain. "I remember my words to Daenerys. To me the betrothal stands but I shall offer Jon a choice. He can choose whether to marry Sansa Stark or not..."

"If he chooses not to, he insults the North... his principle supporters..." Rhaenys rubbed her chin and smiled at Aegon. "And if he chooses the Stark lady, well, then you kept your word to Daenerys and her anger would be focused elsewhere. Jon will fall from her favor and the dragons will never be his. I'm impressed brother."

"That saddens me Rhae." The king had said before ushering Summer from the room. "That you could be impressed by something so vile. Or that I could think it... but if it is for our father's realm, I will do anything... anything for this bloody crown..."

It was Aegon's crown that Bran now focused on, for the king had stepped to the very edge of the dais so that light streaming down from the dome bathed him in a glow. From there he summoned forth Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace.

"With the loss of Ser Arthur Dayne and Princess Myrcella one day calling Dorne home, I feel the need to name a Dornishman to the ranks of the Kingsguard. Ser Daemon, the Martells speak highly in your favor, do their words match your valor?"

"They do." Daemon declared. "I've no name to leave a wife or child. Let my legacy be carried in the White Book of the Kingsguard."

"So shall it be."

Before the young knight could be sworn into the Kingsguard, Aegon made another change to its ranks, raising Ser Oswell up as its new Lord-Commander. Bran was overcome with joy and pride in his mentor who shook his head and grumbled at the king's words. More betrothals were announced but Bran took less interest in that than watching Ser Daemon kneel and accept the white cloak of the Kingsguard. As the young knight knelt to have the king affix it around his shoulders, Bronze Jon whispered how that would be them one day.

Of course it will, he thought, just like Jon will marry Sansa after Robb saves her.

Then I'll live in the capital with Jon and Sansa both beside King Aegon, Ser Oswell, Daenerys, and Elara. All my friends.

Yet when the day's announcements came to an end and all began to filter out of the room, Elara made no move to come to him. Instead she joined Aegon and Rhaenys as they departed out of the back end of the throne room. Ser Oswell was with them so he tried to catch up but Uncle Benjen stopped him.

"If Whent wanted you there you'd be there. Likely it's business for the king Bran, not for your ears."

"But Elara's here!" He argued, turning to watch as Robar and Loras barred Summer from reaching the lady's side. "I haven't seen her in months and months! Elara!"

She turned back to him, he saw it, no matter how quickly she looked away he knew Elara saw him. He couldn't understand why she kept walking until she disappeared behind a closed door.

"Best to leave that girl be Bran. For today at least." Benjen sighed, pulling Bronze Jon and him away. "We owe it to her, to do whatever we can to make her life easier."

"What? Why?"

"Why do I put up with your questions when I could hang you by your ears?" His uncle pulled at his ear playfully. "Because I'm family and I say so. Now come on, let's get you boys to practice again."

The rest of the day he did as his uncle bid, practicing, running errands, writing a letter to mother and Rickon, even one to Lady Whent as well. Benjen made Bran write of how he hoped she was hale and things of the like. He didn't understand that yet he did as he was told, if only to make up for defying his uncle later. When dusk arrived and he was sent on to his chambers, Bran instead began his hunt of the palace, following hot on the heels of Summer.

Uncle Benjen said leave Elara be for the day, he thought, well it's night now... and it's Summer going to find her.

I'm just following Summer.

It didn't surprise him that Elara's chambers were far from the royals or the Martells. Truly it made it easier for Summer and Bran to find her rooms but it bothered him how few guards they'd passed. The last time he'd sought Elara in a castle she was attacked. A part of him wished there were guards outside the door while being thankful that he was free to knock upon it.

When Elara opened the door she was wearing the same gown as before yet her hair had been freed, falling in dark locks all about her face. It couldn't hide her surprised expression though, nor how her eyes were as pretty up close as he remembered. Her lips seemed darker though, which was strange.

"Bran... what are you doing here..."

"I, uh, I just wanted to say hello." He felt awkward under her gaze, blushing some. "Um... hello?"

"Hello Bran." Elara sighed before looking to Summer and smiling some. "And hello to you Summer. You're looking well."

"So are you!" Bran said with a tad too much enthusiasm, for Elara drew back some. It was then that her expression darkened, for she was looking right at his eye patch. Bran tried to hide his hurt at that, he'd hoped she wouldn't stare like the rest.

"Thank you for the visit Bran but it has been a long journey.” She said, not noticing his pain. “I was hoping to rest... nor is it proper for you to come here unannounced."

"Oh." He tried to hide his disappointment. "Well, I'll go then... maybe we can break our fast together? The ser hates to talk in the mornings and it be nice-"

"I'll likely be busy." Elara began to close the door, still staring at his eye. "Good night Bran."

"I'm sorry I couldn't stop them." He choked out.

Elara froze, her eyes widening as Bran clenched his fists and tried to control himself with all the memories coming back. Of Elara being attacked and how Preston had beat him. Of the knife coming closer and closer.

"What did you say?"

"That I'm sorry." He repeated. He felt himself shaking and tried to stop. He was almost a man grown now and done with tears.

"Joffrey and the others, they hurt you, they hurt you and they got away. I was too weak to stop them but I've been training really hard ever since. I could stop them now, I swear I could... when I get hit now I don't give up or cry..."

"Stop." Elara shook her head, opening the door and taking hold of his chin, running her thumb gently over his cut lip like Oswell had. "Why is the world so hard to the good ones? My uncle. My mother. You... how can you apologize to me Bran? It's you I owe... it'd be better for you to stay away from me. Bastards are ill-omened... untrustworthy."

"You're a Dayne though." He felt silly pointing that out. "The king said so. You don't have to make up reasons Elara, I know my eye is ugly. People say it bothers them all the time so I can stay away if it scares you."

"Gods, get in here right now." Elara took hold of his wrist and dragged him into her chambers, Summer barely getting his tail through before she slammed the door behind her.

Bran was taken aback to find the room dark save for some of candles encircling a black carpet. Upon it were a flask, a book, a few small bottles of red liquid, and what looked to be a bloody cloth. A caw from the shadows made him jump, for there sat Winter, the flames of the candles reflecting in her black eyes.

"Bran look at me." Elara knelt in front of him, her fingers moving up to his eye patch. When he realized what she was trying to do he made to pull away but she held him still, making a soothing sound. A moment later the patch was lifted off of his empty eye for her to stare at. Rather than drawing back in disgust Elara blinked back tears, running her fingers gently around the scarred hole.

"You poor boy... to suffer so much for me. You say you're sorry but I'm the one who let you get hurt. I was too weak to protect myself... to help you... to save my uncle..."

"He was a knight. I'm a squire." He spoke softly, surprised at how nice it felt to have someone touch his hurt so tenderly. "It's a mark of chivalry to help ladies. To protect the weak..." 

"I'm not weak anymore Bran." She looked to the objects on the carpet then. "Marwyn showed me the way. How I can grow strong to protect myself. To protect you and Daenerys, even though she doesn't trust me anymore, but she'll see... I see so much now."

Not as much as me, he thought, I'm missing an eye but I have Summer's eyes too.

His body, his strength, I can use it all to take care of you.

"Tell me about Summer." Elara asked him in a strange tone, one of gentle urging. "What happens with Summer at night?"

"Nothing." He said fearfully, for there was no way Elara could know about that. "He used to go hunting in the desert but not since... since..."

"Not just him. The both of you." She ran a hand through his hair. "I dreamed of you Bran. I drank the shade of the evening and I saw you running through the desert, hunting and howling. Wearing the skin of a wolf... changing your skin..."

"No." Bran shook his head but Elara ignored his denials.

"I missed it before, maybe because the magic hadn't returned. Or maybe I'm just stronger now, I can't know for sure but there's no missing it now. Earlier, before I saw you in the throne room, I felt you there Bran. I felt your power. Please don't think I'm mad like Dany does-"

"I felt you too." He admitted, not able to lie to her. "I felt you... and sometimes I dream I run with Summer... sometimes I can be Summer... please don't tell anyone..."

"Never." She smiled and kissed his forehead, sending a warm tingle through him. "This is our secret Bran. Marwyn said he can sense power in me and I can feel it in you. We can be strong together and no one will ever hurt us again... I can show you what I've learned..."

With that she turned his face towards Winter, her touch trembling for a moment against his skin as Elara lifted his arm up. At the same moment the white raven flew over to land upon his arm, spreading its wings wide and staring at him with eyes that seemed familiar then.

"I don't have to tap and whistle anymore Bran... and your nights running with Summer all alone are done with..."

“Elara?” Bran gasped.

"We're together now, you and I, bound by blood and magic..."

"And I'm going to teach you how to fly."

 

DAENERYS

 

“Don’t be scared Tommen. I’m right here.”

Dany’s words only served to sooth the little boy’s quaking the smallest bit. Her nephew’s eyes were filled with fear, a paler shade of green than the dragon who climbed about the young boy’s body.

Rhaegal moved from the small of his back, around his middle and up towards his shoulder, lazily waving his tail about the whole time. Tommen, however, stood stiff and still, hands gripping his pants in fear as the dragon used its claws to go higher.

“He’s going to bite me.” Tommen whimpered. “He’s going to burn me.”

“No he’s not.” Myrcella spoke up from Dany’s side, the princess shaking her golden locks and eyeing her brother with concern. “Rhaegal’s named after father. Would father ever hurt you?”

“Father’s dead.” Tommen shut his eyes tight as Rhaegal’s head rose up beside his. “Joffy said father was a dragon but he wasn’t really… father was kind and gentle… dragons have claws and breathe fire. They melted Harrenhal. They eat people. Make it go away.”

“He likes you Tommen.” She walked over to touch his shoulder. “Remember that. He never would have flown to you, or to Myrcella if he didn’t. Rhaegal didn’t hurt your sister and you did ask for a turn.”

“Be my brave little brother.” Myrcella added. “A dragon rider in the making.”

Tommen merely whined then, for Rhaegal now perched on his shoulder, looking about the children’s’ chambers with child-like curiosity. Truly these were Myrcella’s rooms but ever since Tommen heard of the Usurper’s coming he had been crawling into his sister’s bed each night. Myrcella did not complain, something Dany could not envision Cersei foregoing if Tommen sought her rooms. The woman was unlikely to be a comfort in such times.

Her army had arrived to find the city in the grips of panic.

Jon Connington’s petitions for nearby lords to reinforce the capital or unite for a counter offensive garnered little response. Sadly, most of those lords were already under attack or too fearful to abandon their own lands. Worse still, rather than loyal defenders flocking to the city, King’s Landing was flooded with thousands of innocents fleeing the war. The streets now packed with those who had endured the worst of the Usurper’s march, spreading fear through the city-dwellers like a sickness. While some spoke hopefully of a white prince coming to save them most demanded more food and shelter, sometimes violently.

The City Watch was hard pressed to keep order until the royal fleet arrived, delivering the army Dany had promised. With the addition of the Velaryons, Celtigars and the rest of Rhaegar’s men she doubled the size of capital’s garrison in but a day. In doing so she’d also upset the balance of power in the city, becoming a third piece in a power struggle at the Red Keep.

After Aegon and Rhaenys left for the Stormlands Cersei expanded her influence throughout the City Watch and recruited more men to her with the promise of gold. Only Lord Connington and his army held her check but following the losses at the Red Storm the Hand’s power had waned. He could only just match the Queen’s strength  in the castle and along the walls. Dany grasped how divided the city’s defenders were when she attending first war council, for the Queen and Hand could not even share a table amicably. Cersei and her supporters sat to one end, the Hand and his men the other, a series of empty chairs between, save for Varys and Grand Maester Gormon.

When Dany made to sit in that middle ground it had drawn protests from both ends.

While Cersei and Lord Connington welcomed her reinforcements they remained wroth that Dany refused to turn over Rhaegar’s men to their control.

“This is an army we’re speaking of not some frilly gown.” The Hand had declared when Dany made it clear she would contribute to the meeting. He’d aged noticeably in recent months, with more grey in his red hair and beard than ever. 

“Daenerys, with all due respect, leave the defense of this city to the ones Rhaegar entrusted with its care. I’ve fought more battles than you’ve seen years on this earth-”

“Losing every one that mattered.” Cersei had snapped from the Lannister end of the table. “Your bungling at the Red Storm cost me my husband. You failed Rhaegar twice over! Let’s not forget had you killed Robert Baratheon at Stoney Sept all those years ago none of this would be happening. If any should rule here it is I, the queen that gave Rhaegar three golden children. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms-”

“You were Rhaegar’s queen.” Richard Lonmouth corrected before turning to Lord Jon. “And you were Rhaegar’s Hand. I was Rhaegar’s friend and my friend is dead. We have a new king now and until Aegon himself tells us different, the men Rhaegar led into battle will serve the princess he bid us to.”

“You’re serious?” Lord Jon growled at the knight. “Rhaegar handed you control of Dragonstone and you let a child boss you about. You were reckless as a squire Lonmouth, ”

“On that I agree.” Cersei made to launch into a tirade of her own before Tyrion rose to stand on his chair with a grave look.

“I think we can all agree our late king has made some poor choices.” Tyrion made a point to look between Cersei and Jon Connington at that. “Clearly putting his faith in princess Daenerys was not one of them. Not only did she come with an army but dragons to boot! They’re a tad small mind you, not that I’m one to judge. Big enough to keep the city folk from rioting and our soldiers from deserting.”

“That’s not the point-”

“It is.” Dany defied Cersei. “I came to help hold the city, not take control of it. Let us defend it together, certainly there’s more than enough to do for all to share in these burdens. We must unite around the dragon banner.”

“As a council should.” Richard added. “As King Aegon would want. Let the queen’s men could hold some gates, the City Watch others.”

“The King’s Gate needs to be reinforced. If your men could guard it and the battlements between…” Connington was won over by talk of strategy, while Cersei huffed in derision and reached to refill her goblet again. 

Only for Tyrion to drag the pitcher away from his sister.

“I’ll guard the wine from Cersei. A dangerous task indeed, for I am small while her thirst is great…”

Cersei hadn't taken the jest well, smacking the pitcher into her brother so that it spilled across his face and chest.

Wine was part of the reason that Dany worried after Myrcella and Tommen, for she couldn't count a day since he return that Cersei did not over imbibe. The woman was not taking Rhaegar's death well, spending her days drinking or sending threatening letters to the lords of the realm. Her edicts went ignored, much as Cersei ignored her father's continued demands that she abandon the capital.

Dany might have respected that, if Cersei did not insist that Myrcella and Tommen remain as well. Myrcella tried to put on a brave face for all, a flimsy attempt to hide her fears.

A mask I can see through all too well, she thought, it's one I wear often enough myself.

Baraxes and Arturion rattled their cages from the other side of the room, the two dragons clearly jealous of the attention their brother was getting from the Targaryens. Unfortunately that caused Tommen to jump and Rhaegal to hiss in his ear.

"No! No!" Tommen whimpered. "Aunt Dany please!"

"It's alright Tommen." She soothed him. "I'll take him away. You're safe."

"Can I hold Rhaegal again? I'm not scared." Myrcella asked eagerly and Dany nodded, bidding the princess to hold out her arm towards Rhaegal. Cautiously the green dragon crossed from one golden child to the other, sending the girl into a fit of giggles as he wrapped himself around Myrcella's shoulders.

Tommen wrapped himself around Dany's waist and she allowed it without a word of admonishment. Grown men feared the dragons, there was little shame in a boy feeling the same. Myrcella was a different sort though, far more curious than scared of the dragons, she began to spin about the room, acting like Rhaegal was but a shawl around her shoulders. Tommen's mood changed suddenly, for his whimpering ceased as he set to giggling at his sister's dancing.

"Look at me." Myrcella spoke proudly, holding her arms as if she was being led in a dance. "I'm you Daenerys. The Mother of Dragons! A true knight dancing with me and my most beautiful child!"

Arturion hissed jealously sending Dany into a fit of laughter with Tommen.

"Why can't you be yourself? The lovely Princess Myrcella?" She asked. "I think many a comely knight would like to dance with you."

"Only if it's Bran!" Tommen whispered all too loudly. "She only ever pretends to dance with Bran, that her kiss makes his eye come back."

"Tommen! Don't say that!" Myrcella came to such an abrupt stop that Rhaegal struggled to stay in his place, clamping his claws down until the girl grimaced and cried in pain.

"Rhaegal no!" Dany rushed forward, causing Rhaegal to beat his wings and begin hovering over the two women. Myrcella was biting her lip to see spots of blood though some tiny tears in her gown.

This was when Cersei barged into the room setting all the dragons to screeching. Brienne and a few other men followed after, but if any had tried to bar the Queen's entry they'd failed. Cersei gazed at Rhaegal flying about the ceiling with a fearful expression before she took note of Myrcella's hurts and her face twisted in rage.

"What have you done to my children?" Cersei rushed to grab Myrcella and Tommen, pulling them away from Rhaegal and Dany both. "Are you as mad as that brother of yours?"

"It was an accident..." Myrcella tried to explain while Dany grabbed up some raw meat from a covered pot and threw it into Rhaegal's cage, luring him inside. Once the cage was shut on the dragon she turned to face the lion.

"Get my children to the maester at once." Cersei shoved Myrcella and Tommen back to her guards. They were taken away trying to explain things but Cersei was not interested in their words.

"This is why I wanted those beasts locked in the Dragon Pit." The queen pointed to the open balcony and the city beyond. "Where beast tamers could train them and prepare them to be around their true masters!"

"Marwyn says dragons choose their riders." Dany replied. "And I will not have them whipped. Nor will I let the dragons be taken from me, not when I have no guarantee they'll be returned. They are my children."

"Do not speak to me of being a mother. You are no more than a nursemaid. Those eggs were Rhaegar's. Born from his pyre, out of the strength of his love for me... for us. Those dragons rightfully belong to my children."

"You mean Rhaegar's children." She spoke coolly. "As I said, dragons choose their riders and even if they didn't, each of those eggs was already spoken for. Rhaegar gifted them to Aegon, Rhaenys, and Jon-"

"And not one of them are here! The silver coward and his spoiled viper slithered down to hide in Dorne! The bastard turned to brigandry just like I always said he would!"

"Be quiet! Jon and Aegon are doing all they can! More than getting drunk and complaining at least!"

"You dare?" Cersei moved so close to her face that she could smell the wine on the woman's breath. Brienne took a step forward but Dany shook her head, rising to the challenge on her own.

She prepared to let Cersei have it when a sound drifted in through the open windows. A sound very different than the usual sounds of the castle or the surrounding city. Both women turned to look through the billowing curtains at the bright blue sky, for the blowing of trumpets reached so high to find them here in this tower. This wasn't just one or two trumpets along the castle walls, these were scores of them sounding off from across the city. A signal the council had agreed upon.

"He's here." Tyrion's voice announced his presence in the doorway, with his sellsword Bronn at his back. "Robert Baratheon. It appears our wait is over, for the enemy has come knocking on our door. Or gates to be more precise."

"Then what are you doing just standing there?" Cersei demanded and Tyrion bent at his wait and curved an arm up at Dany.

"My princess, if you insist on this lunacy I beg the right to add to the spectacle."

"Thank you Tyrion, if there was ever a time to show unity..." She glared at Cersei. "It is surely now. Strength as well."

"Dragons too." The lord added and Bronn made a pleased sound. "No, real dragons my costly friend. The kind that inspire fearful men."

"Still sounds like gold dragons to me." Bronn shrugged, Brienne clearly disgusted by the exchange yet Dany meant what she said. It was time for all their differences to fall away. There was a city to defend, a murderer that Dany needed to stand against and she could not do so alone.

Thus, amidst the flurry of activity within the Red Keep, Dany joined with Tyrion Lannister to lead a party to the city walls. Ser Richard and Brienne both opposed this but neither could deny King's Landing was in the grips of terror. Dany would give the people something other than fear to focus on. Her carriage was an open one, where all could see both Dany and the caged dragons around her. A hundred men formed their escort, Tyrion and Bronn riding to one side of her carriage, Brienne and Richard to the other.

As they made to depart Lord Connington's bellows could be heard as he set to directing knights and men to their posts.

"They're encircling the city!" The lord shouted. "Siege engines sighted at King's Gate and God's Gate! I want the streets clear so riders can reach me-"

The Hand paused when he caught sight of her party, his face growing red as he set to glowering at her.

"I beg you child for one last time, remain within the keep." The Hand asked pointing to the safety of the inner castle. "I cannot face Rhaegar in the next life if I lose you too."

"Then we shall not lose." Dany called back. "We cannot! Not with good men like you my lord! Not with dragons!"

"Baby dragons!" Marwyn piped up, coming out of nowhere on a mule, shaking his staff in the air as he joined her party. "You now hold the title as my worst student! Made all the worse by you sending my best one away!"

"Please Marwyn, if you are to join us be helpful rather than hectoring."

I sent Elara away for her own good, she thought, I couldn't let your lessons darken the light I love so much inside her.

She missed Elara deeply, especially while they were passing beneath the gates and beginning their descent down Shadowback Lane and Aegon's High Hill. Dany often made this journey with Elara and Roslin during their tours of the city or their visits to the Great Sept. Those had been trips filled with girlish laughter and conversations free of the worries that plagued her now. She could barely remember what the friends spoke of then, for the shouts and cries rising out of the city drowned every noise and thought.

Except for Tyrion's voice.

"I have to ask, what did the Lady Dayne do?" The small lord asked, raising an eyebrow at her. "You two were quite inseparable and from what I hear, she did not wish to be sent to Dorne. It leads me to believe that the lady displeased you in some way."

"If Aegon is to send us relief, ships will help him do so." She spoke evenly. "The royal fleet had enough vessels to hold the harbor and retrieve at least some reinforcements from Sunspear. I saw no reason to risk Elara's life here... and Dorne is her home, she'll be safe there."

"Dorne and safe, two words I rarely associate together." Tyrion's tone darkened some and Dany, eager to stay distract herself from the growing clamor ahead, pressed him on it.

"Do you hold a grudge against them? The Martells? For treating you as they did?"

"Grudges are like open wounds, they can fester and kill you just as surely as a viper." Tyrion tapped the side of his head. "Now keeping a tally of what I'm owed and owe myself, that's a different thing all together. A Lannister always pays his debts."

Bronn chuckled in an unpleasant way and Dany had an inkling of why he did so. The whole fiasco in Dorne had brought Tyrion and his sellsword together in the first place. Most of it was spoken in whispers but what was widely known was that a few years back, during a tourney at Ashford, Quentyn Martell had been nearly murdered by an assassin.

The Martells had left in a rage but it was all a feint, for Prince Oberyn fell upon the party that they held responsible for the attack, namely Tyrion's. The dwarf lord was dragged back to Dorne, spending days in a cage over a snake pit before his trial commenced. A number of whores found by Oberyn claimed the Lannister lordling had bragged to them of setting the assassin after Quentyn.

Tyrion would have likely died there, and the Lannisters and Martells gone to war, if Prince Doran had not interceded. As the stories went, the prince had found many flaws with the case made against Tyrion. Then something changed after Doran threatened to put the whores to the question. Something that led to Tyrion being freed and returning to King's Landing with a sellsword at his side.

"Did you owe Petyr Baelish a debt?" She asked as Baraxes took to flapping in his cage. "For what happened in Dorne?"

Tyrion turned his mismatched eyes to her and grinned in an innocent manner. His smile was frightening in a way.

"My dear princess, what debts could I ever owe a brothel owner like Littlefinger? As I understand it, the man fled the city. He crossed the wrong people most likely. Flea Bottom is home to some unsavory characters."

Bronn laughed again, checking to see if any of his knives stuck in their sheaths.

"Not as unsavory as what's cooking in some of their pot shops."

"Did Lord Arryn cross the wrong people?" Daenerys ignored the sellsword to focus on Tyrion, for this was an accusation against him and his family. "The Hand held him hostage but it was your sister who accused Lord Arryn of betraying Rhaegar to the Usurper. His illness was as sudden as it was suspicious and it cost us the might of the Vale. If Aegon learns that the Lannisters had any hand in his death, heads will roll."

"I accept blame for Jon Arryn's death." Tyrion shocked her by admitting. Brienne and Richard jerked about in their saddles, bidding the small man to lift his hands in the air. "Oh I did not kill him, I only failed to keep him alive. You see, unlike my sister, I knew the Jon Arryn well enough to be assured that he was no traitor. The Hand and Cersei were costing us the power of the Vale by keeping the Arryns here. So I decided to act in the best interests of Rhaegar's children. My kin."

Tyrion's shoulders slumped as they continued on by the manses and towards the more tightly packed rows of buildings ahead. People were boarding up windows and darting through the streets screaming.

"We couldn't trust the sea route to the Vale, so I arranged a river galley to carry the Arryns up the Blackwater and into the Riverlands. Lord Arryn saw Riverrun as a good place to rally his bannermen, even if Lysa was a bit fretful of how close it brought them to my father's domain. Even angrier when her husband said he intended to leave their son to ward with Edmure Tully. I let them argue about it but the lord's mind was made up. So was someone else's apparently. We thought we were careful with our plans but Jon Arryn fell ill not a day later..."

"Ha! So your sister was right!" Marwyn chuckled. "You are a traitorous Little Imp! Trying to sneak a hostage out of the city under her and the griffin lord's noses! I take it that means Rhaegar was right too. He always said you'd prove yourself more valuable than all the gold in Casterly Rock."

"I'm one man. A half man really." Tyrion muttered. "And for what's to come, I worry I won't mean much of anything."

"Oh I don't know about that.” Marwyn smiled and spat. “That project you had me put Hauk to might come in handy. If only Rhaegar hadn't destroyed so much of the pyromancer's hard work-"

"The dragons!" A cry came from the crowd, people beginning to point and shout at their party's progress through the street. "It's the Dragon Princess!"

Richard and Brienne set the men to pushing back at the people calling out to her, some cheering, others looking to her as a savior. This worried her, for they were still in the safest parts of the city, near the center where the wealthiest and most powerful hid. Her destination was the Dragon Gate but this route was not the most direct one. It was not about speed anymore, it was about being seen by the most people as possible. They journeyed through the heart of the city before turning suddenly towards the gate, the buildings becoming poorer quality, the people more desperate.

"Where is the king?" Some screamed up at them when once they had cried out Aegon's praises.

"Loose the dragons!" Other begged of her. "Burn them! Save us!"

It became even worse when they passed the great hulking fortress of the Dragon Pit, which rose high and foreboding into the sky. Far below its dome, spreading throughout this part of the city, was an endless sea of tents and shacks. This was where those who fled the war were gathered. Thousands flocked from the tents towards her party. Desperate, terrified people who appeared filthy and half-starved. They were only held at bay by the far greater number of soldiers here, yet still they pressed close enough that Dany could see their faces and share in their terror.

"Prince Jon! He's coming isn't he?" An a young boy begged of her. "The ghosts said we'd be safe here!"

"They burned our farm!" An elderly man cried out. "Where's the king?! Why is he hiding in Dorne?"

"Please show mercy!" A woman with a weeping little girl reached up. "They took my boys! They are good boys! They don't want to fight but they took them!"

"Back!" Gold Cloaks shouted. "Back! Get back!"

As those men pushed at the press of people, clearing the way to the gate and its towers, Dany saw how even the ones armored and carrying weapons looked to her for answers.

I have no answers... I'm no warrior... I'm not the king they want... the power they need...

"It's time." She turned to the dragon's cages where her children hissed and snapped at the tumult around. "Come my children, it is time to be what my brother believed you to be. Our last great hope."

Before they'd left the castle small chains had been bound around each dragon's neck much to Dany's displeasure. When she opened the cages and the dragons burst free, they could go no further than an arm's length about her head. High enough to be seen for a good ways around, for the crowd drew back in shouts of surprise and fear.

The beautiful flying creatures pulled and snapped at their chains. Arturion grew so wroth that he shot a burst of flame into the air above and excitement rippled among smallfolk and defenders alike.

That helped clear the road as they neared the line of defenses thrown up around the Dragon Gate. The Gold Cloaks held this gate and it was these men Lord Connington feared most likely to break or lose heart. Hence why the Lord-Commander of the City Watch led the men here, Ser Jacelyn Bywater meeting their coming and bowing as Ser Richard helped her down from the carriage. Tall and thick of jaw, the knight had lost his right hand in the Greyjoy Rebellion and an iron one sat in replacement, hence why men called him the Ironhand.

"They are magnificent." Ser Jacelyn said when he rose, eyeing the dragons as they landed about the carriage. "I shared the Hand's worries of you coming here but look at my men. I'll take a company of bewildered men over a trembling mass any day."

Dany held back a smile to realize it was true, the hundreds of men milling about or carrying scorpion bolts and boulders up to the battlements had stopped to stare. Many whispering and pointing at the dragons, some even smiling themselves. High above, within the towers and walls, she saw men looking down but doubted they could see much.

Nor can I see anything of our enemy from down here. I did not come all this way merely to be gawked at.

I came to stare down at the Usurper. To show courage. Like a dragon would.

She found that courage by taking hold of Arturion's chain and guiding the black dragon into her arms, for he was too large now to perch on her shoulder.

"Richard, if you would watch over Baraxes and Rhaegal." She began to walk towards the stone steps leading up to the battlements. "Ser Jacelyn, would you see us up to the top of the gate?"

"The top?" Ironhand repeated as he strode ahead of her. "I was not told-"

"This was not what we agreed upon!" Richard called before beginning to curse, for Rhaegal and Baraxes tried to fly after her, pulling their chains taut. "Daenerys get back here!"

"Princess!" Brienne made to grab for her but Arturion hissed a warning. "Daenerys, you were only meant to give the men heart..."

"The men atop these walls need more encouragement than any. If I cannot stand on the defenses of this city for a few moments, how can I ask them to hold against the Usurper himself?"

"Threats, promises, lies." Tyrion said, him and Bronn following behind. "Any one of those would be preferable to you acting a fool."

Marwyn chuckled at that yet did not protest as their number travelled up the steps of the city wall with her. Ser Jacelyn tried to argue that the enemy had already begun readying their siege weaponry and forming battle lines, but that was precisely what she wanted to see. The higher they climbed, the more she saw of the tent blocks she'd passed through on the way here and how vulnerable the thousands of innocents there were. She resolved then to move them to the Dragon Pit, just in case the worst happened.

At the top of the wall she found towers standings to either side of the gate and more not far off, men peeking down through the arrow slits. Along the battlements defenders stood between the crenels, ranks of spearmen and archers backing away at the sight of her. It was more likely because of the dragon but some bowed without having to be reminded by the Ironhand.

She barely noticed all this, for the sight beyond the walls demanded her full attention.

The Usurper’s army numbered in the thousands, a horde spreading out along the gate approaches in tight ranks. Behind them she saw tents being raised and the massive forms of elephants being led forward. The size of the beasts paled in comparison to the siege engines being readied. Men moved like ants around five huge trebuchets, others struggling to push siege towers forward, which stood as high as the city walls.

Her heart began to pound, for as fearsome as this force was she saw that they were not alone. To the distant left she could make out more siege lines being set up beyond the Old Gate, numbering as much if not more than those threatening this position.

Arturion leapt from her arms onto a crenel, spreading his black wings in a challenge that did little to assuage her fears. Compared to the terrible weaponry that the Usurper brought to bear, the dragon was a small, weak thing.

Just like me... like all of us... how we hold against that?

“Warrior give us strength.” Brienne prayed as the distant cranking of trebuchets reached their ears. Her lady was not alone in that, for many of the men standing watch on the walls were mumbling prayers too. For half a moment she thought Tyrion did as well, for his mouth soundlessly while his eyes took in the foe.

“Shit, there’s got to be five thousand…”

“Six and a half.” Marwyn stroked at his chin. “Perhaps four at the Old Gate. More engines than I expected, the industrious buggers.”

“How many men do you have here?” Tyrion looked to the Ironhand whose face was grim.

“Not enough.” The knight spoke honestly. “On parchment a good amount. With this many men we could throw back a force five times our number, again, on parchment. But most of these men have never seen a battle let alone withstood a siege. Nor will our foe merely seek to ram the gates or throw up ladders and climb the walls.”

“Those trebuchets will batter them down first.” Bronn narrowed his gaze. “The rocks will soften you up. After that the sorties and feints will drain your arrows. Either they forge a breech or those siege towers come. All those bloodthirsty bastards coming with them, hungry for a good pillaging.”

A strange whooshing sound caused Dany to jump, for one of the trebuchets had just swung to life. A dark speck now flew high into the air towards them. She trembled to watch its arc, certain it was going to grow and become the size of a small mountain. Until it came crashing down only halfway between the enemy lines and the wall, the stone crushing a shack set up along the road.

In her relief to be proven so wrong, Dany giggled to think of all that might had gone into crushing a shack. That drew her gaze to a large ditch not far beyond the gate, for it was freshly dug and ran a good ways around the walls. This was Tyrion’s ditch, the one he’d set the smallfolk to digging and Marwyn and Hauk to helping him with.

A surprise for the Usurper so get yourself together. You know we’re not defenseless.

That’s why you came here in the first place. To give the men a reason to fight.

“Ser Jacelyn.” She spoke loudly, drawing not only the commander’s attention but that of his men. “Do you know the name of this dragon?”

“I was told it was Arturion your grace.” The Ironhand answered, looking to the dragon with a sort of respect. “Though I’ve heard many say that he might well be the Black Dread reborn.”

“He will be mighty, there is no doubt.” She nodded. “For he is named after the great Ser Arthur Dayne! The Sword of Morning! A knight who fought against overwhelming odds to save his king’s body!”

“And died for it!” A voice called from somewhere on the wall. Ser Jacelyn made to find the speaker but she held him in place.

“Yes, Arthur died! He died a hero! Leading thousands of men back to Dragonstone. Men who now stand with you, holding this city against the foe! I brought these men here not to die, but to be worthy of Ser Arthur’s sacrifice!”

She pointed out to the enemy army, pretending it was the Usurper himself that she now spoke against.

“They killed Arthur Dayne! Barristan the Bold! My brother the king! I say this not to scare you! No! You should be as angry! I know I am! Those were good men! The finest of the realm and they deserve to be avenged!”

“Justice for the king!” Brienne raised a fist, earning curious glances from the others. Dany took heart from her lady’s enthusiasm and pressed on.

“Prince Jon has bled the Usurper for us! King Aegon rallies the Dornish to our side! When he arrives, let him find the enemy thrown back again and again. Let him see the heroes holding these walls that I speak to now! Many did not want me to come here but I have no fear of Robert Baratheon’s dogs when there are such fine men protecting me!”

“Dragons help too!” Tyrion added, sending many men to laughing and calling out cries of support. Many shouted Arturion’s name, who was singularly fixed on the trebuchets as they continued to clank and fling rocks feebly towards the walls. Dany tried to draw even more attention to the dragon then.

“The dragons have returned to us! After all this time! They set a star to burning in the sky with their coming! That’s what the red comet is! A sign of their strength! Does anyone here think the Seven in all their wisdom and glory would bring the dragons back only to let them die here? No!”

“No!” Scores repeated and Daenerys smiled her brightest smile to put a hand on a young beardless green boy's face who blushed at her touch.

“Will you all act my heroes in this? Can I depend on you?”

“Y-yes!” The boy sputtered, Ser Jacelyn raising his iron hand in agreement. “Yes! I will!”

“Yes!” The men cried. “Yes! We’re with you!”

“I’ll be your hero!”

“For the king!”

“For the dragons!”

“For Daenerys!” Brienne shouted loudest, ignoring Marwyn as he suddenly brushed by her to grab at the cheering Ironhand. They were both turning to follow Arturion’s gaze when she met Tyrion’s, who was nodding with respect.

“A fine speech princess. I have hope that we might all get to be heroes now."

"Never been much for heroism." Bronn said, hefting his swordbelt. "Prefer to keep on living myself."

"I'll double your pay if you forget you ever said that." Tyrion flicked a coin in the air which the man caught deftly, chewing on it before smiling.

“Said what m’lord?”

Dany almost laughed at that before the Ironhand pushed aside two of his men and rushed towards her.

“Princess get away from here!” He bellowed, grabbing at her arm and causing Arturion to screech in anger. “Get below now!”

“I’m not done speaking to the men!” She tried to pull away but Marwyn already had Brienne coming to collect her as well.

“Princess we must go! Get the dragon, this place is no longer safe!”

“Spread out!” Jacelyn roared to his men. “Ready for bombardment!”

“The trebuchets are out of range!” Dany said, angry to see fear returning to the men’s faces. Marwyn appeared even angrier as he forced her to yank Arturion’s chain.

“Dammit girl! They’re not out of range! They were testing their range!”

Her mouth was open in confusion when she heard the sounds of the siege engines firing again. Yet when she turned her attention to the noise, things had changed drastically. The rock now flying through the air was far bigger than before, reaching heights that the previous firings hadn’t.

She willed it to hit the ground far from the city. To crush another shack. Maybe an empty inn.

Instead she joined all the others in watching as the rock struck the base of the wall at the gate’s left. The impact was so powerful that it shook the gate itself, Arturion launching himself into the air as stone and rubble tumbled down from wall. As the dust cleared, it looked like a huge beast had torn a chunk from the defences.

“Princess now!” Brienne urged Dany as she battled with the panicked dragon. Arturion’s screeching and attempts to flee were made all the worse as more whooshing sounds heralded the coming bombardment.

“Brace yourselves!” The Ironhand shouted just before the attack landed.

The tower at the other end of the gate was struck next, a blow to its top parapet that tore a section free, sending heaps of stone down on the poor men below. Screams rang out as some were crushed by their own defenses, Dany being led to the staircase as they died. Brienne was sharing the burden of dragging Arturion through the air when another stone struck further down the wall. The impact hit the battlements themselves, breaking through stone and sending men flying through the air, plummeting to their deaths below.

A shadow passed over them next. One far larger than Arturion had any right to cast.

The next missile sailed over the walls, heading deeper into the city beyond. Dany’s clutched at her mouth to hold back a scream when the boulder flew straight into the ramshackle tents of the landless. Nothing stopped the screaming that came as the rock crashed through swathes of tents and shacks.

Her view of the aftermath was clear. A bloody wound of broken wood, torn fabric, and crushed bodies.

The carnage was enough to make her retch. Yet those firing the trebuchets were still not satisfied, for more boulders came.

The walls shaking with every hit. The city barely enduring their crushing blows.

Arturion fought hard to escape the rising dust and screams but there was no escape.

Not for any of them.

 

THE LOST WOLF

 

The hunt was almost at end. Her nose was filled with scents of those she sought.

Of the family she missed so. She was moving swiftly towards the lake in the distance. The ground was covered in a coarse grass that her paws pressed low with each powerful bound of her legs. There was mist moving over the moors and fields around and she was a spirit flying through them.

The rocky lands they'd been prowling in of late had fallen away days ago. The deep woods had come before that, endless days of hunting game among the pines and bedding down in the root-ridden earth. Ever since the man den had been attacked they'd been running from it. Leaving their kin behind.

Searching for the family that could help.

And now she'd found them. Dawn was still breaking to her left yet little light escaped the heavy clouds in the sky. It had snowed the day before last and a gentle rain fell now, weighing her fur down with dampness. Despite the weak light her eyes were strong enough to see the edges of the lake ahead. Along its shores, moving together like a large, dark serpent, was a massive pack of men.

The wind brought their smells to her. Wools and leather, metal and horses, usually things that made her wary. Yet now another scent mingled in with them. Two actually but they both meant the same thing to her.

My brother.

She stopped at the top of a small hill, for she was ever cautious of men now. That didn't stop her from raising her head and howling into the grey skies above. It was a long, drawn out call. One she wanted to be heard. One she needed to be answered.

And answered it was.

The howl that came back filled her with so much joy her tail set to wagging and she yipped happily before howling again.

This time no answer came, at least not a howl. She looked back to the army and saw that many men on horses were now heading towards her. Leading the way was a grey blur she knew too well. Her swift brother.

Right behind him came a strong looking young man who was urging his horse on with shouts and kicks. With the grey fur cloak flapping behind him the wolf and man looked very alike. The rider's rusty hair and beard stood out so that she scorned the faint light of dawn to rush towards him.

Running as fast she could to her brothers. It had been so long. They had been apart for too long.

"Nymeria!" Robb shouted, his voice hoarse with worry and care. "NYMERIA!"

No... no not Nymeria.

Your sister. Call me your sister.

Call me-

"Arya." Someone shook her hard, ripping Arya out of her dream. "Quit yer yippin' and wake up girl."

After blinking a few times Arya's eyes finally focused on the sour-faced wildling standing over top of her. Osha was leaning on her spear, sucking some meat free of a burned fish before tossing the carcass away and licking her fingers. Arya's stomach instantly grumbled at the sight but it wasn't really food she wanted now.

"No, why did you wake me?" She threw off the fur in a huff and glared up at the wildling. "I was there! I found them! They were right there!"

"You mean the beast found them." Osha raised her eyebrow before offering a hand and helping pull Arya to her feet.

As she rose her instincts drove her to scan the mist-covered lands around her, which were empty save for a few ridges and trees here and there. They'd camped beneath a copse of trees along a creek. The ground was hard, filled with rocks and roots, but it was dry and Arya only felt a bit of damp in the wools and furs she was wearing.

None of it as warm as the fur she'd been covered in only moments before. When she'd worn a different skin altogether.

"You saying the wolf found your brother?" Osha brushed off some pines needles from Arya's back and arse, laughing when she smacked her hand away.

"Yes." She nodded quickly, a smile pulling at her lips. "Robb and Grey Wind and their whole army! They're so close!"

"Well they'd have to be, Nymeria only left last night. Any idea whereabouts she found Lord Robb?"

"Near a lake... south I think. Maybe near Torrhen's Square?"

"Then we've been heading the right way." Osha tapped her spearbutt on the ground, a sign her friend was pleased. "Well you best be heading over to eat that fish I caught you. Some of us been getting ready to start the day while you been wasting the morning away skin-changing."

"It's not a waste..."

"Hush and eat child." Osha led her over to the small fire where a fish hung impaled on a makeshift spit. While Arya sat down and inhaled the burnt meal she told Osha all she could of her dream. Not once did Osha act scared by her words, only grunting or smiling at parts when Arya acted out her wolf actions.

It was Osha who told her the bond she had with Nymeria was nothing to be ashamed of. Osha that made her use the dreams to help guide them in their travels.

Osha who had saved her from Winterfell.

"It was your skin changing that saved you girl." Osha had said when Arya tried to lie about why she slept so fretfully. "Nothing to be ashamed of in it. Plenty of your lot beyond the Wall. If you hadn't been in that godswood during that bloody attack we wouldn't be speaking now."

That was true enough. Arya's dreams the night of the attack bid her to dress and go to the godswood. The wolves had known something was wrong. They could smell it in the air. When the library tower caught fire and horns started blowing Lady had taken off running towards the fire while Nymeria stayed with her. She tried to get there too but their chase led them to a man fleeing from the fire and the chaos to come. A filthy man with a sword and horrible smell.

"Eh? Looks like I caught me a Stark." He'd said, sneering at her with yellow teeth. "After that fire and this Brown Ben's gonna owe me big."

Nymeria leapt at him but the man was fast and skilled with his blade. He kept the wolf at bay and even cornered her against a wall before Arya acted. Domeric had been right after all. The man looked at her and only saw a little girl. He hadn't seen Needle hidden behind her back. He hadn't expected her to defend her friend and home. Even when he saw Needle sticking in his chest the man did not seem to believe what she'd done.

Not that Arya could. When Osha found them she was shaking and staring down at the dead man's body.

"Thought I saw you come in here." Osha had hissed, bending down to grab the man's boots and rummaging through his effects. "Come now girl, we have to go."

"Go?" Arya's confusion had only worsened to realize she could hear sounds of screaming and fighting outside the godswood.

"Aye, was helping with the fire before them bastards showed up. Lord Stark spared me so I'm going to spare you from this lot."

"We should fight!"

"We must run!" Osha had snatched Needle from her and threw Arya over her shoulder. Nymeria growled of course but the sounds of battle growing closer kept the wolf from attacking. Instead Nymeria followed as Osha led them away to the North Gate. There they found dead guardsmen and strange men, for the invaders had tried to rush and seize this gate too. Only one invader struggling to regain his horse still lived and Osha dropped Arya like a sack of potatoes to finish him.

Arya didn't want to leave. She wanted to stay and fight. To help Sansa and Roslin and everyone else. Instead she struggled to catch her breath after Osha dropped her, helpless when the wildling toss her over the saddle of the invader's horse and escaping out a postern gate with Nymeria hot on their heels.

She bit and fought but Osha wouldn't stop, not until they'd reached the Wolfswood and gone so deep within it that the stars were blocked out by its branches overhead. For days after Arya dreamt of strange men following them through the woods, of Sansa and Lady crying and Winterfell smelling of death and fear. With Osha's skills they hid their trail and the pursuers were left behind. With Nymeria's dreaming Arya realized Winterfell was lost to them, that her home had been stolen from her.

"Horrible thing to lose." Osha admitted one day as she outfitted Arya with pelts from game Nymeria and she had taken down. "Lost my home to the White Walkers, no hope for it now. Take heart little wolf, them men who attacked Winterfell don't know the trouble they kicked up."

"What do you mean?" She asked, liking how the pelts felt.

"Well your brother's no one to mess with, even with that leg o' his." Osha had smiled a yellow smile at her. "We're going to find Lord Robb so he can keep you safe. Then he's going to kill that lot in Winterfell and leave them for the crows, just like he did Stiv and the others."

As the days in the Wolfswood dragged on she began to like the woman, even admiring her. They'd made good time until a black bear had attacked and killed their horse one night. Together Nymeria and Osha brought down the bear, the women killing with a spear thrust to its heart. Losing the horse had slowed them but they ate bear for days after and Arya learned how to make a bear fur cloak.

That wasn't all she learned. Osha sharpened a stick for her and taught her how to hunt without hounds. The wildling showed her how to follow tracks in the earth and brush and how to tell which direction they were heading in just from looking at the moss of a tree. As scared and worried as she was for Sansa, Arya felt alive in the endless wood. Every day was a struggle to keep heading west and a battle to find food. They came to depend on Nymeria more and more until Arya began feeling what the wolf felt not only at night, but during the day as well.

"That's a good thing." Osha told her after their third week in the Wolfswood. "We need that beast to keep us safe and guide the way. No shame in becoming a beast to survive child, just don't lose yourself in it. Remember you're a girl with a mother and a father and a home to get back to."

"I won't." She had promised as she hugged Nymeria tight to her. "I'll never forget my family. My home. I'm getting them all back... and I'm going to hurt the people that hurt them. I don't care who it is or how powerful they are, I'm going to show them."

She meant every word of it.

Now more than ever, for all their days of trekking across the North in hopes of finding Robb were coming to an end. Osha figured Torrhen's Square was the best place to find Robb since that was the castle he'd taken back from the ironmen.

He's not far now, after all these weeks I found him, she thought, he'll pick me up and hug me and then we'll be off to Winterfell.

We're coming Sansa, just hold on a little bit longer. I'm coming.

That morning they packed up their meager possessions and set out early, Arya nearly running at the start.

"Eh! Slow up there little wolf." Osha called to her. "No use passing out an hour into the day if we can end it eating a nice roast boar with your brother."

"I'll get you a boar all to yourself if we do!" She smiled back, pulling Needle free from her furs and pressing it against her chest. "I swear it on my blade and as a Stark! A boar for Osha! And your freedom too!"

"My freedom is it?" Osha smiled and patted her back as they made their way along a ridgeline south. "Now why would a Stark set a wildling raider like me free in his lands?"

"You're not a raider, you're my friend." Arya spoke earnestly, willing Osha to believe her. "And why do you call yourself a wildling when you say it's bad to call myself a warg? You're free folk... that's right isn't it?"

"Aye girl, I was once." The weathered woman's eyes grew distant. "From the day my people are born we're taught to fight rather than bend. To stand tall rather than kneel... I was proud o' that once. Before I saw it would mean the end of us."

"How could it mean the end?" Arya wiped the rainwater from her eyes. "You're so strong and-"

"And your father's likely crushing my people as we speak." Osha tightened her grip on the spear and looked at her accusingly. "We're a proud folk and pride kept us alive against the Starks or the crows. Being proud don't mean shit against the Others though. Mance was all big talk but wouldn't hear of talk when it mattered. Good lot of us wanted to talk to the crows, tell them what was coming and get ourselves through the wall. Mance spat on us, he wanted to be a king and wouldn't bend to no one. Well, when I came on Stiv I talked to him and I made it over the Wall. One day I could be the last of the free folk for all I know. Last o' the living ones at least. The White Walkers like people cold and dead."

Arya couldn't find the words to answer all that. She listened intently whenever Osha would speak of skin-changing or spearwives yet when her friend would speak of the Others she didn't want to believe her. If Osha was right it meant father was near them and he had been gone for such a long time it scared her to think about.

He's fine, we'll find Robb and he'll tell me father's already bringing the army back to Winterfell.

Probably with Mance Rayder as a prisoner. I wonder what he looks like...

Osha was quiet after that and Arya felt bad. Sometimes Osha would be teaching her things and her tone would soften and she would laugh like mother would whenever Arya did something well. When that happened Osha would always get sad afterwards and one night she swore Osha had been running her fingers through the tangles of Arya's hair.

Then there was the singing. Whenever Arya had nightmares, of the man she killed in Winterfell or what Sansa was going through there, Osha would sing to her. They were wildling songs and Osha started teaching her the words to some to pass the time.

"Songs are how we remember what's happened before." Osha told her one night. "Songs my mother taught me, one her mother taught her and I was teaching my... well they're all dead now. The songs live on though. We live on in the singing."

When they came to a stream she remembered from Nymeria's dream the pair began to follow its path. It made her so happy she poked at Osha and demanded her favorite song.

"Can we sing it?'" She asked with her hands cupped to her chin. "Please? I'm not sure I have the words right and I want to sing it to Robb. He'd like it... and I never sung well before..."

"You sing fine." Osha shook her head. "Not all singing's about being pretty sounding like that sister o' yours. It's about getting the feeling right. When you sing, there's a strength there. Sadness too, which is good."

"So you'll help me practice?"

"Well there's not much else to do." Osha chuckled. "I'll start, you come in when you feel ready to howl little wolf."

With that, as they made their way over boulder-ridden hill and dale, Osha began to sing the song which spoke to Arya in a strange way.

'Ooooooh, I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth.

The last of the great mountain giants, who ruled all the world at my birth.'

Her voice, usually harsh with little charm, sounded throaty and full with emotion as the woman sang. Osha winked to Arya, spurring her to join in for the verse she knew best.

'In stone halls they burn their great fires, in stone halls they forge their sharp spears. 

Whilst I walk alone in the mountains, with no true companion but tears.'

Arya was thankful to have a companion like Osha with her, else she'd be just like the last giant. Many times she felt like weeping to think on how long it had been since her family had been together. It was nearing a year since King Rhaegar had come to Winterfell, nearly a year since everything had been normal. She could not bring herself to hate the king's visit since it meant she met Jaime Lannister, the knight who finally made her believe in the heroes Sansa spoke about.

I bet he's already killed the Usurper, she thought, Jon and Jaime, together fighting their way back here to help us.

If I find him at Winterfell I'll kiss his hand this time. His golden hand, just so he knows there's nothing wrong with it.

Osha nudged her for she'd messed up a line there, so she made to concentrate. They spent much the morning singing in that way, inching their way south with each step.

Until Arya sensed their coming.

"Nymeria." She stopped in her tracks, grabbing hold of Osha and bringing her to a stop as well. "Nymeria is close. She's not alone."

"Someone chasing her?" Osha lifted her spear and swore, for they were in an exposed valley with nothing to hide behind.

"Not chasing... there's someone with her. Running with her."

Arya pointed then to a ridge ahead of them. At its crest Nymeria soon appeared, a second grey direwolf joining her there. Together Grey Wind and Nymeria made an imposing sight, one that only grew more impressive when a number of mounted men rode up around them. Osha drew back, trying to pull Arya with her but she fought the woman's efforts. Her bond with Nymeria told her this was not something she had to fear.

The wolves and riders were on them in a flash and, as they drew closer, Grey Wind knocking her down to lick at her face in a frenzy. She laughed and fought against the loving treatment yet hugged the wolf tightly all the same. When the riders formed up around them Arya recognized their leader in an instant. He was a young man who visited Winterfell often, one that mocked her tangled hair once too often.

"Arya Stark!" Cley Cerwyn proclaimed, reining his horse up before her while gaping in shock. "By the gods Robb was right! You're alive!"

The Cerwyn heir narrowed his gaze at her filthy appearance and furs soon after and scratched his head.

"You're a bloody mess... but alive! That's what matters! You've no idea how happy Robb is going to be!"

"Where is Robb? Hey!" She asked, climbing to her feet and rushing at one of the riders who dared to lower a spear at Osha. "You leave her alone! She saved me you shit!"

"Yep, under all that filth that's Arya Stark for sure." Cley laughed. "Robb's leading our army against the last of the reavers. One last fight before Winterfell my lady! I was angry he sent me searching these lands for a dead girl but that's forgiven now, let's get you to him!"

Arya could not find a good reason to argue against that. It bothered her Cley refused to let Osha and Arya ride together, insisting she share a horse with him. Worse still, he made her sit behind him, like she was some silly girl who didn't know how to ride.

I can ride rings around Cley Cerywn, she thought, I could get us to Robb in the blink of an eye.

As Cley and the rest of his men drove on south, with the direwolves running beside and Osha gripping the waist of a man as well, she questioned him on all that was happening.

"I thought Robb defeated all the reavers near Torrhen's Square. That's why we were heading there, it was safe."

"Oh... well that was a good idea. It was safe, Rodrik and I helped climb the walls there in the first place. After that Robb had the reavers on the run, we even captured Theon Greyjoy!"

"Good!" Arya smiled, for she cursed that name often. "He's the one that started all this right?"

"Yes my lady. Only reason he's not dead is that Robb is a merciful man. You should see what we did to Greyjoy though, it's hilarious. Coward likes to use a bow so we've been marching him about on a mule for days now, all tied up with a bow around him! Let that bloody sister of him get a sight of him like that and she'll leave Torrhen's Square fast enough-"

"His sister?" She asked, feeling Cley tense in her grasp. "I though Torrhen's Square was ours again."

"It was.... we had the reavers on the way to crashing right against its walls and somehow the Tallharts fouled it up! More long ships landed and Asha Greyjoy led hundreds of ironmen to break through the castle gates and taking the bloody thing again."

No, no that's not right, she thought, that's all done with, Robb's supposed to be heading to Winterfell. 

"Don't worry Arya." Cley said as he kicked at his horse. "Torrhen's Square is in such poor shape the ironmen have to meet us in the field. With Robb leading us it'll be the death of them. We've already got the numbers on the Greyjoys but your brother's too smart to depend on that. The reavers know Robb's army is coming from the west but have no idea the Dustins are coming from the east!"

"Great!" She smiled to hear, though wished Cley would hurry on. "When's the battle supposed to happen?"

"I hope not for a bit yet." Cley sounded put out. "We were supposed to meet them today but I got sent out looking for you. Rodrik Forrester and Robb are going to steal all the glory... well at least Roger Ryswell got sent along to meet the Dustins. He was angry as anything to leave Robb's side but his sister's rider demanded he lead the Dustin men in this..."

"Wait!" She shouted loudly into the lordling's ear. "Are you saying Robb could be in a battle right now?"

"I hope not, but it's possible-"

"Then ride faster!" Arya yelled so that Cley either jerked away from her voice or the spittle that flew with it.

She followed it up by kicking into the horse as well and punching Cley in the ribs when he protested. Soon they were positively flying south. Cley tried to make idle chatter but all Arya cared about was reaching Robb. Grey Wind shared her determination, for the wolf began nipping at the legs of the tiring horses to keep them going. Osha kept stealing worrying glances her way but Arya waved them off, worries couldn't stop her now.

Not after coming so far.

It was afternoon when they spotted the lake over the ridges and moors ahead of them. The castle appeared next, a dark backdrop against the water that Arya cared little about. For far closer, two armies were readying for battle. Cley said Robb had chosen this battlefield to draw the ironmen away from the water. The lands to the east were sheltered by woods and steep hills, to hide the approach of the Dustins. Arya could care less about that, for the in the valley below them Robb's army was marching against their enemy.

Arya missed Maester Luwin as she began to put house names to the banners she saw. The enemy side carried far fewer but among them she spotted the golden kraken of the Greyjoys, the scythe of Harlaws and the warhorn of the Goodbrothers. Among the northern army she saw the mailed fist of the Glovers and the Forrester ironwood on the right, the Cerwyn battle-axe and bull moose of the Hornwoods at the center and the stallions of the Ryswells far behind with the reserve.

What drew Arya's eye was the Stark direwolf on the left, the part of the army closest to her. Somewhere, among the charging men and horse, was Robb. Horns blew on both sides and men roared battle cries as the two armies came together. She cried out with joy as the north's heavy horse crashed through the reavers' shield wall on the left. The lines of northmen and reavers became confused after that.

There was no confusion on Nymeria and Grey Wind's part, the two wolves snarling to take off running again, rushing straight at the fighting, leaving her far behind.

"Cley, it's started! Robb needs us!" She urged Cley, who pulled his sword and gritted his teeth.

"We're not moving." He growled. "Robb told me to keep you safe. I'm supposed to be with him but I'm here, playing nursemaid- ow!"

"Arya!" Osha called out after seeing her hit Cley's ribs. "Go for the ears! He might need them ribs to fight!"

"What? Ow- gods stop it!" Cley jerked his head away from Arya's snatching hands, spinning around to face her. "I'm not taking you into a battle! Just watch the thing and be grateful for the good view!"

She felt no gratitude whatsoever. The battle was raging on below, she could see how the Starks were pressing the enemy hard on the left. Their horse rode down many of the ironmen, which filled Arya with pride but worry as well. For her brother was down there and she needed him.

"Take me to Robb!" She pulled out Needle and Cley drew back. "You can fight for him and I'll watch your back!"

"Do not poke me with that thing!" He made to yell at her more when one of their men gave a cry.

"On the ridge! The reinforcements!"

Both Arya and Cley turned to look to the east, where a force of men were appearing out of the woods. The men around them shouted in celebration, for hundreds of well armed men and riders were appearing all along the ridge. Arya didn't cry out in joy though, for something bothered her about these men.

They didn't look like northmen. In truth, their mismatched tunics and lack of banners meant little to her. It was another's memory that drove her to feel fearful all of a sudden. A memory born of one of her strange dreams, from the night Winterfell had been taken and of the many days since. The dreams where she saw through Lady's eyes.

That was when she spotted him. A familiar face among the new arrivals, one who sat upon a horse and was clearly no northman. His brown skin attested to it, that and Arya's memory of him.

"Ossifer." She hissed the name of the silk trader, gripping Needle all the tighter as she pointed up at the ridge. "Traitors! Those aren't the Dustins! Those are traitors!"

"Fuck me! She's right!" Cley shouted, jerking his horse about. "Who are they? What the hell is going on?

"Ambush!" One of his men roared as the newcomers on the ridge began to charge down the hill. Hundreds streamed down to join the ironmen's ranks while those on horses arced around, heading straight around to flank the left.

To attack Robb's men.

"Robb!" She beat on Cley's back, demanding the Cerwyn heir ride to Robb's rescue but he merely watched the ambush unfold with a stunned expression.

The newcomers infantry pushed through the enemy's faltering right side to throw back the northern advance while their riders hit Robb's flank hard, cutting down northmen left and right. One of her guardians gave a shout to show more riding by the main fight to hit the baggage train far to the rear. All she could see were her brother's men fighting and falling but she tasted blood and felt the fury of being in the battle itself.

A fight she needed to join.

"We have to help them!" She shouted over the sounds of horns blowing. "Cley please, he's my brother!"

"I can't!" Cley snapped back. "Robb's signaling the reserve now! The Ryswells will turn this all around and- ah!"

Arya wasn't listening to excuses anymore. So, with Needle's flat end and a silent apology, she smacked the blade fiercely across the horse's rear. The poor thing screamed in pain and kicked forward, nearly tossing Cley from his saddle. She did it again, kicking her feet into the horse's ribs and urging it on, sending both of them straight on to the battle.

She had been forced to do nothing while she lost Winterfell and Sansa, she wasn't going to sit by and lose Robb too.

"Fucking stop!" Cley tried to take control of the horse only to scream himself as she took a hold of his ear and twisted it violently.

"Ride to Robb! Ride to him or I'll tear it off!" Arya threatened as she beat at the horse and pulled at Cley's ear. The others were following of course, Osha screaming her head off for all she was worth.

Cley struggles stopped then, for he was now staring up at the northern reserve with wide eyes. Instead of joining the battle the Ryswell men were leaving the field, abandoning the rest of the army that fought on below.

An army becoming encircled by axe-wielding foes and armored cavalry, forming a ring of death around Robb's host. The edge of that ring drew closer with every moment, which caused Cley to curse for several foes broke free of those ranks and charged towards their group. Arya released his ear then for there was no point in hurting him if they got killed in the process.

"Form a wedge around me!" He shouted back to the others, lifting his sword high. "We're in this now! Find Robb! Get Arya to him and get them out of here!"

Her heart pounded in her chest as the first rider came on, an ironman who rode his horse poorly. He held a bloody axe in his powerful arm and roared an obscene threat at them. More followed behind but Arya focused on this man, gripping Needle tightly. Cley held his sword out in attack, causing the axe man to cut at it and save himself from being skewered. As he did that his arm was raised and everything slowed in that moment. She saw the spot Domeric told her to aim for. She saw herself stabbing out with Needle. She watched as the blade sunk into the man's armpit and how she jerked it free just as deftly.

The whole thing was a daze to her so she wasn't sure it was real until she saw the ironman fall from his horse.

She wanted Cley to see but he was busy himself. He cut down a man raising a spear up at them before lashing out another and nearly cleaving his head off. They rode hard, right through the edges of battle and into the thick of it. Northmen clashed with reavers and strange looking foes all around her. She saw Gregor Forrester kill two men with one cut of his sword before being brought down by a throwing axe in his back. He was avenged by Robin Flint, who drove his spearpoint through the thrower's neck from atop his horse. It was towards him that Cley rode hard towards, for Robin was just one of many riders fighting to break out of the encirclement. Grey Wind and Nymeria were part of that effort, tearing to shreds any who dared strike at the rider behind them.

There were still plenty for Robb to fight though. Her brother was battling fiercely and, spattered with blood as he was, he looked every bit a warrior then.

"To me!" Robb shouted as he wheeled about, cutting down foes around him. "Reform on the ridge! With me to the ridge!"

"Robb!" She screamed, slashing at a spearman who tried to take their horse in the rear. "Robb I'm coming!"

"We're coming!" Cley shouted as well, laughing as he led their horse into trampling a man barring their path. "He's going to kill me for this but if we pull it off it'll be song for sure."

Arya didn't care about songs. What mattered was Robb's face when he saw her. In the midst of all the fighting, of the blood and screams, her big brother saw her. She watched him mouth her name through all the tumult. His face was filthy and blood spattered but the smile he gave her was the sweetest thing she'd ever seen. Cley must have felt the same for he jerked some in their saddle, lowering his sword down as well.

Then Robb's face changed. It went from a look of relief to absolute terror.

That confused her until Cley dropped his sword and leaned back into her. Bile rose up in Arya's throat to see the fletching of an arrow was sticking out of Cley's eye. She tried to take hold of him but the horse screamed and bucked then, an arrow now buried deep in its neck. Trying to keep Cley from falling was hopeless, for when the horse pitched sideways all came crashing down. She jumped at the last second, sparing her legs from being crushed by the horse but hit the ground hard anyways. Then a great weight landed upon her, knocking the wind and sense from her body.

The world became a haze of hooves beating the earth and the harsh clanging of steel against steel. While her eyes struggled to refocus she found herself running to and fro, biting and tearing into the flesh of her enemy. More coming with each passing moment. Too many.

The brother on the horse was still fighting but had fewer friends than before. When more riders came her swift brother ran at them, only to be caught in the net stretched between them. He was left growling and snarling, tangled and helpless in the net.

Arya felt helpless too when she finally came to grips with what was going on. Cley's armored body was thrown over her, his weight pressing her down into the bloodied earth. Just ahead, out of her reach, lay Needle.

Come on, get up. You didn't come all this way to lose now. Pick up Needle and fight. Like Jaime would. Find Osha and Robb and fight!

As she struggled to free herself from Cley's body she saw no sign of Osha. She could hear Nymeria growling and snarling somewhere in the chaos but it was Grey Wind nearest to her, the wolf fighting to free himself from his netting.

Robb was trapped as well. A shield wall cut him and his men off on three sides while a rank of spearmen were closing in from the north. It was when Robin Flint gave a cry and fell from his horse that Arya spotted the real threat. For threading his way through the spearman was a tall, dark archer. A young man wearing a Greyjoy tunic with ropes hanging from his hands. When he raised his bow again it was Rodrik Forrester's horse that was brought down.

As Robb's men fell left and right Arya had freed everything but her legs. Needle was in her hands. She was almost free.

Then she heard Robb's voice. His cry of pain.

Her brother had an arrow sticking out his shoulder but hadn't fallen. He rode about the ever tightening circle around him, trying to find any hole in it. Another arrow flew the air and took him in his side. Rather than screaming Robb gave a roar. He turned his horse about and charged right at the archer and his spearmen.

"For Winterfell!" He raised his sword high. "For the Starks! For my child!"

The bowman notched another arrow and Arya tore her nails clawing at the ground. She could only watch as arrow tore through the air and into the chest of Robb's horse. The poor beast jerked about and whinnied pitifully before crashing into the ground. Robb was sent tumbling over the ground, clutching his sword tightly the whole way.

It brought him all the closer to her. It was likely Grey Wind's whining that bid Robb to raise his head but his eyes found her all the same. His face was etched with pain and full of apology as he raised a finger to his lips. Arya made to call to him anyways when a hand clamped over her mouth. Osha was now huddling down beside her, shaking her head that displayed an ugly cut across the brow.

"Quiet." Osha whispered. "Quiet or you doom us both."

Robb isn't doomed, we can help him still.

When Robb raised himself up, pushing his upper body with his sword to turn and face the archer's coming, she knew he could still be saved.

"Greyjoy... Theon..." Robb rasped, hand shaking on his sword. "I'll die with a sword in my hands but spare my men... show them mercy... spare my-"

"Mercy?" Theon Greyjoy smirked, displaying two missing teeth. "I've got it in me for a bit of mercy I wager. Enough for a crippled wolf."

In a flash he loosed another arrow into Robb's ruined leg, sending him and Grey Wind to howling. The Greyjoy and others laughed cruelly as he drew closer, notching another arrow.

"That's the useless leg isn't it? Well how about a matching set?"

The next arrow went into Robb's other leg. The one after straight into his gut which laid Robb out on his back, grunting in pain as Grey Wind continued to snarl and whine. Theon Greyjoy ignored all of this, stamping down on Robb's hand and tearing his sword free from his grasp.

"A fine blade." He looked it up and down as he pressed a foot onto Robb's chest. "Wasted on a cripple like you. You asked me many questions Stark. You asked me for mercy too... something your father should've shown you a long time ago."

"Father..." Robb rasped as his head fell back, eyes moving to the netted wolf. "Protect them... Grey Wind...

"He'll be next, a fine pelt." Theon smiled. "Not the wolf I was sent to hunt though."

With that Theon plunged the blade into Robb's chest. Grey Wind's mournful howl and Arya's muffled screams mingling in with her brother's gasping.

Robb's last act was to take hold of the blade, wrapping his hands around it as Theon forced it deeper.

Straight into Robb's heart. Twisting it until Robb's hands went limp.

His murderer offering a final insult.

"Tywin Lannister sends his regards."

Chapter 18

Summary:

The Siege of King's Landing.

THE BLACKFISH

 

“A true knight.”

Brynden’s grumble was a choked one, for he was near to retching at the stench of the sewers they were crawling through.

Behind him came some muffled laughter, his companion being in far higher spirits. Barristan was hunched over, wading through filth just like Brynden, yet looked about as happy as a pig in shit. He was glad Barristan had trimmed his hair and shaved, it was easier to see the excitement on the man’s face as they moved through the dark gutters of the capital.

Entering King’s Landing without being killed by Robert Baratheon’s men or the capital’s defenders was a fool’s errand. At least that’s what Brynden had called the idea earlier, an impossible task meant for drunkards or green boys thirsty for glory.

“Or a true knight.” He laughed. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this with those three stupid words.”

“Few have ever accused you of being smart old friend.” Barristan said. as a massive crash shook the stone above their heads. Dust and rubble shook loose and he cursed Robert’s trebuchets while Barristan carried on. “Sour and prickly for sure, but I’m usually alone in arguing for your wits.”

“Oh? And how did I prove my wits to you?” He asked as they made their way around another bend in the sewers towards the faint light coming from a grate ahead

“Well you choose your friends wisely for one.” Barristan said. “Your causes even better. The fates are a funny thing, here we are, fighting the Golden Company once more. To have you by my side in this… truly Brynden, I didn’t expect you to come… but I hoped you would. Outside my sworn brothers, there’s none I’d rather have here with me.”

There’s no one I’d rather be with than you, Brynden admitted to himself, there’s no where I wouldn’t follow you…

I almost lost you once, I won’t risk you losing you again.

By habit he reached into his tunic, clutching at the silver swan pendant he kept hidden within. Brynden remembered the day many years ago when he met Barristan on a tourney field, when his beloved’s hair had been the color of the golden wheat. At the time Barristan squired for Lord Manfred Swann, an amiable man and good friend of Lord Darry, whom Brynden served as squire. The two young men saw much of each other over the years, riding together, sparring, wrestling, even getting drunk and dreaming of the knights they wished to become.

Their finest moment came upon the Stepstones during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, when Brynden and Barristan fought side by side against Maelys the Monstrous and the Golden Company. Barristan had cut his way to Maelys, aiming to end the Blackfyre threat once and for all even if it meant his life. Brynden was not willing to allow that, staying right beside him the whole way. When Barristan stood over Maelys’s body, the king’s army roaring his name, the knight only had one name on his lips.

“Brynden, this was our victory.” Barristan had said as they held each other up, both bloodied and hurt from the fray. “They only shout my name…”

“As they should, it’s much grander and you look far prettier in your white-cloak.”

“A touch more red on it now.” Barristan had chuckled before unhooking something from around his neck. “This cloak likely would’ve been my death shroud had you not guarded my back out there. Once I did the same for Lord Swann and he honored me with a token of respect… it has always reminded me of the trust between good men… let is be the same for us… my friend.”

That was the day Barristan pressed the swan pendant into his hands, the token Brynden carried on his person everyday since. The one he’d held tight when Hoster drove him from Riverrun. It was in his hand the day before they rode into the Red Storm and the pendant he soaked in tears when he believed Barristan killed at sea. After all these years, he still kept it hidden on his body, just like he had kept the depth of his feelings for Barristan hidden from all.

The faithful could call Brynden an abomination, Hoster could go on and on about how unnatural his ‘kind’ were, none of that mattered. The important thing was being with him, seeing the knight smile or hearing his horrible jests, as long as Brynden kept his mouth shut he could have all that.

If Brynden proclaimed his love Barristan might be disgusted by him, the truth driving them apart. His silence was worth the torture it caused, if only to be with Barristan.

“We’re here.” Barristan pointed at the grate ahead as the ground shook once more. “Just stick to the plan Brynden. Are you with me?”

“Always.” He answered before grinning. “But I’m going first. Just like the Stepstones.”

“Fine by me, as slow as you move it won’t mean much.”

They lifted the grate and, with Barristan’s help, Brynden pulled himself up and out into the streets of the capital. Despite the late hour he still prepared himself to hear screams and shouts of alarm at the sight of a shit-stained retch crawling out of a sewer. Instead he heard nothing but the harsh impacts of boulders hitting walls near and far. He’d climbed up into what looked to be a makeshift market, full of empty stalls and completely deserted.

Worse, as he looked up and down the streets around, he saw no sign of anyone else.

“Well this does not inspire confidence.” He sighed, turning around to help Barristan out of the sewer.

“Let’s hope we can change that.” Barristan said as they made to pull free their swords and belts from the sacks about their shoulders.

“Oh yes, the defenders shall surely rally around a pair of shit-stained old men.” Brynden tied the belt about his legs. “If we wanted to make them laugh we could’ve sent Willem… the sight of him covered in shit makes me feel all warm inside.”

Barristan was in too much of a hurry to laugh, pointing in the direction he wished them to go and setting off.

Soon the pair were heading towards the nearest gate, passing ruined buildings and having to sidestep a boulder sitting in the roadway. The closer to the gate they came the more Brynden’s fear grew. He heard the screams of wounded men and spotted the damage to the walls ahead. One of the guard towers had completely crumbled and terrible gouges were common along the battlements for as far as his eyes could see.

“Let this be the worst of it.” He whispered to Barristan. “Seven save us if Robert’s wreaked this type of hell elsewhere.”

“Have faith Brynden.” The knight said as a pair of guards gaped at the sight of the Kingsguard, none raising so much as a yell towards a series of barricades set up around the gate.

Large beams were being propped up against the gate while two men stood directing the work. One was a strong looking fellow with an iron hand, the other someone who turned Brynden’s blood cold.

“Fuck me, it’s the Imp.” He spat as Tyrion Lannister joined his companion in turning about. Both men shared a look of bewilderment at the sight of the Kingsguard in their presence.

“Ser Jacelyn.” Barristan announced himself, coming forward to shake the Gold Cloak’s hand. “It is good to see you alive and well.”

“I, well, you took the words right of my mouth ser!” Jacelyn stared in astonishment while Tyrion wrinkled his nose.

“And the shit right out of the sewers.” The Imp covered his mouth. “This is why I wanted guards at the grates, clearly there’s more than rats scurrying within them. Don’t get me wrong Selmy, I’m happy you’re alive, it’s just an onerous task trying to predict how Robert intends to kill us.

“The first wave will come by dusk.” Brynden spoke up, addressing Jacelyn rather than the dwarf. “We captured prisoners of our own and the first wave will hit the King’s Gate and Gate of the Gods by dusk. An attempt to draw your attention from this gate for another thrust.”

Both men were taken aback by this and it was then Barristan revealed their true purpose in coming. After sharing their plans, Barristan set to learning where their help would be most needed. To Brynden’s chagrin, the short answer was everywhere. The Usurper's strategy of attacking two gates at exact opposite sides of the city was a sound one. The walls were faring badly from the bombardment and the defenders were spread thin. Nor were they expecting much in the way of reinforcements.

“Haven’t the Tyrells marched from Highgarden yet?” Barristan asked. “What of the Tullys? The Lannisters?”

Tyrion gave a laugh empty of good humor at that, shooting him a baleful look.

“Well Blackfish, it appears our families are united in not giving a fuck about the capital. That or the ravens coming from Casterly Rock and Riverrun have fallen to the sellsword archers, the buggers have been collecting a decent bounty of the poor beasts. Three days now Robert’s been shooting the ravens out of the sky and sending us boulders in their stead.”

“The only ravens to come brought dark words.” Jacelyn added. “Lord Willas was leading his army up the Rose Road when-”

“Not here.” Tyrion hissed, looking about them at all the men staring at Barristan. “Morale and all that.”

Brynden shared a worried look with Barristan, as much for the Imp’s secret as the learning just how truly alone they were in this. A series of shouts and a great boom signaled a hit to the wall not thirty yards from where they stood. In the darkness he saw cracks already present there widening further.  Barristan examined the damaged walls as well, the shadows on the knight’s face making dark holes of his eyes.

“That the walls are weak only means we must fight all the harder to hold them.” Barristan declared. “The Usurper cannot be allowed to enter the city… not while Rhaegar’s family is here.”

This city is doomed, he thought, our plan is for shit now but that won’t stop him from following through.

If these walls fall he’ll fall in the fight to follow…

“My friend.” He went to his beloved then, resting a hand on Barristan’s stiff shoulders. “We’ve delivered the message and learned what we need…”

“That we have.” Barristan nodded, eyes full of sadness as he stared at Brynden’s chest. “So you should be going… the others have to be told. Whatever else happens here only one of us needs to make it back . Bathe quickly so the enemy can’t smell your coming and then move fast old friend, my place is-”

“We both know where your place is, and it’s not here. This wasn’t the plan and you know it. We go together.”

Barristan shook off his hold and straightened up, taking on the image of the fabled knight they’d always jested of him becoming. In this moment there was no laughter between them, Barristan’s face grim and firm with resolve.

“Go Brynden, that’s a command.”

“Shove it up your ass.” Brynden’s words were but a hiss as he leaned in close. “You’ve no right to tell me where to go, you never have. So let me make it simple for you, I’m not going. Fling me off the bloody walls if you want but then all we learned here dies with me.”

“Stubborn arse.” Barristan grabbed at his tunic, pulling him so they were but a sweet breath apart. “Just do as I say. Daenerys is in this city, my princess… I left her under the protection of Lady Brienne but she has none of the experience in these matters I do. How many sieges have we seen Brynden? Who else knows their terrors so well?”

“Excellent point.” He patted Barristan’s cheek, a tremble going through him to feel the man’s skin against his. “That’s why you’ll go and I’ll stay. Barristan the Bold has snuck through more sieges lines than me anyways, so you go and I shall look after your princess.”

“It’s my duty!”

“We both know the duty you swore to only hours ago! The pledge that brought us here in the first place. Go Barristan, be the Kingsguard we know you to be, I’ve got your back.”

There was no amount of arguments or threats Barristan could offer him then. As the boulders struck the city and distant lights of the Red Keep burned in defiance, so did Brynden continue his. Barristan clearly thought this was some foolish act of gallantry and he was content to let the man believe it. Truly, Brynden believed he was signing his death warrant.

He won out of course, his stubbornness forcing Barristan to agree to make the journey back. Tyrion produced some parchment for Barristan to scrawl down some messages to be delivered to the Red Keep. The knight then accepted a couple Brynden hastily wrote himself, for Hoster and his sweet Cat.

“I hope they never read them.” He said when they came to a postern gate. “But if those are my last words to my family… Barristan, I trust you with them.”

He offered his hand and Barristan gripped it tightly, his lined face softening some before pulling Brynden in for an embrace. The old man’s arms were powerful, the way his chest pressed hard against Brynden’s set his heart to pounding as powerfully as the boulders landing near them. The embrace ended too soon and Barristan looked into his eyes with an intensity he loved to see.

“Go on then Barristan the Bold.” Brynden smiled, fighting back the urge to speak the words he actually wanted to. "Earn that stupid moniker of yours.”

“It’s easier to be bold when you’ve got good men at you back.” Barristan returned his smile before pulling a hood over his head and venturing through the gate.

He wanted so badly to follow Barristan then. To be by his side and see him through the rest of the night. Yet the boulders shakings the wall and the dust falling off the gate kept Brynden in his place. He held the swan pendant tight as he watched Barristan’s back disappear into the night.

A darkness far safer than the hell this city would surely become, one he’d resigned himself too.

His love for Barristan Selmy had carried him this far.

It could carry him through hell.

 

DAENERYS

   

“Hear me!” She cried out again to no avail.

The commotion rising from the thousands packed within the Dragon Pit was so great it drowned out Daenerys’s words and the pounding spears of her men. She stood atop the highest balcony overlooking the great pit the Targaryens of old had built to house their dragons. Now it was it filled with all those who could find no safe harbor elsewhere in the city.

Once it had stood a scorched ruin, its huge dome caved within and bronze doors sealed for a century. Yet Rhaegar had undertaken to repair much of the structure, cleaning out the rubble and beginning work on a new dome. Tens of thousands now gathered in the pit and the new doors could withstand a ram for sure. Sadly, the new roof hadn’t been finished and the orange sky above them betrayed the coming sunset.

A sight that terrified the people below, many having heard of what was to come at dusk.

“I hope they’re proud of themselves.” Tess Royce said from her place just behind Dany. “Whoever let slip the attack comes with sunset. To think good men risked their lives to warn us of that only for some blithering idiot to set half the city to a panic.”

“Idiots, yes.” Marwyn tapped his staff and tugged at his whiskers, staring at the panic below. “Let’s hope the loose-lipped man stands watch on a particularly vulnerable part of the wall.”

“Do not wish such a thing on someone who defends our lives.” She chided the maester but Marwyn was unimpressed by her sentiments.

“Plenty are going to die princess, might as well be the ones you can’t trust… ah speaking of!”

Such was how Marwyn announced the coming of Varys, the silk-clad spymaster moving swiftly towards them before his path was barred by an old knight. Recently arrived to the capital Ser Brynden Tully was known to Dany as a friend of her dear Barristan. While the Blackfish always seemed a gruff to her when he told her his news she had kissed his cheeks until they were red.

“Barristan lives.” She’d repeated the words over and over again, fearful the knight would betray the good tidings in the end. He hadn’t, instead offering apologies on Barristan’s behalf.

“He wanted to see you princess. Truly, he did.” The Blackfish explained. “There was just no time, if he was to get through the Usurper’s lines the cover of night was needed. Barristan’s the only reason we came in the first place...”

“And the reason I weep now.” She was embarrassed to admit, wiping at her eyes. “Not in fear though, no, in happiness to hear he lives... my dear knight. Barristan has always protected me and I have to believe his arrival means we are all the safer.”

There was no reason to admit to the knight the other reason for her happiness.

And despite Varys’s expression being far from hopeful she bid the Blackfish to admit Varys into her presence.

“Your grace, dear princess.” Varys spoke in his eastern accent, bowing low and trembling at the noise of the crowd below. “I come here to implore you, on behalf of your good-sister, the dowager queen, to return to the Red Keep at once. She fears ever so much for your safety… and the security of the royal property…”

The eunuch did not hide how his gaze shifted to the back area of the gallery, near where a window opened to the city beyond. There sat the cages of her dragons, who moved about alert and active, perhaps even agitated by all the commotion.

“Tell Cersei we are as safe as the rest of the city is.” She spoke evenly. “Not all are fortunate enough to hide within the castle walls, waiting out the siege while downing cups of wine and enjoying the playing of minstrels. Nor can they join those wealthy few ensconced within the Sept of Baelor, defended by hundreds of armed men needed on the walls of the city itself.”

“Surely the holy sept is worthy of protection?” Varys voice was full of false sincerity and Marwyn gave a laugh.

“Come off it, Cersei didn’t have the stomach to share the Red Keep with the merchants and newly-made nobility. Some gold the High Septon’s way, some for able men, and the rich buy themselves a chance to escape this siege without being raped and murdered.”

Marwyn brought their attention to the shifting mass of the crowd below.

“Meanwhile this lot are left vulnerable for the enemy to sate their baser instincts... not that you’d understand such things Varys.”

“You would be surprised at what I know of the cruelty of men.” Varys answered, ignoring Marwyn afterwards and focusing his attention on Daenerys. “Which is why princess, I pray that you return with me. You have deployed nearly all your men to the walls and no mercy will be shown to you should those gates fall.”

“He speaks the truth.” The Blackfish added, crossing his arms. “We should get you to the Red Keep. This place will hold against a siege for a time but after that it’s a death trap. Trust me when I say I know what to expect-”

“I believe you’re both right.” She surprised all by admitting. “If the gates fall these people might well be doomed and I likely along with them. Thus we must ensure the defenses hold and that we have the best men possible seeing to it. Ser Brynden, I command you to join the forces at the Dragon’s Gate. Should it fall, please try and make it here to warn us.”

The Blackfish began to chuckle, shaking his head and running a hand through his grey hair.

“I defied Barristan when he ordered me away, I told him I would protect you-”

“As you shall, by holding the gate.” She stated simply before gesturing to the ten guards nearest to her. “I’ll have you dragged there if wish ser, leaving me with even less protection.”

The Blackfish made to protest before Tess stepped between them, flustering the man as she set to straightening his tunic.

“No use in arguing with her, good ser.” Tess smiled up at him in a tired way. “I’m married to a knight and he can don all the armor he wants but when I get set on something I’ll be getting my way. It’s a strength us mothers get, and you’re arguing with the Mother of Dragons.”

“Mother of whatever I’m not being told-”

Tess put her hands on her hips and inclined her head towards Marwyn.

“Ask the archmaester there how well he fared trying to argue with me. You’ll do no better denying Daenerys her wants.”

“It’s true.” Marwyn grumbled. “The two of them aggravate like boils. It’s always the ones with the finest behinds that become the biggest pains in the arse.”

Dany made sure to turn so that Marwyn could only see her front at the moment while Tess merely pressed the Blackfish.

“I wager you’re the type that prefers to fight rather than sitting around watching one? Don’t tussle with our own guards like my husband does after one too many, go and take the fight to the enemy.”

“Stop, just stop.” The old knight pressed his fingers to the sides of his head. “Of course you would be Willem’s wife. Did his fool ways make you like this or did you nag him into madness?”

“A little of both I think.”

Dany lost her interest in their arguing, for one of the septons attempting to calm the masses was rushing her way, with a good many septas following after. He wasn’t one of the High Septon’s inner circle, nor were most of the other septons and septas of the faith who had been sent to the Dragon Pit. Marwyn told her these were likely the High Septon’s rivals or troublemakers he wanted to rid the faith of.

The septon who bowed to her seemed little trouble, merely exhausted and defeated.

“Princess Daenerys, it is no use, we cannot be heard.” The septon shuddered when another wave of shouts rose from up the pit. “We try and lead prayers, to sing hymns but the noise is too great.”

“Then we must be louder.”

She then nodded to Marywn, who smiled like a younger man in his enthusiasm for the task ahead. While she had the septon and the septas gather about her the archmaester set a few of her men to pushing forward a massive bronze horn. Its size was so great the frame it sat upon creaked and wagons squeaked with strain.

“I’ve been waiting years to hear this thing.” The archmaester tapped on its bronze girth. “Did you know Queen Alysanne had it modeled after the old dragonbinding horns of Valryia? Of course those had magic in them. This one is just loud enough to-”

Her exasperated sigh cut short Marwyn’s history lesson, the older man making to wipe the horn’s mouth piece with a cloth.

“I’d cover your ears. Just a warning.”

The others did just that as Marwyn took a deep breath and made to sound the horn. The dull roar that erupted from it had Dany cringing away reflexively, the power of the horn rattling her bones. The sound shook the balcony and echoed through the massive pit, travelling down into the lowest alcoves and up into the pigeon infested rafters. By the time the thousands below quieted to seek source of the noise Marwyn’s face was almost purple.

He backed away hacking and sputtering, clearly out of breath as Tess went to him, muttering something about a ‘blowhard.’

Meanwhile Dany strode to the edge of the balcony, where all could see her. It was also the best place to be heard, for the pit had been designed with acoustics in mind. Previous Targaryen kings had held their coronation here, making their first addresses from this very spot.

Let their strength be with me now, she prayed, let my voice do justice by their legacies.

“People of the realm!” She shouted, startled for a moment at how shrill her voice sounded as it echoed out across the pit. “I am Daenerys Targaryen! Sister to a king! Aunt to a king! Mother of Dragons!”

Some shouts and cries answered that yet she was not seeking another uproar.

“The city will soon be attacked by the Usurper’s army! It is not in me to lie to you about it! The enemy is coming! This is a dark hour! The faith teaches us that in our darkest moments the seven that guide our way!”

She waved at the Blackfish then, the old knight looking confused before Tess and Varys urged him up to be seen by all.

“This is Ser Brynden Tully! He arrived last night, through the Usurper’s ragged lines, to bring us welcome news! We are not alone! Outside the city, with blades pointed right at the backs of our enemy, is a royal army! An army led by Prince Jon himself! With Barristan the Bold at his side!”

Cries of ‘The White Dragon’ or ‘The White Prince’ answered her pronouncement. What started as a ripple of surprise became a wave of joy as it moved through the countless numbers below. She seized upon that lift their spirits further, mindful of the darkening sky above.

“When the time is right they shall ride to kill the Usurper! The prince leading ten thousand-”

The Blackfish coughed into his hand, using the action to hide how he pointed his finger upwards in a silent signal.

“Tens of thousands of men!” Dany finished, with arms outstretched. “He shall lead an army of knights and warriors in our hour of need! They heard our prayers and have come to save us! So join with me in prayer! Let our saviors hear our devotion and let it guide their way!”

Before the moment was lost she had the septon and septas gather on the balcony’s edge as well. The choir of women began to sing a rendition of the Mother’s hymn, their voices echoing in a beautiful harmony.

‘Gentle Mother, font of mercy,

save our sons from war, we pray,

stay the swords and stay the arrows,

let them know a better day.’

The hymn was taken up by few at first, mostly other members of the faithful scattered throughout the pit. Then Dany began to sing herself, Tess joining in and her glare setting Varys and the nearest guards to adding their voices to the growing chorus.

‘Gentle Mother, strength of women,

help our daughters through this fray,

soothe the wrath and tame the fury,

teach us all a kinder way…’

When thousands of voices came together, lifting the hymn up through the broken dome Dany felt a tear come to her eye. It wasn’t just due to the truly beautiful sound these desperate people were making, but the shame that came from her lie.

She slipped away from the others as soon as she could, heading into the back of the gallery to seek the window opening out into the city. The dragons sat in their cages, all three surprisingly still, apparently mesmerized by the singing from within the pit. While the city darkened with the sunset few lights burned among its countless buildings.

When the Blackfish and Varys came to share the view she lamented that soon they would be leaving her side as well, just like all the others. Brienne and Ser Richard were at the King’s Gate to the other end of the city. Lord Connington held the Gate of the Gods while Tyrion and Ser Jacelyn watched over the Dragon’s Gate. She would not worry about them so if only her tale of Jon and Barristan’s army had been true.

“I was already lying to them.” She admitted, not able to face the Blackfish as she said so. “About Jon’s army… why have me lie even more?”

“Why not?” The old knight answered in his smoky voice. “You already changed fifteen hundred to ten thousand, what’s the harm in adding several times that number? If the walls fall I doubt any of us will live long enough for you to be held to account for that lie.”

“And for now it serves a useful purpose.” Varys added. “Stability your grace, it is a potent defense against chaos. Your lie has restrained the fears of the smallfolk. A worthy use of deception.”

That angered her, days of fear and rage boiling over as she whipped about to glare at the spymaster.

“We offer these people nothing but smoke and mirrors.” Dany declared. “This pit offering sanctuary. The walls being able to hold. Jon being able to help us at all… it’s all lies! And when we’re not lying we’re hiding the truth away like Cersei hides in the Red Keep!”

“No one needs to hear about the Reach.” The Blackfish grumbled, shaking his head. “Trust me, I could’ve gone without learning about it.”

She felt the same.

It spoke to the ill fortune of their cause that one of the few ravens to make it into the city brought word of disaster. While Mace Tyrell’s defeated army had fled the advance of the storm lords his son Willas raised an even larger one at Highgarden. Some time ago the Tyrell heir led sixty thousand up the Rose Road to their aid, only for the Reach lords to be betrayed.

They knew little save that a massive fleet out of the Iron Islands had attacked the Reach. Hundreds of longships seized the Shield Islands and were now reaving up the Mander, the raiders being so bold as to raid the outskirts of Highgarden itself. The ironmen had either destroyed or seized every crossing of the Mander they could, capturing or burning all vessels they came across. The Reach lords turned south again, fighting battle after battle to try and cross the Mander, abandoning their march on the capital.

The seven are cruel to offer us hope and then snatch it away.

I thank them for Jon and Barristan’s lives but must I beg for them to remain safe?

They are so few against so many… I almost wish they’d simply flee… to save themselves.

“Listen.”

The Blackfish cocked his head towards the west, where the King’s Gate lay. She heard nothing save the singing, until a sound crept up at from the opposite direction, from near the Dragon’s Gate. The blowing of trumpets carrying on the wind. The noise from the Dragon Pit kept the people inside ignorant to what was happening without. Soon the red comet was no longer the only burning light in the darkening sky. To the west faraway dots slowly revealed themselves to be balls of flame hurtling at the city. Whether they hit the battlements or buildings the result was the same. Fiery plumes reached up into the air as wood and cloth burned. Likely flesh as well.

“It’s starting.” The Blackfish put a hand to his sword and shook his head. “This is it then…”

“Go to your post ser.” She commanded. “Forgive me for denying you the safety of staying by my side but for the sake of us all, I must send you into hell.”

“I made that choice last night young lady.” The Blackfish offered her a curt bow. “Should things go badly, do not wait for me. Flee to the castle. I will fight my way there.”

She bid the Tully man well before he departed, wishing the entire time it was another old knight she could offer such words to. Truly all she could offer now was words and prayers. Arturion made a contribution of his own, a gout of flame barely longer than her arm.

The Usurper’s trebuchets were launching far worse against the city. Spreading fire and spilling blood.

Stealing the Targaryen words and destroying the city they’d built.

 

BRIENNE

“LOOSE YOU BASTARDS!”

Richard’s shout sent another volley of arrows sailing from the battlements into the charging enemy below.

From her place behind a crenel Brienne watched as the deadly hail tore into their foe, the flaming arrows tracing faint lines in the dark. Some struck the ground, others plunged into the ranks of swords and spears trying to climb the walls.

“That’s it! Do for them all!” A burly Staunton man rasped, tightening the grip he held on his mace. “Every last one of the buggers.”

He wasn’t alone in his threats, while hundreds of archers notched and loosed from the walls and towers around, the walkways were littered with men-at-arms and warriors just like her. All hoping the arrows kept the enemy below, all clutching weapons in case they failed.

If they fail we cannot, she told herself, it is on us to throw back the Usurper.

To finish the work started by the finest knights of the realm… to avenge a good man…

An arrow whistled by her head then, as if to remind her the firing went both ways. She hadn’t yet donned a helm over her armor, preferring to see as much as she could for the time being, which was both a blessing and a curse. She watched as a Celtigar man-at-arms near to her was struck in the neck and stumbled backwards. Brienne reached for him but it was too late, the poor man’s steps sent him tumbling over a damaged part of the wall. He plummeted over the wrong side of the wall, adding to the growing pile of corpses there.

He’ll likely be thrown in a ditch with the enemy dead… better than he deserves…

Better than those men deserve as well, for they are no true enemy.

The proof of that was struck home by how many of the thousands running towards the gates screamed for mercy with hands raised. Most were clearly only smallfolk, carrying cudgels or sharpened sticks. She remembered hearing how Robert Baratheon had been impressing loyal smallfolk into his army. After the trebuchets’ flaming barrages ceased Brienne had braced herself for charge of the infamous Golden Company. When thousands did come flooding out of the darkness it was the rabble they slaughtered now and not the fearsome opponents she expected.

“Bastards.” Lonmouth had cursed when he saw them. “They’re going to use our own people against us.”

“Robert throws their lives away.” She felt disgusted at the idea. “These lot will never break through the gate… why hand us such an easy victory?”

“They bleed us by forcing us to bleed ourselves. Every one of them we kill is an arrow we don’t have. Each stone we drop on their heads is one less we have to drop on the Golden Company or its rams. Bastards.”

Brienne had found that to be lacking in chivalry and the knight agreed, yet still ordered their archers and catapults to cut down the advancing force. Some of those poor men advancing could surely be depended on to join the defenders ranks but Ser Richard was too cautious to risk it. Not with the sellswords among their number.

“A dead friend outside the walls is preferable to a living enemy climbing them.”

That thought stayed in her mind as she glimpsed a green boy dragging another wounded child away from the fray. Perhaps they were brothers or merely friends, either way an arrow pierced the young rescuer, the pair adding to the number of fallen. It was a scene that replayed all along the city’s approaches. Most of those who came screaming from the distant siege lines to meet the might of the city’s defenses died for the effort.

At her back was the gatehouse, which stood strong despite one of its towers having collapsed, the others bristling with archers. Ahead was a long stretch of the wall, pockmarked by damage and too sparsely manned to give her great confidence. A section of the wall, not twenty yards from where Ser Richard commanded his archers, was in dire need of repair. Boards had been laid down so that men could cross over its crumbling top while beams had been propped up against its base below.

A breach in the making, but that is a worry for later.

Despite the archers reaping a grim toll on the enemy they managed to bring ladders forward. Three ladders were already leaning against the walls within her gaze and more were clattering upon with each passing moment. Men hacked at them with axes or tossed stones down on those making to climb up, but it was only a matter of time before some gained the battlements.

Her sword hand flexed at the thought, eager to reach back and draw free the greatsword which now slung across her back. 

Let me do the Sword of Morning proud, she begged as an arrow struck a man to her right, let me earn the honor of wielding Dawn in this battle.

May Ser Barristan the Bold be proven right in his trust of me. May Princess Daenerys survive this night because of my actions.

It sent a strange tingling through Brienne to think her whole life might have led to this battle. Her father deserved a son and heir, or at least a lady for adaughter, yet he’d been burdened with a freak instead. When she took up the sword instead of the sewing needle father never made to tear the blade away. Instead Lord Selwyn Tarth accepted her for what she was, proving himself to be a poor lord in the eyes of many but a better father than most.

As poor a lady as she was never in her wildest dreams did Brienne expect to be drawn into Princess Daenerys’s confidence. After Daenerys welcomed her as a friend Brienne feared never to accomplish great deeds in the company of such a courtly young woman.

How wrong she had been.

After Prince Joffrey’s crimes she had fought side by side with Barristan the Bold to keep the princess safe. The storied knight later singing her praises, honoring Brienne by making her a protector of Daenerys rather than a handmaiden. She had no right walking the corridors of a castle alongside the storied Arthur Dayne, let alone Oswell Whent or Barristan the Bold. To her they were the knights of summer, should they ever die their gallantry would live on in songs, the kind where such men saved only the most beautiful of maidens. The sun never setting on the likes of them.

A fool’s dream. One torn asunder the day Ser Arthur watched his last sunset, his death a merciful end but never something to be sung of. At least not in her hearing.

As unsettling to Brienne as the sound of the ladders hitting the walls now.

“Ladders to the right!” Ser Simeon Staunton roared from his place near the gatehouse, raising his arm high as another two ladders clattered between Brienne’s position and his. “Cut them down! Archers! Hit their flanks!”

A company of his archers formed up to shoot sideways and down into the press of enemies gathering below. Richard did much the same with his but had to divide their attentions between those targets and the others presenting themselves near the gap in the wall. Brienne knew this would mean less arrows firing on the enemy advancing across the field and made to gage how many more they could be facing when something caught her eye.

The burning pitch and buildings beyond the walls offered enough light for her to glimpse ranks of men forming up directly ahead. A force of sellswords who raised weapons that made her mouth run dry.

“Ser Richard!” She called out, pointing in their direction. “Longbowmen! They’ve training weirwood longbows on us!”

Richard heard her words and followed her gaze, and in the moment it took for him to register the truth of her claim their enemy loosed. The knight grabbed the nearest archers to him and yanked them down behind a crenel.

“Down! Get down!” He shouted and Brienne did the same as she dropped.

“Take cover!”

The arrows came on in a storm, some clattering off the walls and walkways harmlessly, one nearly striking her foot. Others hit their marks, causing men to scream or fall. Sometimes both.

A young archer spat blood out upon his Targaryen tunic as he gaped at the arrow imbedded in his chest. Armor was no true protection either, as Ser Simeon learned to his detriment. His company hadn’t heeded the warnings in time and a good number now lay dead or dying, the Staunton knight among them. Few of his archers leapt up to loose again and those that did ducked down soon enough as another torrent of arrows came at them.

An axeman chopping at the nearest ladder was taken in his side and fell forward and off the wall. The men nearest her pressed tightly against the walls, one clutching at her like she was his mother. She shook him off to see Ser Richard tempting fate by standing tall and running her way.

“Brienne! They’re coming up the ladders!” Richard drew his sword and looked up into her eyes in a grave manner. “I’ve got to take command of that bloody gatehouse. You hold this part of the wall! Don’t let one of them by you! They raise those gates and we’re done for!”

Richard pushed away and set to pointing his sword at all the men crouching fearfully or glaring at her with disdain.

“Save for your anger for the men that mean to kill us! Arthur Dayne gave Lady Brienne his blade! I expect you lot to lend her yours! Hold this bloody wall!”

“We shall!” She shouted back at the knight as he nodded and took his leave.

The men looked to her, possibly expecting her to offer brave words or even tears, yet she had neither to give them. Nor time to waste. A glance over the wall showed men not five feet from the tops. She donned her helm and, using both hands, reached behind her and drew Dawn forth.

The blade, pale as milk-glass, was heavy in her grasp. Not too heavy mind you, for she had practiced with it day in and out since Ser Arthur entrusted it to her. She’d expected Elara Dayne to take it back with her to Dorne but the girl had refused.

“One day you shall come to Starfell yourself.” The dark lady had said. “Until then, do as my uncle asked, defend Daenerys. Should any raise their swords against her, cut them down with this blade. Kill them my lady, kill them all.”

“Kill them all.” Brienne repeated, her voice echoing in her helm as she strode towards the nearest ladder, pushing men out of her way. “No speeches! No tears! Kill them all!”

The first invader hadly just poked his head up over the top of the wall when he met Dawn. His head went tumbling back down from whence he came, his body following after.

“Kill them all!” She bellowed, rushing at the next ladder to face a swordsman half over the side. Their blades met and his was thrown aside with the force of her cut, a moment later he was thrown back as well. There were more coming though, invaders gaining the walls all around.

Far too many for her to fight alone and she took heart to see she would not have to.

“Kill them all!” A man shouted as he drove a spear through the back of a foe. “Do as the Beauty says! Kill them all!”

“Kill them all!” A Velaryon swordsman answered as he clashed with a man wielding an arahk. A trio of Massey men ran by her with weapons at the ready, meeting a poor bastard trying to swing his leg over a crenel. As his head was caved in and body hacked to bits the battlements became a writhing mass of men shouting bloody murder and living up to their cries.

A pair of sellswords tried to make a break for the gatehouse and Richard’s flank but Brienne was on them in a flash. Dawn sliced through one’s leg like butter and shattered the other’s plate and bone as the blade crashed down into his shoulder. After that she put herself between the path to the gatehouse and the closest ladder.

Any foe fearsome enough to push through the defenders deadly welcome would meet her next. A Tyroshi swordsman came first, a man with a curved sword and the stance of a warrior. He snarled at her through his red-dyed whiskers and struck high at first.

“Why die for a lost cause?” The man asked after she cast aside his attack and drove him back a step. “You can fight! You have armor! Fight with us! We’ll be in the city soon enough! There’ll be cunt for all!”

“You’ll get your fill here.” Brienne replied, hiding her shifting stance by waving Dawn before his eyes. A wasted effort since the sound of her voice snatched the Tyroshi’s attention well enough.

“A woman?” He laughed, spinning his sword about. “They sent a woman against me?”

The laughter ended when he launched himself at her, stabbing down at her thigh. She slid away and put a second hand onto the lower part of the greatsword’s blade, gripping it tightly. With the full of might of her powerful arms Brienne smashed the greatsword up and into the Tyroshi’s face, his whiskers now coated in more blood than dye. She then sent her shoulder into him, driving the man over the side of the battlements to fall crashing into the city below.

“Welcome to the capital!” She bellowed down, raising Dawn again to meet the next man.

They came again and again. Some were better warriors than others and she found herself locked in deadly duels here and there. After she brought low a sellsword captain whose arms were thick with golden bands few deigned to fight her alone, often coming in pairs. The defenders were doing well, hundreds climbed the ladders but only scores gained the walls, fewer still living long enough to meet her blade.

The king’s men fell too, she spotted the tunics of loyal houses strewn among the dead and worried on how many they lost in the stiff defense.

Through the slit in her helm she saw the world as a tunnel of chaos. The narrow expanse of the battlements was filled with bloodied weapons and the twisted faces of enraged or dying men. Now and again Dawn’s pale form would block out all of that as she cut to and fro, yet its beauty never hid the ugliness of the battle for long.

She glimpsed fires burning throughout the city and what looked to be fighting at the far distant reaches of the walls as well. Yet nearest them the archers still fired and the men held.

Sweat soaked her face and body beneath her armor by the time the last foe came at her. His battleaxe had only just clashed against Dawn when he gave a shout and a blade burst through his chest. Behind the fallen sellsword stood an ugly, balding man-at-arms grinning like an idiot.

“They’re pulling back!” He shouted to her, gesturing to the thinning numbers of invaders about and the ladders being knocked away by their men. “We’ve got them on the run! We got them beat! Listen!”

She wrenched her helm away and lumbered over to the edge of the wall, where the sound of trumpets coming from the siege lines ahead was all the louder. The enemy below were drawing back, thousands fleeing into the darkness. Cheering erupted from the men nearest her, then from the gatehouse and other parts of the defenses. Brienne wished to join them in the revelry but something worried her about this retreat.

While some threw down their weapons to run many still carried their ladders with them.

Why save your ladders if you are defeated… we held but this was no rout…

Where were the siege towers? The rams? What happened to the longbowmen?

Brienne was pondering all this when a familiar sound caused her to back away from the wall’s edge. A distant whishing and thudding, a sound the city that had terrorized the city for days on end. A sound that heralded a far worse one, a whistling through the air that grew ever louder.

“Incoming!” She screamed to the cheering men. “They’re firing the trebuchets! Brace yourselves! They’re firing again! They’re-”

The crash below the walls was a terrible thing, made worse when she saw the boulder had struck short of the defenses and had merely rolled into the wall a good fifty yards from them. The flaming pitch hurled earlier killed many and sewed great fear yet failed to batter the walls like these boulders did.

Fear swept over hear as more boulders followed. Two hit parts of the wall untouched by earlier bombardments, smashing defenders and battlements alike. One landed safely in front of the wall, another sailed far behind to crash into the city beyond. The worst were the two that hit square against the walls themselves. When that happened the stone beneath her feet shook and her heart leapt into her throat.

For it was only this stretch of wall north of the gatehouse being hit. The parts already badly damaged, where the fortifications were weakest. It was this area the Usurper’s boulders now crashed against. With each impact more stone and rubble shook down from the tear in the wall. The cracks along it, barely repaired, opening wider and wider.

“My lady!” A Massey squire shouted, ducking down as a boulder flew against the wall. “My lady we must find shelter!”

“No! We must get below!” She pointed to the street below. “That’s where the fight will be! That’s where we need to stand!”

He pushed her way not needing to look back at the last impact to know the chasm was likely widening even further.

Soon the wall will come crashing down there… a breach for an army to storm through.

 An army we must meet… a battle we must win…

If only to see the dawn.

 

JON

 

“The time draws near. Ready the torches ser.”

“Yes my prince.” Barristan replied from atop his horse, turning to repeat the command quietly to Gendry. “All those with torches, ready them.”

The squire nodded and passed it on to the others nearest him and thus Jon’s will was shared among the men while he gripped his reins and took in the sight ahead. His men were hidden by the night, hundreds of riders ambling on through the darkness, a white wolf leading the way. All moving like moths to the flame, for the capital was a burning beacon of war.

Fires continued to spread out along the walls of the city, a handful of guard towers fully engulfed around the Gate of the Gods. It was the nearest gate to Jon’s riders and the target of no less than fire trebuchets that hurled burning pitch and oil against it. The troops gathered around those siege engines were but one of three enemy forces arrayed around the city, all poised to storm the walls at any moment. Jon and his men were still far from the main fight yet close enough to hear the clanking of the trebuchets while they readied to loose again.

The balls of fire rose high into the night sky, each one dragging a fiery tail behind as they moved gracefully through the cool air.

Sansa would call them lovely… it could irritate at times but she always sought the beauty in things…

May she be so open-minded when I beg her forgiveness. It is no excuse to say I rely on Robb…

I have no excuse Sansa… none at all… only a duty… I’m sorry…

Jon’s hand went to the pommel of Blackfyre then, the sword of his ancestors and his brother’s by rights. At least that’s how Jon saw it. Aegon was king and it was his brother’s namesake who wielded this sword to conquer the realm. As fine a blade as it was Jon would not resist handing it over to Aegon. If he lived long enough to do so that was.

He had the pleasure to ride beside some of the bravest men in the realm yet there was little fifteen hundred could do against an army nearly forty thousand strong. The option to flee was there of course yet it was never one he truly considered. Not after coming so far.

Not after learning the capital stood alone or seeing the carnage the Usurper’s army was capable of loosing upon it.

He couldn’t let such a force make its way within the city.

I can’t let Robert make his way to her… I couldn’t keep Viserys away from Sansa but I can spare Dany from Robert’s wrath…

Or die trying.

“You should have stayed with her.” He looked to Barristan, once again glad in his white armor and helm. “Inside the city. The royal family is in there and you’re Kingsguard, your place is with them. Guarding women and children, not me.”

“I wanted to stay.” Barristan admitted, lowering his head. “Brynden was right though, I put Blackfyre in your hands and set you on this path. You are Rhaegar’s second son… Aegon’s brother and heir to the throne. My choice was clear.”

“You chose poorly.” He spoke through gritted teeth as more flames spread throughout the city. “We cannot defeat Robert. The most we can do is halt his attack and buy the capital some time. All you’ll accomplish out here is to die with the rest of us.”

“I have to believe that’s not true.” Barristan said and he felt the old man’s gaze through the slit of his helm. “I have to believe I made the right choice. Once your father presented me with a choice that tested my vow as a Kingsguard. Lord Stark was there that night, the both of us tested by Rhaegar. Perhaps it was the fates guiding me or merely my instincts yet I did what I felt to be right. I chose Rhaegar over Aerys. If Stark and I had chosen differently who is to say what would have become of you Jon Targaryen? You were born at the start of that peace and now that war has returned, I will stand with you.”

It was strange to hear he’d been born amidst peace, somehow all the years before the war felt a distant memory. To him peace had been the sight of Dany’s smile and Sansa’s graceful dancing, how Robb laughed when they rode together or the way Arya grew bright red when she was tickled. The feel of Uncle Ned’s hand on his shoulder came to mind, followed by the sound of Lady Catelyn’s voice as she sang to the children or father’s harp as he played.

The feel of another’s lips against his own.

The fond reflections ended there, for his lips had never felt the same since the Red Storm. Nothing had been the same since then. All those thoughts of peace were only memories, war was his life now, his future as well. No matter how short it might be.

Death was a grim reality he could not ignore as a loud uproar went up from the siege lines ahead. Thousands of men raised torches and banners, ladders at the ready while elephants were fastened to the siege towers to hurry their advance on the walls ahead.

“Here we go.” Willem spat, slapping the visor down on his helm and hiding his face. “Imagine the most awe inspiring expression of bravery you’ve ever seen, that’s how I look right now, trust me.”

“This is Corbray’s command.” Gendry interrupted Willem’s foolishness, pointing to the enemy before turning to behold the other force arrayed near the Blackwater. “The commander will be leading that one then…”

“Why couldn’t you tell me this before?” He asked, still wary of the former sellsword now pledged to Barristan’s service. “I’d have led the attack there and let the Freys have this one.”

“We were too far your grace.” Gendry explained without meeting his eyes. “My fa- that is the commander never lets his captains display their heraldry until just before they charge. It keep his foes ignorant to who is about to fuck them up the- sorry for cursing, that’s just what he says…”

Before Jon could ask how a blacksmith would know so much of Robert Baratheon’s strategies trumpets sounded from the Usurper’s force. The army in front of them answered with their own then another round of trumpeting came from the direction of the Dragon’s Gate. His eyes lingered on the force outside the King’s Gate, the one likely commanded by the Usurper. He choked back his age to remember the warhammer crashing into father’s chest.

That’s where I should be… that’s where I need to be… he’s my kill… mine…

A feeling came over him, a familiar one often brought on by sleep or when some threat drew near.

He was staring at the Usurper’s men again but not from atop a horse. Instead he was closer to the ground, his body now far more powerful and his senses as sharp as his teeth. With a silent snarl he decided on his prey.

The man he hated so. The prey who threatened the silver one. The man he would kill.

A commotion caused Jon to sway in his saddle, earning a worried look from Gendry as he caught a glimpse of Ghost’s white form disappearing into the night.

The direwolf’s desertion was less worrying than the sight of all trebuchets in front of them firing at once. The fiery bombardment guided the Golden Company’s sellswords and rebel Stormlords in their advance against the gates. Rams and catapults were pushed along at the fore of the army, the siege towers brought up by the elephants in the rear.

Their march left the five massive trebuchets ahead of him with only a token guard as they launched volley after volley.

“Willem, do you have enough men to put those engines to flame?” He asked and the helmed knight nodded.

“We’ll get the job done Jon, no worries on that. Just leave a tower or two for us eh?”

The men all readied themselves for what was to come. Olyvar and Barristan drew closer to him, while Gendry set to nervously checking the fastenings of the mail Barristan had secured for him. With each passing moment the enemy drew closer to the walls and away from their trebuchets. He wondered whether he would be the first to launch an assault or if that honor would fall to Lord Beric or Black Walder Frey. Each led a third of their men, Beric outside the Dragon’s Gate, Black Walder at the King’s Gate and Jon here. All lined up behind the advancing enemy, just waiting to stab them in the backs.

He took a grim pleasure to see his target reaching the ruins of the buildings which had once stood without the Gate of the Gods.  

“It is time.” He faced the hundreds of riders behind him. “You saved thousands from Robert’s ravages! You brought low the Dothraki! I know you are heroes! Now it’s time for you men to show the royal family the heroes you are! Show them your bravery! Your courage!”

“Our loyalty!” Barristan pulled his sword.

“Our brass balls!” Willem added.

“Let’s help them see all that!” Jon yelled. “Light the torches! Ready the oil! Bare your steel!”

Flints took to striking, sparks shooting forth and lighting torches throughout their number. Soon it seemed like every other man held one and it was then Jon drew Blackfyre, for it was by firelight the sword looked its grandest.

He pointed it forward, towards the trebuchets and gave a shout.

“For the realm!”

“For the White Dragon!” Barristan bellowed and together they kicked at their horses, Olyvar and Willem adding their voices to those crying out Jon’s moniker.

They galloped forth, hundreds of men wielding torches, forming a burning spear point aimed right at trebuchets and tents ahead. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched the enemy rearguard, at least a few hundred strong, forming together to raise bows in their direction.

They moved so swiftly across the open ground only two volleys struck them before their charge tore through the enemy line. Barristan had somehow got ahead of him and cut away a spear aimed up at Jon while the knight’s horse trampled another man. Jon wasn’t idle, swinging Blackfyre down at an archer and cutting an arm away from the man. He was shocked at how easily it was done and then again when he sliced through another man’s helm. Tents were going up in flames and as soon as the defenders were scattered Willem set about leading his men straight for the nearest trebuchet. Small pots of oil were thrown against its huge frame, torches following after and setting the thing to flame.

He wheeled his horse around seeking another foe only to find Barristan slashing about with a fearsome grace at any who dared come near. Olyvar and Gendry each felled a man but in the time it took them to do so Barristan killed four. In that moment Jon found himself thinking of Sansa, for as brutal as the scene was the Kingsguard made it seem a thing of beauty.

“Go on!” Willem’s shout reached his ears, the knight leading men in a charge against the rest of the trebuchets. “We have this! Only be a moment!”

He bowed to the man and did as Willem said, calling the rest together to continue on towards the city. They rode hard and fast, three hundred brave men with Barristan the Bold leading the way. That the old knight outrode Jon with such ease made him think of Robb and all the times his cousin had left him in the dust.

I wish it was you I followed now brother… even with your hurt leg you’ll always be ten times the rider I am…

It’s you who deserves to ride beside a Kingsguard, you who were bold enough to challenge one in the first place.

The enemy had reached the gate by now and arrows flew in both directions. Scores of ladders being raised and rams heading straight on to the gate. The six siege towers lagged behind, still within his grasp. The nearest one so close Jon could smell the stench of the elephants pushing it onward. The tower’s lumbering, shaking form almost drowned out the shouts of alarm from the hundreds crowded about it.

The men who either fled or stood firm as Barristan led their attack straight into their right flank.

“King Rhaegar!” Barristan shouted when his blade stabbed downwards. “Rhaegar! Rhaegar!”

He was right behind the knight, dodging a Lyseni’s spearpoint to hack down at the man’s neck and shoulders. Gendry charged his horse straight into his foe, sending the man flying backwards while Olyvar plunged through a gap in the lines to break a pot of oil against the tower. Two more men did the same and a Blackwood rider was the first to toss his torch at the oil.

The flames spread quickly, a groan of dismay erupting from the enemy that could not stand against the trumpeting of the elephants. The burning tower set the beasts to panicking, breaking free of their handlers and lunging this way and that to free themselves of their chains. Many a man was trampled before his eyes and as the flames crept up the tower his eyes turned to the next one.

“Onwards!” He shouted, grabbing at Olyvar whose eyes were wild with bloodlust as he cut at men fleeing the elephants. “To the next tower! The next tower! Let the elephants do our work here!”

Many of their foes still stood but he left them for Willem’s men to deal with, pressing what advantage they still had. Robert’s men remained focused on the walls, battles breaking out along the tops of them fed by the ladders and two siege towers. It was then he realized the closest siege tower was not moving. The men there were rushing about and whipping the elephants yet still the tower did not budge. A third was rolling onwards, nearer the main force but not entirely protected by their vast numbers. With a quick glance back at the trebuchets he saw all now fully engulfed and knew Willem would be arriving soon.

That presented an opportunity he was not about to pass up. He did not need to seek Barristan, the knight acting as his deadly shadow, his white armor spattered with gore.

“The next tower is stalled.” Barristan declared. “We can have it in flames in half the time-”

“Or have a third one while Willem attacks the second!” He watched the anarchy unfolding on the battlements and knew letting four siege towers reach the walls would seal the gate’s fall.

“It’s much better defended.” The old knight spoke gravely as a rearguard of Unsullied warriors with their bronze caps and shields began to form up around that tower. “If we attack a third we stand the risk of being encircled.”

“Drawing the enemy to us and not the walls.” Jon tightened his grip on Blackfyre. “Let their blades meet ours rather than the throats of our loved ones.”

“I’ll lead the attack then.” Barristan tried to argue but he was having none of it.

“We go together ser. If this is as dangerous as you fear, I will not send you there in my place. That is my choice.”

Barristan said nothing at first, letting more men collect about them while the siege tower behind became an inferno. Then, with a cautious nod, the old knight gave his blessing.

“Side by side then, though I’m wondering if I should hand over my title as ‘the bold’ to you my prince.”

“Jon. Call me Jon.” He replied, sending a rider on to inform Willem of their plans before forming up for yet another charge.

When they rode on again he saw from the stance and tall spears of the Unsullied that this fight would be different. The tower was worthy prize, for archers still loosed arrows down on the Usurper’s men and the gate had not yet been lost. More importantly, he spotted what looked to be enemy reinforcements pulling away from the attack and moving their way.

Barristan rode in front of him, Olyvar Frey at his side screaming Perwyn’s name and Gendry riding on silent and solemn.

There was no place for peace here but he thought of riding with Robb anyways. When they had played as boys at leading doomed charges for fair maidens and glory.

“For Winterfell!” Robb would shout and Jon always felt jealous that his cousin could claim the castle as his home.

He felt no jealousy to think of Robb in Winterfell now. There was not a bone in his body that would change places with his brother. If Robb was here it would be him charging at the spears of the Unsullied, any one of those weapons sealing a man’s fate. A fate Jon would rather suffer himself.

If only I could’ve seen you once more Robb… Sansa… all of you… we’ll meet again in the world beyond.

I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be with Arya… we’ll wait…

Blackfyre in hand, good men at his side, Jon readied to crash into the Unsullied lines.

A ride into the spears of death.

 

THE BLACKFISH

“Not yet!”

Tyrion Lannister’s shout was a silly thing to call Brynden’s attention away from the foe he now battled. The Imp stood safe at the top of the gatehouse while the walls around the Dragon’s Gate were crawling with invaders. It was one their number that sent Brynden falling against a crenel with a bloody gash to his side.

“What the fuck are you on about?” He shouted at the dwarf, dodging below the red-headed man’s attack and escaping the corner he’d been backed into.

“No flaming arrows! Not yet!” The Lannister lordling ignored his query, continuing to shout commands to the Gold Cloak archers. To Brynden, Tyrion looked a little fool in his mistmatched armor and acted a worse one by restricting the archer’s options.

He had bigger worries though, for the sellsword came slashing at him again, driving Brynden back through the press of defenders and attackers. After nearly stumbling over a body he cursed, and sent a cut up at the man’s head.

“I’m going to do it.” The swordsman declared in a Westerosi accent, arms clinking with a lord’s ransom in gold bands. “Brynden Tully, the Blackfish himself, dead by my blade.”

“It’s good to be known I guess.” He snarled before whipping about to stab another sellsword through the back, killing the stranger so quickly his current foe was left shocked.

“Didn’t know his name and don’t care about yours. You’re all just dead bodies to me in the end.”

“Tristan Rivers!” The man stepped over his fallen comrade, slashing high and low. “You’ll say my name before you die old man!”

“Well, one of us will.”

Brynden caught one of Tristan’s cuts, pinning both their swords against the wall. He spat into the bastard’s eyes and smashed an elbow into his face. With a kick to the dazed man’s groin he regained his stance and slit Tristan’s throat in a bloody spray. The sellsword stumbled back, adding to the corpses covering the battlements.

He took the chance to look beyond the walls, spotting flames rising from the enemy trebuchets and a distant siege tower burning as well. A small battle was raging near it between what Brynden knew to be Beric Dondarrion’s men and the cavalry of the Golden Company. The men had screamed in joy when the trebuchets were lit up yet a small part of Brynden was sad to see it.

That means Jon’s riders didn’t flee… somewhere out there Barristan’s committing suicide…

And I’m stuck here fighting for a Lannister dwarf.

There was no need to look over onto their side of the wall to know Jacelyn Bywater’s body lay charred and burnt below. The last fiery barrage had cost the Dragon’s Gate its commander and nearly led to a mass desertion of the Gold Cloaks. It sickened him to think Tyrion prevented that.

“Stand and fight!” Tyrion had stood atop the gatehouse, the little fool waving about a mace. “Be men! Stand and fight like men or these bastards will come over these walls and use you as women! The Blackfish fights! He gums his food and can barely hit his chamber pot anymore but the old man fights on! Just like this dwarf! A half man with more courage than the lot of you!”

He liked to think the fires burning along the escape routes kept many at their posts but even Brynden had to admit, being shamed by a dwarf was no easy thing to swallow.

Far easier to deal with than the sight of the siege towers rolling closer to the walls. He counted five of the bloody things being brought over the dwarf’s ditch. Truly it was more a moat now, Tyrion having connected the ditch with the very sewers Brynden had crawled. The men called it the Imp’s Latrine but the bad smelling waste waters weren’t holding the Golden Company at bay. The diggers had screwed up and made the thing too shallow, men wading through the filth without it ever reaching above their waists. Boards were used to ford the narrow moat and one of the siege towers had just crossed over in such a way.

Another was doing the same and the other three would be there in moments.

We need to burn those bloody things! No flaming arrows? What’s the Imp playing at?

A ladder struck the wall near him then and he cursed to see men already climbing upwards. Most of the defenders were hard pressed to throw back the invaders already on the battlements but he couldn’t stand here and let Tyrion kill them all. He grabbed two green boys from the nearest fight and flung them towards the new ladder.

“Not one of those men makes it over!” He pointed his bloody blade in their beardless faces. “Not a one! If they do you die! If you fail I’ll kill you myself!”

The youngest one did his best to act brave then, reminding Brynden of another child he’d one taught. A small boy who had no right being a warrior yet had begged Brynden countless times to take him as a squire.

Little Petyr Baelish remained on his mind while he fought his way back across the wall and up to the heights of the gatehouse. There, standing amidst a score of archers and shouting commands stood Baelish’s murderer. The dwarf was so preoccupied with fending off the hordes below he didn’t notice Brynden’s coming until he was on top of him.

“Ah! Blackfish! Good we-” Tyrion’s words were cut off as Brynden drove a fist into his face. The dwarf flew backwards, his mute of a squire catching him before he smacked his head off the ground.

“Fuck you! Light the damn arrows and burn those towers down or by the gods I’ll kill you myself Imp! Lysa told me what you did to Petyr so don’t test my desire to end you.” Brynden raised his sword up in threat causing the squire to fumble for his own blade. “Don’t do it boy or you’ll be in for a world of pain this bastard isn’t worth.”

“Podrick’s already a pain ser.” Tyrion rose to his feet and wiped the blood from ruin Brynden made of his nose. “Go on Pod, go get Bronn and tell him it is time. Oh and ser, would you do me a favor and look below? You can jump down to get a better view but please, just look to the gate.”

He kept one eye on Tyrion as he leaned over to see what he was on about. Below he saw a hundreds of dead and a broken ram as well. What stood out were three scorpion bolts sticking through the gates massive doors, each one with a chain tied to their bases and running all the way back towards the Imp’s Latrine. Elephants were being led through the sewer waste and collected near to the chains, the enemy tethering the beasts to the large locks of iron.

“Shit.” He said. “They’re going to pull down the gate.”

“That they are.” Tyrion spat blood, pointing at the siege towers as well. “I wanted to catch all five of those things in the fire but when the chains hit I knew I should wait. If we’re lucky we can burn three of the towers and the elephants-”

“Flaming arrows won’t do shit against war elephants.”

“One will.” Tyrion’s grin was stained red as he turned to a man cowering behind the crenel and brought him forward. “Hauk here has been quite busy the last few days, he’s not much for the fighting but wanted to see the spectacle to come.”

Brynden didn’t two shits for the trembling pyromancer as the dwarf’s squire and sellsword emerged from a nearby tower. Bronn carried a bow and a burning arrow in hand and he half expected Tyrion to have his man kill him then and there but the Imp only patted Hauk on the back.

“It’s a dangerous substance, wildfyre.” Tyrion spoke the word in a grave manner. “Can’t just hurl it from catapults. Not that we had all the much really, King Rhaegar despised the stuff but our sneaky pyromancer friends kept a certain amount hidden away.”

“For studies my lords…” Hauk tried to explain but Bronn pushed him aside so Tyrion could continue.

“Poor man wept when I set him to pouring it down the sewer drains.”

“You what?” He blinked in disbelief, not quite sure if the dwarf had gone mad.

“Have no fear ser. I blocked off the sewers when the barrage started. This light show is a treat for our guests. Bronn, if you would.”

“I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this.” Bronn smiled as he raised his bow and notched the burning arrow.

The three siege towers were rolling across their fords of the moat as hundreds of men splashed through as well. A score of elephants were being harnessed together and chains brought forward bind them to the gates. Two towers were lowering planks down upon the battlements. Steel clashed to Brynden’s left and right, men fell from the walls while more climbed up them. A battle was about to be lost.

Until Tyrion Lannister gave a simple command.

“Fire.”

Bronn loosed his arrow, the small thing flying up and away into the distance. By the time it reached the Imp’s Latine it was but a tiny speck of light.

Then the world exploded.

Bright green flames leapt up into the sky and ripped across the entire length of the moat. When the force of the blast hit them the heat was so powerful he had to close his eyes. The wind brought the terrible sounds with it, those of men and beasts dying agonizing deaths. Opening his eyes he saw untold numbers of men running about or writhing on the ground as green flames engulfed their bodies. The elephants were even worse, he watched one become a stampeding ball of flame that rampaged through the enemy lines, trumpeting its agony for all to hear.

The towers were burning too, the flames from the moat climbed up their lengths. One crossing gave way from the intense heat and sent a tower crashing backwards into the enemy fleeing the hell Tyrion had unleashed upon the world. It felt foul but with each passing moment Brynden felt his spirits lifting, the destruction and agony the wildfyre wreaked below was horrible to behold yet it was being visited on their enemies.

By a man he considered an enemy as well.

Tyrion took all this in with a calmness out of place in all the carnage. Turning from the inferno he met Brynden’s gaze and raised his axe to rest upon his shoulder.

“Ser, it would appear we have a chance to throw back this attack.” Tyrion spoke calmy, gesturing to siege towers which now flooded the battlements with invaders. “We’ve cut our foe in two but there’s thousands below waiting to climb our walls. Can we hold this gate?”

He didn’t think so but that didn’t keep Brynden from nodding and gripping his sword tightly, joining Bronn and the Imp as they made to join the fray. Before they could Tyrion reached out and stopped him.

“Just so you know, on top of trying to kill me, Littlefinger bragged about fucking both the Tully girls.” The dwarf said as his squire lifted a helm over his head. “Just something for you to think on, a little ‘fuck you too’ if we’re about to die.”

That was how Tyrion left it with him, leading Bronn and his squire into the fight and doing Brynden the insult of making him follow.

His fight with the Lannister would have to wait for another day.

 

JON

 

Blackfyre tumbled out his grasp when he fell. He blindly grabbed at it but had to roll sideways to escape the spear that stabbed down at him. The Unsullied warrior drew back quickly and made to stab again when a horse galloped by him and a white-cloaked blur sent the slave warrior’s severed head spinning through the air.

“Jon!” Barristan shouted in worry as he gained his feet, the Kingsguard silhouetted by the collapsed, burning siege tower behind him. “My prince take my horse! We must get you away!”

“We’re not done yet!” He answered, mindful of the battle they were in the thick of.

His men had rallied around the collapsed siege tower riding to and fro at every foe that came their way. The Unsullied ranks were collapsed and those warriors mingled in with other sellswords doing their best to encircle and crush Jon’s men. The Gate of the Gods still defied the enemy, although its doors were battered and near to ruined. The ram which had caused such damage was now aflame, like the rest of the world it seemed, the capital’s defenders having sent a sortie out a postern gate to destroy it.

No men from the capital made it as far to help Jon’s men. Only the enemy came, their foes closing in with each passing moment. They were outnumbered three to one and it would soon be worse, for hundreds more Unsullied were marching their way in a line.

A sight not lost on his protector.

“Jon… my prince… I can save you.” Barristan the Bold wheeled his horse around, leaning down to offer him its reins. “Go, please. Ride now and live. You have done all you can.”

“There’s more I can give.” He lifted Blackfyre up to see several sellswords breaking free of Olyvar and Willem’s stubborn defense to their right. “Ready yourself ser. Here comes a few more men we’ve dragged away from the gate. Men coming to meet their end!”

“You sound like your father!” Barristan spoke angrily, riding forward to meet the attackers. Jon followed after, joining his men in pushing back at the enemy press.

Olyvar was still ahorse, the young Frey urging the beast to rise up and strike out with its hooves at the foes around them. He had killed two knights so far and Jon thanked the gods Olyvar chose to fight by his side rather than with his family. Willem was cursing the gods as he kicked at the chest of a dead man which his sword was stuck within. The knight finally gave up and pulled free the spare blade he kept on his hip. Surprisingly Gendry still fought on, which bothered Jon since so many good men had fallen this night while this stranger lived.

For now at least, he thought, none of us are likely to survive this night.

Except perhaps in songs… songs Dany and Sansa could sing…

Remembering me for the man they thought I was and not the monster I’ve become.

He swung Blackfyre hard into the face of a young man-at-arms who raised a blade at him, the Valyrian steel sinking deep into the bone. With a grunt he tore it free, popping the man’s eye out as he did so. Their line was shrinking as the fight went on, loyal men falling here and there as Jon gutted a foe and sent another stumbling back so Barristan could finish him.

The Unsullied line was nearing them but coming far more swiftly was a force of riders baring down on his position.

They’re going to pierce our cordon and let the Unsullied drive us apart.

This wasn’t a problem he could solve. There were no options for them anymore. They didn’t have the men and their strength was faltering. He wiped the sweat and blood from his brow and wondered if the Usurper might have come himself.

Somehow he knew wasn’t true. He kept having flashes of another gate under attack. Of thousands upon thousands pushing towards a great tear in the wall. A gap he smelled his foe moving towards. A foe he couldn’t reach.

Not like the riders coming at him now. At their fore was an armored knight Jon recognized from the Red Storm. A man who bore the tunic of House Corbray.

“There here is!” The knight lifted a handsome blade towards him. “Robert wants that one alive! Kill the rest! No prisoners except the northern dragonspawn!”

“You’ll be taking no prisoners here Corbray!” Barristan shot back, leading men to meet the charge and leaving Jon behind once more. The Kingsguard did his best to reach Lyn Corbray but other foes met his challenge. The rest came on though, right at Jon and men formed around him.

The enemy crashed into their line, horses and men screaming as spears and swords stabbed this way and that. A horse knocked him aside, sparing Jon from losing his head as Corbray sliced down at him. The knight made to do so again when a spear thrust up and into his horse, Gendry driving it forward with his powerful arms. The horse fell but Corbray climbed down just before, sword in hand to rush straight at Jon.

“Surrender boy!” The knight demanded, Lady Forlorn flashed like lightning at his wrist. If he hadn’t pulled away at the last moment his sword hand would be gone. Corbray was fast, the battle falling away as Jon struggled to meet the knight’s strikes and blows.

They crossed blades and fought to overpower each other, the magnificence of the two Valyrian swords pressed together ruined by the cruelty Jon saw in Lyn’s eyes.

“It was me who struck the death blow.” The knight pushed all the harder, Jon’s feet moving in the earth. “Hit Arthur Dayne right in that sweet spot… the one that bleeds you slow but kills you anyway. Spare yourself that fate boy.”

“Mago said the same.” He shot back, holding firm against the man’s might. “Right before I cut him down… you fight like dogs… not a one of you a decent warrior alone…”

“Winning is what matters.” Corbray smiled and his eyes flicked behind Jon, barely warning enough for him to kick at the knight’s leg and back away. A mace clipped his left shoulder, crumpling his plate and sending a jolt of pain through him. The ugly warrior who attacked him moved quickly to do so again and Corbray made to outflank him.

Until someone joined Jon’s side, Gendry pointing his sword right at Ser Lyn.

“Turncloak bastard.” Lyn spat, striking at Gendry’s sword almost lazily. “You know Robert actually told me to spare you? Fuck that, he won’t care a shit about his dead bastard when I bring him Lyanna Stark’s brat. I’m going to carry you back too, make your skull my chamberpot.”

“I’m not going back.” Gendry declared as the truth of his identity dawned on Jon. “Not ever, you lot aren’t worth it anymore. Ser Barristan showed me the way, the Targaryens care for their-”

Corbray didn’t give Gendry the chance to finish, launching an attack against the squire as his partner came at Jon. His shoulder throbbed horribly but he remembered his lessons with Oswell. Men wielding maces often struck so powerfully they threw themselves off balance. He moved sluggishly away from the first two blows until the sellsword grew confident and made to shatter Jon’s knee. Sliding his leg to the left he could hear the man’s curse as he tottered a bit and Blackfyre cut down and through his mail. The mace fell to the ground, along with the hand and arm that wielded it.

A cry bid him to turn and he saw Gendry clutching at his chest as Corbray backed away, Lady Forlorn red with blood. Gendry’s mail and hand had blooding dripping through them but he only fell after the knight backhanded him fiercely. The squire hit the ground face first which sent Jon running straight at Corbray.

“Fight me!” He screamed, hacking and slashing at the knight. “Leave them alone and fight me!”

Corbray cursed at Jon drove him back into the press of men fighting against the encirclement. Willem was on the ground too, his helm dented in and the knight unmoving. Olyvar had lost his horse and held one arm pressed against his ribs as he fought on desperately. Barristan was bellowing Jon’s name again and again. The Kingsguard trying to break through the carnage to save him from Corbray.

Jon didn’t need saving though. The same numbness that came over him with Mago had returned. Corbray was fast, his sword sharp. He cut through Jon’s plate. Through his mail. He bled and bled but Blackfyre was alive in his hands.

Just like his father’s had been when he fought Robert.

Before Jon left him in the mud. Like he left Lucas and Jonothor. Now Gendry. Willem. Soon all of the others.

Dany.

“No more!” He roared stabbing Blackfyre at Corbray’s shoulder. “Enough! Enough! Take me you bastard! Leave them alone!”

The knight avoided the first stab and a second slash but when he cut at Jon the man lost his hand. He didn’t think he’d been the one to send Lady Forlorn flying away, Blackfyre was barely red with any blood. Not until he pulled back the blade and drove it through Corbray’s neck.

They both froze then. Ser Lyn’s armor clinking as his body shook and blood spilled down the length of Blackfyre’s edge. It was only when Barristan arrived to throw Jon back that he pulled the sword free and let the knight fall.

The victory a hollow one.

He should have taken heart that Barristan and Olyvar were there at his side in the end but so were the Unsullied. Hundreds of the bronze warriors driving forward with their spears.

Killing Jon’s men. Coming to kill all of them.

And all he felt was numb.

 

BRIENNE

Ignore the pain…

She urged herself to do so as her side screamed in defiance of her will. Not nearly as loud as the Fell knight Dawn was cutting through. The warrior had sent a morning star into her ribs no less than three times before she ended him.

Not that there was any end to his like. Behind the fallen foe a thousand more pressed upwards at her. An entire army rushing to push through the breach in the wall Brienne and too few others fought to hold.

There’d been some hope of victory before the wall fell. Riders had come from the Gate of the Gods and the Dragon’s Gate to declare both were holding. It spurred a wild belief among the men that somehow, despite all the odds, they might live to see the dawn.

All of that came crashing down with the wall. The bombardment against the weakened parts of the fortifications had done its foul work well. Two strikes to the base of the wall had sent it crumbling forward. A final boulder had crashed through the remnants, spreading a wave of stone and debris back into the city. Where once a wall stood there was only a small, rocky hill. One the Usurper’s men would use to gain entry to the city and seal the fates of all within.

But not without a fight.

When the wall came down Brienne had stood side by side with a thousand others Ser Richard had cobbled together.

“Help is coming!” He’d shouted when the Usurper’s trumpets and the roar of fifteen thousand men blasted through the breach. “The other gates are holding! We hold here until help can come! Dawn is near! The sun at our backs and the Warrior seeing us through! Let Dawn come for this city!”

“Dawn will come!” She’d shouted when the knight led the defenders up into the breach. The climb was treacherous, stone shifting and moving beneath her exhausted feet. Somehow she and many others found the strength to reach the top, only for them to behold the might of their foe.

The stormlords, men her father had feasted at Evenstar Hall, now charged forth to kill her. Banners displaying the heraldry of the Carons, Estermonts, Wyldes and countless other were carried on as droves of armored men struggled their way up the breach at them. Archers atop the walls thinned the numbers yet this was always going to be a clash of swords.

“Dawn will come!” She shouted again, slashing Dawn left and right at the men-at-arms in front of her. “Arthur Dayne! You will answer for his life! All of you!”

“Kill the bitch!” A shout answered her and a pike stabbed at her helm. She knocked it away so a man beside her could leap forward and drive his spear into her attacker.

She was not alone in this. Many had fallen and they were being pushed back but she took heart knowing she was not alone. Lonmouth fought on only a few paces from her. Ser Balon Swann, a stormlander like herself, he also held his ground. Other men whose names and faces she had never seen before, standing against the might of their foe.

Most dying for it.

Her spear wielding ally fell then and Brienne avenged him by skewering the killer through the gut. Hands were at her back, men pushing her forward, bracing her against the press.

No man would ever want me but these ones are happy enough to let me kill for them.

Let them believe that lie. I fight for my honor. For a knight who trusted me. For a princess.

“Come for me!” She challenged, throwing herself across the stones in an attack. The sky was lightening above and when dawn broke she wanted the Usurper to see her standing there, at the top of the breach he couldn’t take. He certainly wouldn’t hear her, not with his army chanting his name.

“Robert! Robert! Robert!”

The battle was a sea of men and steel, flowing this way and that through the breach, sometimes forcing Brienne forward and back with little control. She fought hard, staying alive and killing as the current of bodies carried her along. This wasn’t the kind of battle Brienne had trained for at Tarth. This was butchery.

As she grappled with the reality of that the butcher came calling.

A cheer went up to her right as a dented helm clattered off the stones near Brienne’s feet. Throwing back a pair of spearmen she got a glimpse of Richard Lonmouth, battered and bloody, barely standing tall against a brutal assault.

His opponent towered over the knight, an armored warrior who wore no cloak, only a tunic with a familiar black stag billowing over top his plate. Upon his head sat an antlered helm and in his hand he wielded a warhammer, a weapon too heavy to be used in such a way. Yet this warrior did so and with terrifying accuracy, smashing the hammer into Richard’s sword hand. His gauntlet crunched inward, his sword falling away as his cry of pain was lost as the rebels shouted Robert Baratheon’s name.

Further back they lifted their spears and swords up and down as the finely armored warrior drove an armored fist into Richard’s mouth. She lost sight of Lonmoutj as their own men began to back away and flee the coming of Robert Baratheon. The hands at her back were gone, her comrades spreading out to face other foes or retreating at the fearsomeness of the man who now swung his warhammer at whoever dared come near.

“Stand aside!” Robert’s voice boomed from within his helm. “I’ll spare any good man if he abandons the dragons!”

“No good man could stand with you!” Her voice sounded tiny and weak in her helm as she pushed her way through the fleeing numbers. “But a woman shall hold you here! I shall avenge Arthur Dayne!”

“A woman!?” Robert laughed, hefting his warhammer up and laughing so that his armor shook. “Stand aside wench and I promise none here will take what virtue you have-”

His words were cut off when Brienne launched herself at him with a war cry. She brought Dawn in around in a powerful arc, one that Robert met with his warhammer. The impact rattled her arms and set her teeth to chattering. Robert then pushed her away, forcing her to stumble to find her footing in the stone. While she readied herself for Robert’s attack the capitals defenders were breaking around her, fleeing back into the city with the rebels cheering to follow.

Brienne stood her ground though, so when Robert struck at her with his hammer she met it with Dawn. The man was skilled with his weapon, he spun it about and used the staff to drive her sideways before butting the hammerhead into her chest. It sent her tumbling backwards against a shattered wooden beam but she did not fall and lifted Dawn up again.

“Why?!” Robert bellowed while his army rushed by. “Why do good men die for this lot? Why is a lady throwing her life away for the fucking Targaryens?”

“You killed those men! Not the Targaryens!”

She rushed the man again. This time she stabbed low to draw Robert’s defense low, then used her momentum to spin about and slash up at his head. Her arc was only half finished when Robert held up his hammer to keep the blow at bay, uppercutting her helm with his free hand. Her helm was torn away and her head set to spinning long enough for Robert to hook the backpoint of his hammer into her plate and wrench her about. He sent her rolling end over end acros the jagged stone. Her armor spared her bones yet she cried out as her body was bruised and battered. A sharp edge of a stone caught her cheek, tearing the flesh away.

Biting back sobs of pain, she turned her face upwards to a sky still too dark to be called dawn.

I still have Dawn, she turned to behold the sword in her grasp, don’t let this be your end.

Get up… get up and die on your feet… die like the knight you’ll never be…

Men laughed to see her rise again, some coming to finish her, only for Robert’s bellow to send them off.

“Leave her!” Robert commanded as he walked the breach towards her, waving his men on into the city. “Give it up girl. Rhaegar took my love. He stole the son that was supposed to be mine. Selmy even stole my boy! They’ll pay for all of it! There’s no end to my fury so let that mark on your face be the worst of it! The end is here!”

“The dawn will come.” She rasped, blood spilling from her face and Dawn trembling in her hands. “And I shall wear this wound as an honor.”

“Then let me honor you again!” Robert’s fury echoed out of his helm while trumpets blew behind him. This time however their blowing sounded different.

Robert stopped midstep, like many other the men did, all turning to stare back from whence they came. Sweat stung her eyes and despite all her squinting she could only make out some sort of turmoil at the enemy rear.

“My lord we are attacked!” A herald cried nearby and many set to cursing.

“Is it the Freys again?” Robert shifted his stance. “There’s only a few hundred of them! Hold them back!”

“No my lord! An army! An army at our rear!”

“Heavy horse! Thousands of them coming at us!”

“It’s a trap!”

“Shut up!” Robert tried to quell the panic of his men, which only grew worse when trumpets began to sound again. “Who the hell is sounding a retreat! We’re in the city! We’re winning! WE’RE IN THE GOD DAMNED CITY!”

There was no use to his yelling though, the rebel advance stalled as a new battle raged at their rear. It was just as the others said, from the west came a large army, tens of thousands of foot streaming through the enemy siege lines and overwhelming their rearguard. A line that had already been broken by thousands of armored riders who charged through the disorganized rebels with lances and swords. At their head rode a white-cloaked knight of the Kingsguard.

Brienne spotted many banners among the newcomers. A white weirwood. A red stallion. A naked maiden. A trout. A golden rose.

A white direwolf.

The last one was no sigil but a living, breathing beast of terrifying size. Much like young Bran Stark’s wolf save this one appeared to be an albino. It ran through the enemy ranks as well, part of a charge straight towards the breach Robert and his men.

The rebels were turning back and fleeing back down and away from the city. Hundreds rushing right by her and she let them go. These men were not the ones she wanted. It was the warlord shouting to be heard that she cared about stopping. Trumpets blew and men shouted but her eyes were for Robert as he made to hold his men in place.

“Stand your ground!” He held his warhammer high. “We can break them if we keep the ranks! Fight you cowards!”

“If you wish a fight have at me!”

Brienne knocked over a fleeing man to come at Robert. He did not disappoint her, swinging his warhammer down at her with all his strength. She turned so it crushed the stone below and landed a strike right to Robert’s back. To her dismay the armor held, a hit strong enough to kill only serving to annoy him.

“Rhaegar did this! Not me!” Robert roared, feinting with his hammer to drive a shoulder into her chest. “Your death is on him! On the dragons!”

He would have sent her flying down the breach into the fray alone had she not snatched hold of his tunic, tugging the black stag down with her. Both went sliding down the rubble on their arses, Brienne gritting her teeth to keep her hold on the man. They had only just reached the bottom when Robert swung the warhammer again, nearly smashing her head against the stone. When she made to raise Dawn he stamped down on the blade and kneed her in the chest. The force of it ripped the greatsword from her grasp and she found herself defenseless as the enraged lord hefted the warhammer to finish her.

Until something struck Robert’s helm, stunning him into halting and setting them both to staring at the golden hand laying between them.

The thrower appeared to be the Kingsguard knight she’d spotted earlier, the first of the mounted charge to make it so far. He was trapped behind a line of spearmen, wielding a sword with his left hand while waving at Robert with the stump of his right.

“Kingslayer!” Robert kicked at the hand. “Even Aerys’s killer stands against me? What next? A bloody pig?”

“No.” Brienne answered, clenching her fists and smiling at the sight of what was rushing up behind Robert. “A wolf.”

Robert must have sensed something amiss, spinning around to find the white direwolf escaping through a gap in his men and running straight at him.

Many would have quaked at the sight of such a beast, perhaps even pissed themselves. Not Robert Baratheon though. The warlord raised his hammer to try and smash the direwolf but the beast was too fast for that, leaping up and throwing its massive body into Robert. He fell backwards, his helm shaking free as Robert grappled with the direwolf, both baring their teeth at the other.

“I never wanted this!” Robert spat at the wolf while driving his powerful fists into its sides. “I wanted justice… not a crown… her…”

The direwolf jerked some with each strike yet its jaws snapped again and again, drawing nearer to Robert’s throat with each moment. He finally set on wrapping his hands around the wolf’s throat as the wolf stripped some flesh free from his neck. Robert snarled more than the beast as Brienne went to collect Dawn, cutting down a spearman who made to kill the wolf.

Another came at her as the grunts and rasping breathes of the struggle behind grew strained and desperate. Robert’s army was faltering, the newcomers breaking through and drawing the enemy attention away from their leader’s battle. Some tried to come to his aid but she held them back. Standing before the breach once more and defying any who tried to pass by.

Her arms exhausted, her chest heaving and body aching, it took Brienne a moment to realize no more came at her. Too many were trying to flee. Their battle to reach the city now a ragged retreat away from it.

It was then Brienne turned around, having to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun rising.

Only to find the bloody broken forms of two beasts. One atop the other, neither moving.

Robert’s hands still at the direwolf’s throat. His throat within its jaws.

Their fight at an end.

 

JON

He’d had this dream before.

Father’s killer beating him. Breaking him. His body losing its strength to the pain.

This time was different though. Now he was on top of Robert. The man struck him. Broke his bones. Choked him so air became but a memory.

Yet it was Robert whose eyes filled with fear. His throat that lay exposed. When he sunk his teeth into the flesh of father’s murderer he tasted blood.

Warm, sweet blood. The blood of his enemy. Even as the darkness enveloped him he savored the taste.

He had won... he had won…

“Jon.”

A hoarse voice spoke his name, shaking him lightly as the earth shook as well. All this bid Jon to open his eyes again, finding himself sprawled upon the ground. It was just like his dream, his body felt beaten and broken, the taste of blood strong in his mouth.

Except it wasn’t Robert’s blood. It was his own, courtesy of a broken lip which seemed a paltry hurt compared to the gash across Willem’s brow. Half the knight’s face was caked in blood as he frowned down at him. Beyond the night Jon saw sky was turning golden, which meant either he was dead or dawn was upon them.

“You’re alive.” Willem turned his head to speak to someone Jon couldn’t see. “Fuck me, Selmy did it… you’re alive.”

Jon tried to rise but found himself pinned down by a corpse that was very much dead. It was an Unsullied, the one who’d slammed a shield up into Jon’s face just before he was lost to the world. His face a bloody ruin and a broken spear in his hand.

“If you would?” He asked and the knight nodded, grabbing hold of the corpse and lifting it off Jon before making to help him to his feet.

He rose shakily only to draw back in fear, taking in the scene around them in pieces. Smoke rose from the city and burnt siege towers leaning against the walls. At the base of the fortifications were mounds of dead men, more strewn across the field and around their corner of the battle. Olyvar was walking among the corpses, with what was left of his men as they watched the rebels fleeing a great wave of cavalry which rode any stragglers down. Hordes of infantry following after them, an army flying massive banners with the Tyrell rose flapping in the wind.

“They came out of nowhere.” Willem explained. “We were done for Jon… when you fell Barristan picked up Blackfyre and kept us going. He killed any who came near you and asked me to-”

That made Jon break away from the man, for he’d taken notice of the Kingsguard kneeling close by. Barristan had his back to him, his cloak stained with dirt and gore, but it was the body he hunched over that worried Jon. Gendry’s face was pale and his eyes closed, yet as he drew closer he saw the squire’s chest still rose and fell. He felt a fool to never have realized Gendry was Robert’s son, for the young man was the spitting image of the man.

Yet all the rage he’d felt towards Robert fell away as he neared Gendry and Barristan.

“Will he live ser?” He asked and Barristan turned his head slightly to face him, his face pale too.

“My prince… thank the seven.” Barristan sounded exhausted. “I believe he will… I pray he will. I prayed you both would make it. My prince and squire… as brave as knights…”

“Gendry saved me ser. He took a blow meant for me, he acted a squire as bold as his-”

Jon was rounding the pair to inspect Gendry’s wound when he froze in his steps. Sticking out of Barristan’s middle was a broken shaft of wood, the end of an Unsullied spear. The knight was clutching the shaft as blood ran down its length and stained the white armor below the wound.

“Barristan!” He dropped to the knight’s side, turning about in disbelief that the others did nothing for him. “Get help! Get a healer! Now! Ride for the city!”

“No need for that your grace.” Barristan’s blue eyes looked at him in a sad, knowing way. “Let them rest… just like I shall soon enough. It is mortal.”

“It’s not!” He protested but the knight took hold of his arm, squeezing it tightly.

“I’ve been in enough fights to know when a man is at his end. I shall die here… beside men who acted so nobly… this is a good death Jon. A good death.”

The sound of bells ringing stole Barristan’s attention. The clanging only grew louder as more bells joined in, a sign the rout here was not the only setback for their foe.

“Victory…” Barristan rasped, his eyes glistening in the light of day. “I cursed surviving that fight with the pirates… what a fool I was. The seven wanted me here. They wanted me here for this… to see the realm left in good hands. Rhaegar would be proud of you…”

“I did nothing, it was you.” Jon argued, willing Barristan to see the truth. “Let me help you, I’ll carry you myself, please ser. If only for Daenerys… you wanted to see her so…”

“I shall never make it so far.” Barristan inclined his head to where his hand now trembled on Jon’s arm. Willem came to stand with them, his face drawn and not a jest to be heard.

“Is there anything we can do?” He asked and Barristan began to shake his head when his face suddenly brightened. The old knight released Jon to lift Blackfyre up from where it lay across his lap. Jon feared the man meant to press it into his hands once more but he made to rise instead.

“Help me up ser… let me die on my feet… with a sword in my hands…”

Willem and Jon did as he asked, Barristan hooking an army around the knight’s shoulders and holding Blackfyre tightly with his other hand.

“Prince Jon, I must beg the right to one last act in service of the Iron Throne…”

“Anything.”

“I ask you to kneel your grace… to let me leave this world, doing as a knight should…”

Jon did as Barristan asked, feeling sick to his stomach when his knee sank into the earth wet with the knight’s blood. He showed no weakness though, not while Barristan looked down at him was something akin to pride.

“I have never knighted a prince… forgive me if I blush like a maiden…”

Willem snorted and Jon held back tears as Barristan set to performing the noble rites. He kept his head lowered, listening as Barristan’s words became weaker, watching how the knight’s legs shook and blood dripped down in front of him. It shamed Jon to feel the touch of the sword upon his shoulders.

The pride he felt at being named a knight washed away in the grief for the dead and dying.

“Rise your grace.” Barristan’s voice drifted down to him. “Rise Ser Jon Targaryen… knight of the realm… our white knight…”

Jon did rise, finding Barristan’s skin ghost white and his eyes glassy. Blackfyre began to slip from his grasp so Jon helped steady it there, holding Barristan’s hand. He joined Willem in holding the old knight, torn between squeezing him tightly and treating him with care. Barristan kept his eyes on the rising sun, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Does Daenerys come?” Barristan asked, squinting into the light but Jon saw none coming their way. “No… no… Ashara… Ashara… what are you doing here? My love…”

His legs gave out but Willem and Jon would not let him fall. Barristan's eyes moved between them as his voice grew weaker .

“Rhaegar… Arthur” His words but a whisper. “The tourney was grand but I feel tired… am I drunk?”

“You are.” Willem rasped. “Don’t worry though. We’ve got you…”

His words fell away and a tear broke free from Willem’s eyes as Barristan faced the dawn again. The bells continuing to ring within the city.

“The minstrels… Rhaegar… may I shall ask a dance… of Ashara?”

“Yes.” Jon answered, trying to feel numb to this but failing. “Go and dance with her. You do her great honor… a great knight like you… the greatest knight…”

Barristan’s head slumped forward then, his body limp and last breath lost to the breeze.

“A true knight.”

 

 

Chapter 19

Summary:

Power.

To wield it. To lose it. To be crushed beneath its weight.

DAENERYS

 

The throne room was bustling with every manner of courtier there could be.

Esteemed persons packed every bit of space they could with their finely garbed forms, a sea of silks and bright colors. Most acted happy, their conversations pleasant. Somehow, that filled Dany with a sense of unease. She took all this in from her place beside the Iron Throne, running her hands along its barbs, waiting to hear a scream or cry for help.

Not long ago she’d been looking down on a far different crowd, upon the huddled masses in the Dragon Pit. A place where terror was abundant and the need great. The fears of thousands had become her own. Their lives in her hands.

But that was the night of the battle, she reminded herself, come the dawn, the bells rang.

The bells rang and we were saved… some of us at least.

That thought bid her to tighten her grip on one of the melted blades of the throne. It was a foolish thing to do, the throne's sharp edges were known to cut those unworthy of sitting upon it. The blade was sharp yet when she pulled her hand away there was no blood.

The throne didn’t scorn me… it thinks me worthy of standing beside it at least…

None sat the throne now. The rightful king was far away but Aegon’s presence was felt all the same. In the days since the lifting of the siege word had come from Dorne and Aegon was clear in his wants. Such was why Cersei was relegated to a small chair beside to the throne, wearing a mask of false pleasantness.

Genuine excitement ran through the court as the grand doors far to the back of the throne room opened. Three men emerged from beyond, beginning a triumphant walk by the parted throngs of onlookers. Each as different from the other as could be.

Edmure Tully wore a blue and red tunic that bore the leaping trout of his family. The spotless garment hung over his gleaming plate, dented here and there from battle. The armor of the lord opposite Edmure showed no sign of battle whatsoever, though none could look at Mace Tyrell’s opulent form and believe him to be any true warrior. The most impressive thing about the Lord of Highgarden was the bright green cloak pinned to his shoulders by golden rose fastenings. It was so long it dragged on the floor behind him, sweeping everything clean in his wake.

And then there was Jon.

Where the other two were colorful and well-groomed Jon’s armor was black and damaged from fighting. The plate was covered in dents and scratches and its wearer did not look much better. There were the fresh cuts and bruises upon his face, older scars about his cheek. While Mace and Edmure strode proudly under the gaze of their admirers Jon marched in a determined manner, a solemn expression on his face. The older men had lands and castles to worry after yet it was Jon whose shoulders were so rigid he looked to carry the weight of the world upon them.

Or the weight of the realm soon enough, she thought, thank you Aegon, thank you for finally seeing what I do.

The three men arrived at the foot of the throne and it fell to her to descend to them. Cersei had refused to perform this honor and Dany would not let this go undone.

“Our heroes!” She proclaimed with a wide smile but with eyes only for Jon. “When we feared the worst, our king sent his best! Lord Mace Tyrell, Ser Edmure Tully, Prince Jon Targaryen. In the name of King Aegon the Sixth we proclaim you Saviors of the City!”

Dany kissed embraced each man in turn, kissing their cheeks as well. She kissed Jon last, if only so her lips could linger a little longer. They pressed against the winding scars about his cheek and she hoped he took heart they made no matter to her.

Sadly, Jon acted like he’d felt nothing at all.

No others noticed, Mace and Edmure too busy basking in the accolades heaped upon them by the crowd. It was well deserved of course, had their armies not arrived the city would certainly have fallen.

All rejoiced to learn Aegon had not abandoned the capital to the ravages of the Usurper. By rider and raven he’d set the reeling Tyrell force on to Stoney Sept where the river lords met them. Their march up the Blackwater had broken the rebel army, capturing many and scattering its remnants. Still, the victory was not theirs alone. Had Jon and his ghosts not joined the capital’s defense the reinforcements would have arrived to a sacked city.

When the Dragon Pit opened she had joined thousands in rejoicing at the ringing of the bells and basking in the bright morning light. When word came Jon’s men were riding in through the gates the crowd had surged there, calling out for ‘The White Prince.’ They praised him for saving the city, believing her lie that he’d led this grand army which now paraded through the streets. It was a mild thing to think on compared to how her heart nearly burst to see Jon upon his horse. He was filthy and battle worn, but alive. After their eyes met his drained features showed some life, out of the darkness came a flicker of light.

Just for her.

That was the good time, before the hurt that came soon after. But that was too much to think on now, not with the day’s events just beginning.  

Soon Grand Maester Gormon waddled forward to play his part, unfolding some parchment and drawing all attention to him. The Grand Maester declared to all that by Aegon’s royal decree both Mace and Edmure were to be named to the Small Council.

“Furthermore!” Gormon paused in a moment of apprehension. “King Aegon wishes his loyal brother, Prince Jon, to take up the position as Hand of the King!”

Cersei made a noise then but it was lost it in the cheer of Willem Royce. The knight was easy to spot, the only person in the crowd to raise his fists in the air and cheer for Jon. That was until Tess smacked her husband upside the head and he resorted to a more reserved clapping. Willem’s enthusiasm was lost on Jon, who closed his eyes at the announcement. When he opened them and saw Gormon presenting a familiar badge Jon cringed some.

He thinks himself unworthy. That the timing is offensive but that couldn’t be helped.

Aegon meant to replace Jon Connington, not insult the poor man’s memory.

Lord Connington was a brave man, unwavering in his loyalty to Rhaegar. When the rams hit the Gate of the Gods it was the Hand who led the sortie out to destroy them. A strategy full of risk yet one Connington led despite the dangers. A valiant deed which cost the Hand his life. Ser Mandon Moore was the only witness to the lord’s end, the Vale knight claiming Connington fell fighting no less than three sellswords at once. It was Ser Mandon who delivered the Hand’s bloodstained badge to Cersei after the battle.

By now it had been cleaned and polished but when Gormon made to pin it on Jon’s chest she interceded. It didn’t feel right for this man Jon barely knew to task him with such a role. After saying a silent prayer for Jon’s safety, she fastened the Hand’s badge herself. Her hand pressed upon his chest, their eyes locked together. He was unsure and she was there to guide him through. As it was meant to be.

Their moment could not last. Jon’s duties as Hand were to begin right away. While the Grand Maester and Jon’s fellow saviors took places of honor nearby the prince began the climb towards the Iron Throne. A part of her wanted to see Jon climb right up and onto the throne. Nothing had been right since Rhaegar had left it and Jon could change all that.

They could make things better. Together.

Of course Jon didn’t do so as she hoped, stopping midway up the stairs and facing the room once more, his hand resting on Blackfyre’s pommel.

“We three we did not fight alone.” His grey eyes challenging any to say differently. “Greater men than us made this victory possible. Men my father would want to see given the credit they deserve… more than we can offer. In King Rhaegar’s memory and King Aegon’s name, let me call them forth.”

And so he did. A mix of men of great status or greater deeds.

Garlan Tyrell, Mace’s second son, marched to the throne much like Jon had. A dashing knight, Garlan had led the vanguard in the battle and was responsible for breaking the last line of the Unsullied. Aegon was ignorant to all this but had written Garlan was to be granted lands and a title. Dany could only assume it was part of the payment for the Tyrell march.

Olyvar Frey and Harry Rivers were promised knighthoods for their bravery, a great boon for Jonos Bracken who was already petitioning for Harry to be legitimized. Lord Beric Dondarrion was then named the new Lord of Marches, Aegon’s reward for the marcher lord’s loyalty to the throne and a title clearly earned for his gallant deeds outside the Dragon’s Gate. Then it was Beric’s squire, Edric Dayne, who was summoned. The armor and warhorse of Ser Alyn Estermont, whom Edric had captured during the fighting, was given over to the young man. It hurt Dany to think if she’d kept Elara close she might be sharing in the sight of her cousin’s glory.

Ser Alliser Thorne’s jovial nature made up for all of that, the Red Keep’s master-at-arms had been sorely missed as his smile. He’d stayed at Stoney Sept to help guard against Lannister raiders and it was he who guided the reinforcements on their stealthy march to the capital. Lord Morrigen and his son Guyard fell to Alliser’s blade in the battle, the knight capturing the family’s heir as well.

“I need no reward.” Alliser waved an arm about the room. “I did my duty and it is good to be home. In the capital where I belong. Serving the throne again.”

“The throne needs you ser.” Jon answered. “Few are as experienced or know King’s Landing as well as you. Your teachings have molded many fine warriors in this castle, so now I must ask you to rebuild the capital’s guard. Ser Alliser Thorne, I name you Lord Commander of the City Watch.”

Alliser accepted the position with modesty and Dany watched Cersei shift uncomfortably in her seat. The knight supported Aegon after Joffrey attacked Bran and any hopes Cersei had for a more sympathetic commander were dashed now. She’d likely aspired to have her uncle, Gerion Lannister, take the position. Gerion, an amiable man, had arrived by sea with ten ships not a day after the battle, apparently under orders to spirit Cersei and her children away from danger. There was no sign of him now and Dany suspected Gerion was tending to another lion altogether. Not that Gerion’s presence today would have made a difference.

They needed a loyal man to replace Ser Jacelyn Bywater, who would be honored with a statue at the Dragon’s Gate. There were others Jon made to honor next, men who could not be brought forth. Richard Lonmouth and Tyrion Lannister chief among them. Both the knight and lord suffered grievous wounds late in the battle and now lay bedridden, much like another hero of the battle.

Robert Baratheon had left Ghost beaten and broken yet still breathing, praise the Seven. The Grand Maester acted put out to treat a lowly beast yet Dany and Jon would not to be denied. While Jon joined the hunt for the fleeing rebels she stayed by the poor animal’s side, petting its hurts away instead of seeing to her prince’s. It hurt how little she’d seen of Jon since his return. Much of the last few days he’d spent seeing to the care of his men, the city’s people, or even locked in private discussions with Edmure and Mace.

He acts as a prince should, Dany reminded herself, the realm needs Jon right now.

Whether he’s beside me when the grief comes or not, my tears fall all the same.

When Jon spoke Barristan’s name she blinked to hold back what threatened to come.

She had searched for Barristan among victors, confused not see him by Jon’s side. Barristan had gone to protect Jon instead of staying with her and they were meant to return together. It was a dagger in her stomach when she saw the wagon Jon and his men escorted. Barristan hated wagons and carriages, he’d always preferred the saddle. That had been her first thought upon seeing Barristan laying at rest within the wagon. The vision was blurred by tears soon after.

Dany struggled to put aside that pain, for she knew Barristan would want her to give the warrior approaching the throne all the attention she deserved.

Brienne surely suffered worse than her, the woman’s hurts plain to all. The lady warrior’s face was bandaged heavily and her one eye was swollen shut. She limped some and while others whispered to watch her passing nothing halted Brienne’s advance. Brienne did not so much as utter a gasp to kneel before her.

“Lady Brienne of Tarth.” Jon descended the steps to stand with Dany, surprising many by bowing to Brienne. “Few who fought Robert Baratheon lived to tell of it. The Usurper was a rebel and traitor but none can deny he was a warrior with few peers. Is it true you stood alone against him in the breech?”

“I did what I tasked to do.” Brienne answered, head lowered. “It was Ser Richard who bravely fought Robert first. I only took up the fight after… I could not defeat him-”

“Yet you fought him all the same. A battle Ser Barristan wished to wage himself. If all Daenerys says of you is true I cannot see Aegon denying the truth of your bravery. For fighting where others fled, for defying the Baratheon fury, let all know you as Brienne the Defiant! Lady of the Breech! The Mistress of Dawn!”

Surprised whispers moved through the crowd while Brienne blushed at Jon’s words. None had any idea what Daenerys planned next.

“That is not all.” She spoke up, breathing deeply. “The prince gives the lady all the titles she deserves but King Aegon has empowered me to task her with a duty.”

Dany looked to where Tess and Willem waited. The knight held a bundle in his arms, one bound in the black and red banner of the Targaryens. With a nudge from his wife the couple soon stood with them, Dany laying a hand upon the golden strings binding the banner, unlacing them gingerly.

“As far as the king knew the royal family here in the capital lacked a Kingsguard knight to defend us. He, like many, believed Barristan the Bold was lost long ago. Alas, our brave Ser Barristan did fall and a new Kingsguard must be named. Aegon entrusted me to raise up a new sworn shield.”

Brienne blinked in astonishment as Dany pulled aside the red and black cloth to display a cloak of pure white. Others began to grasp what was happening and few looked pleased yet she pressed on.

“I can think of none better to raise to the Kingsguard than the warrior Arthur Dayne entrusted to wield Dawn. The warrior Barristan Selmy tasked with protecting me in his absence. The warrior who stood tall against the Usurper himself! Lady Brienne of Tarth, I ask you to-”

“Stop this!” Cersei shouted, leaping up from her chair, her face as red as her gown. “Stop all this nonsense right now! A lady cannot be named to the Kingsguard!”

“According to whom?” Dany asked. “A Targaryen founded the Kingsguard. It is for Targaryens to choose their own sworn shields.”

“Your grace!” The Grand Maester quailed. “A lady among the Kingsguard? What of propriety? This is irregular!”

“It’s nonsense!” Cersei snapped. “It is an order of knights! The finest in the realm! You hold this freakish woman to be of the same quality as my brother? I won’t allow this-”

“Be silent!”

Jon’s command was so harsh that some ladies in the crowd gasped. Cersei’s eyes widened and fists clenched yet Jon did not look her way, preferring to address all present.

“The Princess of Dragonstone was not done speaking and it is she King Aegon has bequeathed this power to. If any wish to question the king’s wisdom they can do so when he sits this throne. We are here to defend Aegon’s reign are we not Lord Edmure?”

Edmure was caught off guard, glancing between Brienne and Jon. He looked unsure himself until his eyes moved to Cersei and his expression.

“I will see the king’s will be done.”

“Lord Tyrell?”

“Well, it’s quite unheard of…” Mace tapped on his chin nervously before Garlan whispered something in his ear. “But I am soon to call King Aegon a goodson! If he has the good taste to choose my little Margaery as a queen I defend his trust in the princess in this matter! Fully!”

However angry Cersei was she wasn’t ignorant to the power arrayed against her, nor the silence of others who might agree with her. Brienne paled and stared in disbelief when Dany affixed the cloak around her shoulders. The lady arose shakily yet refused Jon’s offer of help, immediately taking up a place to guard them.

All the announcements after that felt trivial in comparison and she was thankful when the grand audience ended. Rather than waiting for Dany, Jon sought to join Garlan, Edmure and several others in leaving the room in a hurry.

She was having none of that though, instantly making to follow with Brienne stubbornly insisting on coming with. Nor were they alone, for when she came to the corridor Jon’s group was walking down Willem made to bar her path.

“Princess!” The short knight bowed, gesturing to his approaching wife. “Is there something I could help you with? Jon’s a tad bit busy at the moment-”

“Doing what husband?” Tess raised an eyebrow and Dany took a step forward.

“Move aside ser, I have things I need speak to the Hand on and I’ve waited long enough.”

“Can’t it wait a little longer?” Willem scratched his head. “And could it be done in your chambers? The prince sort of tasked me with escorting you there.”

“He what?” She grew angry, narrowing her eyes at Jon’s shrinking back and wondering when he suddenly felt able to dictate her movements. “Well, Ser Willem, I will welcome your escort but not to my chambers. You shall deliver me to the Hand’s side. Brienne, if the knight does not clear our path, help him do so.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Willem then found himself being glared at by a princess, a Kingsguard and his lady wife. With a sigh the knight moved to let them pass, Tess forcing him to take her arm and lead the group after Jon at a brisk pace.

“I have decided I want another babe.” Tess spoke not too quietly. “I miss little Jon terribly and he’s likely to come back to us a man. A new babe would be a blessing, a daughter this time.”

“We’ll work on it, providing this Jon doesn’t kill me.”

Dany wished them all the best on that but her eyes were for the party of men just ahead of them. There were a number of riverlords with Jon and all had stopped while he looked to be giving orders to Beric and Alliser.

“-must avoid chaos this time. Ser, I need you to keep the gold cloaks in line. Beric secures the harbor. If any make trouble do not shed blood but put them in irons… Dany?”

The other men were put out for her party to arrive, none more so than Jon. Whatever they were discussing was something he clearly wanted kept from her. He shot a look to Willem who shrugged.

 “Jon.” She said simply. “Do not let me interrupt.”

“Actually I was finished.” Jon nodded to Beric and Alliser, who bowed and briskly took their leave. “Dany… Daenerys, if you could go to your rooms I’ll see you shortly. Trust me, after some things are settled I’ll come-”

“Barristan wrote much the same to me.” She countered. “I waited once before and he never came back. I brought half the men who held these walls before the relief came. I sat on the council meetings. I lost people too. Do not dare cut me out of things now. I will not sit idly by-”

“Alright… alright Dany.” Jon’s face softened, becoming more like the boy she’d once played with than the cold stranger who’d come back to her. “Edmure, Garlan, it appears we shall have some company in this.”

“Is that wise?” Edmure asked. “There could be trouble.”

“Trouble?” She shot back. “Had I heeded wisdom back on Dragonstone when this city was in trouble not one of you would have found a capital to rescue.”

Edmure’s mouth hung open speechlessly while Garlan smirked and Jon did his best not to. The prince then bid Edmure and all the riverlords to depart as well, all apparently having secret tasks as well. When Jon took her arm in his she tried not to feel annoyed that this simple touch was a luxury for them. Almost a year since Winterfell and it still it felt right to be at Jon’s side.

As they continued on the others gave them a wide berth. It felt they could have been at Winterfell again, Jon leading her to the feast and her mind alive with hopes.

“Aegon chose well.” She whispered to him. “You’ve been Hand less an hour but any I’d say you’ve acted one since the moment the battle ended. You wield power with ease Jon.”

“Edmure or Mace would have been better choices.” His arm tensed some. “I only took the position so I can do what I must. The capital has to be set to rights before I can bring justice to Winterfell. The sooner these lands are secure the sooner I can sail for the North and help my family.”

“Leave? So soon?”

She had not considered Jon would even think to leave. The last they’d heard Robb Stark and his northmen were advancing on Winterfell. The might of the North rallying against Viserys and it was likely her brother could already be in chains, Roslin and Sansa rescued.

“Jon, the troubles facing the realm cannot be dealt with quickly. The rebels were defeated but not all have stood down. What of the ironmen attacking the Reach?”

“Until I hear differently the Reach is not my concern.” Jon looked behind them to where Garlan spoke with Brienne. “Viserys is a rebel and a murderer, he needs to be dealt with. The Redwyne fleet is battling the ironmen and Dorne is on the march. It’s for Aegon to help Highgarden. That’s where his bride his.”

“And Winterfell is where Sansa is.” She said before thinking and Jon was clearly disappointed.

“Winterfell is where I’ll find Arya’s murderer… if you think to beg mercy for Viserys-”

“Of course not.” She felt vile admitting to that but not so horrible that she could forgive the murderer of little Arya Stark. “Arya was a sweet girl and I know what she meant to you. Viserys must be punished but must it be done by you? You were just made Hand and Jon Connington’s hold over the realm was weakened when he left.”

“I’ve heard.” Jon turned suddenly, leading them out into the courtyard and towards the Maidenvault. “Barristan told me much and more. Of how Rhaenys and Cersei’s feuding led to young boys being maimed and fighting breaking out in this castle. I won’t let that kind of thing happen again. I won’t be a fool and trust so easily. To stay blind to the threats in our midst. None will have the chance to hurt you like they did…”

Jon’s words fell away and his hand moved over hers squeezing it in a tender way. It felt so right to do yet something was wrong. He was speaking of treachery yet his eyes were full of hurt. Only one of those feelings made sense when she realized where he was leading them. They passed the Maidenvault to continue right on to the Red Keep’s sept, where a score of armed men were waiting.

Chief among them was Olyvar Frey, Harry Rivers, and a tall, muscular man whose face was pale and brow covered in sweat. Coal black hair was plastered on his forehead as he made to bow.

“Gendry.” Jon frowned. “You are meant to be abed.”

“I couldn’t stay put any longer… and I’ve no place left to go but your side my prince.”

“Gendry?” Dany asked, the name sounding familiar. “The Blackfish told me Barristan escaped Harrenhal because of a brave man named Gendry. Were you my dear knight’s savior?”

“I wish it was so.” Gendry answered sadly, glancing towards the sept. “I was only his squire princess, not much of one either…”

“You sound braver than many knights I’ve known. Or at least as well armed.”

She gestured to the sword on Gendry’s hip and how the other men appeared ready for a fight. Gendry looked to Jon who refused explanation for the moment, instead questioning Olyvar on the sept's occupants.

“They’re in there.” Olyvar nodded. “Haven’t had a chance to tell the ser what’s about to happen. Neither of them have moved in days.”

“It’s time we make our move then.” Willem said, gently nudging Tess away and Jon tried to slip his arm free of hers. She wouldn’t allow it though, not with them about to enter the sept. Not with what awaited her there.

The seven-sided building was a lovely thing. Light streamed down from the crystal windows built high on its walls. At different times of the day different altars would be illuminated but now the sun fell upon the body they found at rest within. At the center of the sept, laying upon an ornate slab and dressed in his white armor, was Barristan Selmy. He looked a knight then, the silent sisters having bathed him and his armor polished so that it almost hurt the eyes to look at. Nothing could make Barristan’s face seem as lively and warm as it had once been.

She’d come to pay her respects several times already and it was always a trial to accept Barristan was gone. When she’d been a little girl her knight would sometimes play at being asleep at his post for her amusement. Dany would come and kiss his hand to wake him each time and his blue eyes would always open as if in a daze, then widen like she was the most beautiful maiden in the whole world.

His eyes won’t open for me now, she lamented, I kissed that hand half a hundred times when he came through the gates.

Barristan will not wake from this rest. Not even for me. May his rest be peaceful.

Barristan was certainly well guarded. Two men stood silent vigil over the fallen knight. Brynden Tully looked a shadow of his former self. There were dark circles below his eyes and his expression was as dark as the sigil on his tunic. He’d spent every moment since Barristan’s body was returned at its side. The only other who could claim such devotion was the Kingsguard knight standing at the other end of the altar. Jaime Lannister wore white armor as well, his golden hand glinting in the light as he held his sword in place. Dany saw none of Cersei’s disdain on her twin’s face, only a look of genuine mourning. It touched her that these two men had spent days like this, Barristan could ask for no finer company.

That was when Jon finally broke free from her grasp, a hand on Blackfyre as he stepped forward.

“Jaime Lannister.” He spoke hoarsely, causing both knights to raise their eyes. They looked surprised to see so many within the sept, Jaime’s eyes narrowing on the weapons.

“Have you come to join our vigil? You’re new to being a knight but there’s no better time to act one.”

“Do not speak to me of acting a knight.” Jon’s sword hand flexed. “Ser Barristan was a true knight and I’d have better watching over him than the likes of you.”

“Jon.” She admonished him, shocked when men began to fan out, surrounding the altar and the knights. Jaime nodded some as if he understood but Blackfish grew irate.

“What is this?” He growled. “Show some respect. This is Barristan Selmy lying here. Barristan Selmy!”

“I apologize ser.” Jon shook his head. “But your nephew brought Jaime Lannister here to do more than help in the fight. This man stands accused by Lady Catelyn Stark of taking part in a conspiracy that nearly killed her son Robb. An act of sabotage meant for me but befell my cousin.”

“The tourney?!” Dany remembered the tourney well then, how she’d been thankful the accident hadn’t happened while Jon was riding. “You’re saying he did that?”

“I didn’t.” The knight ignored the men surrounding him, speaking only to Jon. “Lady Stark knows I didn’t.”

“But you know who did.” Jon answered. “And who ordered it to be done. Drop your sword ser. Rickon’s life is owed to you so trust me when I say no harm will come to if you come quietly.”

“And if I don’t?” He asked shifting his stance so that Brienne drew up beside Dany.

“Then I claim your gold hand.” Willem said. “I’d feel like a king to wipe my arse with it.”

“You can try-” Jaime’s threat was cut off by the Blackfish deftly laying a blade across his throat. All were surprised at how swiftly the older man moved, none more so than the Lannister.

“Not here.” Brynden spoke firmly, inclining his head to Barristan’s body. “You will not profane his rest or the Kingsguard vows in his presence. You will not.”

The golden knight swallowed as he looked to Barristan himself. He closed his eyes and then released his sword, which went clattering to the ground. Jon had Olyvar and Harry Rivers take hold of the knight and three more men join their number just to be sure.

“Confine him to chambers in the White Sword Tower. Perhaps its hallowed memory will resurrect some honor in him… begone Kingslayer.”

“I paid for that.” Jaime shook his head as he passed. “I did my penance. I saved you boy. Don’t do what I think. Don’t give my father reason… hey, why is that wench wearing a Kingsguard cloak?”

“She earned it.” Dany answered, seeking explanation from Jon who obliged her as they departed the sept.

By the time they’d journeyed through the castle to the small council chambers Dany was caught up on all the Starks and Tullys had discovered about the events of the tourney. More importantly, she now knew who to blame.

They found Ser Meryn Trant and two Lannister guardsmen standing at the doors of the council chambers. Willem and Brienne were their only escorts at the moment and they stayed without as Jon and Dany walked right into the chambers. The door was only just shutting as she heard the footfalls of many more marching down the hall.

Within Varys, Mace Tyrell, and Edmure awaited them, the two lords whispering in the corner of the room while Cersei sat at the head of the table with a goblet of wine in her hand. It took a strength Dany didn’t know she had to hold back from attacking the woman right there.

“The Hand graces us with his presence.” Cersei glowered Jon’s way before locking on Dany. “What were his hands busy with I wonder?”

“Arresting your twin.” She said as the sounds of a scuffle erupted from back in the hall. “Your guards as well, just to be safe.”

“What?!” Cersei jerked in her chair, her nails digging into the table. “You’ve arrested Jaime? By what right? What crime is he accused-”

“He’s being detained as a witness.” Jon walked on down the table towards her. “A witness I intend to call in your trial. Cersei Lannister, you stand accused of treason and sabotage against House Stark. As Hand of the King, I place you under arrest.”

“You dare?” Cersei shot to her feet. “Some up jumped bastard means to imprison a Lannister of Casterly Rock? I am Rhaegar’s wife, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and-”

“You were!” Jon faced her then, taking a couple threatening steps towards Cersei and meeting her gaze eye to eye. “You were the king’s wife. You were the queen. None of that changes what you are now. A selfish, cruel, vicious woman who will answer to the new king’s justice.”

“King?” Cersei laughed. “That boy won’t protect you when my father hears of this. Aegon already hides in Dorne! He turned his back on the throne!”

“If any are experts on hiding it is Tywin Lannister.”

Cersei’s arm was already moving when Dany made to warn Jon but there was no need. He caught her strike with one hand and yanked the woman so close green eyes burned into grey.

“I told you once before not to touch me. Now I’ll spare the realm your evil as well. Guards!”

Cersei was spitting venom and threats as she was led away, clawing and scratching at the men. Varys acted faint at the sight while Mace looked the other way. She wondered how they reacted when Jon outlined his plans for seizing the city. Right now Ser Alliser’s command of the gold cloaks was being back by thousands of Tyrell and Tully soldiers. Beric Dondarrion was seizing the harbor and Gerion Lannister was being informed of the charges against his niece. Myrcella and Tommen were already under guard and the Red Keep firmly in Jon’s control.

The Hand became a fist. The capital is in his grasp. Jon hasn’t just come home, he’s seized it.

When Jon asked for a moment alone with her his tone was cold and not be questioned.

“The city might riot.” Jon spoke, moving to look out the window at the scores of guardsmen now lining the battlements. “When they hear a prince has locked up a queen…”

“They won’t.” She took his arm in her hands. “Cersei is despised by the smallfolk. Rhaegar and Aegon were always first in their hearts. Now it’s your name they cheer Jon. When they hear what she tried to do to you, they’ll shout for justice.”

“It’s not about me, it’s about what happened to Robb. Father brought Cersei into Winterfell and Robb almost died. I let Oswell bring Bran to the capital so that’s my fault too… and Viserys… the Starks suffer because of me. I have to make it right and I can’t do that if…”

Jon kept his eyes focused on anything except her yet she felt his fingers tug at her gown some.

“I want you to take Myrcella and Tommen to Dragonstone. If you are safe I can do what needs to be done here and head North. I have to know you’re safe Dany, I have to so please…”

“Stop.”

She took hold of Jon’s face then. His bruised and battered face. He didn’t fight her as her fingers caressed his cheeks, tracing the antler like scar above his left cheek.

“No. No, I can’t.” Dany put a finger to his lips. “Jon, I’ve lost too much. If you mean to take on Cersei and the Lannisters there’s much I can do. I can’t leave you though, not to do all this on your own. This war is not over. New fighting begins as we speak. It could last for years and we should outlast it together, like we always did. The two of us together.”

“You don’t understand.” He closed his eyes and grabbed her hands, a slight tremble in his touch. “Every time I try and lead… to do the right thing… good people die. I lost father, Thoros, now Barristan… Dany what if it’s you next? I abandoned the Starks because I couldn’t bear to lose you, don’t ask me to do that again… please…”

Jon wasn’t weeping but his strength was faltering, his shoulders were slumped and when he leaned forward she welcomed him. Dany pulled his head down into the crook of her neck and held him tight. Trying to make up for all the times he’d needed her and she’d hid safely behind some castle walls.

“We’ll keep each other safe.” She whispered. “Wherever you go I’ll go too. Let us help the Starks together. You love them and I owe that family so much. We’ll do right by them… Aegon said he would. I can’t let them have you though. I won’t…”

They held each other, arguments and secrets set aside in that moment. Months of pain and loss should have been overflowing yet having Jon in her arms made her feel strong enough to bear it. He raised his head to press his brow against hers and they stayed like that. Silent and unmoving, locked in an embrace beyond lust or love.

They needed each other then.

It ended when the Grand Maester knocked on the council doors. Jon had asked not to be disturbed yet his guards had let the maester pass anyway. The man was clutching parchments and his expression dour enough to make her fearful.

Perhaps the rebels have been able to reform. Or some ill has befallen Aegon in the south.

The fates were far crueler. For once more she was spared and Jon was made to suffer.

“We’ve had word from the North.” The Grand Maester looked between two parchments. “From Stannis Baratheon of the Night's Watch… and Lady Barbrey Dustin.”

“It would be good if Lord Edmure could be summoned to write to his sister at Riverrun.”

“To offer the crown’s condolences...”

 

EDDARD

 

“Come on Wyl, we’ll be home soon. Just keep moving.”

“Yes m-m’lord…” Wyl’s weak reply came through chattering teeth, the young guardsman limping on through the snow and putting more weight on Ned’s shoulder.

He was doing his best to carry Wyl’s weight while holding out a burning torch with his free hand. The torch’s flames guided them through the dark wood and protected him from the horrors they all knew to be out there. Heward waved his torch back and forth before him as he led their way forward. Jory followed behind Ned, his flame pointed directly back the way they’d come.

A quick glance showed nothing but the darkened shapes of trees and pitch black all around. The Haunted Forest was well named, for all four men strained their eyes in search of the evil that came calling every night. No matter how quickly they moved or fiercely they fought, the monsters always came.

“Any sign of them?” He asked Jory and his old friend shook his head, hand on his sword and torch moving through the air.

“Not yet… maybe they got sick of the chase. Might be this is our lucky night my lord.”

We can only hope, he thought, that’s all we have now, hope… and we can’t eat hope.

Gods grant us some food or horses… some chance to save these men... to do some good here…

Weeks now it had been like this. Ever since he learned the truth behind Old Nan’s tales. Tales of monsters the old woman had scared his children with. Tales so old she had used them to frightened him as a child as well. Those childhood nightmares were distant memories though, paling to the terror he now felt as a man grown.

For his nightmares had come true.

Their victory over the wildlings had still been fresh in his men’s minds when the monsters came. Ned and his bannermen felt confident during their hunt of what was left of the wildling army. Days they chased the remnants, this way and that, just never north. The pursuit led them to a ruined camp near a weirwood grove where hundreds of bodies lay torn to shreds or burned horribly. The strangest part was how rotted some were, like the wildlings had been dragging long dead corpses along with them.

“A trick.” The Greatjon had declared. “Those prisoners we took went on and on about wights and White Walkers. The fools are desperate enough to use their dead to try and frighten us away.”

“Not just their dead.” Willam was the one to point out those bodies that were out of place. Men in rotted away black cloaks of the Night’s Watch. “Why carry about the black brothers? To hide the fact they’ve been killing Stannis’s outriders? We already knew that…”

In the end they’d remained ignorant to the true threat. A camp was thrown up and staked around its edges, the Greatjon led the van to secure a nearby ridge. Thank the gods Ned had the wisdom to order that done.

The night had been bitter cold, as close to winter as could be, the chill creeping into his bones. He remembered cursing it as he made to bed down when the horns blew. They must have had men of the Night’s Watch on the perimeter for the horns sounded three times. He knew full well what three blasts meant, as did many others. That’s why he found men laughing outside his tent, as if it could only be a jest.

All the laughter died away when it became clear a great number of foes were surrounding their position. At first Ned thought the wildlings had stole a march on them but he was only half right. It was mostly wildlings who came at them, just not the living kind. Thousands of blue-eyed corpses spilled out the woods, a frost-covered horde of dead men, women, and children. There were black brothers and northmen among their number, bodies buried after the last battle and some dragged shrouds with them. Dead beasts came as well, rotting wolves and snow bears, some even screamed of giants.

Not long after it had all become screaming.

They were ten thousand men, victors of a great battle and all having seen at least one winter. Yet nothing prepared Ned or his men for what came at them. He sent his men this way and that with swords and spears at the ready. Willam and Rickard Karstark rallied the horse while Halys Hornwood and Galbart Glover formed ranks of spearmen where their foes came on thickest.

The flaming arrows dropped some but thousands more followed after. They overran the stakes at the other end of camp first. A great roar of opposition coming from the men there, a sound soon replaced by shouts of terror and cries of agony. The whole camp soon rang with mayhem and Ned saw grown men weeping in fear. Blades and spears meant nothing against the flesh of the dead. He saw Theo Wull use his axe to cleave a shambling wreck of wildling nearly in two only for the creature to reach out and tear his friend’s throat out in return.

Ned himself cut away the head of black brother with Ice yet still had to retreat when the wight rose headless to continue his assault. The flow of dead men was so relentless the camp was cut in two within an hour. That was when retreat became the only option. He might have felt ashamed to order his men to run if it wasn’t the best chance for saving their lives. He gave the command for every man with a horse to ride in a wedge straight through the thinnest part of the encirclement.

“We’ll never make it!” Heward shouted. “There’s too many of them!”

“Then we’ll die trying!” Ned had answered, collecting hundreds of riders about him. “The riders will clear a path! Those afoot follow close behind! Any that makes it through! Head to the Fist! Regroup at the Fist!”

“What about the others?” Willam rode forth upon his red stallion, glancing to the part of camp cut off by the masses of wights. “Ned that’s half our-”

“I’m going to lead a charge to them.” He’d said, holding up a hand to Willam’s protests. “You and Jeor get these men out of here! I won’t leave the rest! If you make it through send riders straight to Stannis! Warn him! Warn Robb! Go Willam!”

“Ned!” His friend had tried to argue but Ned would not hear it.

He waited long enough to hear Jeor sound the retreat and watch Willam lead the desperate battle to escape the encirclement. Ned then led a charge of his own, rallying the Stark riders to him with torches raised high and riding hard at the wights already in the camp. When they hit the dead ranks Ned’s blood ran cold and his flesh crawled to feel dead hands clawing at him as his horse. The lucky ones simply rode over the wights, but there was little luck among their number. Wights pulled down many, tearing flesh asunder and filling the air with screams of man and beast. The other side of the camp had been chaos when they arrived. Halys Hornwood’s head was knocked clear from his body by a rotting snow bear. Medger Cerwyn had his innards torn out by the gnarled hands of a child missing half his face.

All of that was a blur to Ned, faces twisted in terror, glowing blue eyes, swords flashing, bodies burning.

And the screaming.

Had the Greatjon’s men not come rushing out of the trees Ned doubted any in that fight would have survived. A new target was distraction enough to open a few gaps in the wight horde. Ned led one of the many groups that escaped through those gaps but he never got the chance to thank the Greatjon. Nor see how many of his bannermen escaped the wights.

Their enemy gave chase almost immediately, scattering the survivors in all directions. Ned was forced to lead the men with him north for a time, riding up and down his line to urge the survivors onward. Any who fell behind were soon to be heard regretting the decision as the monsters took their due. The first morning after the attack Ned had more than a hundred men with him and fifteen horses. All that was left to him of an army. Men he was determined to get home.

As Ned glanced about at the three men left to him his stomach opened into a great pit, and not due to the great hunger he felt.

Almost a month later and this is all that’s made it, he lamented, four out of a hundred… for all I know it’s four out of ten thousand… they could all be dead.

Dead and risen, coming for the rest of us.

“It’s getting colder.” Wyl spoke fearfully, eyes darting to the woods around. “They’re coming… they’re coming.”

“They aren’t.” He grunted to move the limping guard along. “It’s cold but not the cold we need fear. Not yet at least. So we must keep moving Wyl. That’s a good man.”

“Don’t leave me m’lord.” Wyl begged of him, his young eyes wide and skin pale. “I know I’m slowin’ you up but please… not again…”

“Gods Wyl.” Heward frowned back at them. “We’re not going to leave you. We’ll cook you and eat you before we do that.”

“That’s not funny Hew! You know it ain’t!”

“Shut up.” Jory commanded. “The both of you. Hew you’re supposed to be finding us shelter and Wyl, if you’ve got the strength to complain, you needn’t be burdening our lord so. We’re Stark men and it’s Lord Eddard we’re supposed to be protecting in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I’m sorry Lord Stark.” Wyl chattered but Ned shook away the apology.

“No need Wyl. Your blades defend me, the least I can do is shoulder some of the load.”

“Ah Wyl’s not that bad.” Jory added. “No need to be calling him a load.”

That gave rise to a few chuckles from the Heward and Wyl, Ned himself sending a tired grin his friend’s way. As heavy as Wyl felt to hold he spoke truly, it was burden he was willing to bear after everything the young guardsman had been through. Wyl had only joined their party about halfway through their trials. After the battle at the grove Wyl travelled with Alyn and another group of survivors led by Smalljon Umber and Wylis Manderly. Sadly, like Ned, they were plagued by the nightly attacks too, the wights and ice spiders driving anywhere but south. Wyl claimed half their men were gone by the time they reached the Antler River.

“Two days we went without any attacks.” Wyl told them when they tended the wound in his leg. “Alyn thought we was in the clear. That the Old Gods finally heard our pleas… well I don’t know what they heard from us but I remember hearing the hounds.”

The hounds. As soon as Wyl spoke to them Ned thought of Ramsay Snow. Roose Bolton had fathered a dutiful, decent young man in Domeric. The same could not be said for his natural son. It wasn’t the foul-smelling simpleton or vicious hounds Ramsay kept about him that bothered Ned. Rather it was something in how the bastard grinned at the corpses of the wildling dead after the battle against Mance, or how Willam caught him feeding the bodies of slain women to his dogs.

Such was why he’d sent Ramsay, his hounds and all the rest of the Bolton men south with Stannis. So it surprised him when Wyl swore it was Ramsay and thirty or so Bolton riders that found his party camped near the river. Wyllis thought they’d been rescued, the Manderly heir heaping praise upon Ramsay when he made to shake this hand.

“The bastard laughed.” Wyl had spoken through gritted teeth. “He laughed when Ser Wyllis did that. He kept on laughing when he drove his boot right into the ser’s face.”

What came next was a slaughter. Ramsay’s men tore into the survivors just as the hounds did. Crossbows cut down some, spears and swords more, the unprepared defenders had no chance. The massacre there might have gone unknown had the smoke from campfires brought Ned and the others straight to it. They saw no living among the grisly remains of the dead until Wyl gave a cry. Hidden away beneath the bodies of several others, they found the young guardsman with a crossbow bolt through his leg and a dark tale to tell.

Throughout the butchery Wyl heard Ramsay commanding the others to take the Smalljon and Wyllis taken captive. That any highborn must be taken prisoner. All the rest put to the sword. Or worse.

Alyn had suffered a horrible fate. Ned had known him for years but when Wyl pointed to his ruined corpse he saw no sign of his faithful guard. Only what the hounds had left behind. Ramsay’s punishment for a noble deed.

“He tried for Ramsay.” Wyl eulogized his comrade. “Alyn ran right at him, screaming your name m’lord. They netted him long before he got to the bastard. Then Ramsay set the hounds on him… I couldn’t save him. I’m a coward I am but I swear I couldn’t…”

Ned understood, just Jory and Heward had but likely not for the same reasons. They were too loyal to put the blame for all this where it belonged.

It wasn’t Wyl that failed Alyn, it was me. I led him here. Him and the hundreds of others.

Your instincts warned you. I sensed something wrong with Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow and I set them free from my grasp.

In my bones I felt a threat growing in these lands, the cold crept deeper in them each night and I ignored it. Told myself it was just the wildlings… or my worries about leaving Robb and the others for so long…

Cat and the babe…

The thought of his wife tugged at Ned’s faltering strength. Their endless trek through the wilderness seemed more hopeless with each passing moment. They had no food left to speak of, their boots were half rotted away so they couldn’t even eat that meager meal. That the others hadn’t turned on him marked them as uncommon men. In truth, Ned would’ve given up on himself a long time ago if not for his family.

While thinking of Cat weakened him it also drove Ned on. He had to get south for her. For their children. He had to get home.

Gods Cat I hate knowing you’re so far but the south is safest for you now. The wildlings were one thing but the North isn’t near ready for the return of the Others.

I have to get home. I have to warn Robb. I’ve no idea what Roose is up but it can’t end here… and I left Domeric with Robb. With my girls.

I have to get home.

I have to get home.

He repeated that to himself with each step. Every struggling footfall in the snow and stumble over root and rock, he willed himself to take another. To find the strength to carry Wyl along with him. It was thoughts of Cat and home that he focused on until Heward stopped midstride and lowered himself to the ground.

“The tracks.” The guardsmen pointed to the snow-covered ground.

“Wights?” He asked but Heward shook his head, confusion etched across his face.

“No, no, an elk. A big one at that.”

“We have no bow to hunt it with.” Jory grumbled while Ned’s stomach did the same. “And no time to be chasing an elk through this black hell-”

“I know, it’s not that.” Heward looked to the darkness ahead of them. “I mean I didn’t say anything at first but I’ve been following it for awhile now. This elk is heading south, just like us, and well, I hoped it would be staying clear of monsters too. Anyways the beast has kept us clear of thickets, downed trees and boulders…”

“The trail has been easier.” He agreed, leading Wyl up to Heward’s side, to seek the tracks the man spoke of. Yet when he gazed down he found the hoof prints no longer led south but veered off to the east suddenly.

“Do you see it m’lord?” Heward asked, raising an eyebrow. “It’s been heading south all night and then just, bam, straight east. It’s a fool thing to think on, I know, but… well… should we follow?”

“It’s an elk Hew.” Wyl shook his head. “Not a woodsman. The Wall’s south and for all we know he smelt a lady elk.”

“There are no lady elks.” Heward argued. “They’re all just elks. It’s not like there’s a lord elk and lady elk of House Elk.”

“You know what I mean! Why do you have to be such a shit-”

“We follow.” Ned said firmly, ending the debate between the men. It was a foolish thing to do but he would not ignore his instincts again. “Just in case this beast knows something we don’t. We follow until it makes little sense to do so.”

Truly it made little sense to begin with but none argued and soon they were stumbling through the trees and snow once more. There was still hours left until dawn and he hoped wherever this elk travelled it might lead them to some dry wood. They would need new torches before the night was out. The one in Ned’s hand was burning only half as brightly as it had been.

Ned was straining his eyes to search the snow for any sign of decent kindling when the torchlight flickered. That alone didn’t set him on edge. What sent his hair to standing on end was the cold wind that moved over the torches and men both. With it came a deep, biting chill that he recognized all too well.

Jory did too, his captain stopping in his tracks and jerking around to face the breeze.

“My lord.” Jory pointed his faltering torch out into the night. “To the rear… it’s coming up behind us.”

“Move.” Ned took a firm grip of Wyl. “Move!”

They did not need to be told a third time. Heward cursed and moved to Wyl’s other side, the two of them doing their best to run while carrying the limping guardsman. Wyl gasped in pain and fear yet fought on, hopping on his good leg and even pressing the bad one down once and again. Jory could have outpaced them easily but refused Ned’s command to run ahead, stubbornly staying to their rear.

“I lost the tracks!” Heward’s words came out as cloud of mist. “We’re running blind!”

“Just keeping running! That’s all we need to do!” Ned answered, painfully aware of just how cold the forest was getting around them. “Dawn’s not far off, keep moving and we’ll see it!”

He prayed his lies were less obvious than the crunching of the snow at their feet. Its soft nature was succumbing to the coming evil and freezing hard, a warning of what as to come. Of monsters that would do far worse to them if they did not hurry.

They kept up that impossible pace for what seemed like an eternity. His lungs were burning and his legs felt heavy and wooden when he fell for the first time. Perhaps without the weight of Ice across his back and the strain of carrying Wyl he’d have lasted longer but he would not abandon his men. Jory helped him up then and took his place carrying Wyl. Their flight began again but their steps became shakier, the path more treacherous, and each time one fell they rose slower than before.

Their terror grew as all trace of warmth was stolen from the world. Ned’s torch flickered out and Heward’s looked ready to do the same. Sweat froze upon his face just like Wyl’s tears became ice upon his. When Jory stumbled on a root and wrenched his foot badly his pained cry gave voice to all their fears.

Ned was helping him up when Heward drew his sword and gave a shout.

“They come!” The guardsman pointed into the darkness behind.

For half a moment Ned believed Heward was wrong. He could see something moving through the brush and snow but the dark shape did not look to be any wight. It was far too large and the plodding steps betrayed a horse.

Wights don’t ride horses… men do… friend of foe we’ll face better odds against men than…

He swallowed a cry when the horse and rider broke free from the brush. Snow brushed lightly off the branches of the bushes and its soft landing upon the ground was the only sound to be heard then. The horse was silent, no breaths coming forth from the creature. Its fine red coat was covered in frost, its frozen innards dragged on the ground from where they’d fallen out an ugly hole in its middle. He stumbled some to recognize the beast. Once it had been the finest mount in their army. The best horse in the whole North or so its owner never ceased to boast. 

Yet Willam was nowhere to be seen now. His horse had a new rider now.

A tall, gaunt-looking creature, with flesh as pale as milk and eyes that glowed a blue so cold they seemed to burn. Its armor shimmered in the air, reflecting the dark world around them and the terrified faces of Ned and his men.

“Oh fuck it’s one of them.” Wyl fumbled to pull his place. “It’s a White Walker… oh gods…”

“Be away from here!” Jory bellowed at the creature, raising his sword and torch both. “Come no closer to my lord demon lest you seek your end!”

The Other regarded them for a moment, its burning eyes moving across the men like a tanner selecting which horse to cull. When its gaze set upon the challenge Jory offered the captain stiffened. With an inhumane grace the White Walker was off the horse and on the ground. It made not a sound as it did so, nor as it glided across the snow towards Jory. The razor thin sword in its hand glowed a faint blue and it appeared sharp to the touch.

While Jory limped to meet the attack Ned was having none of it.

“To my back Jory.” He said as reached behind him and drew Ice free from its scabbard, walking right by his captain and straight at the foe.

“Ned no! Let me-”

“Watch my back!” Ned hefted the greatsword about to threaten the Other. “You’ll try the Stark blade before you have at any more of our men!”

The creature halted its advance, staring at Ice’s Valyrian steel like many others did the first time they saw it. Somehow Ned didn’t think the White Walker was admiring its craftsmanship. In the time it took him to consider the Other’s pause the thing struck, in a blink of an eye it was close enough to slice at his head. He pulled away and swung his blade in return but cut through nothing but air as the Other slide backwards before drifting around his right.

He cut at it again causing a stab meant for his middle to go wide, the thin blade slicing his cloak into ribbons.

It’s fast… it’s too damn fast but wary too… Ice gives it pause….

Again the Other came at him yet refused to meet his greatsword, dodging left in a blur when Ned made to defend. His only hope was to keep his sword between them and for a few more steps he did. Yet he just wasn’t fast enough to keep up with the White Walker’s inhumane pace. After a fumbled step he could only watch as the creature slid around to his back.

Cat… Cat... my love…

The deathstroke he expected to pierce his back never came, for Jory did as he was told.

“Winterfell!” Jory roared as he came at the Other with torch and sword.

His blade clashed against the White Walker’s, an otherworldly sound coming forth from their meeting. When Jory made to shove the torch in the creature’s face it slashed at the flames, a strange screeching filling their ear when the blade touched the fire.

Jory winced and fell back from the sound but that was all Ned needed. The Other was fast but the distraction bought him the time he needed. The masterfully forged steel of Ice reflected in the White Walker’s armor as it drew closer, its reach too wide for its target to move aside in time. The sword sliced into the Other’s middle, cutting clean through its armor and whatever lay within it and out the other side.

Another screech erupted from the Other as its blade fell from its grasp and it set to trembling. The sound went on and on as its milky flesh began to melt away before their eyes. The creature’s armor and bones melted too, the Other disappearing before their eyes until it left only an icy puddle in its wake.

Ice steamed in the air as he and Jory shared a look of astonishment.

“They can be killed.” He muttered, tightening his grip on the sword. “We can kill them… they can be beaten-”

“M’lord!” Wyl screamed, Heward spinning about to face the darkness.

His heart fell to see the dark shapes gathered about the four in all directions. During his duel with the Other more creatures had come upon them. He spotted no less than three White Walkers moving through the trees, more wights shuffling closer with each passing moment.

“Take the wights!” He urged desperately, lifting Ice to threaten the Others’ approach. “Leave the White Walkers to me! We move back! Put our backs to the trees-”

The sound of ice cracking filled the night and he swore it came from the Others. They stopped their advance and one pointed its blade towards him, the strange cracking sound coming again. That was when things changed and the wights suddenly changed direction. All of them marching straight at him. The White Walkers moving towards Wyl and Heward.

“No! Come at me you monsters!” He cursed the evil things as a corpse bearing a Hornwood tunic lurched at him, reaching for his throat with its remaining arm.

He chopped that arm away but was driven back all the same. Whatever power Ice had against the Others it did little to the wights. Jory fared better, putting a dead brother of the Night’s Watch to flame with his torch and fighting to stay at Ned’s side. Heward and Wyl had no chance to do the same, two White Walkers now circled the men with their razor blades.

“Leave them!” He kicked at another blue-eyed wight and cut another’s head clean off to try and make his way to the others. “I killed your kind! Leave them alone! Leave them!”

“Winterfell!” Wyl slashed at the Other nearest him. “For Winterfell!”

“Fucking monsters!” Heward added his voice as his blade deflected a cut. “I won’t be one of those undead things! I won’t!”

Jory was forced to abandon his fight against the wights to face the Other now coming for him. His captain did Ned proud, dodging strikes and giving back just as well as he got. Two wights blocked the view of his men’s battles, the sounds of steel clashing against the Other’s blades drowned out what he should have heard coming.

A moment later his leg exploded in pain. His screams echoing through the night, the spearpoint jutting up and out of his leg set his mind aflame. All that pain paled to when the weapon was jerked back and the agony drove Ned to the ground. Somewhere Jory called his name but it took all his strength to focus on the attacker who’d stolen up behind him.

A wight with a face he knew all too well.

“Willam… no…”

His friend didn’t hear him, or if he did Willam didn’t care anymore. The Lord of Barrowton merely stared at him with his new blue eyes. He would never smile again, his jaw having been torn free from his face so that his tongue hung about his chest limply. In his hands Willam carried the spear he had always wielded in defense of House Stark, the one now dripping with Ned’s blood.

A weapon the wight lifted high to drive down again.

The sound of galloping hooves spared his life then, for the wight turned to face its source. Ned glanced to his right fearful to find another White Walker yet the dark rider that rushed out the night was a different sort altogether.

In the dim light of their torches he caught a glimpse of a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch atop a great elk. The strange mount lowered its massive antlers and drove straight into Willam, lifting the wight up and away from Ned. The hooded rider then jerked the beast around to knock back two other wights before circling around to offer a black-gloved hand down to him.

“Reach for me Stark.” The stranger’s voice rattled as black eyes peered down at him from behind a scarf that hid the rest of his face. “Take my hand. Quickly!”

Through the pain Ned found the strength to do just that. When they touched Ned was startled to find there was no glove on the stranger’s hand, instead his flesh black and touch as cold as ice. Just like a dead man’s.

His mind was reeling when the shattering of steel drew his attention back towards his men. Heward’s sword had snapped into several glittering shards that flew through the air. The Other he was battling was in no mood to show mercy. The guardsman was not given the chance for a last word before the White Walker cut down through his chest. So swift was the monster that two more cuts followed before Heward struck the ground with a thud.

“Hew? Hew?!” Wyl cried out in alarm, spinning about to try and face both foes. He paid for it when the second White Walker slashed across his back, driving Wyl to his knees. The Other took hold of Wyl’s head as he coughed blood.

“Don’t… don’t bring me back-”

The next blow severed Wyl’s head clear from his body, sending it rolling across the ground and into the night. Blood steamed on their blades as the two Others then moved to join the attack Jory. Winterfell’s captain of the guards still fought on, his blade covered in frost as he danced with the White Walker.

“Jory!” Ned fought to gain his feet as the stranger lifted him upwards. “Jory! Help him!  We need to help my man!”

“Not your man.” The stranger answered. “Not for much longer. He is theirs now.”

The wights were rising to come at them again when the black brother kicked at his elk. Instead of riding towards Jory like they should the elk turned to head back the way it came. The pain of his leg dragging on the ground was second to his outrage that the man made to abandon Jory. He fought to escape the stranger’s grasp but it was like a vice, holding dragging Ned along as the elk fled the wights.

“Stop! Ah! Gods stop!” He begged through his tears. “Stop! Please!”

The stranger was silent but the battle wasn’t. Jory’s blade sang again and again as he battled one White Walker. His torch sputtering and growing dimmer as the other two closed in on him.

“Jory!”

His friend grew more distant and harder to see in the faltering light.

“Jory!”

The winds put out the torch then. Jory lost to the blackness of night.

“JORY!!!”

All he heard then was the elk’s hooves. Its labored breaths. His own gasps.

The pain was dragging him down into a deeper darkness than the night itself.

The cold winds blowing hard and the ice cracking all around.

Cold hands carrying him into the black.

 

SANSA

   

The chamber door opened with a crash, Sansa jumping back and onto her bed. The Hound strode in, his armor and cloak spattered with gore and his eyes alive.

“Little bird.” He growled, his eyes sweeping up her body in a way that made her feel wary.

“What’s happened?” She asked, rising from her bed and backing away as the warrior came on. “I heard shouting… fighting…”

“Killing too most like.” Sandor Clegane took hold of her and pulled her close. “The northmen made to trick us. Tried to climb a gate and fire it from the inside. They spilled their bloody oil everywhere… the fire was everywhere.”

The Hound sounded shaken by that and when she dared meet his eyes they looked more wild than usual. He could kill without a thought yet something clearly troubled him now.

“I’m thankful you’re safe.” Sansa said truthfully.

As terrible as Sandor was he treated her far better than the rest of the sellswords in Winterfell. While others leered or threatened her, doing worse to the poor girls of the castle, the Hound did no harm to any lest they made to hurt Sansa. He never even touched her unless it was to back her away from Viserys’s coming. Once she might have though Sandor too ugly a man to treat her so well.

That little girl had also dreamed her father and brother would save her.

She was a woman now and her childish dreams were for naught. The world was a place of nightmares.

“A raven has come from Castle Black.” Viserys had told her while sitting in the throne of Winterfell, a leg draped over a direwolf armrest. “Stannis Baratheon, traitor that he is, has returned from the North’s campaign against the wildlings. Savages fighting savages, as it should be. Well it appears it was all quite a disaster. Your father’s army destroyed. Lord Stark likely dead himself… so good news really, it saves me the trouble of taking his head.”

She refused to believe it of course. Viserys thought Arya was dead and he could be wrong about father too. Yet doubt nagged at her nonetheless. At least when it came to Arya she knew her sister had escaped the castle and Sansa had no such proof with father. He’d been gone for so long and sent so little word in all that time.

Father was always dutiful when it came to keeping mother from worrying.

In the Greyjoy Rebellion he sent her ravens, little messages for all of us.

He called me his little lady… I was going to be his little princess…

Viserys was even crueler in how he made Sansa learn of Robb’s death. He’d made her climb a stairway overlooking the yard to speak to the assembled castle folk. Maester Luwin’s eyes were red-rimmed and his hand shaking to hand her Barbrey Dustin’s letter. A letter Viserys forced her to read aloud.

‘Robb Stark is dead. Murdered by Viserys Targaryen’s sellswords and their Greyjoy dogs. His head sits atop Torrhen’s Square. Gods save us.’

Somehow she’d been prepared to learn of Robb’s death.

When Brown Ben took nearly all the sellswords from Winterfell weeks ago, riding east, she’d been hopeful. Rodrik Cassel and the Manderlys were close by and the few sellswords left behind grumbled at trying to hold a castle against such a force. Yet it troubled her why Plumm took Roddy Dustin with him, what with the poor heir still so weak from losing his arm. What help could he be to them on such a march? If they made to flee what use could a maimed boy be?

In the end it was the dream that forewarned her of Robb’s murder. She’d dreamt of seeing a brother and sister running through a moonlit night. Two wolves prowling to the edges of castle near a lake, gazing up at a rotting head atop the gates. The sister howling in grief at what she had lost. The brother howling in a different way.

His mournful cries sounded almost like a man’s. Like he was trying to deny what his eyes told him.

The whole dream had caused her to wake up in tears. She cried for so long there should not have been any left when the letter arrived. Still, the tears came but her grief paled to Roslin’s, who had fallen to her knees, grasping her stomach and screaming so horribly people backed away from her. The lady cried out for Robb over and over again, pleading for someone to name it all lies.

Viserys laughed the whole time, holding Sansa back and denying her attempts to help Roslin. It was then she decided to kill the prince. The landing they had stood on was high enough that if she took hold of him Sansa could plunge them both to their deaths.

For father and Robb, she’d thought as she grasped his tunic, for Septa Mordane and Jeyne and Beth.

All the others… father swung the sword himself… I can do this for them.

She nearly did so, until the Hound took hold of her and wrenched her free from Viserys’s grasp. Viserys and Sansa had both glared at the warrior in anger yet neither were any match for him.

Nor was she any match for Sandor now as he pushed her towards her wardrobe now.

“It’s time then.” The man said as he pointed to her. “This castle’s going to fall and we’re supposed to be someplace safe when it does. Get something warm to wear.”

“We’re leaving?” She asked hopefully. “But how? They’re watching all the gates and the castle is besieged.”

“Brown Ben had me ready for this since he left. It’s not getting out we need to worry about, it’s just getting away from the hell to come.”

A horn blew from somewhere far beyond the Great Keep, a reminder of the army encamped at the Winter Town. Ser Rodrik and the Manderlys threatened the castle with thousands of men and siege engines. Viserys had barely forty men to hold Winterfell against the northmen and the Hound was likely right, the castle would fall.

Which frightened her.

“Please fetch Roslin first.” She wrung her hands some. “Her chambers aren’t far and by the time you return with her I’ll be ready.”

“You’ll be ready now.” He grumbled before opening her wardrobe and tearing free a cloak to shove at her. “Put that on and stay quiet. There are still some eyes watching from the walls.”

“We’re going to get Roslin aren’t we?” She asked as the Hound pulled her towards the doorway. “Say you’re going to get her too!”

“She’s not part of the plan.”

“No!” Sansa began to fight then. “No! She’s my goodsister! Robb’s wife! She’s going to have his babe! I won’t let Viserys-”

“Be quiet!” Sandor covered her mouth firmly yet held the back of her head gently, his angry eyes looking deep into hers. “No singing your songs yet little bird, not until I’ve got you away safe and sound. Stop fighting now.”

She did, but only so he would lower his hand and she could speak again.

“If we don’t get Roslin, he’ll kill her and the babe.”

That was exactly what Viserys had been threatening for days. When Ser Rodrik had called for a parley the prince had agreed. Viserys met the knight outside the gates with Sansa at his side and a rope tied around her neck.

Rodrik had come alone and it had done her wonders to see the old knight alive. Sadly, he looked to have aged greatly and she suspected Jeyne had told him the truth of Beth.

“You treat a lady this way?” Rodrik had bristled, his large white whiskers trembling. “Your assaults on young Jeyne Poole were not enough to prove you the scum of the realm?”

“Where is my whore?” Viserys had asked, pulling on the noose around Sansa’s neck until she gasped.

“Safe and far away from here, but there are thousands who would avenge her near enough. I would kill you myself for my precious Bet-” Rodrik had caught himself, sharing a mournful look to Sansa. “For little Arya Stark. A sweet child. A beautiful child.”

“Not after that fall she wasn’t.” Viserys pressed his luck and Rodrik’s fist had clenched so tightly blood leaked from where his nails dug into flesh.

He managed to deliver his terms then. That should Viserys surrender he and his men would be spared and allowed to take the black. If they refused, every single one would be put to the sword. Viserys had laughed at that.

“I won’t meet the same end as Robb Stark.” He had pointed to the gatehouse behind them, where Roslin appeared with a noose around her neck. “If you storm these walls I shall hang the crippled wolf’s little wife. Test me on this and you can bury two in one grave. The lady and that runt of an heir she’s carrying.”

The talk had ended with Rodrik declaring it was his duty to return Winterfell to the Starks and Viserys had two days to rethink his decision. By then reinforcements would arrive and his death would be at hand. Viserys continued to laugh and waved it all away, dragging Sansa back before she could offer any condolences to Rodrik. It was the knight who looked shamed then and she realized his threats were not idle.

The castle would be stormed. When that happened she was certain of the fate Viserys had in mind for Roslin. A fate the Hound was ready to leave her to.

“There’s guards on her.” Sandor glanced to the window as a horn blew again. “That’ll mean noise and if there’s noise this doesn’t work. I can get you to where we need to be without anyone noticing. You and me, not us and the pregnant one. She’s not part of the deal.”

“I don’t care about your deal.” Sansa grabbed at his bloodied cloak. “Please, you’ve done horrible things, dreadful things but you never let them hurt me. You won’t hurt me. This is your chance to be a good man. Do the right thing here, please Sandor. Help me save Roslin and act a knight.”

She did her best to look comely then, mimicking how mother’s face would change when she gazed up into father’s eyes. Her lips slightly parted, a flutter of her eyes, a tilt of her head. If Sansa could look the maiden of songs perhaps the Hound would become the knight.

For a moment Sandor’s breath grew raspy, his eyes moving about her face, his brow furrowing. It was working, she was winning him over, she could tell.

“I’m no fucking ser.” The Hound backed away and took a firm hold of her wrist. “If there’s gold in doing the right thing by that woman no one has offered me any. Now come on.”

“No.” She stamped her foot down. “No! I’ll scream! I’ll scream! I swear I will!”

“I’ll just shut you up then.”

“I’ll fight and kick and make a scene! I won’t leave my family! So help me or run away!”

The Hound glared at her then, if he was searching for any sign of a lie he’d find none. Robb wanted her to help Roslin before he left, she couldn’t fail him like she had everyone else.

“I leave and I live.” Sandor Clegane pointed at the window.“What’s coming, it’s not worth the gold to die for. If you stay here, you might die girl. An ugly death likely. Is doing the right thing worth that?” 

“It was once.” She said, reminding them both of what happened on the stairs. Of what he had stopped. “I pray someone will save us… all of us…”

“Save your prayers for yourself little bird.”

The Hound offered his hand once more. She closed her eyes to turn up her nose at it and he cursed. If it was possible to shame him she tried to do so now. Silence reigned in her chambers for a few moments until a horn blowing bid her to open her eyes again. Sansa found herself alone then, the Hound long gone. Her hope gone with him.

So she went to be with her family. The keep was largely deserted, her steps echoing down the stone corridors like the horn blasts from without. She had a vivid memory of Robb carrying her on his back when they were children. Her big brother acting as a horse, neighing and bucking as he ran down the hall, her laughter driving him on.

There was no laughter here anymore but that memory hurried her journey on to Roslin’s chambers. When she rounded the corner she found no guards at Roslin’s door and fear gripped her to see the door now hung open.

“Roslin?” She called, rushing to the doorway and finding the room empty. “Roslin!”

No.

Sansa’s flight through the keep was punctuated by her screaming Roslin’s name and the sounds of horns without. She darted by the lone guard at the Great Keep’s entrance and saw what she feared to. Most of Viserys’s men were gathered at the Hunter’s Gate, awaiting the assault by the northmen. Yet two of the very worst were busy dragging Roslin across the yard.

Sansa cried her name and Roslin jerked about, struggling against Godry and Boros’s hold.

“Sansa! Sansa go back!”

“What the seven hells is she doing running about?” Godry fumed as he pushed Roslin back at Boros and grabbed Sansa before she could reach her goodsister. He laughed as she squirmed in his grasp, his smile missing some teeth as his hands took liberties with her body.

“Come on Godry.” Boros grumbled, yanking Roslin away and continuing on. “Let the bitch watch if she’s so eager.”

Godry half carried her the rest of the way to the gatehouse, Sansa catching glimpses of frightened and unsure looking sellswords along the way. When they reached the top of the wall, she found Viserys already there, garbed in a bright scarlet doublet. A man nearby was positively shaking as he held up the prince’s banner, a red three-headed dragon surrounded by flames on a black field.

As black as Viserys’s mood.

The northern army was arrayed just beyond the gate. Their numbers having swelled since she’d last glimpsed Rodrik’s forces. Most of the army flew the merman of the Manderlys but she spotted Hornwood, Cerwyn and Lake banners as well. Almost equal to that number was a second force standing apart from the main one. Their pink banners catching the eye, the bloody flayed man upon them a warning to all.

The Boltons… Domeric sent his family’s men to help us.

Is he out there? Waiting to do to Viserys what he did to that deserter?

“Surrender your grace.” Maester Luwin said, tugging on his chain and growing pale to see the girls present. “There’s still time. This doesn’t need to end in needless death.”

“Traitors.” Viserys spat, pacing back and forth with a sword in hand. “This isn’t how Plumm said it would be. It shouldn’t have come this far. I take Winterfell and help my bannerman secure his-”

The prince took notice of them then, his lilac eyes narrowing on Sansa.

“All this trouble is because of you!” He marched forward and aimed his sword at her heart, pressing the tip to her breast. “I should do it! I should’ve done at the start! To show that bastard Jon why you never wake the dragon! But no! I spared you to gain my throne! And instead I get this shit heap of a castle!”

“I’m sorry King Viserys.” She spoke the title sweetly despite the foul taste it left in her mouth. “I know not how I’ve failed you but I beg you, show mercy. Surely Viserys the Dragon be as merciful as he is fearsome!”

Viserys’s rage flickered away for a moment, a grin tugging at his mouth. He lowered his sword and took hold of her chin, running a thumb across her lips.

“King Viserys the Dragon. Such sweet words from such a sweet mouth. Where’s the Hound gone then? Is this why Plumm guarded you so? Sweet words and a skilled mouth? I denied myself this for naught.”

She choked back a scream as Viserys pressed his mouth onto hers. His lips crushed against her own, his hand jerking down at her jaw so his tongue could dart inside her mouth. He tasted of wine and he hurt her. A small sound of pain escaped her and he pulled away to wipe his mouth, leering at her as he did so.

“I was a fool not to take my pleasure of you.” Viserys scowled before lifting his blade again and pointing it at Roslin. “I’ve always been too gentle with that which is owed to me. I spoiled Daenerys and that bastard stole her away from me. The maester says the northmen respect strength and honor. Well I told that old fuck of a knight what I’d do if they attacked this castle. It’s time to show my strength.”

“They respect mercy too!” Sansa fought against Godry to draw Viserys’s attention again.

“Then I’ll show both.” Viserys lowered the sword tip to hover around Roslin’s stomach. “I won’t cut your brother’s whelp out before I hang her. Mercy and strength. String her up Boros.”

“NO!” Sansa and Roslin shouted as one.

Boros was dragging Roslin forward to do just that when a great cascade of horns went up and the northern army charged forward. They came in a great wave, the Manderlys leading the charge. Ladders and rams were carried on, archers rushing ahead in ranks to lose up at the Viserys’s men. Boros dropped Roslin to seek cover behind a crenel. With the lady free Sansa and Maester Luwin rushed forward, taking hold of her, arrows tearing through the air over their heads or striking the battlements nearby.

“Hang her! Hang her!” Viserys screamed from where he cowered but Boros would not budge. The maester was far braver, pushing the two ladies towards a guardtower and shielding them with his body. Godry attempted to give chase but Viserys soon began screaming for the knight to come back and help him.

The rest of the sellswords along the walls were busy loosing arrows throwing stones down at the northmen. She hoped they had terrible aim. The Stark bannermen were at the gates now and the sound of loud banging reached her ears.

“The ram is here.” The Maester glanced back over the walls. “The gate will fall but you’re not safe until its down… that may take time…”

She raised her head too and saw that while half the northern army was attacking the gate most of the Boltons stayed to the rear, a few hundred moving in either direction to circle around the castle.

Domeric’s protecting his own men… father always said the Boltons looked after their own first.

When the arrows stopped landing so thickly Maester Luwin grabbed at them and the three were soon fleeing down the nearest staircase. Viserys was shouting for someone to stop them but the only sellswords Sansa saw were desperately trying to bar the gates. Dust fell free of the great wooden barriers as the ram beat at it again and again.

They ran as fast as they could, what with poor Roslin nauseous and the maester an old man. The Great Keep was their best hope, they could run to mother’s chambers and hide there like she and Arya did as children. The monsters wouldn’t find them there. A loud noise bid her to jump then, for it sounded like a roar of a great beast. Truly it was just a great many war horns blowing as one. What bothered her was the uproar that followed, like thousands of voicing shouting in rage or screaming in terror outside the walls. Behind her she saw some of Viserys’s men along the battlements throwing their arms up in joy.

That was when she saw Viserys and Godry giving chase to them. The mad prince’s face twisted like a snarling beast.

“No! The keep!” Roslin cried, drawing her attention to the Great Keep and seeing the lone guard shutting the door to cower within.

“Hodor!” A voice shouted to their left, Hodor appearing out the archway leading to the Great Hall, waving to them. “Hodor! Hodor!”

She had no idea what the stableboy wanted but he seemed as good an option as any. So Sansa pulled the other two along while the furor of battle grew louder in her ears. Shouts bid her to look to the other walls and she swore she saw men running along them. Northmen at that. They were lost to her eyes as Hodor guided them through the archway and towards the Great Hall. The stableboy was still bruised and cut from a recent beating yet he was beautiful to her then. Most of the castle folk were hiding or imprisoned elsewhere, yet clearly no one cared what Hodor got up to.

Shamefully she was much the same, for they were halfway to the hall doors before Sansa noticed Hodor hadn’t joined them. He was still back at the archway, intent on moving a nearby ox cart loaded with grain. She marveled at his strength when Hodor not only lifted up the cart’s front end but began to push it to bar the entrance way.

“Hodor! Hurry!” Maester Luwin warned, for Godry and Viserys were nearly at the archway. “Hurry boy!”

“Hodor!” Hodor bellowed, straining and sweating to move the cart on.

It was almost fully across when Godry slipped in between and caused Sansa to scream. Then Godry cried out as well, for he was now caught between the wall and the cart.

“Ah! You fucking fool!” Godry roared as loud as the horns, pushing back at the cart and pointing his sword at Hodor. “Pull this back or I’ll make you eat your own- ack!”

“Hodor!” Hodor shouted in terror, holding firm as he glanced her way with his big eyes. “Hodor!”

She took a few steps forward before the maester jerked her back. He had spotted what she missed, while Hodor was holding Godry back Viserys had crawled beneath the cart and was not climbing to his feet.

“Into the hall!” Maester Luwin commanded and they turned to flee again.

She feared for Hodor then but Viserys paid him no mind, leaving Godry behind him as he ran full tilt after them.

“Traitors! Every last one of you!” He screeched, cutting through the air like a madman. “I should’ve burned you all! Every single one of you! They would’ve seen me then! They couldn’t ignore me anymore! All would see the dragon!”

They were at the doors, Sansa and Roslin pulling the heavy things open. Maester Luwin’s grunt warned them just in time. The old man was thrown sideways by Viserys as made to run her through. She was pushed out the way by Roslin, who screamed when the blade drove within a hair of her belly and stuck in the door.

Viserys cursed, making to pull the blade free when Roslin came at him.

“Monster!” She slapped him square across the face while Sansa rushed to help. “Get away from us! Away!”

“Frey slut!” The prince backhanded Roslin before pulling his sword free and spinning around meet Sansa’s coming, ready to strike.

The maester struck him first. In the confusion the old man had lifted his chain free and was now swinging it about as a weapon. His blow caught Viserys across the brow and sent the prince stumbling backwards with a cry.

“You will not!” Maester Luwin wheezed, swinging the chain above his head and advancing on Viserys. “Not the babes I brought forth! I’ll not stand by and let you harm one more child! Not one more! Run Sansa! Get Roslin away! You save that babe!”

Roslin’s nose was pouring blood when she pulled the lady to her feet. Hodor and Godry were roaring at each other as the stableboy pressed the cart forward and the knight fought for air. Men were shouting and blades clashing in the distance and a great crash from somewhere towards the Hunter’s Gate. Nothing as terrifying as Viserys gaining his feet again.

Blood ran down from his cut brow and he wiped it away to ready his sword again.

“Save the babe Sansa.” Maester Luwin spoke softly, chain lashing out the prince. “Go on child, I serve House Stark in this.”

Arya would’ve stayed to help. She was the strong one and always had been. Sansa always did what she was told. Like a coward she followed the maester’s command, taking Roslin and ducking within the hall. They pulled it shut again behind them and the sounds of carnage fell away.

The Great Hall was usually warm with hearth fires burning but none had stoked the flames today so it was cold and dark within. The trestle tables, where once hundreds had broken bread and enjoyed meals together, were bare and empty.

It was the high table she led Roslin towards, where her parents would hold hands while eating. The tables here were among the darkest and light from the door was unlikely to reach them.

“Under here Roslin.” She said helping her goodsister climb beneath the table and into the dark. “He won’t see you there. Arya and Bran used to hide here during games and it took forever to find them.”

“Fine, fine, just hurry.” Roslin pulled at her, trying to bring her under the table too. “Sansa we don’t have much time.”

She was about to when she heard a whine from behind her. At the opposite side of the hall sat Lady’s cage. While almost entirely hidden in the shadows Sansa could still make out two bright golden eyes staring out at her from between its bars. The same eyes Lady had gazed up at her with as young pup cradled in Sansa’s arms.

Between them lay the floor Robb and Roslin had first danced, where Jon had led her about to celebrate their betrothal. The memories were too much. Her shame too great.

“Sansa get under here!” Roslin yanked at her cloak. “Now! Please the maester cannot hold him… what are you doing?!”

Roslin’s voice became panicked when Sansa pulled away, rushing across the hall towards Lady’s cage.

“I’m saving the babe.” She willed herself to believe it. “I can help… I can save someone…”

The smell from the cage was horrible, Lady’s scarred and emaciated body crusted with her own filth and worse. The key to her chains hung from a nail on the wall, she’d stared at it so often during meals that she found it quickly even in the dark. Her shaking hands found the lock and the chains rattled as she stuck the key in. Lady should have been half mad with hunger yet when Sansa’s fingers worked at pulling free the chains the wolf licked at them.

It felt so good to be so close to Lady again. Sansa was about to reach through the bars to pet the wolf when the doors to the hall opened with a bang.

“Stark!” Viserys’s voice echoed through the hall, his silhouetted form striding between the tables. “Wolf bitch! Come to your king! Face the king’s justice!”

Sansa ducked low to try and hide behind the cage when Viserys’s footsteps stopped suddenly. There was something terrifying in how he began to laugh.

“What’s this? A trail of blood? From a Frey bitch who dared lay hands on me. Whatever mercy was in me is gone now. I’ll cut Robb Stark’s child out of you and have its head mounted right next to yours-”

“You won’t!” She stood up, walking out in front of the high table and drawing the prince’s eye. “You can’t! Viserys Targaryen… you did not come to Winterfell for Roslin!”

“You’re right my lady.” He held up a sword painted red and dripping. “I came here for wolf pelts, not those of a stout and her mongrel.”

“T-t-then come and seek mine... if you’re not too much of a… of a coward!”

She could not see Viserys’s face with his back to the door but she imagined he was smiling now. That same horrible smile he always had before he did some cruelty. More important was how he strode right by Roslin’s table before turning his back to Lady’s cage. His echoing footsteps and sounds of chaos outside the hall drowned out the creaking of a rusty hinge.

“Was it here?” Viserys asked, kicking at the rushes between them. “Was it here Rhaegar sealed your fate? Promising you to that bastard. All his brats got more respect than me. Not one of them pure blood! Not one! They get titles and highborn matches and I get nothing! If I can’t have my crown I’ll have my revenge. The North will know a dragon was here.”

“You’re no dragon, just a mad man.” She backed against the wall, the sword growing closer. “A weak fool. As cruel as you are stupid. The North remembers.”

Roslin was making to crawl free from beneath her table when she paused, her eyes locked on a shadow crossing the floor. Something the prince was ignorant of, he was too focused on Sansa. Intent on trying to act a monster while a real one drew near.

“I should’ve broken you in the bed chamber.” Viserys looked her up and down, shaking his head. “To think of all that time I wasted breaking in the steward whore when I could’ve tamed a wolf.”

“You’re welcome to try.” She said but let Lady have the last word.

The growl was the only warning the direwolf gave. Viserys’s eyes went wide at the sound and when he glanced to the dais the prince’s shadow was joined by the fearsome shape of a direwolf. As weak as Lady was her height more than made up for it. Free of the cage the wolf stood as high as Viserys’s chest.

“No.” He whispered. “No… no…”

He spun around, trying to cut at Lady with his sword but she was faster. Lady snapped at his wrist, her teeth tearing through his flesh. Viserys screamed and dropped his blade, clutching at his bleeding wrist. The direwolf leapt up and her paws sent Viserys sprawling backwards. He screamed and kicked, trying to get away from Lady.

All his screaming reminded her of how Jeyne would cry during his ravages. The memory filled her with rage yet even Sansa covered her ears when Lady lunged forward, snapping her jaws down between Viserys’s legs. His shrieks were horrible, Lady’s growls terrifying as she wrenched his groin back and forth, tearing through cloth and flesh.

“Sansa!” Roslin took hold of her arm, jerking her away from the sight. She thought perhaps Roslin wished to shield her from the horror but instead the lady made to show her they were no longer alone.

Standing in the doorway were the shapes of a good many men. All armed, some with spears and shields, all staring at the two women. They were walking forward, slowly and purposefully and she knew there was no hiding now. No place to run. When a man broke through the ranks, pushing aside the others she expected to hear Godry’s voice.

Or perhaps Boros.

“Sansa?” A far gentler voice came forth, a familiar voice. “Sansa? Roslin?”

“Domeric?”

She held up a hand to shield the light to confirm what her ears told her. As the man drew nearer she could make out dark armor and a deep pink cloak. The crimson rondels were shaped like faces, eyes wide with terror. The young man’s eyes were much paler and they flashed with something akin to happiness.

“Domeric!” Sansa cried out, running to him and finding Domeric’s arms opened wide to embrace her. “Oh Dom thank gods you’ve come!”

“I owe them thanks.” He rasped, holding her tight. “Gods Sansa I thought the mad prince had killed you too… when I couldn’t find you in the crypts I feared the worst…”

She had no idea why he was talking about the crypts but she felt safe in his arms. When Lady backed away from the weeping, ruined form of Viserys the Bolton men raised their weapons. Domeric waved them off though, his eyes moving from the direwolf and the bleeding prince to Roslin. She held her belly protectively and shifted awkwardly under his gaze.

“It’s true then?” He asked, staring at her middle. “You carry Robb’s babe?”

“I do… he regretted your fight my lord. Robb told me so… he said he wished you’d come back-”

“Go on my lord.” A bearded man drew up beside them and Lady growled at him. “You don’t need to be seeing this. They won’t suffer none, the beast or the-”

“Silence.” Domeric commanded and Sansa felt him stiffen. She saw then that none of the men had lowered their weapons. All eyeing Roslin and Lady warily while another spoke up with a gruff voice.

“M’lord it’s bad enough we’re sparing the womenfolk, Lord Roose-”

“Values a quiet, obedient people.” Domeric snapped. “If you’re so hungry for slaughter go and see to those Manderlys that escaped the ambush.”

“Manderlys?” She asked, making to pull away but finding Domeric’s hold on her tightening. “I'm sorry, I thought they helped take the castle?”

“Sansa… there’s much we need to discuss.”

“That’s Rodrik’s sword.” Roslin pointed at one of the men who held a sword much too fine for him. Sansa looked at it closely and recognized it, for she’d grown up seeing it hanging at Rodrik’s hip.

“Where’s Rodrik?” She asked as the smell of smoke wafted into the hall. The sounds of screaming and fighting continuing on. “Why do you have his sword?”

Lady growled again and Domeric surprised Sansa by pointing his blade at the wolf. She made to protest when his grip tightened painfully on her hip.

“No more questions.” He said firmly, before sending his men to work with an incline of his head. “Drive the wolf back but do not hurt it. There’s no need, it’s half dead anyways. Grab that Targaryen filth and the lady, gently with her. As soon as we’re out of here fire the hall. Fire the whole damn castle.”

“Are you sure about the Frey?” The bearded man spoke again. “We was only supposed to take the one Stark-”

“Our plans have changed. That’s the Stark heir in the Lady Frey so it’s her we’ll keep alive.” Domeric’s pale eyes stared into hers in a way that made her skin crawl. “Viserys Targaryen brought ruin to House Stark. Him and his puppet Manderlys. We managed to break the mermen traitors but were too late to stop the mad prince.”

“His cruelty knows no bounds. He put the castle to the sword.”

“The fires Viserys set spread too quickly to save Winterfell.”

“No one could save Sansa Stark.”

Chapter 20

Summary:

New life in the midst of death. The struggle to protect those most dear. The young stand ready to take up the fight.

CATELYN

 

“Goodbye Grandpa.”

Rickon sniffled and squeezed her hand tighter, Shaggydog whining to her other side.

The boy’s touch helped Catelyn keep her tears at bay while the boat carried her father’s body further downriver. The boat was a floating pyre now, its flames growing taller with each passing moment. This was how they sent Hoster Tully out of this world, like so many Tullys before him. The fire could do what it would to the Lord of Riverrun. In the end, the river would douse the flames and claim her father’s bones.

As he would’ve wanted. Her family was owed that dignity, that and more.

It rained earlier in the day so fog now hung over the river, swirling about as it mixed with the smoke rising from the flames. If not for the fire they would have lost sight of the boat long ago. She was thankful that Patrek Mallister proved himself an able archer. His flaming arrow had found the boat in only one shot.

The young heir to Seagard stood nearby next to Lothar Frey, Lady Ravella Smallwood, and a few other Tully bannermen. Riverrun’s household was well represented as well, Robin Ryger and Desmond Grell stoically watching the boat’s journey while Utherydes Wayn dabbed at his eyes. She wanted to do the same but a glance to Riverrun’s youngest guests reminded her why she needed to keep her strength. Bethany Blackwood and Little Lew Piper were only children and Catelyn had shed enough tears for her own children to fill a river.

I pray you find some peace father, that you can finally see mother again.

Look for my children in the beyond… take care of them… better than I could.

It was a kind of mercy that father’s last weeks were lost to delirium. Unlike Catelyn, he was spared learning the fates of Sansa and Robb. During his better days, father always beamed to speak of his grandchildren.

“A Lord of Winterfell for a grandson.” He would smile weakly but with pride all the same. “My granddaughter… a princess in the making… you’ve outdone me little Cat, like I always knew you would.”

You were wrong father, so wrong. They murdered my brave Robb before he could ever be a lord.

And Sansa… my little lady… she must have been so scared...

The burning boat only served to remind her of Sansa’s fate. She remembered how happy she had been when Rhaegar Targaryen agreed to let Jon and Sansa marry. It was supposed to be a wonderful thing, giving one of her daughters to House Targaryen. Instead her dreams had turned to ash, the wicked Viserys Targaryen murdering Arya and Sansa both. In his madness, the monster had let her little lady burn with the rest of Winterfell. From what Catelyn had been told of the tragedy, Sansa’s bones were likely buried somewhere in the rubble of their home. That made the girl’s final resting place as much a mystery as Arya’s.

Catelyn held a morbid hope that somehow Sansa and Arya lay together, that her girls who squabbled so much once could find peace beside one another.

Anything would be better than what Theon Greyjoy did with Robb. To think of his head atop a castle gate…

That horrible thought was interrupted by a small sound. A little sigh from the bundle that Catelyn now cradled in her arm. In a day filled with death and gloom, this was the only bit of sunshine to be found.

“Hush, little one.” She whispered, kissing the babe’s brow. “Not long now, we’ll be back in the castle soon sweetling.”

The gods were either cruel or gracious to give Catelyn this babe so soon after learning two more of her children had been taken away. Perhaps after the Stranger stole her two daughters away the Mother believed it fair to gift her a third.

Her tiny girl scrunched up her voice and fussed some, likely hungry and getting ready to tell the world. Catelyn’s breasts felt heavy, a clear sign that a feeding was due and she hoped the babe could wait just a little longer. Father’s boat was a distant glow in the fog now, meaning the ceremony was close to being over. She was glad the rain had stopped earlier. Bringing a newborn out to catch a chill was the last thing that Catelyn wanted.

Shaggydog was taking no chances though. The direwolf's head had been pressed right up against her daughter’s bundle the entire time, keeping the babe warm and safe. The wolf acted as utterly fascinated by the new girl as Rickon.

Not long after the birth, and as soon as the maester allowed it, Rickon had burst into her chambers demanding to see both his mother and the new babe. He’d climbed up into bed beside her to stare at the miracle in her arms.

“Why is she so ugly?” He’d asked, making a face as scrunched up as the babe’s.

“Rickon Stark, your sister is not ugly. You looked much the same when you came into the world.”

“No I didn’t.” Rickon argued, surprising her by kissing his sister then. “It’s okay if you’re a ugly little sister. I’m your big brother and I’ll keep you safe. I promise. Me and Shaggydog. He wants to meet you too… um… hey! What’s her name?”

Naming their little girl without Ned felt wrong. Although her husband always let Catelyn choose the girl’s names he could never fully keep his views to himself, offering suggestions and hints here and there. There was no such option this time around. Stannis Baratheon would have Catelyn and the realm believe that Ned was lost somewhere beyond the Wall. According to the grim Lord-Commander’s raven her lord husband was ‘likely dead.’ Killed by monsters from legends and children’s tales.

She refused to believe it of course. Yet their babe still needed a name and Catelyn had chosen a name that she believed Ned would approve of. Out of all their babes,  only Robb and this little wonder had been born outside of Winterfell. His name was southron, as was the name she chose for her daughter. Yet a name found in the histories of House Stark at the same time. The mother of a good many Starks of old.

“Lorra.” Catelyn spoke softly, pressing a cheek against the babe’s face. “Lorra Stark. May you one day know the joy you bring me.”

Lorra squirmed some and the fussing began again. That was alright though, for father’s boat was lost to sight now. Either blanketed in the fog or sunk below the waters. The time for the dead was done. Catelyn now had to tend to the living.

“Come along Rickon.” She said, tugging on her son’s hand and leading the rest of the funeral party back towards Riverrun.

Shaggydog was right beside her while Rickon kept their pace painfully slow. Her son kicked at the ground, dragging his feet with downcast eyes. The loss of his siblings weighed on the boy greatly, not that he would admit it. Rickon could be as stubborn as Arya at times, something her father had actually praised him for.

“Rickon.” Catelyn tried to get him to look up at her. “Your grandfather was very proud of you. I know he acted confused in the end but in his good moments, oh did he speak well of you.”

“For what?” Rickon sniffed. “I don't do anything. Robb fought bad men. Bran is going to be a knight. All I do is play with toy swords and get in trouble.”

“You practice just like Robb and Bran did at your age. Ser Desmond and father spoke often about your lessons. He heard every bit of praise the knight had to offer. And yes, he knew when you acted poorly too. He said you had a warrior’s heart and a lord’s resolve. A wolf who would one day earn just as much glory as his brothers.”

Rickon looked up to her, his eyes watering but a bit of a grin pulling at his lips. Lorra let out a small wail then and his gaze moved to the babe, but not in jealousy.

“I’m a Tully too… grandpa made me say the words. Family. Duty. Honor. He said Robb was acting with honor. Bran was serving the king, doing his duty. I have to care of my family… I need a real sword.”   

“One day you will have a-”

“No. I want to take care of you now.” Rickon spoke firmly, chin up in the air. “When the bad men came Shaggy kept me safe. If they come again I’ll protect you and Lorra, just like grandpa said.”

His determination was touching yet Catelyn could not escape the thought that this was far too much responsibility for such a young boy. They'd brought Lewys Piper and Bethany Blackwood to Riverrun so Rickon could have some companions to fill the void left by his missing siblings. Yet Rickon often refused their attempts at play, preferring to carry his wooden sword on his belt and follow guardsmen on their rounds. He would often practice at standing guard outside her chambers when Lorra was napping.

I should put a stop to it but what am I to say to Rickon? That our family isn’t in danger?

He’s lost as much as I have and we always stand to lose more.

Winter is coming.

“Can I hold Lorra now?” Rickon asked, holding his hands up towards the babe. “You said I could on the way back.”

“That I did.” She admitted, cursing herself for doing so.

Cautiously, with many reminders to be both careful and gentle, Catelyn handed Lorra down into the waiting arms of her brother. Rickon was a tad too stiff as he cradled the girl but his mood brightened immediately to gaze down at the pink faced babe. Catelyn thought Lorra had a touch of her mother in her face, though there was no doubt that the little hair she had marked the girl as a Stark. As dark as Arya or Ned’s had ever been, she’d expected to find the grey Stark eyes as well. Instead Lorra surprised them all, taking in the world with eyes a bright Tully blue.

Rickon had liked them sharing the same eyes.

The whole way back to the castle he kept Lorra entertained with his endless chatter, the babe gazing intensely at Rickon’s face and offering only a gurgle or two in reply. Shaggydog added to all that, growling at any who came too close to the Starks but wagging his tail at any sound that came from the babe. Not long after they passed through the gate Lorra’s patience came at an end, the babe wailing fiercely until Catelyn took her back. There was food and drink being served to the guests in the castle’s hall and that was where she sent Rickon off to. He argued some but she was hearing none of it, forcing him to join Lew and Bethany before telling Utherydes that she would be ready for other matters soon enough.

Back in her chambers she sat in a chair by the window. It offered a lovely view of the river below as she bared her breast for the babe to suckle upon. Lorra’s wailing ceased as soon as her mouth settled around the nipple. There was no pain to that anymore and after six children she had plenty of milk for the babe.

Plenty of milk but no proper home to offer my sweetling, or any guess at when or if she’ll ever meet her father.

All this was too familiar. It had been like this with Robb at first, during the rebellion when Ned rode off to war. As she watched the river flow by the castle walls, a far more recent memory came to mind. Of a time she had spoken with Jon about this babe, when he’d sworn to be here when it came. To act as family would.

Jon is with his family now, she thought, he managed to spare the Targaryens any of the pain they’ve wrought on the family who raised him.

I bring a child into this world and all Jon can give me in return me is word of what else I’ve lost.

That wasn’t fair, she knew that. Deep down, Catelyn could not blame Jon for riding to the capital’s aid. It was Edmure who’d disappointed her. The riverlords wouldn’t have arrived at Winterfell in time to help but it still hurt that Edmure had heeded King Aegon’s request rather than her pleas.

Just as it hurt that it fell to Jon to share all these dark tidings with her. His first raven spoke of Ned’s disappearance and Robb’s murder. The second broke the news of Winterfell and Sansa. The prince had been made Hand of the King but when she read his letter she could only picture a scared young boy who’d come to Winterfell years ago.

‘Lady Stark,

My words are feeble. My choices worse. You’ve no reason to trust any vow I might offer and I won’t insult you by pleading differently. Know that the power of the Iron Throne will be used to defend you and your children. That I will use its might to find your husband. Your home will be returned to you. Justice done by Sansa. I will hunt Viserys across the realm and beyond. By my blade she will be avenged.

I will do right by her, I swear it on my life.

It should have been me.’

Of all the condolences that Catelyn had received for her loses, none touched her as deeply as Jon’s. Nor bothered her as much.

Whatever pride she could take in the prince’s great deeds was tainted by the loss of her children. She was meant to have a lifetime of joy from Robb and the girls. A Targaryen was to blame for losing all that while another dragon kept her sweet Bran from being returned to her. King Aegon’s raven from Dorne was well-worded and kind to a fault, yet he was firm in keeping Bran at his side. His praise of the boy masked what Catelyn knew to be his true motives. Her son now served the same role that Edmure and Benjen once had.

A hostage to keep my family in line, she fumed, a Targaryen destroys my home and heart yet it is the Starks who are distrusted?

Thank the gods Benjen is there. He managed to keep Jon safe from those people, I pray he can do the same with Bran.

Bran’s absence complicated things in the North and even here in the Riverlands. Such was why, as soon as Lorra was full, Catelyn tasked the guardsmen outside her chamber to fetch the babe’s maid. Brigid was new to Riverrun, a commoner arrived with the Smallwood party. The woman had a daughter only a few months old herself and Lady Ravella had offered Brigid’s services as a wetnurse. A day like today was the perfect time for Catelyn to make use of the maid and she took comfort at the sight of Brigid rocking and patting the babe’s back without instruction.

Women, no matter their station, often knew the proper thing to do without being told, unlike men. A truth that was made all the more apparent when she arrived in her father’s solar to find her guests already within. Ser Robin and Patrek Mallister were pouring themselves cups of wine while Lame Lothar Frey abstained, taking in all he could of the room.

“Good men, I apologize for my lateness.” She said in an icy tone. “If I had known you were arriving without my summons I would not have made you wait.”

“It was no bother my lady.” Patrek smiled, completely missing the rebuke that the old men took in stride. “In truth, Ser Robin and I don’t mind tending to these tasks. Edmure entrusted the care of Riverrun to us. Feel free to care for your new babe Lady Stark. A mother’s work is taxing in its own way I imagine.”

“No more than a lady’s.” Catelyn folded her hands across her lap as Robin pulled out a chair for her to sit. “I saw Whent riders in the yard earlier, what word of Harrenhal and Darry?”

“Harrenhal is free of the sellsword taint.” Robin said with a sip of his wine. “The Whent party that travelled to the castle found it abandoned. It looks like the Usurper’s men have fled to Maidenpool.”

“The cravens.” Patrek added. “Every sellsword left in the Riverlands is heading there, trying to find ships to flee across the Narrow Sea like rats fleeing a sinking… well ship.”

Robin made sure to note that Harrenhal was in good condition for all intents and purposes. She thought it a sad thing that Lady Shella was too sickly to make the journey home. The maester held little hope that the frail Lady of Harrenhal was long for the world.

She is not the last of their line though… nor the last ruler Harrenhal will see.

“We shall have to give thought to a castellan for Harrenhal.” She said. “It will soon be a Stark holding and I will see it to its upkeep. A ruin it may be but my son shall find his new castle standing when it is time to claim it.”

She never expected Bran to be named the heir to Harrenhal. Yes, Catelyn’s mother had been a Whent, but there were relations to that family scattered all across the realm. Others with better claim too, even Edmure could have made a petition if he’d wished. Yet something had convinced Lady Shella to choose Bran over all of them. A decision that King Aegon backed without any word of support from Catelyn.

He likely thinks of it as a way to earn our favor. A feeble attempt to pay the Starks back for all that the dragons have cost us.

Those were theories born of mistrust though. There was another explanation that seemed likely but Catelyn could not see such a dour knight ever doing something so kind for her Bran.

Lothar cleared his throat then, a smile growing across his face as he leaned upon his cane.

“I am happy to say that Castle Darry does not lack for leadership.” Lothar spoke humbly. “Young Lord Lyman returned to his castle to find it under the protection of my family. My half brother Merret is overseeing repairs and since so much of Darry’s household was killed in the fighting, Lyman asked him to stay on as castellan. The young lord showed wisdom in that, ruling a castle can be daunting for such a young man. I’m sure my lady understands.”

“I do.” She nodded, thinking of Robb. “Too young to rule a castle yet old enough to marry it seems. I hear we’ve missed a wedding. Lyman was wed to Merret’s daughter was he not?”

“Amerei, yes... a fine young lady. A Darry on her mother’s side as well, and it is vital at this time to rebuild that once great family. The wedding was small but pleasant, your beauty missed of course Lady Stark. Amerei made a lovely bride though. Many a man at the celebration would have loved to be in Lyman’s place.”

Patrek snorted then and Catelyn shot him a glare. Even she had heard the rumors about Amerei Frey. Apparently the young woman had been caught enjoying the pleasures of several grooms at the same time. She was called Gatehouse Ami in hushed conversations, to make mock of how she would raise her portcullis for any knight riding by. While Patrek made a poor show of covering his good humor with a cough, Lothar showed dignity by ignoring it. Just as she ignored the more likely truth that Lyman Darry had found his castle held by Freys, who forced the young lord into accepting a marriage far beneath him.

“I’m sorry we missed it.” Catelyn did her best to sound sincere. “I’ve heard that Frey weddings are quite the fine occasions.”

“You have enough of them.” Robin jested and Lothar gave a small chuckle in return. Truly he was one of the more congenial Freys she had met.

“And we hope to have many more!” Lothar’s demeanor changed then, to one of moroseness. “Sadly, we all missed the wedding of dear Roslin and the late Robb Stark. My father offers his deepest condolences on your losses my lady. He so looked forward to meeting his new goodson. We are all bereaved by deaths of your daughters and husband-”

“My husband is not dead.” She countered. “Who saw him fall? Where is his body? Ned could already be back at the Wall for all we know. So until I hear otherwise from someone who can say for certain that my husband is lost to me, I will consider him alive.”

Not one of the three men shared her hope, all displaying different degrees of pity as they looked at her, Lothar giving voice to their pandering sympathy.

“Of course Lady Stark, we must pray that Lord Bolton is successful in his search for your husband. The seven were kind indeed to put Roslin under the protection of his son. His letter to The Twins said that she was being treated with the utmost care, as befitting of her status and delicate condition.”

“You had a letter from Domeric?” She asked and Lothar nodded.

Why does Domeric write to the Twins and not Riverrun? Barbrey Dustin... she sent a raven to the capital rather than here as well...

How is it that Stannis Baratheon is the only one with news of import with birds that can reach me?

She was still pondering this peculiarity as Lothar went on about the assurances that Domeric had given regarding Roslin and hunting down Viserys Targaryen. When he began to speak of Winterfell her interest was peaked again.

“Just like Darry, Winterfell will have to be set to rights. House Frey is willing to offer assistance in this matter. My father is sincere wanting see his grandchild returned to Winterfell as its rightful heir-”

“I must correct you my lord.” Catelyn interrupted. “Roslin carries Robb’s child yes, but until that babe is born my son Bran is still heir to Winterfell. It is on Bran’s behalf that we must restore the seat of House Stark.”

“Yes, well, with the North in the state that it’s in, you will need men to help set it to rights.”

“Which you have plenty of.” Patrek pointed out, crossing his arms. “Edmure charged House Mallister with guarding against ironborn reavers at Seagard and adding to the garrison here, yet we still sent more men to the capital than the Late Lord Frey.”

“You forget young Mallister, many members of my family fought beside Prince Jon during his campaign against the Usurper while you enjoyed a warm hearth and castle fare.”

Lothar’s retort was swift and, gladly, Robin acted just as quickly to put a hand to Patrek’s chest or else the youth might have done something rash. Both men spoke the truth though. When Edmure had journeyed south, the Freys had largely stayed put at the Twins. Lord Walder had been as displeased with her brother’s decision to abandon the North as she was. Catelyn was smart enough to keep that displeasure off her face though. To show division now was to show weakness and her family was far too vulnerable.

“I would, of course, welcome any help that House Frey is willing to give in these dark times. On behalf of my son… and my future grandchild.”

“And our help would be forthcoming!” Lothar tapped his cane. “But, like the best alliances, my father hopes to seal ours through marriage.”

“Marriage?” She raised an eyebrow, surprised at herself for not expecting this. “Is it not enough that Lord Walder’s daughter was wed to my son?”

“Forgive me my lady, but that son is dead and Roslin is now a widow. My father hopes to match a daughter of House Frey to young Brandon. Just as you grieve your eldest son, we still grieve my eldest half-brother Stevron, former heir to the Twins, who fell while fighting valiantly at the Red Storm. He died answering a call to arms issued by your brother. We thought perhaps to offer Lord Edmure a bride from a family who has proved its loyalty-”

“I am…” Catelyn struggled to find a word to describe the inappropriateness of all this.

Furious? Insulted? Close to having you thrown from this castle?

“I am honored.” She settled on that lie. “Though in regards to my brother, I must share some good tidings with you all. Edmure has just recently decided upon a bride, Ysilla Royce, daughter to Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone.”

In truth Edmure had little to do with it. Before he’d left Riverrun, her brother had given Catelyn permission to treat with the lords of the Vale. To try and quell their rage against the Iron Throne on behalf of Jon Arryn and bring them into the fight against the Usurper. She’d failed in securing support for the Targaryens, but was more successful in finding allies for her family.

In return for a promise that Edmure would marry his daughter, Bronze Yohn pledged the support of House Royce should Riverrun ever find itself threatened. Runestone was far yet its lord was the most powerful of Lysa’s bannermen and his word carried much weight in the Vale. Should Tywin Lannister attempt another attack on her family he would face the might of the Vale itself.

If only Robb had married Ysilla… may Edmure’s marriage to her give his enemies pause.

It was foul to think poorly of her beloved son. She’d left Robb to his end, broken and hurt, and far too young to handle the trials to come. Once she’d cursed his foolishness at marrying Roslin but it was also a comfort to think that the girl had brought him some brief happiness before his ugly end. Would things have really changed that much had Robb married Ysilla? Eddara Tallhart? Even Wylla Manderly?

The Manderlys… I cannot believe this talk of them betraying us. Benjen was to marry the daughter of Wyman’s heir!

Lord Manderly still denies the allegations of a secret betrothal between Wynafryd and Viserys Targaryen. He calls the accusations that his men somehow tried to betray the northmen at Winterfell a farce. And yet...

She wanted to trust Lord Wyman’s words but after everything that had befallen her children there was little room in her heart for leaps of faith.

“You will find no betrothals here Lothar.” Catelyn spoke firmly. “Bran is heir to two castles now, and if Lord Walder wishes another son of mine to marry a daughter of his, it is time he shows his worth. Roslin and my grandchild are in need. I expect your family to help me see to their safety. After that is done we might speak on Bran. But only after.”

For the briefest of moments she caught a look of irritation cross Lothar’s face. Perhaps he had imagined to find her weeping and desperate, willing to jump at any offer the Freys made. They would have to look elsewhere for such lady.

Before the Frey sat a mother of wolves and she would be strong for the pups she had left.

Discussion turned then to other matters. Patrek and Robin pressed Lothar into having the Freys march to retake Maidenpool while the lame lordling preferred seeking the Vale’s help in that matter. They all grew concerned on Karyl Vance’s report from the Golden Tooth of how their idleness hurt their army’s numbers. More men were departing every day, drawn away for the harvest or other temptations. Patrek suggested he reinforce the Vances and Pipers with the castle garrison, which Catelyn ruled out quickly, deciding to write to Edmure of their need instead.

“And what of the Wall?” Robin reminded her. “Stannis Baratheon demands men himself.”

“To fight snarks and grumpkins!” Patrek smirked before catching Cat’s eye and looking abashed. “And to help find Lord Stark… a worthy cause my lady, truly…”

“Truly.” She sighed. “Yet the North is in no state to send more men to the Wall after losing so many against the wildlings. Perhaps Stannis can convince the Lannisters to contribute more than just avarice to the realm-”

A scream cut off the rest of her words. All jerked at the sound, which clearly belonged to a woman and came from somewhere in the corridors beyond. When a second scream came forth it was soon followed by the howl of a wolf and her heart froze.

“My children!” She screamed, leaping from her chair and diving at the door. “Guards! Guards! My children!”

Catelyn burst into the corridor, not bothering to wait for Patrek and Robin to catch up. Her legs carried her down the hallway as panicked cries and shouting echoed through them. The sounds were coming from her own chambers and all she could picture was Sansa and Arya at the mercy of monsters. Robb begging for her on some battlefield.

Little Lorra laying in her crib, defenseless as assassins raised their blades high.

“Help!” Brigid’s scream rang out as Lorra’s high-pitched wails echoed around. The shouts of men and Shaggydog’s growling grew louder as well.

When she rounded the corner she found two guardsmen fighting desperately to keep Shaggydog at bay with their spears. The black wolf was snarling and snapping at them, acting near rabid. Behind the guards, the door to her chambers lay half open and that filled her with rage.

“Let him by!” She shouted as at the door. “He’ll protect her!”

“M’lady you don’t understand!” One of the men tried to tell her but Catelyn was already through the door.

Within her ears were assaulted by the cries of her babe while her eyes took in bloody, weeping form of Brigid. The poor wetnurse was backed into the corner of the room, clutching her bleeding arm and pleading with the attacker that stood between her and Lorra’s cradle.

“Rickon?!” Catelyn cried out, shocked to see her little boy holding a bloody meat knife pointed at the maid's chest. There were no others in the room and no other weapon but his. “Rickon what are you doing? What’s happened here?”

“I stopped her!” Rickon screamed, jabbing the knife at Brigid who cried out in fear. “She was going to hurt Lorra and I saved her!”

“I wasn’t!” Brigid shook her head. “I was putting the babe to bed and then he just came at me with the knife!”

“You can’t have her!” Rickon shouted. “You’re like the others! You killed Sansa! Arya! Robb! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill-”

She snatched hold of the boy’s wrist, jerking it so the knife fell free and Rickon squealed in pain. He fought against her but she grabbed Rickon’s squirming body and lifted him up into a tight embrace. Robin and Patrek were there too and went on to see to Brigid while Catelyn dealt with her furious son.

“Let go!” He spat in a red-faced rage, tears streaming down his cheeks as he kicked at her. “Let go! Grandpa told me to! He told me!”

“Rickon stop!” Catelyn pleaded. “My love, please! Please! It’s alright! Lorra’s safe! You’re safe!”

“Liar! Liar!” Rickon’s voice rang out as Shaggydog’s growls grew louder. “They’ll kill her! They’ll kill us all! I won’t let them! You can’t stop them! You can’t!”

Catelyn pressed her face against her son's, trying to calm him as much as herself. Lorra needed her as well but she only had so many arms. There was only so much she could do.

She wanted to tell Rickon that he was wrong. That no one would hurt him. That Bran and Lorra were safe. That his father would be home soon and everything would alright.

Catelyn wished she could say all these things. She could lie to her son, it would be so simple. If only to spare him from the truth. To save him from the terror she lived in now.

We aren’t safe. I couldn’t save the others.

Gods let me save what children I have left.

Oh Ned… our poor babes…

 

BRAN

 

 

These lands were too hot. He didn’t belong here.

There were no great forests in this country of sun, sand, and stone. Only dunes, cliffs and small oases. The sand didn’t feel right between his paws. It got into his eyes. Stuck in his fur. Tainted every kill. He would usually only hunt these lands by night, when it became so cold as to remind him of home.

This time though the sun beat down on him. Finding him amidst the great red mountains he now travelled through. He hunted despite the heat, for this hunt was more important than most. He crested the top of a dune and beheld the river in the valley below. The water glimmered in the sunlight, moving in such a way that it looked like a long shining snake slithering through rocky hills and crags.

There was no escape for this prey here. The antelope had fled into a gorge near the river, now it was trapped. The only escape was back the way his hunter now came. He should never have been able to track it in the first place. The sand was tricky, hiding prints moments after they were left. He was upwind of the antelope as well, so its scent was lost to him.

It was his eyes that guided him, for they followed the white bird now circling overtop the prey’s location. It stood out against the blue sky, its shadow larger than it should be as it passed over the antelope again and again.

When he reached the entrance of the gorge the prey darted all about, desperately trying to climb the steep rock walls. There was no point. He moved swiftly, dodging its kicking hooves and clamping his jaws down around the screaming antelope’s neck. Blood filled his mouth, hot and sweet, life itself. The smell of its fear caused his heart to beat faster but he took no pleasure in the antelopes suffering. With a powerful jerk the beast’s neck was snapped and its struggles ceased.

He needed the meal. His journeys had been harsh. The mountains harsher. Still, he had made it through. He had found a way through to lusher lands and would have starved for it. If he hadn’t had help.

That help landed beside him as he gorged himself on the flesh of the kill. The raven was brave to do so. Bolder still to hop along the ground until the bloody meal lay within its grasp. He raised his red snout up to meet the bird’s eyes.

Dark eyes. Strange eyes.

Eyes he trusted.

He shifted his place to begin tearing at a new part of the antelope, letting the raven stab its beak into the prey’s flesh. They could share this kill. They shared in much these days.

“Bran.”

He thought the raven had cawed but it was too busy eating. Something had spoken though.

“Bran.”

The call was distant. Someplace he needed to be. From a person he had to be with.

“Bran.”

His eyes shot open then. His own eyes this time. It took Bran a moment or two of blinking to adjust to the bright world beyond the shade of the tree they sat beneath. In front of him sat the dark beauty that called Bran back from his other self.

“Elara.” He croaked, his throat dry and raw. A hiss escaped his lips at how stiff his legs felt, like he hadn’t used them for years. A glance to the sun above their heads showed only a few hours had passed. No one was around them, the pair alone in the small oasis along the shores of the Torrentine river. He licked his lips at the thought of water and Elara poured handed him skin of it.

“Drink.” Elara urged him, smoothing down the scarf she had around her head. It was the color of amethysts and matched the rest of the silks she wore so well. “And act normally. We are being watched.”

He nearly spat out his water, reaching for the shortsword at his side until Elara gave a curt shake of her head.

“It’s fine my winged wolf.” She tilted her head towards a cluster of rocks along the path back to the camp and castle. “I think it’s your fool of a friend.”

“Idiot.” Bran scowled narrowing his eye at the rocks and spotting what looked to be the top of a squire’s head behind one. “I told him to leave us be.”

“He did for a few hours at least.” Elara said before lowering her voice. “How was it this time? Did you remember who you were? Who I was?”

“Sort of.” He scratched his head. “I remember more of it… I knew to find the trail, I mean Summer knew to find it-”

“It was you Bran, not Summer. Just like it was me in Winter helping you through. Was that antelope enough food?”

“I think so, we were really hungry…” Bran rubbed at his own stomach, even though he was far from hungry. “Hey! I made Summer share! I remember that! We shared the kill with you… I mean Winter.”

Elara laughed, a sweet sound that carried on the breeze.

“It’s hard to know where the beast starts and we begin. I wonder if it will it always be so confusing for us.”

He hoped not. With everything Bran and Elara had learned together since her return to Dorne it seemed like anything was possible. The powers Elara talked about were straight from the tales Old Nan would tell him. He had called it warging once and Elara chided him for it, apparently Archmaester Marwyn had told her it was a gift. Something given over to the First Men by the children of the forest themselves.

“A gift as misunderstood as we are.” Elara would tell him often. “It’s in the blood Bran. It all comes from blood.”

Their time today had been focused on learning how far Summer and Winter had journeyed. They stole moments like this whenever possible but those were few and far between. Which bothered Bran, since his powers didn’t stop just because Elara couldn’t talk to him about them.

When she rose to her feet, stepping off the blanket she’d laid down for their picnic he reached and grabbed her hand.

“The dreams.” He whispered. “The dreams about the others. The red eye… have you had any yet?”

“No.” Elara sounded sad to say so, pulling him up and cupping his hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry Bran, I am. I wish you didn’t have to face that alone.”

Sometimes all these powers felt a burden. Long before any word came of the North he knew something horrible had happened. Arya and Sansa were gone from his dreams. He saw glimpses of rotting bodies, dark woods, and Winterfell standing as a smoking ruin, but nothing of his sisters. It was worse for Robb.

Robb’s dead… I dreamt it… I saw his head…

That sight bothered him since he still felt Robb when his mind went north. A part of him pictured his older brother howling in anger and sadness, a feeling that grew more distant with time. Which was strange since the red eye was farther away but it grew brighter in his dreams. A beacon in the darkness, one filled with terrible knowledge.

He was thinking on that when Elara bent down to kiss his cheek. A soft pressing of her lips against his skin, one that set his cheeks to burning.

“Yuck.” He took a step back and wiped his face. “What did you do that for?”

“To remind you that you’re not alone.” Elara feigned insult then. “And what might I ask is so disgusting about a kiss from me? Most squires would boast about such a thing.”

“Like Harry?”

Elara acted surprised at that and truthfully he was surprised it came out of his mouth. Harry Hardyng, the shit he was, had been smothering Elara with flattery and flowers ever since she joined their march from Sunspear. It him mad to see Elara laughing at Harry’s stupid jests or accepting his gifts with smiles.

“He makes other boys find you all that stuff.” Bran grumbled. “Harry goes on and on about how he’ll… well that he’ll-”

“Bed me?” Elara raised an eyebrow as she picked up a stone. “Trust me Bran, the most Harry the Heir will ever get from me is a smile and some false hope. Do you think I’d fall for a man you call Harry Hardung? And what do you think Royce?”

She shouted the last part before hurling the stone up and towards Bronze Jon’s hiding place. It landed with a clattering and the squire leapt up soon after, looking about in mock confusion.

“Oh hello!” His friend smiled widely. “I was just, uh, hunting scorpions. They’re delicious if you know how to cook them right.”

Bran slapped his forehead. “You don’t know how to cook them right.”

“Well how else am I supposed to learn?” Jon winked. “I bet you said the same thing to the lady to get that kiss! The Kissing Wolf!”

That sent Bran running at the boy and soon they were rolling about the ground, slapping and hitting one another. Elara laughed while the boys scrapped, packing up their things in the meantime. When the fight was at an end, Jon shaking sand from his hair and Bran adjusting his eye patch, they helped each other stand. There was no chance of Elara and he could continue their talk alone so they joined Jon for the walk back towards the castle Blackmont.

Personally Bran preferred Starfall to the seat of the Blackmonts. Both castles sat along the Torrentine but where Blackmont was built against the river shore Starfall had sat upon an island all its own, surrounded by bright blue waters. Elara had been happy to show him about her home, happier than he’d seen her since she arrived in Dorne. He’d felt guilty to ruin all that. It was at Starfall word came from the North, news he’d been fearing for some time. He almost felt ready to hear his three elder siblings were lost but hadn’t expected for his father to be missing too.

When he was little Bran thought nothing could hurt their family with father and Ice protecting them. Now father was gone and so was Robb. He wanted Sansa to hold him and tell him everything would be alright. Arya could even make fun of him if she wanted. None of that would happen though. They were all gone.

After Uncle Benjen and Ser Oswell told him he’d wept like a babe. His uncle had held him tight, comforting Bran as best he could.

“The Starks endure.” His uncle had said with sad eyes of his own. “You remember that. Your father and I made it through hard times like this once before. Together we’ll get through this.”

“Your uncle’s right.” Ser Oswell had put a hand on Bran’s head, patting it awkwardly and struggling to soften his tone. “Wounds to the body heal, as will this pain to your heart. You’ve already recovered from one great hurt lad. The boy I made my squire is strong enough to do so again.”

Even King Aegon had taken Bran into his arms, kissing his cheeks and apologizing on behalf of his family.

“Joffrey and Viserys…” Aegon had said with a hand to his heart. “They are family but that will not protect them from justice. If Jon cannot see to it from the capital it will fall to me once this campaign is done. The fiends who killed your brother in the North are the same ones who ravage the Reach. Let them see what happens when they raise the ire of great men. You and I, Brandon Stark.”

Uncle Benjen and the ser were surprised by those words, both saying something about sending Bran on to Riverrun but the king had Elara lead Bran away before he heard the rest. All tried to keep him too busy to grieve. Elara kept him distracted with her lessons and tours of Starfall. Ser Oswell had Bran at his side wherever the king led them about in their day. Bronze Jon would force him to take part in his desperate attempts to catch Dornishwomen bathing in ponds or streams.

The women Bran and the others came upon at the edge of camp weren’t bathing. Obara and Nymeria Sand were mounted atop handsome Dornish sand steeds, both hailing Elara when they caught sight of her. The horses were gifts from Lord Blackmont and Elara became entranced by the fine mounts. So Jon took the chance to pester Bran freely.

“So I was right.” Bronze Jon whispered with a mad smile on his face. “You two were sneaking off to kiss and what not.”

“No we weren’t.” He hissed back, shoving his friend who laughed.

“Fine, we’ll call it wrestling. I told you this would happen after the king made you the next Lord of Harrenhal. It’s going to be even worse now that you’re getting the North too-”

“Shut up.” Bran snapped. “I don’t get the North. I don’t get Winterfell… it was supposed to be Robb’s. It’ll be his son’s if Roslin has one and I hope she does… I want Robb’s baby to live…”

“Shit. I’m sorry Bran.” Bronze Jon said sincerely enough. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Everyone just keeps calling you the heir and what not… well at least you’re getting kissed because of it.”

“That’s not why.” He shook his head. “I never wanted Harrenhal. Or Winterfell. I wanted Father and Robb to be there when Jon and Sansa would visit from Summerhall. I’d come with them, their Kingsguard knight. Mother would be proud and I could show Rickon my sword and Arya how much better a rider I was…”

“You’re a shit rider.” Bronze Jon cuffed his shoulder. “Being a lord of Harrenhal won’t be so bad. My father always said it’s huge, the second biggest thing he’s ever seen. Oh and it’s near the Isle of Faces. They’ve got your funny weirwoods there. I’ll come visit you! ‘Course I’ll be Kingsguard by then-”

Bran tried to smack Jon but he dodged it, laughing as he made to run by Elara. The lady smiled and nodded at Bran, giving him permission to show his friend what for.

They ran between the tents and horselines, this camp far smaller than they were used to.

This was the smallest the King’s army had ever been since Storm’s End. It had been larger after Sunspear of course. The King had set out across Dorne with fifteen thousand flying his banners and a new crown upon his head. Well it was actually a very old crown, the one worn by Aegon the Conqueror himself. A Valyrian steel circlet with big, square cut rubies, impressive to look upon. King Daeron, the Young Dragon, had worn it during his conquest of Dorne and many thought the crown lost after he’d been killed. It was a shock to all when Prince Doran bestowed the crown upon Aegon, an act of love and fealty towards the new king.

Rhaenys claimed it a fine omen for the journey to come and Bran thought that was true. The travels across the desert were harsh but, rather than losing men, more joined Aegon’s march with each castle he stopped at. The Fowlers, the Tolands, the Vaiths, the Yronwoods, it seemed like every house in Dorne had come out to support their march to the Reach. They had been twenty thousand when Aegon gave the command for the army to split at Sandstone.

The foot was to travel under Lord Yronwood and Red Ronnet Connington up the Prince’s Pass. The king was in a hurry to arrive in the Reach and taking the army through the Boneway was a detour he could not abide. Nor the risk that rebel Stormlords could seek vengeance on them for taking route through their lands. The Prince’s Pass hadn’t seemed ideal for that same reason, for at its mouth sat the castle Nightsong. A castle held by House Caron, traitors to the king’s cause and capable of reaping a terrible toll of any army seeking to pass from the south.

“So we must come at it from the north as well.” Aegon had declared. “The Young Dragon once found a way through the Red Mountains to invade Dorne. Now I mean to do the same to reach the realm. Let us make history together.”

The king’s plan was for the mounted strength to follow him onwards to Starfall and up the Torrentine. From there his army would cross through the Red Mountains and attack Nightsong from the rear, opening the pass for Lord Yronwood to lead the foot through. Many had spoken against this strategy, pointing out no such trail through the mountains existed. That when Elara had spoken up.

“There is. There is because my uncle Arthur said there was. There is because he showed me it himself.”

“Eh?” Ser Oswell had grunted. “Arthur never said one word of such a thing to me.”

“Oswell? Truly?” The king smirked, brushing some of his silver-blonde hair out of his eyes and gesturing to Elara. “The Lady Dayne is charm itself. Kin to Ser Arthur. Is it so unbelievable he would share secrets with her rather than his sour sworn brother?”

“Not my fault if the truth tastes bitter.” The ser had argued, still unconvinced of Elara’s claims.

Which turned out to be totally justified, as Bran would later learn. Elara sought him out that very evening and informed him of the need to send Summer and Winter to find a pass through the mountains. A route that remained a mystery to her.

“My uncle told me some rumors, yes.” Elara had shrugged off his incredulousness, touching at the ruby on her neck. “Truly Bran, I saw it in the flames. The vision showed the king moving through the mountains, just not where. I saw Winter and Summer leading the way. So it’s them we should send.”

He’d been angry with Elara for the lies but couldn’t deny her, he worried what would happen to her if the king learned the truth. It was a small comfort that Summer and Winter had been able to find the trail Elara sought and were on their way back to report it.

Within a couple days the army would be heading through the range. The king ready to bring the fight to the enemy once again.

It was the sound of fighting that gave him pause then. He had Jon cornered against some barrels when angry shouting drifted over to them from the direction of the king’s pavilion. One of the voices he recognized.

“That’s my uncle.” He said with worry. “Something’s wrong.”

Before his friend could join him Bran began to run towards the yelling, his shortsword smacking against his leg. The king’s pavilion was a magnificent thing, a gift from Prince Doran for the march across the desert. Black and red, its wide body was held up by scores of poles, its canopy extending outward to protect the guards from the sun. Most of it was open to the air so that the breeze could move over its occupants and set the silk curtains to billowing. It was through those curtains he spotted his uncle arguing passionately with both the King and Princess Rhaenys.

He slowed his pace and none of the guards batted an eye as he went within, clearly used to him going to and fro on errands. Inside Bran found a collection of the finest members of the king’s court. The Kingsguard were there, Daemon Sand and Richard Horpe eyeing his uncle warily while Ser Oswell appeared as furious as the Stark knight. Ser Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar as he liked to be called, whispered something in Princess Arianne’s ear that set her to smiling while her brother Quentyn took no pleasure in this whatsoever. Prince Oberyn sharpened his spear in the corner of the tent, paying all of this little mind whatsoever.

A shock considering Bran had never seen any speak this way to the king.

“I demand leave to write my goodsister the truth!” Benjen bellowed, snatching up a handful of parchment and throwing it down at Aegon’s feet. “Keep your lies about honoring my nephew and delivering her justice! She wants her son! Not empty words!”

“Ser, hear me on this.” Aegon raised his hands. “I do honor young Brandon. Haven’t I shown that already? Many a family would take pride in having a son ride beside their king in wartime.”

“You would rob Ser Oswell of his gallant squire?” Rhaenys asked as well, her belly straining at her dress and a hand at her back to steady herself. Benjen was having none of that though.

“I would return my nephew safely to his family’s arms. As I did once before, when a wise king sat the throne and sought to put a boy’s safety above all else.”

“You insult King Aegon?” Arianne asked as Aegon’s gaze narrowed on Benjen. Before his uncle could respond though Ser Oswell stepped forward.

“He spoke well of King Rhaegar.” The knight grumbled. “And he spoke the truth of the matter. Since my name was invoked in this it is my duty to say something I never thought I would. Benjen is right.”

“Thank you ser.”

“Shutup.” The ser grunted as he faced Aegon. “My king, I know your reasons for keeping Bran at your side. If you wish to remain confident in the North’s loyalty then keep Benjen here and let the boy go to his family.”

Rhaenys appeared shocked. “My brother awarded Bran Stark title to Harrenhal because you asked it of him. A noble deed many spoke against. It is for a Kingsguard to serve his king, not to beg boons of him. Now you wish Aegon to endanger his reign-”

“I have asked nothing of the king your grace.” Oswell responded, lowering his head. “I would not dare. Nor would I lie to say I have grown… fond of the lad. Kingsguard father no children and I never wanted a son but… it’s no matter. The Starks have lost much and they entrusted the boy to me. If I must choose between keeping him by my side and dragging him into another battle…”

Oswell’s tone changed then and it was one Bran recognized. He glanced down to his mentor’s sword hand and saw the tremble begin again. The knight never faltered in battle or practice but if his dreams or talk turned to battle the hand would shake. An act the ser quickly hid by covering one hand over the other.

“I’d rather we send Bran home to his mother than keep him in my service.”

The king appeared unsure by all this, his irritation falling away much like his resolve. Aegon put much weight in the counsel of the Lord-Commander of his Kingsguard. Often it was Ser Oswell’s opinion on a divisive matter that would determine the king’s decision one way or the other. Which was exactly what Bran feared would happen now.

“I don’t want to go!” Bran couldn’t hold his tongue, drawing everyone’s eyes to him. “I want to be Ser Oswell’s squire! I want to fight with the king against the ironmen!”

“Bran quiet now.” Benjen moved to take hold of him but he pulled away, seeking the king’s eyes.

“They killed Robb! You said we could fight them together! Please King Aegon don’t send me away! I’ll be your man! I will!”

“That’s it.” The ser snapped striding towards him as angry as could be. “You’re going to be polishing my armor until your hands fall off. Then we’ll get you working with your feet-”

“Hold ser!” Aegon smiled, holding out his arms to Bran. “There! Again I find myself in doubt and this squire’s loyalty sees me through. When Margaery gives me a son I know who I’ll recommend to him for a future Hand of the King, that’s for sure. Well, we all heard it with our own ears, the heir to Harrenhal wishes to stay by my side. So it shall be.”

“No.” Benjen jerked about. “No, his brother and sisters are dead and his father is missing. Aegon let me send the boy-”

“My decision is made ser.” Aegon’s expression hardened, his tone cold. “Accept it or leave this tent. Take a walk about the camp to calm yourself if you must.”

“Be careful if you do.” Oberyn added without looking up from his spear. “The desert’s a treacherous place.”

“It’s true, you might get lost.” The Darkstar took a step away from the Martells with a smile towards Rhaenys. “You Starks have a nasty habit of going missing only to end up dead. Lyanna, Eddard, not such a bad thing really-”

“Silence.” Aegon snapped but it was too late.

In the blink of an eye Uncle Benjen had crossed the space between him and the Dayne. The Darkstar was quick as well, catching Benjen’s fist with one hand and free wrist with the other. His uncle used that as leverage to deliver a crushing headbutt straight into the knight’s face, sending Darkstar tumbling backwards onto his arse. The Kingsguard put themselves between the men and the royals as Benjen put a hand to his sword.

“Say that again.” Benjen spat down at the knight. “Darkstar, more like Shitforbrains. Speak of my brother and sister again-”

Benjen’s words were cut off by the spearpoint pressing up against the side of his neck. As smooth as a viper, Oberyn had slid from his side of the tent and now held a spear thrust upwards at the northern knight.

“You think to bare steel in the presence of my nieces? My nephews?” Oberyn asked in an oddly calm manner, tracing a line with the spearpoint across to Benjen’s throat. “I like you Stark, I do. But I’ve killed men for less. One wrong move and your nephew mourns again.”

“I won’t.” Bran tried to sound brave as he pressed the tip of his shortsword against Oberyn’s side. The moment he saw Oberyn coming with the spear he’d drawn his blade. None had been watching him so now a one-eyed squire stood threatening a Prince of Dorne.

“The ser told me about this spot.” He looked to where his sword touched Oberyn’s side. “If I push the blade goes into your liver.”

Oberyn smiled down at him as the others all began to shout and curse as one. It was Ser Oswell and the king himself that broke up the standoff. Darkstar was sent from the tent bleeding and cursing, almost knocking Bronze Jon down as he did so. Ser Robar soon collected his squire as he escorted Uncle Benjen off to cool his anger. When Aegon sent Oberyn away as well the prince looked to Bran and tapped the side of his head.

“Good move little one, but now it’s one I’ll be looking for. Get that sour sot to teach you some new tricks.”

Bran took a strange pride in those words before the ser grabbed hold of his ear and pulled it until he winced in pain. The ser forced him to stand before Aegon and Rhaenys and the remaining Kingsguard.

“You pulled your blade in front of the king boy.” Ser Oswell spoke severely. “Apologize and apologize well or so help me-”

“Oh leave him be.” Aegon laughed, nudging Bran playfully and looking to his shortsword. “I just saw a squire get the drop on the Red Viper himself. You Starks are something else… I guess I should’ve expected this after how Jon handled Cersei.”

Aegon’s good cheer made him feel better but Rhaenys was not so amused.

“That Hand of yours now has King’s Landing under the control of his men and you laugh about it. He sits the Iron Throne while we trod along in the sand-”

“His men?” Aegon sighed, adjusting his crown. “Edmure Tully is my friend and Mace Tyrell the father of my bride. My brother might be Hand but without those two he has no muscle. I sincerely hope they work well together. With any luck Jon can find me good reason to lock Cersei up in a tower for the rest of her days.”

The king clapped Bran on the back bid Rhaenys to look at him, which she did begrudgingly.

“Cersei can rot in her prison while Joffrey freezes his arse off at the Wall. After the ironmen are dealt with it’s Casterly Rock we’ll be heading to next. I’ll have Joffrey dragged out in chains right under Tywin Lannister’s nose!”

“That’s the wrong lion to poke your grace.” The ser said, his brow furrowing. “After Robert Baratheon your father always eyed Tywin as the greatest danger-”

“What’s an aging old lion compared to dragons?” Aegon smiled. “Even the proud Lord of Casterly Rock must be quaking to hear of the dragons returned to us. If Tywin defies my will much longer his great fortress will serve as a gilded cage. One that I can drag him out of-”

“You sound like a fool!” Rhaenys pushed at her brother, surprising them all that she would dare such a thing. “Tywin Lannister cannot be underestimated! Boldly going about threatening him is folly! What if he wants you to march on Casterly Rock? A trap Aegon!”

“That’s nonsense!”

“He forced the Mad King’s hand didn’t he?” Rhaenys clutched her stomach desperately, her eyes wild. “Father was going to try and sneak us away but Tywin showed up, declaring father as king and provoking Aerys! A plot! A plot to have mother and us murdered and-”

“Rumors Rhae.” Aegon tried to calm his sister. “Those were rumors. Even if it was true, he failed did he not?”

“Because of me!” Rhaenys shook her head. “I’ve done so much for you Aegon and now you want to leave me behind? I’m trying to keep you safe! You act like everything I say is twisted and evil! You blame me for father!”

“I don’t.” Aegon said but with far less conviction, avoiding her eyes and looking to Ser Oswell. “The princess is tired, please escort her back to the castle-”

“No Aegon please!” Rhaenys grabbed Aegon’s arm. “This child will come soon and you should be here! Just wait! Wait and we’ll come with you and I can protect you both-”

“I’m the king!” Aegon jerked free, face red with embarrassment. “I do not need my sister at my side to march to war! I haven’t needed you since I was a child and grew brave enough to face storms alone! You protected me? It was the Kingslayer that saved us! I should’ve left you at Sunspear but no! I let you come along, slowing us down, second guessing every one of my decisions! Jon as Hand. Giving Brightwater Keep to Randyll Tarly. Making Bran heir to Harrenhal! Well I can think for myself! If I hadn’t listened to you I wouldn’t have left the capital. I would’ve saved father! I could’ve killed the Usurper myself! Claimed Blackfyre! You fear Jon so much but every single thing you’ve ever done has made him a hero and me a coward in the eyes of the realm. My realm! The crown is mine Rhae. Not yours! For all you accuse Jon, at least my brother has helped me rule!”

“Aegon-”

“Go!” The king turned his back to his sister. “No more Rhae! I go to war, you the birthing bed! Let your husband attend you there!”

Aegon then stormed out of the pavilion, commanding Ser Daemon and Richard to follow after. The scarred knight, usually the one who stayed with the princess, shot Rhaenys a sympathetic look but did as Aegon said.

It fell to Oswell and Bran to lead the downtrodden Rhaenys on towards Blackmont, a troupe of Martell guardsmen following after. At first Bran, like many others, had been happy to hear the princess would be left behind to birth her babe here in Dorne. Now he felt bad for her though. Lord Renly wasn’t staying behind at Blackmont with his wife. Even now he and Loras Tyrell were off somewhere, nowhere to be seen when Rhaenys needed him.

The princess had never liked Bran but that didn’t mean he thought her a monster. She was smart, he knew that, few in the army could beat her at cyvasse. The way Rhaenys would sing to her unborn child reminded Bran of his own mother. Even the Dornish sun did not shine as brightly as the princess’s smile when Aegon or the Martells would press their hands to her middle. In those moments the princess was a lovely person.

Sadly, this was not one of those times.

“Ser, you must speak to Aegon.” Rhaenys spoke quietly as they broke free from camp and continued on towards the castle gate. “You’re sworn to keep him safe and I trust you to do so. He heeds your counsel so hear me now. Tell him to try and seek a match between a Florent and one of Randyll Tarly’s daughters. It might bring the Florents back on side. No matter what Aegon says until he is wed to Margaery Tyrell Lord Mace could seek a match to another, perhaps even Jon-”

“Princess-”

“Get Aegon to order Dany and her dragons back to Dragonstone. Find some reason. Just separate her and Jon. We underestimated her and with Sansa Stark dead…”

Rhaenys stopped then, turning her gaze to Bran who did his best to hide his anger at the mention of Sansa in the midst of plotting.

“You likely believe everything Aegon just said of me.” She spoke not in accusation, but in a hurt tone. “Whatever I feel about my father’s son by Lyanna, I have never hated you Brandon Stark. I ask you to imagine how you would feel if Aegon named Joffrey his hand and ignored you for speaking against it.”

“Jon is not Prince Joffrey.” Bran answered back, despite the ser lifting his finger to his lips. To press his point he pointed to his missing eye. “He’s never hurt you.”

“Hasn’t he?” Rhaenys asked. “Then how did my mother ever come to be at the mercy of the Mad King? Do not answer, I need not debate that with you. Just know I am sincerely saddened by what has befallen your family. I’ve heard from Benjen your sister Sansa was a sweet girl. A beautiful lady who would’ve made a lovely princess.”

“She would’ve.” He agreed. “Mother always said Sansa was born a lady… she never hurt anyone. Everyone liked her. Well Arya and her fought some but they were so different. Arya would run and play with me, she’d get dirty and laugh about it. She could ride as well as Robb and he was the best of us. He was the best and father always…”

His words fell away as the pain returned. He never expected it could ever hurt to think on his family but it did. Nor was he prepared when Rhaenys touched his shoulder. Her dark eyes free of malice, filled instead with a sort of warmth.

“You loved them, that is clear. I imagine you would have done all in your power to keep them safe. That’s how I feel about Aegon.” Rhaenys ran a hand over her middle then. “This babe will grow up a lord. Free from all the dangers the Iron Throne thrusts upon the men of my family. I can give it that. Aegon has never had that option. He says I want the crown but he’s wrong… it is his… I just don’t want the crown to drag him down…”

“It hasn’t yet.” Oswell said as they reached the gates and the Blackmont guards stepped aside to let them pass. “Trust in him princess. He wears the crown well.”

“So did my father.” Rhaenys shot back. “That didn’t save him. Aegon now wears the Conqueror’s crown but so did Daeron, and look what happened to him. Crowns doom their wearers. It falls to those who love their kings to spare them that fate. I will do all I can to keep Aegon alive, as my mother wanted. So heed me Oswell Whent. Do as your princess asks. For the sake of your king.”

She left them there, preferring the company of the Martell guardsmen after that. Bran served a knight and marched in an army filled with some of the best warriors in the realm. Yet as the pregnant princess strode away from them he thought she did so with as much pride and bearing as any of those men.

“Will you do as she asks?” He looked to the ser, who was also watching Rhaenys disappear within the castle. “Speak to the king?”

“I serve the king. As do you.” Ser Oswell answered. “I’ll repeat all my princess has commanded me to. It is for Aegon to heed her or not.”

“She was right on one thing though.”

“It is for us to keep the king alive.”

 

ARYA

 

The longship swept across the sea, sending mist up into her face.

When Arya stood at the bow of the Black Wind like this it was easy to pretend she was the one driving them over the waves of the Sunset Sea. That it was her will alone parting the sea before them, that she could be so powerful.

Strong enough to do what needed to be done.

“Get down girl!” Grimtongue shouted before he grabbed hold of Arya’s ratty cloak and yanked her backwards.

She went sprawling across the deck of the longship, which was damp and stank of seaweed. The ironborn around her began to laugh as she struggled to her feet, a hard thing to do with the ship rocking as it was.

“Deck’s wet isn’t it?” Grimtongue stuck a foot on her shoulder and knocked her down again. “Look’it you. Slipping and sliding all over the place. Mayhaps if you was mopping the deck like you was ‘sposed to be doing you wouldn’t be flat on your arse.”

“Sorry.” She kept her eyes lowered and tried to rise again. The reaver might well have kicked her once more if another didn’t speak up.

“Leave her Grim.” Osha said as she marched across the deck and helped Arya to her feet, staring the man down the whole time. “She’s learned her lesson, no need for that.”

“Don’t be telling me what I’m about you northern slut.” Grimtongue raised a hand to Osha before another reaver stepped up behind her. One far larger and more fearsome looking, a longaxe strapped across his back.

“You going to hit what’s mine?” Lorren Longaxe crossed his arms and cracked his neck. “Woman’s my salt wife. Her child’s mine too. Or you wanting to fight me for them?”

“I ain’t afraid o’ you Lorren.” Grimtongue unbuckled his swordbelt and tossed it to one of the watchers. “You can’t keep this bitch and her brat in line but think you can put me down?”

“Oh I’d be willing to try.” Lorren said to a cheer from his shipmates. Qarl the Maid stepped up to take Lorren’s axe from him as the two combatants stripped off their shirts and prepared to fight. To Arya’s disappointed this would be a battle of fists. She’d prefer they use blades, that way at least one of the bastards could die.

“Nan!” A shout came from the mast of the longship. “Nan! Come here!”

Arya wanted nothing more than to watch the reavers pummel each other but as the fists began to fly she heeded the captain’s command.

Asha Greyjoy leaned against the mast and grinned as Osha led Arya on to her. The sounds of a brawl erupted behind them, the cheers of the Greyjoy men growing loud yet Asha only had eyes for her. The lean, long-legged woman kept two throwing axes at her waist and a fierce look in her eye. When she reached down and snatched Arya away from Osha the captain’s hands felt rough on her skin.

“Nan, Nan, Nan.” Asha grasped her chin tightly and sighed. “You child, are even more trouble than I was at a girl. Good for you.”

She followed that up with a stinging slap across across Arya’s face. Not one hard enough to knock her down or break her lip, but one that stung nonetheless.

“Disobey others at your own risk but when I tell you to do something, you do it.” Asha spoke harshly, jerking her face down to the mop at the side of the ship. “Just for that, you don’t get to watch the fight. You’ll clean up after it though, like you should’ve been doing. You hear me girl?”

“I hear you captain.” Arya nodded, rubbing her face. “I was just enjoying the view of the sea is all.”

“That’s why I didn’t beat you bloody.” Asha ruffled her hair. “I like you girl. There’s something in your eyes… you’re harder than most girlfolk. You must take after your mother though I bet you got the look of your father.”

You’re damn right I do, Arya thought, I’m a Tully and a Stark.

Family. Duty. Honor… all the reasons I’m going to make sure winter comes for every one of those that deserve it.

Brown Ben. Viserys Targaryen. Prince Joffrey. Tywin Lannister.

Theon Greyjoy.

She knew the names well even if Asha had no clue of the truth of who Arya really was. To the captain of the Black Wind she was just Nan, Osha’s bastard daughter. As she been since they’d been taken prisoner.

After Theon Greyjoy had murdered Robb in front of Arya the monster had made to move on Grey Wind. The poor wolf had grown calm under his netting, whimpering at the loss of Robb and helpless to what was coming. At the time Arya felt bad to throw an elbow into Osha’s face but it was what she had to do to run. That helped her wrench free of Osha and run to Grey Wind, cutting free his netting with Needle before the reavers could react. A man had made to run her through but Grey Wind knocked him aside. Others were coming and she wouldn’t let the wolf die for her.

“Go!” She’d screamed, slashing about with Needle, tears running down her face. “Go! You have to go! Save yourself!”

Grey Wind had whined and tried to stay with her but Needle and the arrow that sailed neared his head drove him back. Before the enemy could reach him the wolf had run away, fleeing the battle and racing off into the distance with Nymeria joining him.

“You little bastard!” Theon had roared, notching another arrow and readying to shoot her. “That pelt was mine! You stupid fucking boy! How dare you!?”

Arya had been ready to die then, raising Needle up and expecting an arrow to take through the heart. Until Asha Greyjoy appeared out of a throng of men and struck her brother so hard he fell to the ground. Some had shouted and tried to defend the murderer but Asha’s crew and other reavers marched forward, axes and blades at the ready.

“Idiot.” Asha had cursed her brother as she stood over his unconscious form. “Bloody fucking fool. You drag me north when I should be south. You kill a Stark we should take captive. And you can’t tell a fucking boy from a girl!”

It didn’t take her long to realize most of the ironborn that had helped defeat Robb served Asha rather than Theon. Asha didn’t care about the sellswords or the others following her brother’s lead, all that mattered to her was tossing Theon into her ship and leaving the North as swiftly as she could. Arya had kept her face hidden from Ossifer, who everyone called Brown Ben, for as long as she could but it was his group taking most of the prisoners. Rodrik Forrester among them.

Osha saved them from the same fate. Somehow she caught the eye of Lorren who claimed her as his. When he made to grab her Osha had fought, scratching and biting him badly. Arya tried to help with Needle but Qarl the Maid snatched the sword away from her and it looked like they’d carry Osha off and leave Arya for the sellswords when Asha stepped in.

“Be that your mother, child?” Asha asked, looking down at her in a hard way. “You fight hard enough for her.”

Arya had lied and said it was so, hoping it would gain Osha some mercy. Instead it meant Asha forcing Lorren to take her too.

“If you’re going to claim that wench as a salt wife, you get a salt daughter too.” Asha had shrugged before pointing to Needle, which now hung off Qarl’s waist. “Girl’s halfway to being ironborn as it is, wielding a blade like she does.”

Such had begun Nan’s journeys with the crew of the Black Wind. Nan was the name Osha gave her when anyone bothered to ask. Nan the salt daughter. Nan the deck mopper. Nan the water bearer. Nan the fish cleaner.

Nan the wolf… but none of them know that part.

They won’t know until I’m ready.

That set Arya to smiling as she began to mop the deck, Lorren and Grimtongue trading vicious blows near to her. When Grim drove a knee into Lorren’s groin Osha made a disappointed sound. It bothered Arya that Osha had to share Lorren’s bedroll. Sometimes at night she’d hear them grunting and cursing and it set her blood to boiling. Osha had shrugged away her worries.

“Man stole me, fair and square.” The wildling had said. “As far as husbands could go, he’s better than most. He ain’t cruel like that Grim and man’s got respect for a woman who can handle a spear.”

Arya didn’t care about whether Lorren had stolen Osha or not. It wasn’t right. These people weren’t right. All they jested and sang about was stealing what wasn’t theirs and killing those who tried to stop them. When Asha’s small fleet had stopped in the Iron Islands all the supplies they took on had been stolen from other lands. She’d seen more bounty being loaded off other longships. Gold, silks, weapons, even people, chained and sorrowful. Osha had shrugged at that, saying even the Starks had chained her. 

Robb might have made Osha a prisoner but he never forced her into anyone’s bed.

He did the right thing. He showed mercy.

She gripped the mop tightly to look towards the aft of the longship. Cromm was manning the rudder and straining his neck to catch bits of the fight but she didn’t give two shits about him. It was the sullen murderer beside Cromm that drew the eye. Theon Greyjoy sat looking over the side of rail, either watching the other ships travelling with them or the lush, green coast they sailed along. He’d demanded the right to captain one of the vessels, something which Asha had laughed off.

“Father trusted you with a ship once and look what happened.” Asha had sneered at her brother. “Not again. You get what you earn Theon and considering all the shit you’ve pulled, I’m treating you like a prince.”

A prince. That’s what Theon kept calling himself. Asha and her men laughed at that, Qarl and Hagon would bow to the captain and call her princess only to be smacked about. From what Arya had learned from her time with the reavers Balon Greyjoy had crowed himself the King of the Iron Islands again. The new king was now leading the ironborn to war against their enemies and it was that fight the Black Wind was sailing towards. The only thing Arya cared about was right in front of her.

“Hey, northern bastard.” Theon asked, turning his gaze to her and smirking. It was an ugly smirk, one missing a few teeth. “What do you think you’re looking at?”

“A pile of shit.” She answered, clutching the mop so she could rest her chin upon it.

“You little halfwit!” Theon leapt to his feet as Cromm laughed. “I’ll show you what happens when you speak to a son of the kraken-”

The murderer had taken a step forward before making a face. He had just stepped into a large pile of gull crap which now smeared the edges of his fine boots.

“I told you.” She shrugged and Cromm took to howling then. Theon’s face turned bright red, his rage directed right at her as he stomped forward. Only for an axe to fly forth and stick into the deck right at his feet. Theon stopped in his place but Asha came on, her second axe in hand.

“Stepped in it again, eh Theon?” Asha smirked and gently cuffed Arya across her shoulder. “Even a deck squab shows more sense than you. If father ever does give you another ship he’d be smart to make Nan your second mate. Just to keep you safe from the rocks and shoals.”

“I was trying to help father!” Theon spat. “To help all of us! If we had victory in the North Lord Tywin promised-”

“Tell it to father. Lorren won a real fight just now and on my ship, men get what they earn.”

With that Asha pushed Nan up to where the men had all parted along the rails and Osha stood wiping at Lorren’s bloody brow. Lorren demanded a song and dance for a prize so it fell to Hagon’s red-haired daughter to do the singing and Arya to do the dancing. There was not much fun to be had on long journeys across the sea and, since Arya was too young for what most men liked, they’d put her to work in other ways.

Arya steadied her legs on the rocking deck, having been practicing this often enough of late. When Hagon’s daughter began to sing an ironborn song Arya grabbed at her skirts, lifting them up to show her feet. The steps were slow at first, Arya putting a hand to the mast and dancing about it, letting her feet thump upon the deck. The crew began stomping their own feet so the singing grew louder and Arya’s steps all the quicker. She pushed away from the mast and closed her eyes. Spinning about and swaying with the ebbs and flow of the song. The waves and rocking of the ship became part of her dance, Arya moving as the sea wished her to.

With her eyes closed she could pretend she was in the Great Hall and this was Sansa singing. That father and mother were watching her dance, that it was Bran and Rickon stomping their feet. She held out her arms to welcome Jon as he came to dance with her, spinning about as the world rose and fell beneath their feet. Domeric was next and with him her steps were quicker, more evasive. The pounding came on faster and Arya sped up as well. Her pale-eyed partner would have to chase her and she would be elusive prey, her flying skirts would keep him at bay. Her heart was pounding by the time Robb came and it was only then she slowed.

It was to him she went to now. She wanted this dance. When she reached for her brother it was his warm smile she pictured waiting for her.

“On the horizon!”

Rolfe the Dwarf’s shout stopped everything. The singing, the stomping, Arya’s dreaming. Soon she was joining the rest of the crew in pushing and fighting to get a view of what lay ahead. The smoke was the first thing she spotted, scores, perhaps hundreds of black plumes rising high into the sky from a distance away. She hoped that meant a great many Greyjoy men were now dead and perhaps Asha worried the same. The captain gave the order for the ship to be made ready for a fight and to signal the others.

Men rushed to their places, oars were thrown into their slots, and shields slammed into place along the sides of the ship. Osha and Arya’s job was to ready the buckets of seawater in case some flaming arrows or pitch struck the Black Wind and they set about filling as many as they could. They were doing just that when she spotted the first dead body.

A man in light green who floated face down in the sea. She could not focus on him long for the ship moved swiftly by but there were more to look upon. Many more.

The Black Wind was soon sailing through wreckage of all sorts. Bodies, oars, barrels, bits of wood, all of it striking against the longship’s hull. It came to be such a common thing that she could tell from the sound whether it was wood or flesh that they struck. Some of the wreckage was so big the ships had to sail around it. The broken hulls of galleys or longships, turned over and bobbing up and down like bodies themselves. Arya gazed up in awe as they passed by a vessel so massive she was sure they’d have needed a ladder the length of the Black Wind to reach its deck. Not that there was any point now, the whole top half of the galleass was a smoking ruin. One of its three masts had fallen sideways so that one banner had been spared the fire and still flapped in the breeze.

It was a purple banner, with a cluster of grapes at its center.

“That’s the ship of Lord Redwyne!” Asha declared to a cheer from the crew. “The Arbor Queen herself! Put to flame by the Iron King!”

While passing through the great swath of debris they met other longships. Vessels plying the water, looking for anything worth salvaging from the battle the Black Wind had missed. When Asha shouted over to one of the ships, which flew a warhorn on sable, she asked where they would find the king. The answer that came back were directed them towards a cluster of islands near to shore.

It was there the Black Wind rowed to, making to join the hundreds upon hundreds of vessels already laying at anchor around the four islands. Up until today Arya had thought twenty or so ships together at one time was a grand sight. The fleet her eyes struggled to take in filled her with a sense of awe and terror.

Most were longships, much like the Black Wind, but she caught sight of larger southron ships that Lorren named galleys and dromonds. Ships captured by the ironborn and now to be used against their former masters. They continued on to easternmost isle, the one called Oakenshield, where a harbor town was to be found. Its port was so crammed with vessels it was almost nightfall before the Black Wind was able to find a place to dock. Theon had urged his sister to simply declare themselves as royalty and demand a berth. Asha had shaken her head and grabbed hold of Arya.

“Tell me Nan, why do you and your mother belong to Lorren and not my brother?”

“Um, well, because Lorren got to Osh- I mean mother first.” She scratched her head. “He’s the one that beat her in the fight?”

“That’s right.” Asha leaned on her shoulder to glare at her brother. “The ships ahead of us did the fighting. They earned their place. Bout time you learned yours brother.”

Asha was so pleased by Arya’s answer it was Nan she had carry her things with them as they disembarked. The docks were filled with longships offloading goods and cogs being stocked with the spoils. They passed one group of people, mostly young women, all bound together at the wrists. One girl was being held by a young man with bright red-hair until an ugly raider wrenched them apart.

“That’s my salt wife you be manhandling boy!” The raider laughed as he beat the youth viciously with a club.

“He’s my brother! Stop m’lord, please!” The girl wept and pulled at her ropes but the others held her back as the beating continued. It only stopped when the man caught sight of Asha approaching and smiled widely.

“Asha Greyjoy! You missed all the fun!”

“Left-Hand Lucas Codd.” Asha named him. “You never knew when the fun should stop. Haven’t you spilt enough blood today?”

“Can’t blame me for having my blood up.” The man shrugged. “Caught a good bunch of thralls up the Mander, barely made it back for this fight. It was one for the songs girl…”

It was then the Codd man looked by Asha to notice Theon just behind her. All good cheer drained away from his face and he lashed out again with his club, causing the youth to bellow in pain and his sister to scream.

“Found the Turncloak did you?” He raised the club to point at Theon, who bristled in fury.

“What did you call me?”

“Turncloak. What else would I call a man who defies his father to serve as a thrall to some soft green lord?”

Theon was ready to come to blows with the man over the insult but Asha had her men push the two apart. Apparently they had more important business waiting for them at the castle that overlooked the large harbor. From what Arya saw of the town around them it was near to bursting with ironborn, many of whom were drunk or on their way to it. The celebrations grew more raucous the closer they came to the thick walls of the castle.

When they passed through the studded oaken gates of Lord Hewitt’s castle they were led to its hall where a victory feast was underway. Ironborn warriors and captains sat shoulder to shoulder at the tables, cheering and shouting so loudly it hurt her ears. Beleaguered serving wenches were running about with drink and platters of food, doing their best to dodge the grabbing hands of the men. When one drunk reached for her Lorren lashed out with his foot, knocking the fool off his bench.

People called out Asha’s name or cursed Theon but nothing stopped their approach to the high table. It was only there the good cheer of the hall darkened. Seated below the lord’s table was man wearing a badge displaying the same sigil she saw throughout the castle. His face was drawn and morose, as were the expressions of the woman beside him and the young ladies flanking them at the table. Some weeping in fear. Above them, sitting in the lord’s seat, was a thin, gaunt man with a hard face. His eyes were black and stern, his long grey-hair flecked with white. Atop his head was a crown of driftwood with black iron banding it.

A thing that seemed designed to steal joy from the world, much like the gaze of its wearer.

“Father!” Asha shouted up to him. “Balon Greyjoy! King of the Iron Islands! King of Salt and Rock, Son of the Sea Wind, and Lord Reaper of Pyke! Hear me!”

With a raising of his hand Balon Greyjoy silenced much of the commotion of the hall, all turning to take in the party standing before him.

“Daughter. You missed the battle.” The man’s tone was as hard as his expression. “Your uncles won a great victory here. The Redwyne fleet defeated. Its ships either fled, sunk, or ours to command. The Reach is ours to plunder.”

“All thanks to our king!” A monstrously fat man shouted from a chair that must’ve been carried in for him. As big as he was the shouts of agreement that followed grew larger still. It was only when it died down that Balon bothered to look Theon’s way.

“So Asha managed to save you.” The Iron King chewed on his words. “At least one of my children does not disappoint.”

“Father I slew Robb Stark!” Theon shouted in a way that reminded her of Bran when he sought their father’s approval. “By my own hand, the heir to Winterfell is dead!”

“You killed a cripple. This is what you boast of?” Balon’s words caused Arya to grit her teeth. “You defied my will. Endangered all my plans. And for what? To fight Tywin Lannister’s battles for him?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you meant to strike the Reach?” Theon demanded, walking towards the dais. “All I knew is our people hadn’t been allowed to reave for too long! Lord Tywin offered us the chance to so! We could have conquered the whole of the North if only you’d agreed!”

“Conquer the North? Just to bend the knee to some golden lord?” Balon looked out to the crowd. “Today I sit here a king, crowned on Nagga’s Hill by ironborn captains! Not Tywin Lannister! He offered gifts but that’s the green way, we pay the iron price!”

“I paid the iron price!”

“You were used like a whore!” Balon bellowed back. “I turned down the Lannister bribe you brought me. Then you set about to gather every godless and disloyal ship captain you could. You led that sorry mess of a fleet to reave the North. How many men did the Lannisters give you? Not their finest warriors right? The bottom dwellers of Lannisport?”

“He needed his men…” Theon tried to protest as men began to laugh, Lorren and Qarl among them. Balon wasn’t laughing though, his hand pointed to Asha.

“And I needed Asha by my side for our attack. Instead I had to send her to rescue you. If not for your mother’s pleas from Harlaw I would’ve left you. To save her precious baby boy. Bah! Well you’ve both returned but there’s only one among you I would ever claim as a son. If only the Drowned God had made you a man Asha.”

“Then how would I care for my suckling babes?” Asha asked as she drew forth her axes and held them on high, earning laughter and hooting from the tables. “Though I say it’s time to wean them on the blood of some roses!”

“Well said daughter.” Balon rose from his seat then, gesturing down at the terrified family sitting below him. “Lord Hewett and his ilk from these isles are only the start! Victarion kept the Reach army trapped north of the Mander and bled them dearly for every crossing they tried. Euron reaved the southern shores so the green lands were left black! When the Redwynes sailed forth my brothers answered my call and crushed the foe together!”

“To the brothers Greyjoy!”

“The brothers Greyjoy!”

“They heeded their king well!” The king shot a disdainful look towards his son. “The way forward is clear! Victarion and his ships give chase to the Redwynes, the Arbor is his to reave! Euron makes to tighten our grip on Oldtown! Asha shall join him there! May my daughter do me proud by sacking the wealth of that great city!”

“It will be done father!” Asha answered back grabbing Arya by the arm and giving her a shake. “I’ve no doubt Oldtown will offer better spoils than the North!”

“And Highgarden even more!” Balon drew a sword from his hip and raised it high. “I shall lead the attack on Highgarden itself! The wealth of the rose lords will be mine! As it was for our ancestors! The old ways returned to us!”

“Yes father!” Theon dropped to a knee, his head lowered. “Father forgive me my follies. Let me fight by your side. Let me show you I’m still your only son. Let me act as your heir in this! To be worthy of your crown!”

“My heir?” The king’s face darkened like a storm cloud. “No, you shall be sent back home, to the Ten Towers. To be with the mother who pled for your life. My heir sails on to Oldtown. Asha is the only one I see here worthy of the driftwood crown. All I see in you is my wife’s precious baby.”

The uproar that followed seemed to knock Theon about, for he staggered so that both his knees now touched the floor. His father would not meet his pleading gaze, his words drowned out in the jeering and laughter of the ironborn. Arya might have joined them but that wasn’t who Nan was. All saw Nan as a girl child who mopped the decks and did as she was told. None saw Arya Stark, the girl who had sworn vengeance on Theon Greyjoy and hated him with a passion that caused her hands to tremble.

That was the only sign she let show of her true self. None that any noticed, most were too busy laughing as Theon rose to his feet and pushed his way free of the hall. Asha was not as good at hiding her feelings, a worried expression crossing the captain’s face as she watched her brother depart the feast. It lingered even after the king bid his daughter to join him at the high table, Arya and Osha being forced to gather up food and drink for the crew of the Black Wind.

It went on like that for hours. Arya catching bits and pieces of the events which had transpired during her travels. The Redwynes had tried to retake these islands back from the ironborn but Euron and Victarion Greyjoy had been ready for them. Days beforehand they sailed the Iron Fleet out of the bay to land further south and drag their ships ashore. The Redwynes sailed right by without knowing they were falling into a trap. When battle came to the islands the southron fleet found themselves caught between the might of the ironborn defenders and Iron Fleet. It was a bit of treachery Arya put to memory so she could learn from her enemies.

Just like Domeric would want her to.

There was talk of the Siege of King’s Landing and how dragons had won the day. Some spoke of a white dragon there but she heard little more on that. She was carrying a tray of fresh bread when she heard someone mention Winterfell.

“There must be a curse on the Starks.” A man with a skeletal hand badge declared to the Black Wind’s table. “The Turncloak kills their heir. Its lord is missing beyond the Wall and his castle… wait. You didn’t hear? It was burned! Winterfell itself! That mad prince Viserys killed the last Stark girl and burned the whole thing down-”

The crash that came from her tray hitting the floor drew the eyes of all at the table. Arya gaped back at them, a numb feeling creeping through her.

Sansa’s dead… they killed her too… you ran away and let them kill her…

You ran to Robb and they killed him too… they killed them… they killed them…

“Hey!” Lorren backhanded her hard. “You clean that up and bring us some bread or I’ll let Grim take a switch to you!”

Arya’s heart was broken. Her mind numb. Yet still, her face burned with pain from the blow. Osha was trying to reach her when Lorren pulled her down into his lap. She fought and hit him but that only entertained him and the others. Arya turned away from it all, doing her best to hide the tears welling up in her eyes. She was rushing towards the kitchens when she almost ran smack into Asha.

“Sorry captain.” She rasped and tried to duck around but Asha wouldn’t let her go. The woman took hold of her chin and inspected her face.

“That’ll bruise.” Asha sighed, a cloak clutched in her hand. “But you won’t drop bread again I bet. You’re smart not to let them see you cry. They’ll think you tougher than you are. Men are stupid like that. Anything with a cock is easy to fool.”

“Yes captain.” Arya managed as she wiped at the tears shed more for Sansa and her home than the pain. “I’ve got to be fetching bread-”

“No, I’ve a different task for you.” Asha turned her to face the hall’s entrance. “My brother’s been shamed and now has free reign in a taken town. If he’s not drunk and trying to get himself killed I’ll be shocked. He left his cloak behind too. Go and fetch him for me. Tell him my father has sent for him, don’t worry about the lie. That’s on me. You can lie can’t you?”

“I’m not the best.”

Asha pushed the cloak into Arya’s hands and then sent her away from the hall. The night was dark and the castle not the best lit but some men she spoke to confirmed what Asha suspected, that Theon had sought the town.

So she did too, clutching Theon’s cloak and making her way down from the castle and through the cobbled streets. However the quaint little sea-side town had been before the ironborn came it now reeked of piss and filth and bore all the damage that could come from a sacking. It amazed her how many men were still awake and how lively the town was at such a late hour. Brawlers fought in the streets as singing drifted out from taverns and inns lining the sides. From darkened windows and huts she heard the grunts or cries of people rutting and even glimpsed a few pairs doing so within alleyways.

Some men threatened her but when they caught a glimpse of the Greyjoy cloak she was carrying they backed off. A few were helpful, claiming to have seen Theon stumble out a brothel and seek the part of town closest to the beach. The street leading there was darker than the rest and mostly deserted. She soon realized why when the stench reached her nose. The source was a few score barrels of fish outside one hut that had been left to rot after the sack.

They can drink and laugh as people suffer all around them but rotting fish is too much.

I hope they all rot. Every last one of them.

One reaver already appeared half on his way to doing so. A man lay against a beam near where the street ended and the beach began. She recognized him quickly as the one she’d seen earlier beating the young prisoner. Left-Hand Luke or something. He was passed out, vomit encrusted down his front and a bottle of something at his side. She was still gazing down at him when she heard the splash.

Farther down the beach, as far from the town as he could be, she found Theon Greyjoy. He too had a bottle in hand but his was not quite empty yet. The lordling stood at the edge of the shore, swaying some as he drank of the bottle. In between gulps he would seize a stone from the sand and toss it out into the water. As if he was aiming at the darkened shapes of the longships anchored away from shore.

“I’m your son!” Theon rasped, throwing another rock. “Not Asha! If you hadn’t given me away… you’re the one who gave me away!”

Arya knew him to be drunk from the way he slurred his words and could not keep his footing. Theon nearly tripped over a bit of driftwood, stumbling sideways but catching himself.

And catching sight of Arya.

“Who’s that?” Theon squinted through the darkness at her. “Tyrion?”

“Nan, m’lord.” She spoke quietly, holding the cloak in front of her. “Your father sent me to find you.”

“Nan? You little northern rat!” Theon spat, drinking of his bottle and pointing at her. “I’m not worthy to be his heir but you… you’re worthy enough to come find me? Explain that father! Explain that!”

“I brought your cloak.”

“Fuck it.” Theon waved his arms about. “He can shame me but won’t let me catch a chill… I deserve more than a cloak!”

“Yes you do.” She agreed. A lie veiled in truth.

“He should try living at Casterly Rock! Lord Tywin’s as cold as they come… never same him smile… not once. But he respected me! Said I was the next Lord of the Iron Islands! That I could bring glory to my family again! That’s what I was trying to do! Help my family!”

“Family is very important.” Arya said. “I’d do anything for my family.”

Theon made a sound of agreement at that before turning away from her. He faced the water again as he half fell, half sat down in the sand with a grunt. While he drank and murmured to himself Arya began to unfurl the Greyjoy cloak.

“He acted like Robb Stark was just a cripple.” Theon laughed without mirth. “He didn’t know. The heir’s leg was lame but his mind was sharp. He had us on the run… he took me prisoner. Knocked out my teeth when I got too lippy but I’d have done worse… I did do worse…”

“He showed you mercy.” Arya tied the cloak about her shoulders, pulling it tight around her front and the hood up over her head.

“Yes… yes he did… I almost didn’t kill him when the time came… He shamed me some but I could’ve done the same… I could’ve spared him.”

“But you didn’t.” She looked down at the bit of driftwood Theon had tripped over. Slightly longer than her arm and thicker at one end.

“I couldn’t.” Theon rasped. “Lord Tywin told me… draw the Starks out… if I captured the heir I had to kill him… the male line must end he said… so I killed the cripple… I did it for my family… father has to see that… that I’m worthy of the driftwood crown… that I can be a king… his son” 

He made to drink more of his bottle as she hefted the wood up into her hands. It was heavy, but not too heavy. Her footfalls quiet in the sand. Besides the distant sounds of the town and the waves lapping gently against the shore everything was peaceful around them. So quiet she could hear Theon’s gulping of the spirit. When he finally had his fill he tossed the bottle away and into the water.

“There… let the Drowned God take the rest… like he took my dreams…”

“You took worse from me.”

She was right behind Theon then. That startled him so much he jerked around to look at her. His eyes widened to see her standing there, wearing his cloak, and holding the driftwood at the ready.

“What are you-”

She swung hard, the wood cracking right off Theon’s brow. He made a small cry and fell sideways, sprawling out into the sand. He was reaching up to his head when she swung again, hitting him square in the middle. A choked gasp broke free of his mouth and he was still fighting for air as she struck his chest.

Then his arm. Then his chest again.

“Ask for mercy.” Arya hissed as her arms burned from the efforts. “Beg for it. Like he did.”

Theon tried to raise his arm to protect himself and she when hit it something snapped beneath the flesh. When she raised the weapon again Arya saw his face. It was covered in blood and twisted in agony. The sounds coming from him pitiful and sad. The sight of Theon suffering troubled her so that Arya almost stopped herself.

Until she remembered Robb’s face when the blade plunged into his heart. Theon smiling the whole time.

He wasn't smiling when she swung the wood into his face. Then onto Theon's head itself.

The driftwood crashed down with all her might. Right on the place a crown would rest.

So she crowned him again and again.

A crown for a king.

Chapter 21

Summary:

In this world there are crimes that must be answered for. Wolves and monsters.

And little enough justice to go around.

JON

 

“Murderer.”

Gendry’s accusation was barely heard over the sounds of his own sobs, tears running freely down his cheeks.

“I did this… I did this…”

The rain pattered against the cold wooden roof of the Tower of the Hand. An open window somewhere among the rafters let a flash of lightning illuminate the two small shapes that Gendry knelt beside.

Their skin was as pale as the white cloth covering them. Save where blood had sullied it. Jon found himself staring at the red wounds carved across their throats. The younger boy’s was neat and clean. The elder had deep gashes across his hands and the killing cut to his throat was jagged and ugly.

The little one didn’t know what was coming. He had no time to fear.

The elder fought… he fought against the inevitable…

Just like his father.

Jon couldn’t help but think of Robert Baratheon then, of the dreams he had of tearing out the man’s throat. It was a fate that Jon knew Robert deserved but not one he would ever visit upon children.

Not even the Usurper’s.

Thunder crashed outside as Jon’s gaze moved from the bodies of Steffon and Lyonel to gaze upon their killer. There were few men in the room, most being guards who had led Ryman Frey before them. The portly heir to the Twins was doing his best to stand straight under the accusing gazes in the room. His small eyes moved from the Blackfish and Beric to Edmure and finally Dany, who was dressed in shade of blue, so bright. It did not belong in this place of darkness. She held a hand over her mouth, just as she had when the bodies were first revealed.

“They’re so young…” Dany’s soft voice was drowned out by thunder crashing above their heads. “Only children.”

“They killed my father.” Ryman replied, his large fleshy face raising up like he was declaring a great feat. “He is avenged now.”

Lightning flashed again and Jon remembered the relief he’d felt when word came that Beric was returning to the city alongside the Freys. Several parties had been hunting the nearest lands for remnants of the rebel host, Beric and Ryman having their own commands. After Garlan Tyrell fell upon one host and freed Nestor Royce from captivity, a key figure of the Vale was returned to them. Soon Nestor would be returning to the Eyrie with Lysa Arryn and her sickly son, both pledging that the Vale would stand behind Aegon in the days to come.

Jon had high hopes that Taena of Myr, Robert’s mistress, and his children by her could be found as well. That perhaps some of the rebel Stormlords would bend the knee if that family came under his protection.

He had meant for less blood to be shed, not more. Least of all the blood of children.

“Stevron Frey died in battle.” Jon’s fists became rigid. “Your father died nobly, fighting in service to his king. A fight that these boys had no hand in.”

“It makes no difference to me.” The Frey swayed some, the man still somewhat in his cups. Beric claimed that when he found the Freys they were toasting over the enemy dead, the boys included. “Their family killed mine. That’s reason enough.”

“They were to be spared!” He took a threatening step forward, causing Ryman to jump. “Robert’s children. His followers. I said they were to be captured, not murdered!”

“I knew we would have no justice here!” Ryman shouted back, pointing at Gendry. “You found out you had one of Robert’s bastards in your midst, a spy who should lose his head yet you coddle him! You have a boy’s weakness! When boys are at play it is for men to act! For my father! For Perwyn!”

Before Jon could answer that the Blackfish marched forward and struck Ryman soundly in the ear. The drunken lord was sent howling in pain and indignation as he fell into one of his guards.

“The squire Gendry saved Ser Barristan Selmy when no one else could.” Brynden growled, his fist rising as if to strike again. “And don’t you dare use Perwyn’s name to defend this. He was a good man, a good knight. Not some drunkard child-killer.”

“Enough uncle.” Edmure separated the pair, shaking his head at the sight of Ryman before looking to Jon. “I say we confine Ser Ryman to some chambers and then call the council-”

“The Black Cells.” Jon said firmly. “These boys will not rest in a warm bed ever again, I won’t grant their murderer better.”

Ryman protested but none present were willing to speak up for him, not with dead children at their feet. When Beric helped Gendry to his feet Jon saw that faraway look in the squire’s eyes that he knew too well. He saw it in every looking glass he chanced to gaze upon. When the bodies were first carried within and their shrouds thrown aside he’d almost expected to see Robb and Arya underneath. Uncle Eddard.

It was probably worse for Sansa, he thought, she would’ve heard about the others.

Viserys would be cruel enough to tell her… to threaten her life before he took it…

Just like Steffon. She would’ve known the next cut was for her.

“I should’ve been there.” Gendry met his gaze, his bright blue eyes rimmed red. “When father was away they would call for me… they would come to me for help…”

Would Sansa have shouted for me? Expected me to come like some knight of songs?

“I should’ve been there…”

I should have protected her.

“They were my brothers…”

Robb was my brother, no matter our blood.

“I loved them... I left them…”

I loved Robb and Arya like a brother. And Sansa… you are the one I left behind. The one I could’ve saved.

The last one to kiss me before I became this thing.

“It’s not your fault.” The Blackfish put a hand on Gendry’s shoulder, Beric steadying his other side.

“He’s right lad. Had you been there you’d likely be dead as well. These boys would be left with only their mother to bury them. They deserve a good heart like yours to mourn their loss.”

“We’ll see to them.” Jon spoke hoarsely. “The silent sisters will prepare Steffon and Lyonel… and when it’s possible I shall have them buried at Storm’s End. With their father.”

What’s left of him that is.

He left that part unsaid though most in the realm knew the truth by now. Things had been so hectic after the siege that what to do with the Usurper’s body had fallen from his mind. Cersei was not so distracted. Her men had seized Robert’s corpse and it was only after her arrest that the truth came out.

“That pig?” Cersei had smiled, confined comfortably in her chambers. “I had him thrown to the rest of his kind. I hear they quite enjoyed his company.”

They were lucky to recover as much of Robert Baratheon’s bones from the pigpens as they did. Jon hated the man but Uncle Eddard had loved him once. Many said they were as close as Jon was to Robb, brothers in all but blood. Grand Maester Gormon and Varys had suggested returning Robert’s bones to Storm’s End as a gesture of goodwill toward the storm lords and Jon had agreed, though not for politics. The truth was far simpler.

He wanted to do something to make his uncle proud.

As if he could look past the graves of his children, the rubble of his home, to give a damn about your feeble actions.

And why would he? It’s not like you’ve shown an ounce of loyalty to the Starks.

Loyalty was precisely the topic that Edmure and the others took to discussing then.

“Walder Frey won’t like this.” Edmure pulled on his beard, pacing back and forth. “When he hears that we’ve thrown his heir in the Black Cells, whatever good will Cat’s fostered with the Freys-”

“The man committed murder.” Jon reminded the lord. “He did so while following my commands and flying the king’s banner.”

“Jon’s right.” Dany added, her lovely face filled with concern. “Rhaegar would have never condoned the murder of children. I can’t imagine Aegon doing so either. Ryman Frey needs to be punished.”

“It won’t matter if it’s a lashing or simply stripping him of his knighthood.” The Blackfish warned. “Any punishment you hand out will cost us with the Freys.”

“It will cost Ryman more.” He betrayed his thoughts then. “As much as he took from those boys.”

The argument that followed was fierce. No one shared his view. They all accepted that Ryman’s crime merited such a punishment, yet they were united in trying to find ways to avoid it. They proposed a trial but this was not like the case against Cersei. Ryman had admitted his guilt openly whereas Cersei continued to deny hers. Not that she would be tried in a normal fashion anyways. The queen had demanded a trial by combat and went a step further by insisting on a trial by seven.

“I stand accused by a woman wed to a man outside the Faith.” Cersei had declared to the court. “Catelyn Stark’s children besmirch my name from beyond the grave, children raised to worship a tree… the same false deities that my captor holds dear. I trust no trial arranged by this savage. Let the seven themselves judge my innocence!”

Cersei had demanded that Ser Jaime be included as one of her champions and he was still uncertain on whether to permit that or not. That all bothered him less than the decision he now made concerning Ryman’s fate. One Dany and the others argued passionately against. He would not be moved though. Jon had avoided enough of his responsibilities and the cost had been great. He would not shirk another duty. He couldn’t.

He soon grew weary and called an end to the audience, feigning that he would decide the matter of Ryman Frey on the morrow. Only Dany saw through his words, just as she could when they were children. She knew his mind too well and followed him in his climb up the Tower of the Hand. It could be a cumbersome journey and he usually welcomed company. Not this time though.

“Think on this Jon, please.” Dany pleaded with him as they walked the empty corridors. “Taking Ryman’s head won’t bring back those boys.”

“But it might spare others from suffering their fate.” He replied. “You pinned the Hand’s badge on my chest, now I must act as one. I take no joy from killing but justice must be done. The more difficult the task, the more important that it be seen to quickly, lest others see weakness. Or a lack of honor. My uncle taught me that.”

“This won’t bring Eddard Stark back either.” Dany grabbed his arm. “Or any of the others. Arya, Robb, San-”

“Stop.” Jon took hold of her face then, his body aching as his hands slid down her cheeks. “Don’t speak of them. Not you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dany asked, narrowing her gaze and backing away from his hold. She was not angry yet but he saw the signs of a brewing storm. He knew Dany as well as she knew him.

“Leave it be, Dany.” He sighed, continuing on his way, hoping that Dany would tire of this. Instead she stubbornly followed, drawing in a deep breath before the barrage that was sure to come.

Before she could speak they rounded the corner and stopped in their tracks, both shocked to find Willem and several loyal guardsmen outside the Hand’s chamber. He was not expecting company and Jon was surprised again when the knight told him of who was waiting within. He did notice how Dany took the news in stride, as if she’d expected as much.

“There is no the time for this.” Jon grumbled. “Of all the nights-”

Dany took his hand into hers then. “You were just mourning for the family you lost. Stop pushing away the family you have left to you.”

She led him within the chamber and they were both greeted by the sound of children’s laughter. The Hand’s chambers were less lavish than the royal ones but they were large all the same. This door opened into a private audience chamber, where Ghost lay upon a Myrish carpet, flanked by a pair of golden children. The wounded direwolf’s sides were still bound yet he had a placid expression on his face as he licked at Myrcella’s hands, then Tommen’s face. Jon’s half brother let loose a torrent of laughter as Ghost licked his cheeks, a joyful sound that his sister echoed.

“Why Tommen!” Dany spoke warmly. “Look how brave you are, playing with a direwolf!”

Myrcella gasped, grabbing hold of Tommen and pulling him up with her before both siblings lowered their heads at his presence. A hoarse chuckle came from the other side of the room. It was there that Jon spotted Brienne, who had been tasked with guarding the children, but she was not the one laughing. Instead it was the wounded lordling helping himself to a bottle of Arbor Gold.

“They have no trouble playing with the white direwolf.” Tyrion said as he uncorked the bottle, still not deigning to face the others. “It’s the white dragon they fear.”

“Forgive me your grace.” Brienne stepped forward. “The children were quite insistent. I saw no harm but we arrived before word came of… of…”

“The unpleasantness.” Tyrion finally turned, firelight shining in his black eye. His green eye, like much of that side of the lord’s face, remained bandaged from wounds he’d taken during the siege. “I’m glad I’m not Hand. You look as bad as I feel.”

“Thank you Tyrion.” Jon spoke coldly. “Might I ask the reason for your visit with your- with my brother and sister.”

“We asked him to come.” Myrcella raised her head then to stare into his eyes. “Please don’t be mad at Lady Brienne, we begged it of her.”

Myrcella was always a pretty little girl and there was no doubt that his half-sister would become a beauty one day… much like her mother. Too much like her mother. While Jon struggled with that, he watched as Tommen’s hand grasped desperately at his sister’s. The boy was little more than a stranger to him. Since his return to the capital few words had passed between Jon and his half-siblings. He’d left their care to Dany and in truth spent more time with the dragons than Tommen and Myrcella, as shameful as that was to think on.

“Jon’s not mad at anyone here Myrcella.” Dany went to stand behind the prince and princess, gently pushing them towards him. “Remember how your father would seem sad at times? It’s the weight of the realm that is all. It pressed down on Rhaegar just as it weighs on your brother.”

“I’m sorry the realm is heavy.” Tommen finally managed to look up enough to Jon’s chest. “Maybe if you play some music you’ll feel better. Father always felt better when he played his harp…”

“I do not play the harp.” He stated, causing Dany to raise an eyebrow at him. He hadn’t meant it come off so abruptly, it was just hard to look at Tommen without thinking of the dead boys below in the hall. “You’re right though Tommen. Father’s playing was a beautiful thing. It would do me well to hear the harp again.”

“Myrcella plays the high harp.” Dany smiled and shook the girl’s shoulder, who blushed beneath her golden curls. “She plays beautifully, even Margaery Tyrell said so.”

“She was just being kind. I can’t play half as well as father… but if it would make you happy your gr- I’m sorry, I mean Jon. Dany said we should call you Jon but mother always made us call you- I, well I thought that perhaps Prince Jon would be better and… and… oh I’m ruining things!”

“Nothing is ruined.” He lied, for the mention of Cersei reminded him of other problems he had to face later. “I look forward to hearing you play one day Myrcella.”

Sansa loved the high harp. Perhaps in time she would have learned…

“Why not tonight?” Dany pressed. “We can have her harp sent for. It’s been far too long since we’ve all had a chance to rest and spend time together. Perhaps it will give you a chance to reflect on other matters Jon.”

“Like sending us away.” Tommen nodded. “I bet you’ll like Myrcella’s playing so much that you’ll let us stay here at the Red Keep! Then she can play the harp whenever you want!”

Myrcella hissed at her brother but the truth of their visit was revealed then. He’d heard the whispers that Cersei’s friends in the capital were spreading. Varys said that some among of the capitals highborn believed that he would soon threaten Myrcella and Tommen’s lives to make a grab for the throne. It was nonsense of course yet that didn’t mean the children were safe. The walls had been breached by Robert’s army and Ser Alliser warned that there were many in the gold cloaks that were unhappy with the queen’s imprisonment. If something foul befell the capital he would not have these children here when it happened.

“I’m sorry Tommen.” He said, making for the table nearest to him and blindly flipping through parchments. “Myrcella’s playing will have to wait but she will have plenty of time to practice at Dragonstone. Just as you’ll have many stories to share from your time at Duskendale, learning to ride at rings and strengthen your sword arm. Lord Rykker has written that his son and nephews are eager to show you around the Dun Fort.”

“But I want to stay here!” Tommen’s cry bid him to look back at the boy. His lip trembled as Dany tried to soothe him. “I want to stay with ‘Cella! Mother will cry and her heart will break without us! She said so!”

“Please let us stay for her trial.” Myrcella pleaded with him. “Or at least have Tommen come with me to Dragonstone. He can act as my valiant protector. He liked it when Bran would do so and it makes him feel safer to pretend-”

“Acting as someone’s protector did not make Bran safe.” He countered, crumpling up a bit of parchment in his hand and causing Tommen to gasp. “Tommen, you’ve nothing to fear from me. The same goes for you Myrcella yet this castle is not safe. It offers threats of its own and I will not put you at risk. That’s why I am sending you away and I will hear no more on it.”

Both children were devastated by his words but he would not let that shake him. He caught Tyrion offering a quick nod while Dany collected Myrcella and Tommen to her.

“It’ll be an adventure for you both.” She cupped Tommen’s cheek and kissed his brow before doing the same to Myrcella. “Dragonstone has secrets and wonders that mystified even your father. And Duskendale was the seat of kings long before Aegon the Conqueror’s time Tommen, you’ll become bold and strong there. And Jon and I will visit you both soon. Aegon and Rhaenys will be back by then. Who knows? Maybe the dragons will be big enough that we can fly to you.”

Myrcella did her best to look convinced, likely for Tommen’s sake, yet both were downtrodden when Dany asked Brienne to lead them back to their chambers. Jon was ready to let them leave without a word more but the thought of Robert’s dead sons came back to him. He could hear Robb’s laugh, saw Arya’s toothy grin and felt Sansa’s last kiss before bidding him farewell. He would give anything to have just one more moment with them all.

“Wait.” Jon spoke just as they reached the door. “Myrcella, Tommen, come here please. Just for one more moment.”

They came quietly and he tried to help their unease by dropping to a knee before them. Jon took Tommen’s hand and drew the boy close until he could hold his arms and bid those shy green eyes to meet his.

“We don’t know each other Tommen but whatever goes on between your mother and I, whatever happens with Joffrey, that doesn’t change what you are to me. You are my brother. We are both sons of Rhaegar and father would want you safe. He sent me away as well and at the time I was as frightened. It turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Forgive me for wanting the same for you.”

He looked to Myrcella then. Kneeling as he was, the princess was looking down at him. Whatever likeness she had to Cersei was forgotten in the kind, concerned expression she bore.

“I would have your forgiveness too Myrcella. When I left you were just a little girl. Now I come back and find a lovely, brave young woman. It would have been good to see you grow… I don’t wish to spend any more years not knowing you. I’ve lost so much of late and… and I would rather have you close, I swear I would… but I have to do what’s best for you.”

“That’s what father said.” Myrcella pulled on a golden curl. “I would show him the letters you wrote me and he would get so sad. I asked why you had to be so far away and father said that he had to do what was best for you. Even if it hurt.”

“Does this hurt?” Tommen asked. Jon felt his strength crumbling under the weight of the badge pinned to his chest and nodded.

“It does. I’d like to know you both.”

Tommen surprised them all by embracing him then. Myrcella did the same soon after until Cersei’s children both had their arms wrapped around him. His arms moved on their own, moving to hold the pair tight. He hugged them as hard as Uncle Eddard held him for his first time in the crypts of Winterfell.

When Jon had needed a moment of love more than ever.

They broke apart eventually and Jon tried to hide how shaken he felt, waving Dany off and insisting that she help put the children to bed. She might have argued had Tommen not taken hold of her hand drawing her away with his sadness. He had no doubt that she would return though. This night was far from over.

Tyrion’s continued presence in the room was a clear sign of that.

“You could have told them.” The lordling said as he waddled from his seat to fill two goblets of wine. “Tommen and Myrcella I mean. You could have told them the truth and blamed me for separating them.”

“It was my decision, my burden to shoulder.” He took the offered goblet in hand. “And Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts. I remembered your counsel on how best to safeguard them, warning me of your sister’s plots.”

“Plots? I merely gave you insight into how Cersei’s mind works. Even imprisoned she could arrange for agents to try and take those children away from you. Cersei could try something so reckless and get innocents hurt in the process. I speculated on all of this but I had no information to give you. I’m no traitor to my family.”

Tyrion raised his goblet then but Jon hesitated to do the same, eyeing the wine that the Lannister had poured him with suspicion. The lord chuckled and drank of his own cup then.

“Nor am I a traitor to the throne. Drink up lad, you look in need of it.”

He was. So he did. It was strange how accustomed he was becoming to speaking candidly with Tyrion Lannister. Once they were both outcasts at court united in mostly mutual fascination. Jon assumed that none of that goodwill would stand after his arrest of Tyrion’s siblings yet the lord had acted more annoyed than anything. Mostly with Cersei for getting Jaime in such a predicament. Tyrion had been of great assistance in helping bring order back to the capital.

When Stannis Baratheon wrote of the disaster at the Wall and the return of the Others Tyrion had laughed it off as tales of grumpkins and snarks. Still, it was Tyrion who proposed that they answer Stannis’s call for men by solving a problem of their own. The dungeons were overflowing with captured sellswords and Unsullied warriors, an untenable situation since Jon refused to free them nor commit mass murder. Tyrion suggested sending them to the Wall and it was an offer that many accepted. They had nearly a thousand men ready to take the black yet no answer came from Castle Black on the matter.

“Strange.” Tyrion said as he pet Ghost’s head, the massive direwolf making the man seem even smaller. “Stannis begs for men yet refuses to answer ravens when you offer some.”

“The last we heard from Castle Black was that Roose Bolton neared it with a force of survivors from my uncle’s army.” He grimaced as lightning flashed outside the nearest window. “No word of whether my uncle was among their number.”

“Or among the dead.” Tyrion noted to Jon’s displeasure. “I mean no disrespect Jon but there’s no doubt that the North is in tatters. The only Starks left alive are far from their lands and half their bannermen accuse the others of treachery. The Boltons blame the Manderlys. The Manderlys blame the Boltons. The Starks must act quickly if they’re to have any holdings left for the grumpkins to invade.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jon snapped.

He went to lean on the ledge of the window, staring out at the storm which poured down on the darkened castle below. It would be better to outside, to feel the rain on his skin as he stared out at the lands of the North. Or even the walls of Riverrun, where Lady Catelyn cared for Rickon and little Lorra, awaiting him to act as he should.

“When things are settled here and I will go North. Edmure will give me the men I need to help the Starks though now I will lose the Freys… I cost the Starks more strength by acting as Lord Stark taught me.”

“Hmm, well the lack of a trial will make Ryman’s fate a quick affair.” Tyrion joined him at the ledge, rain spattering them both. “I bet you thought Cersei was doing you a favor when she asked for a trial by combat. She would have fourteen men risk their lives to defend her foolishness. Jaime among them.”

“I haven’t given him my leave to do so yet.” He pointed out and Tyrion shrugged.

“But you will. I wouldn’t. Most lords I know wouldn’t. They would deny Cersei her chosen champion because of that white cloak he wears. There are countless arguments and precedents to use against her but none of that changes the fact that it’s my sister’s right to ask. That’s why you’ll let Jaime play his part in this foolishness. It’s the same reason he’ll do it, even though it will probably get him killed. Because it’s the right thing.”

“Barristan died doing the right thing.” Jon spoke over the thunder. “So did my father. Robb as well. Perhaps even my uncle has perished doing his duty to the realm. Why should your brother be any different?”

“It’s easy to speak about other men’s lives in such a way.” Tyrion’s black eye glared at Jon. “Cersei risked so much because she couldn’t accept that Rhaegar loved you the most of all his children. You risk just as much for the sake of some lordling who is already dead. If there was any justice it would be the two of you fighting in this folly.”

Fighting would be easier, he thought, all the war asked of me was to live another day and kill another foe.

At least when I sent men to die I fought alongside them. I was killing enemies then, not allies.

Those thoughts haunted him long after Tyrion departed.

He left instructions with the guards that no more were to be admitted and barred the door after. He dragged a chair to face the window, sitting with Blackfyre placed across his lap and a bottle of wine to the side. No wood had been added to the fire in some time so it was growing weaker, the winds blowing from without adding a chill to the room. When Ghost came to rest his head upon the armrest Jon could almost pretend he was in the North again. There was a time when a storm like this would’ve had the youngest Starks seeking the beds of the elder ones.

He hoped that Bran had a safe place to bed down this night. That Lady Catelyn held Rickon and Lorra tight.

Then he thought of Robb laying out there somewhere in the downpour. Of Arya with Needle in her hands as the water washed over her like a great tide. It was hard to imagine Sansa in the dark, for everything about her had been bright and full of life. Her kisses had warded away all darkness, innocent and chaste as they were.

His lips were for the bottle then, the numbness spreading from his face to his heart again. The wine could try its hardest to warm him against the winds of the storm but there was no cure for the darkness that had crept into him since leaving Winterfell.

Bit by bit, the world was stealing away all the good within it.

Leaving men like Jon behind. Men clawing and fighting to keep what they had left.

His mind turned to little Steffon then, of how he’d fought against his dark fate.

The boy had fought.

It was dawn when Jon sent messengers and heralds rushing throughout the castle. The worst of the storm had passed yet rain still greeted those members of court who came to the courtyard to answer his summons. Mace Tyrell and Grand Maester Gormon looked half asleep, the rain barely keeping them awake. Edmure and Beric shared the same hard expressions while the Blackfish gave Jon a nod as he passed. Gendry had dark circles beneath his eyes, barely listening as Edric offered a supportive word.

Taena of Myr was as grief stricken as Gendry, swaying some as Tess Royce helped her stand. Cersei met his gaze with defiance. The queen was so perfectly put together in a crimson gown one would think that the guards around her were escorts rather than jailers.

Dany was the hardest to look upon. Her eyes were as sorrowful as the sound of the wind whistling between the castle towers.

The clanking of irons broke through all other noise from the crowd as Ryman Frey was led onwards from the Black Cells. The man’s beady eyes fluttered and squinted in disbelief at the great circle of onlookers. Then they went wide to behold Jon standing there, Blackfyre strapped to his hip. Jon wiped the rainwater free from his face yet he never took his gaze off the man.

“Ser Ryman of the House Frey, heir to the Twins.” He spoke loudly despite his exhaustion. “You have confessed to the murder of Robert Baratheon’s sons, the children Steffon and Lyonel. Murders committed despite commands made in your king’s name.”

“For my father…” Ryman protested, searching the crowd for sympathetic faces. “You can’t do this… House Frey will never stand for it… my grandfather-”

“Lord Walder will receive your bones. I will do him that courtesy and pay you that respect. Beyond that you have sealed your fate by your actions.”

Jon looked to the others then, his eyes moving across each face until it landed on Cersei’s.

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” He declared drawing Blackfyre free. “Edric… Ned, fetch me a block.”

In the time it took Edric to come forward with the block Ryman was still claiming that he had done no wrong. He was still in denial when Willem and Harry pushed him to his knees and pressed his thick, pale neck down flat.

“Mercy!” Ryman pleaded then. “Mercy! Don’t kill me. Let me take the black! You let those cockless warriors live! I’m a Frey dammit! A Frey! I demand mercy!”

“I show you more mercy than you showed those boys.” Jon held Blackfyre before him. “In the name of Aegon of the House Targaryen, sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of Realm, I, Jon Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall and Hand to the King, sentence you to die.”

His body was tired. His arms felt heavy. Yet Blackfyre was sharp and his aim was true. He took Ryman’s head in a single stroke, blood spurting across the wet ground and spraying up into his eyes. The rain was doing its best to wash it all away but he still felt the filth on his face when he crossed the yard towards Cersei.

Her gaze moved nervously from where the blood dripped down from Blackfyre to his eyes. Jon stopped well away from her, the pair challenging one another as the court watched.

“Your brother shall be one of your champions.” His words held the chill he felt now. “Let him defend you in this trial of seven. Good men will fight against him, myself included. I fight to see justice for House Stark and so I will swing my own blade in this.”

Gasps and raised voices answered his words, Cersei finding reason to grin as well.

He didn’t care. This was the right thing to do.

Deep down, Jon knew that.

Even though Dany stared at him like he’d done some great wrong.

 

SANSA

 

The rat was cornered against a crumbling stone wall, squeaking in terror as her jaws snapped shut around it. It scratched and bit for a moment more until her fangs sliced through flesh. Bones crushed, blood spurted into her mouth and the prize was hers.

In the ruins of her home, a fat rat was the best meal to be found. Once the man den was filled with people and animals, whole rooms packed with freshly killed meat. Now everything was burned and broken. Every building made of wood was charred black and collapsed. Those parts built of stone were stained by smoke but stood otherwise, save for the old tower which had half fallen into the yard.

The best rats were always found amongst its rubble. Now that her belly was full she made to return to the small woods within the walls. When the men had come and destroyed her home that was where they had chased her. She’d hid among the trees and it was there she laid down to rest each night. When she found little food in the castle she would venture out into the lands beyond.

Few living men still lingered near here. The town had been set aflame as well. The bones of men and animals scattered across every wind. In a way that made her feel safer surrounded by all this death. It was the living that always hurt her. The scars to her side were proof of that. In her isolation she was growing stronger. Her ribs were hidden by flesh and fur once more. Her legs had grown strong again from roaming free in the open.

Yet here she stayed. Waiting.

Waiting for them. Waiting for the call that now echoed off the walls of the man den and its darkened windows and doorways.

The first howl was distant but there was strength to it. Her answer was long and full of sadness, for it had been far too long since she’d heard her sister’s voice.

Several more howls came, smaller ones, none as powerful as theirs.

They entered through the broken gate, where a pile of rubble lay from the small tower that had fallen low. Her sister ran around it with a speed that made her stumble some in the dirt. The wild sister was the same as she’d always been, fast and full of energy. They came together, both sniffing and whining in excitement to be together once more. The two sisters nuzzled at one another, the wild one licking at her scars in worry.

The small cousins appeared next, causing her worry. A great many of the smaller wolves moved cautiously through the yard, edging towards her. Her sister paid them no mind. This was her pack. The new one she had made in their time apart.

A blending of their old family with the new.

The sound of shifting stones caused all to look to the rubble pile. There, cresting its top was the massive form of her swift brother. Unlike the sisters he was not at ease. As he moved his yellow eyes around the ruin of their home his head lowered. Smoke grey fur rising up along his back. He bared his fangs and growled in a way that frightened her. In this moment he was less her brother and more some sort of monster.

Until his fury drifted into a mournful whine, his eyes moving over her. Their home was destroyed. Their family gone. His mate lost.

When he climbed down the rubble towards her she saw that this was no monster. Beyond the rage and hurt in his eyes and the tremendous size he had become, this was the brother she knew and loved. The one that pressed his face to hers and welcomed her back into their family.

The older brother who had once held her with the arms of a man.

He was gone now. All that was left was the wolf.

A wolf, now and forever.

“My lady.”

The light rapping upon the chamber doors woke Sansa from her slumber then. She sat up in the large bed, instinctively smoothing down her gown and looking about. It was like this every time she woke in this strange place. For a moment, Sansa would expect to find herself back in her rooms at Winterfell but that was a fool’s hope.

That room is likely gone, she thought, lost to the fires like the rest of Winterfell.

My home was destroyed by treachery and I’m imprisoned in a castle full of traitors.

She knew little of prisons but her cell was likely one of the handsomer ones. The chambers given over for her use were larger than her rooms at Winterfell and better decorated too. The canopy of her bed was the same shade of scarlet as the Myrish carpets which lay across most of the floors. These had been the chambers of Roose Bolton’s late wife, the Lady Bethany. A Ryswell by birth, the many tapestries of galloping stallions and carvings which adorned the walls betrayed Lady Bethany’s heritage. The light poking through the curtains of her window showed some sign that there was still a good amount of day left.

When Sansa crossed to the covered window and threw open the curtains, the light of day laid her truth bare. While the windows themselves were lovely works of glass they were encased by dark iron bars. They were kept shut by a heavy lock to which she had not been granted a key. She was however granted a view of the Dreadfort through the bars that filled her with foreboding. Her room was built within one the castle’s many towers, all tall and massive stone structures. The Dreadfort’s walls were high and thick, the edges lined with triangular shaped merlons which reminded Sansa of sharp teeth. Outside the walls lay a dark forest and the Weeping Water, a wide, rock-filled river. Parts of it appeared still enough to swim in but the castlefolk had warned her that the currents were tricky and that those not careful were just as likely to be pulled under to their death.

Nothing here is as it seems, she reminded herself, everything is a threat hidden behind a lie.

Just like Domeric… peel away his skin and you would find a rotted heart beneath.

“Lady Sansa?” A young man’s voice called again, one of her jailers turned escort. “You asked to be told when Lady Roslin awoke from her nap?”

“That I did, thank you Coll.” She called back, double checking her gown once more and straightening her hair. “I’m decent, you may enter now.”

A moment passed and she heard the jangling of keys unlocking the oak door, signaling the entrance of her minders. The first to enter was a burly young warrior who was about Robb’s age yet looked older due to his thick beard. Aldred Hilgard was the son of one of Roose Bolton’s bannermen and it was he who held the keys to her chambers. However it was the younger of the two that caused Sansa the most worry. Coll Lothien was but a boy of ten, average looking in most ways but it was his pale eyes that gave her pause. The Lothiens were kin to the Boltons and shared in the feature which reminded her far too much of Domeric.

“Did you rest well?” Aldred asked gruffly.

“I did, the morning ride did wear me out.” She replied sweetly. “It was kind of you both to indulge me in that.”

It felt like half the castle guard had joined her for that brief ride about the Bolton lands. She was given freedom of much of the castle but always under guard. Even then there were parts denied to her. Like the tower where they’d taken the womenfolk of Winterfell upon their arrival. Those were Sansa’s people, and they were being kept away from her.

“It was our pleasure my lady.” Coll bowed some, smiling like Bran might have during some game of chivalry. His eyes ruined any further comparison. “I miss riding with my sisters back home at Ayvern. We always heard you Stark ladies were excellent riders and I hoped it be true. Truly I think you’re better than-”

“She doesn’t care.” Aldred interrupted and Sansa made a displeased sound.

“A lady always welcomes a pleasant word.” She said with a false smile.

These two treated her well and she would not give them reason to do otherwise. Her anger was saved for when she knelt before the weirwood or before she would lie down for bed each night. It was then that Sansa would pray that all the wrongs done to her family would be avenged. That justice would be done by her and all the others.

Her father’s brand of justice.

Her smile grew wider at the thought. “My goodsister is awake then? I would very much like to see her. Roslin spoke of a visit to the maester and a walk in the godswood before we took our evening meal.”

“Change of plans.” Aldred crossed his arms. “You’ll be taking your meal earlier.”

“With Lord Domeric!” Coll added with excitement as Sansa’s smile fell away. “The heir to the Dreadfort himself!”

“I know who Domeric is Coll.” She wrung her hands. “He has returned? When?”

Aldred shrugged. “Not long ago. The journey from Hornwood was hard and Lord Domeric let the other men feast in the hall first. The lord has always been patient. He was content waiting on his guests before taking his meal. Your presence is expected now that the Lady Roslin has awoken.”

“Yes… yes of course…”

Her mind raced with memories of the Bolton sack of Winterfell. They’d dragged Roslin and Sansa from the Great Hall before setting it to burn, much like the rest of the castle. She was forced to step over the bodies of Maester Luwin and Godry, Mikken and Boros, and what seemed like every man left in Winterfell. Besides Viserys, only poor Hodor was spared the slaughter. Domeric proclaimed that the stableboy was too simple to kill and that he was put to better use helping the womenfolk make the journey to the Dreadfort.

Domeric himself had only joined them for a small part of that trek. Not long after they’d crossed the White Knife, he took most of the Bolton army south towards Hornwood. Sansa, Roslin, and the rest were kept under heavy guard for the long march east. Their Bolton guards had acted cold and intimidating but when one tried to have his way with Palla he was beaten bloody and unconscious by Aldred.

“Lord Domeric said any who abuse the prisoners are to be punished severely.” He’d said, wiping the blood from his knuckles. “And any prisoner attempting escape can expect worse.”

None had attempted escape as far as she knew but she and Roslin were kept separate from the others most of the journey.

It was the same now as she was led through the dark, ugly passageways of the Dreadfort. Aldred and Coll refused her requests to see Roslin first, the pair flanking her as they made their way to the lord’s dinner quarters. Along the way she cringed at the sight of the torch holders carved into stone likenesses of skeletal hands. They passed banners of houses she did not recognize and was told they were remnants of families wiped out for defying House Bolton. An unspoken threat she kept to heart when they came to a set of dark pine doors.

The room was long yet it could not truly be called large. From the roof hung iron chandeliers where candles burned and they, along with a large hearth fire at the end of room, offered most of the light in the windowless room. Hung upon the walls were banners displaying the flayed man and several animal pelts, including one wolf which appeared large enough to be a direwolf. The table was relatively small, only capable of seating a score of guests. Even still, only two of the seats were now occupied.

Roslin sat in the first seat to the left, her bulging stomach hidden beneath the table. The man sitting just beside her acted like he had nothing to hide as he rose from his seat at the head of the table. He was dressed finely, a light pink cloak hanging over his dark doublet, a smile stretched across his traitor’s face.

What other evil has he done today? What new crime? What secret do you hide behind your good cheer Domeric Bolton?

“Sansa.” Domeric spoke softly, a hand to his chest as he inclined his head politely. “It does me well to see you again. Forgive my late arrival. I hope the Dreadfort has not lived up to its name.”

“Few things ever live up to expectations.” She replied, a remark aimed directly at the heir. It was a foolish thing to do but Domeric did not seem to take offence. Instead he nodded and made to pull the chair to his right out for her.

“Well said Sansa. Well said. Please, do sit.” He beckoned her forward. “Roslin was just telling me of how her child fares. Apparently the maester declares her and the babe as healthy as can be.”

“He does.” Roslin said absently as she watched Sansa sit and their eyes met. Without saying a word, her goodsister was able to alert Sansa to the fact that neither was permitted knives with their plates. The only one she could see was out of reach, where Domeric now sat, the lordling taking a cloth and draping it across his lap.

“I’m glad to hear so.” Domeric said as he gestured for Coll and Aldred to leave and the servants to fetch the meal. “I worried on both of you while I was detained. I had to impress upon Lady Donella that Castle Hornwood was in need of a new castellan and a Bolton garrison. Her status as a Manderly cousin demanded such. So do accept my apologies, the delay could not be helped.”

“That’s what you apologize for?” Sansa asked, ignoring Roslin’s silent warning. “What of Rodrik Cassel? Mikken? Winterfell!?”

“Sansa please.” Domeric sighed. “If we are to speak let us do so civilly. Harsh tones and raised voices are not welcome sounds to an unborn babe. For Roslin’s sake, do calm yourself.”

He then put his hand upon Roslin’s wrist and she took that as a threat. Less obvious than Viserys would have done but Domeric was a killer and a liar and not to be trusted.

“How am I to be calm when I am held prisoner here?” She asked as the servants entered and plates of food were placed before them. “When my people are kept away from me? When I’m denied any chance to write my mother? Or Jon?”

Roslin spoke up as well. “And I’ve only been permitted to put my name to letters that your maester writes to my father at the Twins. What have we done to earn such treatment? I know you didn’t approve of Robb marrying me but-”

“Robb loved you.” Domeric patted her hand, his eyes closed. “It was a foolish, stupid thing of him to do yet something I understand a bit more now. Love drives us all to do foolish acts and dream of…”

Domeric paused for a long moment before speaking again. “I loved Robb as a brother. If not for that, we would not be having this conversation Roslin. All the restrictions put on you and Sansa have been for your own benefit, trust me on that.”

“My father trusted you.” Sansa gripped her skirts tightly. “He welcomed you into our home and look what happened.”

“Your father made many mistakes Sansa. Many, many mistakes. He squandered the loyalty of the North in favor of bending the knee to the dragons. Every time Lord Stark had a chance to rise up he stayed low, beneath the dragon king’s boot. Every insult done to the North was forgiven. He even let your betrothal to Jon stand after Robb was crippled by a Kingsguard. Your father looked as weak as his heir after that-”

“How can you say such things?” She trembled in anger and grief. “My father was strong, kind. He was just and good to all. Just! You sat at his table like the rest of us and heard him speak of justice and doing what was right. You watched him swing the sword! And Robb? Robb died a hero! He fought for his people while you ran away and hid! You dare call him and my father weak?”

“Not I.” Domeric gritted his teeth, his pale eyes falling to the plate before him. “Forgive me… those were not my words. Do you think I could watch Robb rise from his sick bed and not know his strength? That I could mistake Lord Eddard’s wisdom for foolishness? His mercy for weakness? Your father did what was best for the North but my duty is different. My loyalty is to my… my family...”

He slammed his fists down into the table then, shaking their plates and causing Sansa and Roslin to jerk back. Domeric rarely showed such strong emotion, pushing away from the table and going to stand by the hearth.

“The Starks have been betrayed.” Domeric declared, shaking his head and running his hands through his hair. “Viserys Targaryen brought ruin to Winterfell. The krakens murdered Robb. My father holds the Manderlys to blame. He took Castle Black and drove its untrustworthy leader off. Now he’s sent out the rallying cry, for all leal lords to defend the North from southron treachery.”

“But it was you who attacked the Manderlys!” Roslin pointed out, her face twisted in confusion. “It was White Harbor that came to Winterfell’s aid…”

“Not according to my father.” Domeric answered, still not facing them. “And the Karstarks. My lord father has won them over. When he took Castle Black he gave Mance Rayder over to Rickard Karstark. The lord was given leave to avenge his sons, and father earned his loyalty. They have five thousand men under them and they’re making to set the western coast to rights. They claim to fight the ironborn and traitors… but I wager it’ll be Deepwood Motte they hit first.”

“None of that will matter.” Sansa declared, somewhat in shock. “When Jon and my mother bring their armies here to save the North, all will know the truth. They’ll make things right-”

“Oh Sansa… the truth is what my father makes it now.” He turned to her, his pale eyes looking sad. “Soon he’ll be claiming that Lady Stark’s a bad influence as well. A southron flower guiding the heirs to House Stark? No. The Stark boys need proper northern guidance to rule someday. Namely my father and a few others… The Lords Declarant he’s calling them. My mother’s family, the Ryswells, they will support it. As will my aunt Barbrey at Barrowton. She leads House Dustin, now that my uncle is dead. Killed by the same creatures that ended Lord Stark … or so my father says at least… I pray that it’s the truth.”

She prayed that it wasn’t. That her father was still alive and that Domeric’s words of all these families falling under the Bolton’s sway were lies. When father returned, all these lies would be answered by Ice. The thought filled her with hope though something else still frightened her. She and Roslin knew that these were lies yet Domeric continued to speak openly about his family’s treachery.

“Why are you telling us this?” Roslin spoke first, her hands at her belly. “You killed everyone else… why spare Sansa and I? To torture us?”

“I couldn’t hurt you, even if my father thinks me capable.” Domeric protested, coming to the table and sitting once more. “The plans fell apart you see. I wasn’t supposed to leave- well, that doesn’t matter. I learned all of this after I left Winterfell and it was too late to stop it then. My father’s men are loyal and my word only counts for so much. Enough to keep you alive though Roslin.”

He turned to Sansa then, his expression full of regret.

“And trusted enough to make the realm think you dead Sansa. That’s a good thing though. If people knew you were alive, it would endanger Roslin. You want to keep her safe don’t you?”

She nodded numbly, her hand moving on its own to take hold of Roslin’s across the table. Domeric watched this without protest, his face softening even further.

“I couldn’t hurt either of you, any more than I could Robb… or Arya.” He swallowed deeply then. “They… they told me she fell from the First Keep. It’s a long drop from the top but, forgive me Sansa, I must ask… was it a quick death? Did Arya suffer?”

“The death was quick.” Sansa lied, picturing all the others who had died at Winterfell. She thought of Beth Cassel first, wanting Domeric to endure what truth she could share. “Yet she suffered all the same. She was a scared little girl who saw her home invaded, her people killed by monsters.”

“Yes… monsters.” Domeric fell back in his chair. “Arya deserved better. When I learned what was happening at Winterfell I’d hoped that I taught her enough… that she knew how to survive… her mind was always so sharp…”

“Arya thought better of you Domeric.” Sansa tried to shame him then. “When others said you couldn’t be trusted, Arya argued against it. She missed you.”

“Did she?” Rather than looking ashamed, Domeric looked hopeful then. “I missed her too. She made me promise I would miss her just as much, what a strange request that was. Leaving her was a truly difficult thing. I had grand plans of asking Lord Stark for her hand.”

Roslin had been sipping of some water when it suddenly came out in a sputter. Both ladies blinked in astonishment at their captor who took their judgement in stride.

“I’m older yes, but I would have waited.” Domeric explained. “I’m patient when things are worth having and Arya… Arya was going to become a lady quite unlike any other. When she grew to be a woman, I thought to bring her to the Dreadfort. With her warmth, together we would have made this castle as welcome as Winterfell. We would have changed the ways of my family. I imagined her riding past the Weeping Water, outracing even me. She would have mastered this hard place easily, and then we would’ve explored the world together. I thought of trips across the Narrow Sea, Braavos perhaps, visits to Summerhall when you and Jon-”

Domeric’s voice fell away suddenly so that the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the hearth and Sansa’s labored breathing. A part of her worried that Domeric knew the truth of Arya. That he was toying with them, trying to trick them into betraying the secret that Arya still lived and was within reach of his clutches.

“What might have been?” Domeric spoke softly. “Four crueler words I cannot think of.”

“What should have been.” She answered, her eyes going to the knife in Domeric’s hand.  “Whatever you think of cruelty Domeric, just remember my father’s words. Winter is coming.”

After that whatever else Sansa or Roslin wished to say Domeric denied them. He forced both to eat despite her lack of appetite and insisted upon more congenial conversation. Roslin was pressed on names for her child, whether it came as a boy or a girl. When she answered Bethany if she was a girl Domeric nodded in quiet agreement. His expression faltered when Roslin mentioned Robb as the only name she’d have for her son.

“A good name.” Domeric nodded. “It’d be good to know such a boy. A grand thing to meet another Robb Stark.”

Something in his voice worried Sansa. Whenever Domeric spoke of Roslin or her babe a twinge of doubt would cross his face and his confident tone would weaken some. It didn’t make sense. As far as Sansa knew she was the dead one here. It was Roslin that the realm thought alive and well.

When the meal was at an end Domeric did something far more troubling. He bid Sansa to join him for a walk while Roslin continued on to the maester. Roslin looked ready to protest but Sansa shook her head at that, fearful for what Domeric might intend for her that could endanger Roslin and the babe.

The pair walked in silence for a time, no guards to be seen. Domeric led her to a part of the castle that she was previously barred from. They walked across a bridge that crossed the castle yard, connecting the large keep to a nearby dark tower. She knew that place was denied to her as well yet, like the dungeons, she’d never wanted to seek it. The whole tower was lined with iron spikes that looked as sharp as any blade and the few windows carved into its stone were set in patterns that looked like a wailing man. Wide eyes and a screaming mouth beneath. It reminded her of Roslin when the lady had heard the news of Robb.

Sansa was spurred into a desperate act because of that memory.

“Don’t hurt them.” She pleaded, hopeful that Domeric was not so cruel as Viserys. “Roslin and Robb’s child. Whatever you fear from them, please Domeric, show them mercy.”

Domeric inspected her carefully then, his eyes appraising her like he would Robb when they practiced at swordplay.

“You are not the young lady I left at Winterfell.” His voice was barely a whisper against the breeze that blew over the bridge. “There is fear in my heart Sansa, but believe me when I say that it is for the safety of Roslin and Robb’s child. I am doing all I can to keep them alive. You as well.”

“Who would want to hurt them?” She pressed. “Is it because the babe could be heir to Winterfell? So could Bran and Rickon. Uncle Benjen. Even Jon once we are married.”

It was not lost on her that Domeric acted like each name she mentioned was a stab to his gut. His face betrayed nothing yet she’d seen the twinges of emotion all the same.

“Your betrothal to Prince Jon died with your father.” He said simply, not breaking his stride. “You and I are to marry. It is my father’s will that it be done. If I’m to defy him in other ways I cannot balk at this.”

“No.” She stopped firm, midway across the bridge, the damp air wafting over them. “I’m to marry Jon. Jon! I love him and when he brings his army here-”

“He’ll die.” Domeric grabbed at her arm, shaking her violently. “Gods Sansa, heed me on this! Why do you think I claimed you dead to the realm? My father wanted a hostage and you being dead gave Roslin a chance to live. I’d hoped that the news would keep Jon in the south as well. He was always supposed to return to Winterfell, don’t you see? That’s why Viserys came here in the first place, others paid his way. It was all to bring Jon north and if he’s to have any chance… Sansa, you and I are it.”

No! No they can’t hurt him, her mind screamed, he’s a prince and he’ll have an army!

It dawned on her then that Robb had led an army as well. As had father and Rodrik Cassel.

Now they are all lost and the Boltons march in their place. Nothing is certain. Nothing.

“I will never marry you.” She pushed at Domeric, backing away and shaking her head. “Keep me prisoner if you want but I won’t say the words. I won’t. Not after all you’ve done to my family. Or whatever you’re doing to the womenfolk now.”

“The women?” Domeric came to her side and began gently urging her across the bridge. “Sansa, the women are fine. They’re being sent to holdfasts and villages across my family’s lands, though in numbers no more than two. I can’t have anyone spreading tales of Winterfell but they deserve to live. From what I hear, Hodor has been tending to the ones still here quite well. I’m not the monster you think my lady.”

“You’re a liar and a killer.” She winced at how his grip tightened on her arm. “Just like Viserys! You’re a traitor as much as he is. Worse even! Viserys was mad but you knew what you were doing. That’s what a monster is! That’s what you are! I could never trust you… never love you…”

“Perhaps not. But I could give you a good life. One where no one would ever dare to harm you… they’d be too afraid of me to try. Know now that I will never force you into this. I don’t hold to what my father says about a lord’s rights. Men’s rights. The sellswords kept you and your virtue safe for my benefit but it is not mine to take. I will take no more from the Starks unless it is given. Now come.”

Domeric became silent as they reached the archway of the tower and he grabbed a torch from the wall to light their journey within. At first glace it was like any other part of the castle, perhaps a bit more dimly lit.

Yet Sansa wasn’t fooled. The rare suits of armor and wall hangings were all far too plain, devoid of any of the unspoken threats found throughout the Dreadfort. It was like someone had tried to make this tower look unassuming and Sansa felt great unease at that.

If this is just a normal tower why is no one else here? No servants, no guards, only us.

None to hear a scream… a cry for help… pleading…

At the end of a hall they came to a tapestry depicting a lord sitting at a table, holding a grand feast. None of the men sitting with the lord looked happy though, all sharing the same blank expression. The lord was the only one who smiled, a knife held up in his hand. Domeric pulled aside the tapestry to show a heavy door behind it and Sansa’s blood turned into ice water. Even more so when it became apparent that Domeric meant to take her within.

“No, no, I don’t want to.” She shook her head and tried to free herself from Domeric’s hold. “I don’t want to go into a chamber with you… not alone, it’s not right. Please-”

“You’re right.” Domeric held firm, pulling forth an ancient looking key to slide into the lock. “But there’s nothing proper about this place. Sansa, I must show you what happens to those who hurt what is mine, who threaten what I care about.”

He took her hand again and pushed the door open.

To her surprise most of room was well lit, with only a darkened section towards the back. When they stepped within the oval shaped room, her eyes went to the walls first for that was where torches burned brightest. They were adorned with what she took to be tanned animal hides and for a moment she thought that this was some kind of hunting gallery, until her eyes focused on one of the hides. She saw how the leather was shaped then.

During her time with the Bolton army and its many banners, a stray thought had come to her mind. The Dreadfort men flew so many flayed men on their banners, she had wondered what happened to their skins.

Now she knew.

When door clanged shut behind her Sansa let out a cry.

“Easy, I know.” Domeric held up his hands as she did her best to stay to the center of the room, as if she feared the countless skins were coming alive to touch her. “It was much the same for me the first time my father brought me here. I hate this room. Few know about this place and most that learn never get a chance to speak on it.”

“Then why show me?” She asked fearfully, her eyes falling on a skin nailed upon a dusty looking Stark banner.

“So you know what happens to enemies of House Bolton.” He said and she shuddered at the words. His expression darkened and he walked onward so quickly that Sansa thought he meant to hit her but instead Domeric carried his torch right by her to the poorly-lit half of the room.

Within the shadows, something large and tall stood covered by a filthy sheet. Domeric took hold of the sheet and looked back at her, the lack of light making dark holes of his eyes.

“You spoke of justice earlier. Of how your father tried to do what’s right. Well this is what my father thinks is justice. Mind the smell.”

When the sheet was pulled away Sansa grabbed at her stomach and choked. The smell was truly terrible, worse than any kennel or even Lady’s cage in the Great Hall. The sight offended her as well. Upon a saltire cross, his arms and legs stretched far apart, was the naked and broken body of Viserys Targaryen.

A groan escaped his cracked lips as Sansa fought back the urge to retch. His skin and hair were encrusted with blood and nightsoil. An ear was missing from the right side of his head and a number of fingers and toes taken from to his hands and feet. She fought back the instinct to look at his groin for she knew full well what damage Lady had done there. Domeric gestured to that area as he backed away to stand by Sansa’s side.

“Your wolf did that duty for me.” Domeric’s voice came out in a harsh whisper. “I’m glad for it, not just for what he threatened to do to you, but for what he did to Jeyne. I cared for her too you know. I’m saddened that there’s no way for Jeyne to see this but Ser Rodrik sent her off to Ironrath before I arrived-”

“This is…” She interrupted, taking in Viserys’s ruined form with a mix of disgust and something worse.

Contentment, she realized to her horror.

“This is…”

“Justice.” Domeric answered for her as he put on a pair of red leather gloves. “I argued with my father about that once. I didn’t agree then… until I heard about Arya. When she died, I knew that this is where her murderer would end up. Viserys would know what her life was worth to me then.”

“Mercy…” Viserys begged, his head rising from the cross to look at Sansa with his lilac eyes. Eyes that had once filled her with terror. “Mercy… please…”

“Mercy?” She repeated, thinking of Maester Luwin, Septa Mordane, Beth, all the others. “You beg mercy of me? What mercy would you have shown Roslin? What mercy did you show any of us?!”

“Mercy…” Viserys rasped again.

Domeric pulled out a wicked, curved-shaped knife and went forth to grab at Viserys’s hair, forcing the knife between his lips. The blade scraped on the mad prince’s teeth as he quailed and whimpered.

“You hold your tongue or you lose it.” Domeric threatened before looking back at her. “I could’ve locked him away in a cell and forgotten about him but I couldn’t forget Arya. My men have been flaying him as ordered, bit by bit. When we let the realm know what is left of Viserys, who would ever think to hurt you again Sansa? We’ll make you a Bolton and then I’ll become the man that my father wants me to be. I’ll make him fear me as well though. That fear will protect you.”

Fear. Sansa couldn’t deny the strength of it then. Viserys had terrified her once. He’d raped and murdered her people, laughing away pleas of mercy, taking joy in her suffering. Once she was even willing to kill him herself, to end her own life if only to spare others his evil. A fate she was content to accept at the time yet seeing Viserys now… it made her feel ill.

Like the day the wildlings had attacked her and Arya along the river. There were dead bodies everywhere. On the ground. In the water. The blood was the worst. It had stained Arya’s hands and the mouths of the wolves. That day was what nightmares were made of.

All those foul memories could not hold a candle to the one that she focused on now. When Osha had knelt before Robb and begged him for mercy, just as Viserys begged Domeric now. Her brother had been furious, his blade red with blood, and the wildling had been his to make suffer if he so wished. Robb could’ve killed Osha. He could’ve done worse.

Yet Robb showed mercy, sparing Osha and welcoming her into Winterfell. Sansa still believed that it was the wildling who had aided Arya’s escape. It tormented her to think what would have happened if Robb had taken his vengeance on Osha. If he had ignored all that their father had taught them of justice and honor. If he had acted more a Bolton than a Stark.

Robb was the best of us, she thought, he was a wolf to the end, just like father wanted.

Viserys had fancied himself a dragon yet as she gazed on all that Domeric had done to him she saw little of the dragon left. They’d cut most of it away. They’d made him a ruin of his former self like they had done to Winterfell. Throwing him away to rot in some dark cage for their amusement.

“Just like Lady.” Sansa said aloud, causing Domeric to look at her with confusion. “What you’re doing… this is like what Viserys did to Lady. Cruelty for cruelty’s sake.”

Domeric withdrew his blade from Viserys’s mouth, the prince whimpering with relief. A pitiful sound, much like the kind Jeyne and Hodor had made under his tortures. It pulled at her heart all the same as Domeric tried to reason with her.

“What? No, that was different. What Viserys did to her, to all of you, it was wrong. A wrong I won’t let-”

“Do you not hear yourself? This is what you want to become? Truly Domeric? That terrifies me. That you could become such a man…” Sansa gestured around the room, at the skins of dead men. “How many would have died at Winterfell if you were what your father wished you to be? Would he have spared any? Lady? Palla? Hodor? Old Nan? Roslin? No… no Domeric, I was right before. You’re a monster. Just like Viserys.”

“No, Sansa you don’t understand.” Domeric came to her but she cringed back, staring at the blade in his hand. He saw this and lowered it in shame. “I’m not this. All those things I did for you and the others, that’s who I really am. This is just who the realm will see, that they must see. A man to be feared. I will be the one to make Viserys answer for his crimes. I can give you justice.”

“This isn’t justice or else you wouldn’t hide it.” Sansa shook her head, backing away towards the door. “Father would have stopped it. This is cruel and wrong. This is torture. The Starks don’t abide torture.”

“Sansa, you have to see-”

“I do see.” She said with her hand on the door, looking between Domeric and Viserys, both still in the shadows. “I see two men who have hurt my family. Who have hurt me. And from where I stand, I can’t tell either of you apart. I’ve had my fill of torture and suffering. It is justice I pray for now. I’ll pray for you too, Domeric Bolton. That you’re not yet too far gone. That perhaps Arya was right about you... and I was wrong.”

Domeric stood in silence as she opened the door and strode out of the room. She feared he would throttle her for those words. Perhaps the blade would be pressed against her neck. Or he would force her to watch his cruel acts like Viserys once did.

Still she walked on and Domeric did not move to stop her. He allowed her to leave and make her way through this tower of lies, to return back to the old ways that her family had raised her follow.

He can tell the whole realm I am dead. They can try and make me a Bolton. A monster.

But that won’t change who I am. I’m a wolf.

Now and forever.

 

DAENERYS

 

“How is it a wolf gets a better seat than me?”

Marwyn’s complaints did not bother Dany in the least. The Archmaester’s grumbling belied the fact he had a perfectly respectable spot just below the royal seating area. From there Marwyn could rub shoulders with Varys and the other lords of court while she enjoyed the company of the direwolf at her side.

Ghost was so large he had no need for a chair and still he had a bit of a height advantage on her. She had to reach up to pet his head, the fur soft to the touch. It did much to calm her mind as they both gazed down at the spectacle Cersei’s trial had become. The royal viewing area had the best vantage point of the jousting field below. The stands around here were packed with the more esteemed members of the audience while the smallfolk pressed in on the wooden fences surrounding the green field. Thousands pushed and fought for a better view as the cries of vendors selling their goods gave the whole affair the feel of a tourney.

Which makes sense since the last trial by seven happened in the shadow of a tourney.

The crime that brought us all here was committed during a tourney.

Cersei is finally getting what Rhaegar would never give her, a blasted tourney.

She was thankful Ghost had joined her today, Tess as well. When they’d first arrived they’d found Mace Tyrell chatting amiable with the Grand Maester while Edmure and Garlan laughed over some jest. As if today was but a tourney and not a trial where lives were at stake. The good cheer had died away at the sight of Ghost, Lord Mace paling some at the sight of him.

As gentle and well-mannered as Ghost was the Lord of Highgarden still appeared extremely uncomfortable with the beast that sat between them. Edmure acted just as uneasy with the rest of her entourage. Most watched eagerly for the arrival of the combatants while Edmure only had eyes for the three dragons perched behind Dany.

Her children were growing quickly, each the size of a kennel hound now and Arturion being larger still. The black dragon nearly forced his brothers off their shared perch when he spread his wings, Barraxes giving way while Rhaegal hissed his disapproval.

Arturion’s screech caused most around her to jump and the crowd to quiet. He began to beat his wings, hissing at Ghost who eyed him with a bored expression of disinterest.

“Jealousy is unbecoming Arturion.” Dany chided the dragon. “You get me all to yourself most days, this is poor Ghost’s first visit out of the Red Keep in weeks.”

“Careful princess.” Garlan warned. “I’d let the wolf handle the matter for himself. The prince’s beast has three times the dragon’s weight by my eye.”

“That won’t intimidate him.” Tess replied, waving a finger at Arturion like some would a petulant child. “Trust me, I can see it in his eyes. He’s smaller but just as proud. I know my way around small yet formidable creatures. They can surprise you with their boldness.”

“Well said.” Garlan smiled, tugging on his beard in thought. “Though if I had to choose between facing the fury of a young dragon or a direwolf, I’d be hard pressed to say which would be worse.”

Dany sighed. “Cersei should have been so cautious. She crossed both wolf and dragon and if the seven are with us Cersei will be held to account for that folly.”

They all looked over to a separate part of the stands where Cersei and Tyrion Lannister sat, both looking equally displeased with their company. Tyrion’s bandaged face hid most of his wounds yet Cersei was far better at hiding her pain. While the queen acted proud and confident now Dany had been among those to watch the woman weep as Myrcella sailed away to Dragonstone and Tommen rode off for Duskendale.

Departures had been the norm of late. Nestor Royce had departed for the Vale with Lysa Arryn and her son in tow. Jon had gone a step further in reaching out to the Vale lords by sending Lady Forlon, the sword of House Corbray, along with the Arryn party. Lyn Corbray had stolen his family’s sword and Jon thought it honorable to return the blade. A decent act considering she knew how much he hated the murderous Ser Lyn.

A far better knight had also left their company. Ser Richard Lonmouth had recovered enough from his battle with Robert Baratheon to accompany Myrcella to Dragonstone. The knight had lost so many teeth in that fight he now had a mouth full of gold. She took heart in Ser Richard being able to take up his duties as castellan of Dragonstone again yet the departure of the Freys was a blow to them. In the aftermath of Ryman’s execution his son Black Walder had led every Frey in the royal army back to the Twins. Many were men who had fought with Jon since the Red Storm, Olyvar among them. Jon had knighted Olyvar himself after the siege yet the pull of his family was too much for the young warrior to ignore.

To everyone else Jon appeared to take it in stride. She knew better though, Jon was never good at hiding things from her and his pain was obvious. Sending Tommen and Myrcella away only added to the depths of that faraway look in his eyes. It was strange to look at Ghost now and know that with each passing day the wolf grew stronger. His wounds healing with time. Yet she couldn’t say the same about Jon.

Each day he spends here I lose a little bit more of him. Jon grows colder and more distant to me.

What more can I expect? I betrayed his father. Had Jon exiled for years to the North. Then dragged him back here when he’d rather be anywhere else.

It wasn’t right. None of it was. Aegon and Rhaenys should be the ones here in the capital enduring the brunt of ruling the realm. It should be the Greyjoys or Tywin Lannister or even Joffrey himself suffering treachery and loss, not the Starks.

Jon and I should be together, happy and full of love, not mourning poor Sansa.

Once Sansa and Dany had traded barbs at a tourney, two young women with much to prove to the other. In that moment she had considered Sansa a rival, a challenger to the happiness she’d dreamed of for years. Now, when there was little standing between Dany and that dream, it was hard not to think she was stuck in a nightmare.

I never wanted this Sansa, not once. I wanted with all my heart to end your betrothal but never your life.

I’m so sorry…

While most ladies attending the trial today had dressed in bright gowns to catch the eyes of onlookers Dany could not abide doing so herself as nothing about this day was right. Her dress was black save the white collar and pearls sown about the bodice. Jon would soon be fighting on behalf Robb Stark, who Cersei had crippled in his stead. Since there were few enough here to mourn for Sansa or her family, Dany would do so. A penance which felt meager considering all Viserys had cost the Starks but one she could not balk at.

Ghost nudged himself into her hand once more when a commotion rippled through the crowd. Trumpets sounded from opposite sides of the field as the two sets of mounted warriors appeared. To the left and closer to Cersei’s seat were the queen’s champions.

Gerion Lannister led the way, helm in hand, his steel plate chased with gold as bright as the long mane of hair which fell down to his shoulders. His red tunic bore four lions yet instead of roaring the beasts all looked to be smiling, befitting Gerion’s moniker as the Laughing Lion. Yet there was little mirth on the lord’s face as he looked to his niece in the stands.

Ser Jaime followed after, his face as grim as his uncle’s yet the white-cloaked knight pointedly refused to look the queen’s way. Instead he focused on adjusting the golden fist he used only for jousting. Those two made up the grandest of their number yet not necessarily the most intimidating. Ser Lyle Crakehall had a strong and powerful bearing as well as a reputation for being one of the greatest warriors in the Westerlands, if not the realm. Meryn Trant rode beside Ser Lothor Brune, a distinguished tourney knight Gerion had recruited. Gold had also convinced Ser Osmund Kettleblack to join the queen’s cause yet the last rider was the one that gave Dany most pause.

Bronn, or Ser Bronn of the Gate, as he was known now, showed not an once of shame as he rode among Cersei’s defenders. Even from this distance she could see Tyrion’s expression darken. While Tyrion likely cursed his sister swiping his personal shield Dany was more worried about the man’s reputation as a skilled killer.

“Here they come.” Edmure declared, pointing to the right and drawing her eyes to where seven new riders entered the field.

Lord Beric and Brynden Tully came on first, their postures perfect and faces grim as they stared at the foe. The knights Balon Swann and Mandon Moore had both offered their blades to Jon and he had accepted, to foster good will between the Stormlands and Vale. Her prince appeared soon after, flanked by Brienne and Willem, and armored in the black suit that had seen him through the worst of the Usurper’s war. It was a stark contrast to Brienne, who already wore her helm and whose white cloak flapped in the breeze, as pristine as snow.

Dany spotted disapproving faces in the stands but if they voiced their feeling towards the Lady Kingsguard it was lost to the roar of the crowd. The smallfolk had cheered for Cersei’s knights but only half as loudly as they did when their challengers appeared. When Jon rode out the shouting became a roar, thousands shouting his name and waving white ribbons in their hands.

“The White Prince!”

“Good Prince Jon! Good Prince Jon!”

“The White Dragon rides for all!

She smiled to hear Jon’s good deeds were not lost on the smallfolk although he did not react at all to their cries. Willem was not so humble, raising a hand and waving to the people, blowing kisses to the more vocal women.

“My husband best hope he comes through this unharmed.” Tess said, shaking her head. “It be improper of me to pummel a wounded man.”

“I’d gladly have taken his place.” Garlan spoke with a glance to his father. “If I was not forbidden from doing so that is. It shames me that the Mistress of Dawn rides in my stead.”

“You would’ve replaced Ser Mandon.” Dany corrected. “Brienne is the only member of the Kingsguard in this city whose loyalty is unquestioned. Her place is by Jon’s side.”

My place is there too, she thought, I’m the mother of dragons.

I walked through the fires to bring dragons back into this world but I’m expected to sit back and watch now.

A part of her wished the dragons were full grown. It would be a grand thing to name each a champion to House Targaryen’s cause. Three out of seven needed for such a trial. Four more and they’d have all they needed.

One day… though if they must be born in the same way these three were I’d have that day wait a long time…

The noise of the crowd began to die down as the High Septon walked out into the middle of the field. The white-robed man turned up his nose in Brienne’s direction and scorned the smallfolk to address the highborn in the stands.

“Queen Cersei, wife of our beloved King Rhaegar, stands accused of plotting against Prince Jon’s life and crippling the heir to House Stark. She has put her faith in the Seven to prove her innocence. Does her accuser do the same?”

This was Edmure’s part and he rose to stand at the edge of the platform.

“He does!” The lord shouted. “I, Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun and brother to Lady Catelyn Stark, do lay these charges against the Queen in the name of my sister and House Stark! I trust in the seven to deliver us justice!”

“We trust in Prince Jon!”

“Yeah! Bully to the Kingslayer!”

The smallfolk began to shout again, jeering Cersei’s defenders and praising Jon’s party one more. The High Septon’s men and the guards took some time to quiet them so he could continue.

“This trial by combat shall be decided by the last remaining warrior standing! If his cause is righteous, the verdict will be clear to all! The battle can only be ended thusly! Unless the accuser retracts his charges after being shown the wisdom of the Seven themselves.”

“Not bloody likely.” Edmure spoke under his breath as he took his seat once more.

“Please my lord, do not speak of blood.” She asked, hand to Ghost’s head as the challengers took their marks. “I fear for how much of it were are about to see.”

The High Septon cleared the field then, leaving it open for the opponents to array themselves accordingly. All had donned their helms, raising up lances and shields. Jon wearing the dragon wing helm of Rhaegar’s youth. To see him honoring his father in such a way should have lifted her spirits. Yet it only served to remind Rhaegar was gone. Killed in battle.

No force in the world could tear her away from the fight to come. Despite every part of her screaming against it.

Ghost uttered no sound himself yet the wolf bared his teeth in a silent snarl then. His eyes locked on Cersei. His blood red eyes.

“Interesting arrangements.” Mace noted, taking in which warrior challenged which. “Not exactly as I would have done so. To me status should be the proper method to…”

The rest was background noise as her eyes darted back and forth, matching foe to foe. Jon and Gerion had both taken positions at the center of their lines. Brienne challenged Jaime, The Blackfish faced Bronn, Beric against Lothor, Swann against Crakehall, Moore against Trant, and Willem lining up against the Kettleblack.

“He would pick a younger and larger man.” Tess hissed, shaking her head. “I should’ve done the same in choosing a husband. One with more sense. At least a thimble’s worth.”

“Willem will be fine.” She reached out to take the lady’s hand. “They all will. They have to be.”

Dany whispered that to herself over and over again as the warriors took their marks. The heralds had their flags and trumpets at the ready, the crowd becoming so quiet she could hear Ghost’s breathing. She thought perhaps to hear her heart pounding away in her chest when the trumpets blew. Barraxes screeched in protest as the flags began to wave and the charge began.

It was slow at first, both sides moving to an amble before a trot. Then all fourteen dug in their spurs so that beast and rider lurched forward powerfully. The war lances lowered, shields hefted up, the distance between the two sides lessening.

Until there was no space. Lances struck and the sounds of wood splintering and metal crashing against metal filled the air.

She was on her feet before her eyes could comprehend that was Jon still atop his horse.

He rode on by, his shattered lance being cast aside as Gerion did the same with his. The rest of the fight came together in bits and pieces. Balon Swann and Ser Jaime had been knocked off their horses, both drawing blades as Lyle Crakehall and Brienne dismounted to challenge their foes afoot. Willem and Osmund had both broken lances and were now circling about on their horses, their swords ready to clash. The Blackfish and Bronn were much the same. Lord Beric was in a bad way, favoring his shoulder as he led his horse to face Lothor Brune’s coming attack.

Her eyes were moving back to Jon when Edmure cursed in anger.

“He barely touched him!” The lord jumped out his seat, joining a chorus of others in pointing and shouting at a fallen champion. “Trant’s lance didn’t even break! Get up! Get up!”

Despite Edmure’s urging Mandon Moore lay still on the ground, unmoving as Meryn Trant rode by him. The knight’s lance was indeed quite intact, and she watched in horror as he lowered it again and spurred his horse for another charge.

When Trant’s target became clear everything slowed to a crawl.

Jon and Gerion were battling, sword to sword. Blackfyre caught the sunlight in such a way it was hard to look upon directly. None could miss it’s beauty. Nor could Trant miss Jon as he charged on, lance aimed directly at his back.

“Jon!” She screamed. “Jon behind you! Jon!”

Whether it was her cry or the countless others coming forth from the crowd she couldn’t say, but Jon must have heard one. He looked behind to find Trant bearing down on him. There was no time for Jon to do anything but lift his shield to take the hit. Meryn’s lance struck it with such force Jon was lifted up and out of his saddle. The splinters were still flying through the air as his armored form hit the ground with such a thud Ghost started beside her.

“Coward!” Tess shouted, shaking a fist as the dragons shrieked in rage. “You cowardly fool Trant! Show some honor!”

The knight showed the exact opposite as he pulled forth a morning star and set his horse to galloping right at Jon’s prone form. Gerion was unmoving upon his horse, gazing at all this as numbly as her. The hooves of Meryn’s war horse tore up the earth as they thundered towards Jon. The knight surely meant to trample him yet Dany’s prayers were answered, the prince suddenly jerking sideways, rolling across the ground and escaping the hooves.

Meryn swung around quickly, refusing to dismount as Gerion did, and attacking Jon before he had fully gained his feet. The morningstar struck soundly against Jon’s shoulder, metal crunching from the impact and a cry erupting from her love. Jon staggered some, holding Blackfyre up in defiance as Gerion and Meryn closed on him.

“Help him!” She called, in such of any of the other champions to rise to Jon’s aid. “Someone help Jon! Defend the prince!”

There was no help to be found. The Kingslayer was doing his best to try and dart around Brienne, clearly aiming to join the attack against Jon. Beric and Lothor were rolling across the ground, the two men using their mailed fists to batter each other. The duel between the Blackfish and Bronn was as pitched as the fight between Balon Swann and Lyle Crakehall. It was then her eyes took in the horror of what befell Jon’s remaining ally.

Osmund Kettleblack had met a fierce opponent in Willem and opted for an easier target for his blade. When Osmund slashed across the face of Willem’s mount Tess screamed in shock as the horse did so in agony. The poor beast was still screaming when it fell, Willem leaping out of his saddle so that both landed upon the ground bellowing in rage. Rather than remaining to finish his opponent, Osmund kicked at his horse and charged right at a fight already underway.

Where Jon was doing his best to fend off two opponents already.

“Murder!” Garlan roared, his face red and hand on his sword. “This is murder! Leave him be you lest you be cursed by all!”

She was already cursing these men to the seven hells when Osmund rode at Jon and cut down viciously. Rather than taking Jon’s head he cleaved away a dragon wing from his helm, unsteadying the prince once more. A small mercy came in Gerion backing away from his attack, the lord screaming something at his allies. Meryn struck again, swinging his morningstar in a powerful blow against Jon’s helm.

The metal caved in to the side, the sound of it lost to the outrage of the spectators. Jon’s legs went limp, his body collapsing downwards. The he way he clutched and leaned on Blackfyre was the only thing that kept him from sprawling on the ground.

And still Meryn and Osmund prepared to come again.

“They’re going to kill him.” Dany looked about at the others, her eyes pleading with Mace and Garlan. “They’re going to kill him! Stop this!”

“We can’t!” Mace held up his hands as his chin quivered while Garlan paced about.

“Princess if this was a true battle I’d be there but I cannot act now! This is a trial! A mockery of one!”

Ghost was not bound by the same rules. The direwolf bolted from their platform to begin the long journey downwards. As quickly as he moved Dany knew he wouldn’t reach Jon in time. Osmund’s horse had just struck Jon’s chest with its hooves, her love collapsing in a scream of agony. Willem wouldn’t make it either. The knight was limping Jon’s way as swiftly as he could but the foes were closing in.

“Edmure!”

Dany grabbed hold of the Tully lord’s doublet and pulled him about, the man’s eyes wide and disbelieving at the spectacle below. She shook him as hard as she could, forcing Edmure to shift his attention to her.

“Edmure end the trial! End it now!”

“I- what?” Edmure gaped at her. “I can’t! Cersei’s guilty! We know she is and Catelyn’s children deserve-”

“They’re dead Edmure! They’re dead and Jon will be too unless you stop this!” Her fingers tore at his clothing, the sight of Meryn and Osmund climbing down to finish Jon off afoot spurring her on. “Robb Stark wouldn’t want this! Sansa and Arya wouldn’t want him to die for them!”

“It’s not for me-”

“It is!” She slapped Edmure right across his face, her hand stinging from the effort. “It was in you to save Jon and that’s what I’ll tell Aegon if you let him die! I’ll tell the king you let his brother! Just like you let Rhaegar be killed!”

Edmure’s mouth hung open, the loud rubbing at his reddened cheek and clearly unnerved at her outburst. Yet something in her words trigged him into action, Edmure jerking away from her and rushing to the edge of the platform.

“I end the challenge!” He shouted, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted down at the High Septon. “End this! End this now! End it!”

Garlan and Tess joined Edmure in shouting for an end, others picking up the cry too until the High Septon jumped from his seat and began to wave about his scepter. Across the field duels came to end but not everywhere. Ser Jaime had fallen and Brienne was rushing across the field, passing Willem as he traded blows with Gerion. Osmund made to meet her attack while Meryn stood overtop of Jon, foot on his chest and weapon raised.

She thought to untie the dragons when Ghost tore out the stands, running across the open ground and bowling straight into Meryn’s back. The impact was harsh for both, the wolf’s yelp sad to hear but it was worth it to see Meryn fall. Before the knight could rise again royal guards were rushing onto the field, separating those still fighting and making to protect Jon. The gold cloaks were battling to hold the smallfolk at bay, the common rage growing with each passing moment.

“Twas no fair fight!”

“Treason! Treason!”

“Save the prince! Save the prince!”

That’s exactly what Dany set about to do.

While Tyrell and Tully men joined with the gold cloaks to try and restrain the crowd Brienne and the Blackfish lifted Jon up and carried him to where Dany awaited in a carriage. A gash somewhere upon his head had turned his face into a mask of blood. For most of the ride he was lost to the world, only grunting or crying out when the carriage wheels would skip and jump on the cobbled roads.

It was not until they had Jon laid down in his bed in the Tower of the Hand that the full extent of his wounds were laid bare. Grand Maester Gormon tried to usher Dany and Marwyn away but she wouldn’t hear of it, averting her eyes as they stripped Jon down and laid a sheet across his lower half. His chest was dark and red from where the hooves had struck him and Marwyn frowned at a dark line about his left arm. If not for his armor Marwyn believed Jon would have lost that arm and his chest would be caved in.

The blow to his head was the most worrying, the Grand Maester declaring Jon would have to be kept awake to ensure his mind was not rattled. Marwyn produced some potions intended to wake the prince but before he could so Gormon insisted the room be emptied of onlookers, so as not to overwhelm Jon. This time she heeded him, sending Tess and Willem off with the Blackfish, to see how Lord Beric was doing. Brienne did not need to be told to take up her station outside the Hand’s chambers, the lady doing so without complaint.

When Marwyn held some foul smelling poultice beneath Jon’s nose his face cringed away. His eyes fluttered open a moment later and gazed in shock at the three faces staring down at him.

“What happened?” He groaned, reaching for his head. “Dany? Dany. Why am I here? The trial… tell me of the trial...”

“It’s over.” She answered, snatching a wet cloth from Gormon’s hand and sitting beside Jon on the bed. Touching at his face gingerly she tried to wash away his worries. “The trial’s at an end Jon. Now be still. You were badly hurt.”

“There were three.” Jon furrowed his brow in confusion. “There was two… then three… Gerion was trying to have me yield… Ser Jaime was shouting…”

“Well he can count.” Marwyn grunted. “That’s a good sign. Better off than half the lords of the realm really.”

“Leave us.” Dany demanded of both maesters then. “See to the others, I shall care for the prince now.”

“Princess it is not proper-”

“Nothing about today is proper!” She snapped at Gormon, pointing to the door. “Now go before I have Brienne drag you from here. Marwyn go as well but stay in the tower where I can reach you should the need arise.”

Jon watched them leave with an expression of both pain and confusion. He tried to rise up from his bed but her hand went to his bare chest, easing back down.

“Dany… the trial… did we get justice… for my family?” He rasped, his eyes glassy and hand moving to clutch the one she now touched him with. His voice was desperate and grasp even more so. “I fell but the others, tell me the others finished it. Tell me Cersei was found guilty. Tell me-”

“We called it off Jon.” She whispered, brushing hair from his face and shaking her head. “They were going to kill you so Edmure and I ended it. I’m sorry but it wasn’t worth-”

“No!” He jerked upwards, fighting through the pain to rise and put his face but a breath from hers. “She was guilty! We know she was guilty! How could Edmure do this? Oh gods how could I fail at this? I failed them again. Not again.”

Jon pressed his fists to the sides of his head and fought against her attempts to hold him. There was not a doubt in her mind that the pain etched across his face came more from within than his wounds. Pain she’d caused by interfering in the trial.

And I’d do it again. A hundred times over.

Cersei can drown herself in wine for all I care. She’s not worth Jon.

No justice is worth losing him.

“I’m so sorry.” She soothed, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. “I wasn’t going to let you die. I couldn’t save Rhaegar or Barristan… how was I to let you fall? They both fought so you could live Jon. It wasn’t in me to fail them. Or you. The realm needs you. I need you.”

“No.” He choked out, his body trembling and arms falling weakly to his sides. “No... no…”

“Hear me Jon.” Dany pleaded, her eyes shut and the smell of him filling her nose. “Let me say what I should have said all those years ago. When you acted so bravely. A little boy with few friends who fought a prince twice his age and size for a cowardly girl...”

“No.”

“A girl who lost that part of her life she loved most because she wasn’t willing to speak out.” She was crying now, shedding the tears Jon refused to let break free himself. Her hands running down his hard chest and settling over his heart. “I couldn’t hold my tongue this time. This heart… this good heart. Everyone should know how hard it beats for all of us. You open it up to shelter so many within and it’s killing you. The think I love most about you… I couldn’t let it kill you…”

“No.” He whispered into her ear, lowering his face so that it touched upon hers. His cheek felt like a hot iron against her own, his heart beating powerfully in his chest. Her free hand slid down his arm, fingers wrapping around his. She lifted his hand until it pressed against her hip, a burst of warmth rising up into her chest and moving outwards.

“You have to forgive yourself.” She lightly pressed her lips to his cheek. His taste was salty, from the sweat of the fighting but there was something else too. A sweet taste that only made her think of Jon, which help her to say what she had to. “Blame me if you have to… hate me if you that’s what you need… I’ll bear it Jon. I’ve earned it. Every bit of hated or anger you have for what you’ve lost… put it on me… I burned once and I survived… losing you scares me more than those flames ever did and I’ll face it… I’ll let you hate me if… if… ”

Her voice fell away. The fear was there. That Jon would do as she asked him to. If he did this could be the last time they ever touched like this. The travesty of the trial might be the one thing that finally drove him away from her for good. So she moved her lips across his face, fighting to put it all the memory. How his stubble tickled and scratched. How his deep breaths felt against her neck. How his grey eyes weren’t far away in that moment. He was so close she could see herself in them.

In this moment, they were together.

Jon shook his head then, pressing his brow against hers and putting his hands on her shoulders. As if he meant to push her way.

“No.” He repeated again and her heart broke.

“Is that the only word you know?” Dany asked, drawing back. Hurt that he would not even dignify her with a farewell.

His fingers tensed on her shoulders then, holding her in place.

“No.” Jon opened his eyes and leaned forward. That was the only warning she had before their lips met.

Everything she should have been feeling drifted away when their mouths locked together. His hands moving over her shoulders, hers hands cupping his face. The tears were still wet on her cheeks but their kissing was so desperate that her sadness became a distant memory. Mostly because he was so close now.

Jon wasn’t running from her anymore. He wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t pushing her away.

He was pulling her to him. Their bodies pressing together so tightly he gasped in pain but ignored her attempts to ease away. Whether it was Jon who made to lay back into the bed or her who pushed him down she couldn’t say.

It didn’t matter. His skin was bare and there to be touched. Her leg brushing against the hardness beneath the thin sheet. She kissed his face. His neck. His chest.

Anything to ward away the hurts he’d suffered. To make her own disappear as well.

There was no war in this bed. There was no treachery. No threats. No pain.

Only the love she had been dreaming of since the day she departed for Winterfell.

Their hands were moving so freely that when he pulled at her shoulder with a tad too much need a ripping could be heard. They both stopped then. Staring at the bit of dress torn away to show her pale skin beneath. Jon’s expression twisted into one of regret and he made to apologize when she put a finger to his mouth.

Guiding his hand by the tear to where her gown was laced. Where her fingers now showed his where to pull so the knots would fall away. He trembled some, looking at her like he was doing her some great wrong. Dany knew Jon well. She always had. So she knew what he needed to hear now.

“Yes.” She whispered, her hair falling down lay upon his chest. Hiding the dark marks the battle had left.

Nothing could hide how his face burned when he pulled her down again. They kissed and touched, Dany doing her best to leading Jon on how to properly to undress her. To show him that this was what she wanted. That he was what she wanted.

To rescue some good out of a bad time. To bring some light to the darkness.

As the two lovers entwined their bodies together, Dany thought the gods were finally smiling on them.

That there was some justice to the world after all.

    

Chapter 22

Summary:

To seek a king, to serve a king, to save a king.

ARYA

“I can’t see a thing.”

Rook growled in frustration as he leaned over the bow of the Black Wind. The reaver was straining his stupid eyes to see through the fog.The grey mist was deep and thick, spreading out in every direction, making the blackness of the night even deeper and harder to see through.

That doesn't give Rook reason to risk us all.

“Shut up.” Arya whispered. “We’re supposed to be quiet.”

“Nan’s right.” Rolfe hushed from his side of the bow. “Shut your fucking trap and keep your eyes open.”

Rook uttered a whispered curse after that, which was fitting considering the name of the bay theytravelled through. The Black Wind and ten other longships were sneaking through the part of Oldtown’s harbor that opened into the Whispering Sound. The darkness and fog hid the ships from sight while the sparse use of their muffled oars betrayed little noise. It was the oarsmen alone pushing them onwards, their sails having been taken down and stored away. The goal of this night crossing was the river that the ironmen called the Honeywine. To get there they had to pass through waters that cut the great and storied city of Oldtown.

Not that Arya could see much of the famed city through this fog. Faint glimmers of firelight poked through the haze along the east and west banks of the harbor but that was it. Closer was the dark shape of the Sea Bitch, the only other longship she could make out in the haze. It reminded her of a chunk of potato, floating in a bowl of grey stew.

They’d already snuck by an island supporting a tall watchtower that guarded the entrance to the harbor. That was no great feat though. The tower had been abandoned, its doors breached, the wrecks of several Hightower vessels caught up in rocks against the shore. Hundreds of longships had overwhelmed the smaller Hightower fleet, breaking through into the harbors of Oldtown. Before the ironborn came, Asha had said that the waters dividing the city were crisscrossed with bridges and scores of docks lining its sides and small islands.

Now many of the docks were burned to ruin, jutting out from the shore like half-submerged skeletons. The people of Oldtown now hid behind the city’s riverside walls but that didn’t mean the Greyjoys ruled the waters here just yet. Even through the fog, Arya could see the proof of that.

Rising up out of the mist was the massive Hightower, its beacon fire burning so bright that it could be seen for leagues. She couldn’t even see Battle Island, which the fortress was built upon, but there was no missing the tower itself. All of their hopes rested on those in that tower missing the small fleet as it passed by. The tower and its island housed hundreds of archers with flaming arrows and catapults with burning pitch. Yet what threatened the Black Wind most was the Hightower raising an alarm that could rouse the city's defenders throughout the harbor.

Which was why Arya had to clench her teeth to keep from screaming out and betraying them all.

It would be right thing to do. I could just shout right now and let the tower know what we’re up to, she thought. These ships are just going to keep hurting and killing folk.

But if I say anything, Osha might be killed too.

Somewhere to the back of the longship, her friend was staying just as silent as the rest of the crew. If Arya did scream or tried to warn Oldtown’s defenders, there’d be no way to keep Osha or herself from being killed like the rest of the reavers.

The city still had war galleys that it could send out against them but there were greater dangers to their ships on this nighttime raid. To pass through Oldtown and reach the open river, the ship had to slip by a pair of stone bridges that crossed the main waterway. Bridges held by the city’s guard and viciously defended, since they were the only ways left to cross between the two sides of Oldtown.

One of them connected Battle Island to the eastern shore. It was that bridge their ship drew closer to now. Torches lined the upper parts of the bridge but the archways below were dark and mostly hidden in fog. What lay within was a mystery to Arya.

“This is it.” Asha’s whisper was the only announcement of the captain’s arrival among the ship's spotters. She leaned close to Arya and squinted into the haze. “What’s our course? We have to be sure about it. Three ships are following us and if we don’t set it now-”

“I can’t see shit.” Rook repeated and Rolfe grunted agreement.

“Captain, I can see the bridge top well enough but I still can’t make shit of a ways through. The Crow’s Eye is a mad man.”

“That he is.” Asha spat. “Though he happens to be right in this. We need to cut this city off from the Honeywine and any chance of resupply. Only way of doing that is setting some ships to reaving the river. So unless you want to drag our longships through the lands of the green lords, find me a fucking course.”

“Turn to port.” Arya pointed out into the darkness, her eyes narrowed on what she thought to be the edges of an arch. “I think there’s a channel there… no, I’m sure of it.”

“Best be or you’ll die young.” Asha shook Arya’s shoulder before hunching over and heading aft, her footfalls cautious and quiet as she crossed the deck.

“Can’t believe the cap’n let Crow's Eye talk her into this.” Rook grumbled. “Who cares if that whoreson called her a coward? Them bastards are going to hear us and drop rocks right on our heads. Shit, I should’ve got off this ship... what if the curse is true?”

“There ain’t no curse.” Rolfe whispered. “Balon’s older sons died fighting, like true ironborn, and no one said shit about curses then. Just because the Turncloak gets himself drunk and killed over nothing-”

“Shut it.” Arya whispered, jerking a thumb up to the bridge where the shapes of guardsmen could be seen moving about. The men knew to be quiet then and she was glad of it, for more than one reason.

The talk of falling rocks and murder brought back ugly memories of a face smashed half to ruin.

I did the right thing… Theon was a murderer... he killed Robb, and if father was there he would’ve swung the blade himself.

They took Needle from me. I had to do it that way… It was justice.

Arya had felt it was justice when she stripped off the bloody cloak and laid it over the sleeping form of Left Hand Lucas Codd.She'd remembered his vicious beating of the poor boy at the docks as she planted the piece of driftwood right beside him. The next morning Balon Greyjoy’s men would show all that to their king after they discovered Theon’s body and Codd nearby.

“I found Lord Theon, just like the captain asked.” Arya had spoken truly to hide the lies to come. “But he wouldn’t come. I saw Left Hand Lucas too. I remembered him because they'd argued at the docks.”

“Nan speaks the truth.” Asha had said with a hollow tone, her face pale and expression cold. “Codd and Theon had words… I stopped them from coming to blows but Theon was wroth… that’s why I sent Nan to find him… to bring my brother back here in one piece…”

King Balon had listened to all of this stoically, only growing enraged when Codd refused to admit to murdering Theon. The reaver had sworn to the Drowned God that he was innocent, which turned out to be a poor choice of words. The Iron King had had Codd drowned in the sea before the Black Wind left with a hundred other longships to join the attack on Oldtown.

None had been the wiser to the truth. Nor did any know of her nightmares of Robb’s murder and how his face would sometimes change into Theon’s. A face which became a mashed ruin of blood and flesh. Those dreams were the worst but the ones about Sansa were bad too. Sansa would be standing on the walls of Winterfell as it burned, her face sad and pleading as the flames rose higher. Sometimes Arya would catch Asha looking much the same, often after someone mentioned Theon's name, but that expression would quickly disappear. The crew all looked forward to the spoils of Oldtown yet neither Asha nor Arya shared in their high spirits.

We both lost something on Oakenshield, she thought, Asha lost her brother and I lost… something.

Balon Greyjoy had made things worse for them. Asha’s father had demanded that Qarl the Maid leave the Black Wind's crew and join the attack on Highgarden. There were whispers that King Balon had learned that Qarl was Asha’s lover and disapproved of a grandson to a thrall being able to boast such. Arya didn’t care about Qarl or any of that, but his leaving meant that Needle went with him. The sword Jon had given to her. The only part of home left to her besides Osha.

I've lost everything now.

Arya hated to think of what Qarl might be doing with Needle at Highgarden, considering the evils the ironborn did here at Oldtown. The city walls were too strong for the Greyjoys to storm but outside the ironmen rampaged freely. Asha liked to say that the ironborn fought best with the sea at their backs and Arya hated to admit that might be true. She had watched from the Black Wind when the Hightower army, with its gleaming knights and ordered pikemen, had tried to drive five thousand reavers back into the bay. No matter how much she silently wished for the Oldtown men to win, the ironborn had thrown back every attack. Worse still, Euron Greyjoy had snuck a hundred or so horse around the rear of the Hightowers to block the enemy escape, capturing many.

The crew of the Black Wind all whispered that the Crow’s Eye was a monster. Asha called him worse things still. All of it was true.

Her first glimpse of Euron Greyjoy came while scores of prisoners were being drowned on his order. Their screams and pleas of mercy were met by laughter from the one-eyed reaver, who sat along the shore watching. Asha had not been so amused.

“A waste.” Asha had said as the Black Wind crew joined the audience of captains and reavers. “Those are potential oarsmen and thralls you’re drowning. How many men did we lose in this fight?”

“Less than them.” Euron’s otherwise handsome face had twisted into a cruel grin as he looked Asha up and down. “You’re as soft as those breasts of yours, niece. The men praise the Drowned God for this victory, fools that they are. I’ll give our god its due, just so all know who holds the true power here.”

“You mean my father. Your king.” Asha spoke with a cold stare.

“So many kings these days.” Euron waved for another group of men to be dragged off into the surf. “We captured some trade ships bound for here. Word has it that Aegon Targaryen and an army of Dornish spears are heading Highgarden’s way.”

“King Balon is ready for them if they do.” Andrik the Unsmiling, another ironborn captain, countered gruffly. “Those inlets and coves we mapped when we reaved the Mander will be of use. Whatever camp the king sets up outside Highgarden, he’s going to have reserves of longships hidden nearby, all ready to fall upon the flanks and rear of the green lords. His plan-”

“Is a secret plan, Andrik.” Asha had cut him off, clearly annoyed at the captain while Euron simply tapped his chin in thought.

“So that’s why I was pressed into making maps when there was plunder to be gained. Clever Balon, clever.” Euron turned his dark eye to the next group of doomed men then and pointed at one wearing Hightower livery. “There! That one! He’s a Hightower nephew or a second cousin I think. Take him to the Silence, gently now. Drown the rest.”

“So merciful all of a sudden.” Asha raised an eyebrow. “Planning to ransom him?”

“Not at all. That one will be our envoy. I’m going to release him back to Oldtown as a gesture to Lord Leyton, so the Hightowers consider my peace offering. If the lord can meet my demands for a tribute, we’ll leave his city be. I’ll even promise to give him a full night and day free of attacks to consider-”

“Not bloody likely!” Asha had shouted. “We're to take this city or besiege it until our king tells us differently. If you're not man enough to do so Crow's Eye then there’s a Greyjoy right here who can.”

A hundred other captains had voiced their anger as well. The Crow’s Eye simply laughed it all away, just like he had the prisoners’ pleas.

“Oh Asha, I’m happy to hear you so eager to prove yourself a kraken. While Lord Leyton sits back and considers my offer, our longships will be slinking through his harbor to strike up the Honeywine. It’ll take a bold captain for such a feat though, a true kraken. Care to take up the command? Perhaps it will make up for the failings of poor little Theon?”

Arya had thought that Euron’s peace was all a lie as soon as she heard it. He’d acted the same way that Domeric would when he’d trick her during their training, confident and charming, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Lies hidden behind truths. 

Just like how the fog hid the longships as they drew closer to the bridge.

They were near enough that Arya could see the lines between the stone masonry. Higher up at the top of the bridge, she could swear there were shadows moving. Guards. Archers maybe. Men ready to kill them.

She didn’t breathe when the Black Wind passed beneath the bridge. Everything was pitch black within the arch, the sound of flowing water echoing up the walls. The exit was not so far but it seemed like leagues to Arya. Time always passed slower in moments like these, when she wasn’t allowed to speak or move. Not a word was uttered by any of the crew. The oarsmen plied the waters gently, careful not to make a sound.

Her heart was beating in her chest almost as hard as it did when she lied to Asha about Theon's death.

Domeric helped me through that, she thought, wherever he is now, I hope he’s okay.

He taught me how to get away with killing Theon but I don’t need to lie to anybody now.

So she looked to her memories of the brother and sister who haunted her dreams. Robb would be brave right now, like he had been for all of them until the end. Sansa could be quiet and sit still for hours if she was asked. Somehow thinking about them helped.

When they reached the other side, she joined Rook in taking a deep breath, which Rolfe cuffed them both for. The rest of the ships weren’t through and the bridge guards could still catch them if they weren’t careful. It wasn’t until the ship was deeper into the harbor that Osha came to offer them all a skin of water.

“Captain says good work.” The wildling whispered as she stroked Arya’s hair. “And for you men to go aft and have a talk about what’s next. I’ll stay with my daughter.”

The men didn’t argue as they disappeared to the aft and Osha made to lean against the bow, eyeing Arya curiously through the darkness.

“That iron bitch said it was you that got us through.”

“Yeah, so?” Arya shrugged as she kept her eyes searching the night before them.

“Surprised you didn’t lead us right into the rocks.” Osha took hold of her arm. “Lie to the rest all you want child but not to me. You hate their guts, I can see it. You would be happy to see the lot of them dead.”

“Yes.” She glared back at Osha. “So?”

The woman laughed. “So what are you playing at?”

“I’m not playing at anything. I’m just not stupid enough to get us killed. Not when we’re so close.”

“Close? Close to what?”

“My family.” Arya whispered, waving Osha closer. “You heard the Crow’s Eye. King Aegon’s going to Highgarden. That’s north. The Honeywine takes us north. My brother Bran is with the king so if we go north, we’re going to him.”

Her words hung between them like the fog across the harbor. She couldn’t see the wildling’s expression but still felt Osha’s eyes on her.

“Makes sense.” She finally said. “If that king o’ you southron beats the reavers, we’ll make a go of it. They don’t watch us near as closely anymore. If these bastards can get us close to your brother, we’ll run the first chance we get.”

“Really?” She grabbed at Osha’s hands and pulled her closer. It was a shock to hear this. She'd feared that her friend was beginning to like Lorren and his filthy pawing of her. “You swear? I mean, I thought you and Lorren-”

“He’s not so bad. Good company at night.” Osha enveloped her in an embrace then. “Not as good as the little one who kept me warm for all those cold nights in the Wolfswood. I said I’d get you to your brother once… might be I still want to see that done.”

Arya returned Osha’s embrace as tightly as she could. It felt good to be held. With her eyes closed, it was easy to picture someone else hugging her now. That it was mother instead of Osha that pressed her chin on top of her head. Who ran her hands up Arya’s back reassuringly before kissing her brow.

I miss you mother… I miss you and father so much…

“Hey!” Asha’s rasp broke the embrace between the two. The captain was moving swiftly up the deck, shoving Osha against the bow and forcing Arya around to face the harbor again. “This is not fucking mama and baby time. We’re this close to being killed here and I won’t die for such foolishness.”

“Sorry captain.” She spoke through gritted teeth as Asha’s fingers clutched at her hair like talons. “I’m watching, I swear.”

“We’ll be watching.” The lady jerked away to push Osha aft. “You, make sure the rowers have enough to drink.”

After Asha released her, the captain left Arya at her post so she could take up a position right across from her. There was too much fog to see any features of the city around them right now, only distant lights that helped Arya and Asha be sure that they mere still moving in the right direction. The pair listened as the sound of gentle singing drifted out from east of the city. Asha put a hand to one of her throwing axes and tilted an ear towards the sound.

“That’s not a sailor’s song.” Asha noted. “Not one I’ve heard any green warriors sing either.”

“It’s a hymn.” Arya replied, recognizing the tune. “Someone’s singing a hymn of the Faith.”

Mother used to sing this to us… to me. I can’t make out the words… why can’t I remember the words?

“Didn’t think the North had too many septs.” Asha tapped her axe absently and Arya was thinking of an explanation when the captain merely shrugged. “No septs as fine at the ones in this city anyway. The Oldtown lords, they like their septs as beautiful and wealthy as this city. Big, ornate buildings, filled with fine silks, jewelled goblets, golden statues-”

“And the Crow’s Eye is going to steal it all.” Arya snapped.

“We’ll pay the iron price.” Asha bit back. “If these people want to keep what’s theirs they have to fight for it. Anything worth having is worth killing any who would try to take it from you. Remember that Nan. Even the children of thralls can be captains among my people. One day you could have a ship all your own. Going where you want, seeking any port you can think of. A lord of the seas.”

“I know where I’d go…” Arya whispered into the mist. “I know that I’d fight for.”

“Oh? Well, out with it.”

I’d go north… all my family is somewhere north. I could find them.

They’re worth having… I’d fight for them.

“I’d go with you, captain.” Nan lied, standing up stiffly and proudly. “If I had a ship, I’d fight for the Iron Queen.”

She meant parts of it. Asha and this ship were the best chance that Arya had for reaching Bran. If it meant being with her family again, she’d fight for Balon Greyjoy’s heir. Never once forgetting who her real enemies were.

“You sound ironborn.” Asha sounded amused, though she straightened up a moment later. “But let’s hope the day you fight for me is long off yet. There’s the last bridge.”

The reaver was right. Like Battle Island, it was the torches along the top of this bridge that guided their way. The lower pillars and arches were as dark as dark could be. Unlike the last bridge though, voices and laughter could be heard coming from the parapets. Asha shared a knowing look with her, no words needed then.

There’s more men guarding this bridge. A lot more. All with eyes and ears to use against us.

Asha pointed towards what looked to be a tunnel under the bridge and Arya nodded agreement. Then the captain was gone and she was left alone at the bow, the first target that the guards above would have if the ships were discovered.

It went just like before. The crew was as silent as could be. The oarsmen were rowing gently. The Black Wind was cutting through the fog like a bit of driftwood floating across a pond. The bridge rose high out of the water and the voices above were so loud now that Arya tried to guess at how many there could be. They were men. Arguing. Jesting. Laughing. Ignorant to what was creeping up on them.

Arya thought of her family in that moment.

When the longship slipped beneath the bridge she was bathed in in darkness. She felt scared and alone then. Her hand reached for another’s that wasn’t there. Her ears strained to hear the kind voices of her parents or brothers. Of Sansa or Domeric. Osha.

Instead there were only echoes of the water running. The gentle splashing of oars which propelled them forward. This bridge was wider, the passage longer and the exit farther off. She looked behind to see the dark shadows of another longship in the tunnel, a third just beginning to enter as well.

Suddenly a flash of light cut down through the fog and hit that ship on its starboard hull. The flaming arrow fixed itself into the side and became a burning beacon for all to see.

“WE’RE ATTACKED!” A distant shout echoed from the tunnel entrance, soon answered by a chorus of yells and the blaring of trumpets. Asha’s voice cut through all the rest of it, her command short and fierce

“Row!” She bellowed so that the tunnel repeated it up and down length. “Row! Row for your lives!”

The oarsmen snapped to their task with such vigor that the ship lurched forward and Arya fell face first onto the deck, biting her tongue. Her cry of pain was lost in the splashing of oars and the shouts of the crew. They didn’t have to be quiet anymore, they had to be fast. She only had to look back the way they came to see why.

The last longship in their group was being bombarded by flaming arrows. There were so many flying through the air that the ship became easy to spot. She couldn’t count the number of fires that were now burning along its hull. No less than three bodies fell over the side and into the water as the longship veered off course. Its bow struck the stone abutment of the bridge as arrows cut down into the crew. A moment later a dark shadow dropped from above into the ship’s deck, a crash of broken wood and shouts echoing through the tunnel.

A tunnel they were nearly free of and Asha was set on preparing them for that.

“Grim! Harl! Get the bows ready!” Asha threw men aside as she strode along the deck. “When we’re out we’ll need to cover the others! Droopeye! When we get three boat lengths out turn us to port! Starboard oarsmen, grab shields and protect the archers! Get ready- Nan! Nan get your arse back here!”

Arya was so eager to see the ship escape the tunnel that she hadn’t moved from the bow. The part of the ship that was about to slide out from under the bridge’s protection. She was drawing away a shield that blocked her view of things when Osha yanked her down to the deck.

“You stay with me!” Osha pulled Arya tight to her as she raised the shield above them.

Suddenly the shield was the only thing between them and the dark sky, the bridge’s ceiling left behind. She caught a glimpse of what looked like bright stars beyond the edge of the shield. Stars that were burning and hovering at the top of bridge.

“Shit.” The pair said as one when the archers loosed.

When the arrows came, Osha jerked the shield down and they hugged each other tight. The archers were aiming by sound alone, so most of the arrows missed. Others didn’t. One struck the shield soundly, its tip piercing between their faces. Another hit the deck near their feet.

“Get those out!” Lorren shouted as he tore a burning arrow out of a rail and tossed it over. “Osha! Nan! Those are fucking targets!”

Arya grabbed a fistful of her cloak and jumped at the flaming arrow near her feet. She smothered it as Osha did the same thing to the one in embedded in the shield. In that time, another volley sallied forth from the bridge but the bow of the ship was no longer the best target. The arrows landed up and down the Black Wind. Cromm and three other reavers were hit, one falling over the rail and sending up such a splash that hit Arya in the face, the salt water stinging against her tongue.

Asha ignored all of this, pointing at the arrows burning against the ship and on the mast.

“Deck swabs! Dose any fire you see! Anyone not fucking rowing, grab a shield or a bow!”

Soon enough Arya and Osha both had pails of water in hand, rushing about the ship and drowning the fires. Grimtongue and Six-toed Harl and a score of others had bows in their hands, loosing back up at the bridge. Other ships had passed through as well, the Sea Bitch was loosing arrows as another two longships to their right joined in.

The ship following the Black Wind had also escaped the tunnel but was in no state to fight, its crew too busy battling the flames spreading across the deck. That left Asha’s crew alone to cover the third and last ship still in the tunnel. The barrage from the bridge was unrelenting, Arya stepping over bodies to reach the small fires threatening the ship.

Rocks and arrows weren’t the only threats. Arya only just finished filling her pail again when the first scorpion bolt flew out of the mist. A dull whistle and a breeze passed over her as it cut by her and right into Rook. He tried to hide behind his shield but in the blink of an eye Rook, the shield, and the bolt itself were gone, disappearing over the side of the ship.

Rook didn’t get a chance to scream. Asha was free to yell though.

“Fuck!” The captain’s eyes were locked to a spot high on the mast, where the flames of three arrows had begun to spread. “That burns and we’re fucked! Osha, get up there!”

“Aye…” Osha grunted, shaking her head at the mast. A delay that let Arya slip by her and start climbing before her friend realized what was going on. “Girl! No! What the hell are-”

“I’ve got it!” She mumbled, her mouth closed around the rope handle of her pail. Both her hands were needed to make the climb, Arya scaling its height like it was a tree trunk in Winterfell’s godswood. Like she and Bran used to do together before he got too good at it and teased her.

Osha kept shouting but Arya couldn’t hear it over the noise of the crew as they fought on. The whistle of arrows as they flicked so close that she started and almost fell twice. This was why she couldn’t let Osha make the climb.

I’m smaller. Harder to hit. Osha hid me with her shield. I’ll protect her now.

Two more volleys of arrows took their toll on the ship and crew before she reached the flames as the last of their ships appeared at the tunnel mouth.

“Loose!” Asha shouted and all the ironborn archers fired as one. The spot overlooking the tunnel erupted with the cries of men and fewer burning arrows sailed down.

Something else fell in its stead.

Arya was tossing water up at the mast fire when the rocks hit the longship’s port side. Wood splintered, oars snapped, and bodies fell into the water as the whole vessel shifted. The bridge sent a burning barrel down next, one that landed right at the aft of the ailing ship and exploded into a ball of flames. Flesh and wood burned as one, though the men were louder as the fire took its toll.

The mast of the Black Wind was charred and smoking but that was the worst of the damage she could see. Things were sure to get worse if they stayed put though. All the other longships were pulling away, heading up the safety of the Honeywine. When Arya leapt to the safety of the deck she nearly slipped in the dampness there. She hoped it was water but from the number of groaning and unmoving bodies all around she knew better.

“Get us out of here.” Asha growled as she watched the flames on the Tide Harrier engulf more of the ship. Its crew were leaping into the water to escape. “To the oars! We’re through so let’s get far from here!”

“What about them?” She asked, watching as arrows continued to fire down on those reavers still alive and swimming after the Black Wind. They were screaming for help. Asha was well lit by the burning ship they left behind, yet her expression was as dark as the morning Theon’s body was laid before her.

“You can’t save everyone.” Asha replied, not taking her eyes off the doomed men. “It’s a fool thing to think that you can. These men are lucky, they die like ironborn. The Drowned God will welcome them all… he fucking better at least.”

As they pulled away from the bridge and Oldtown itself, Arya reminded herself that the men she heard dying were killers and rapers. They likely deserved what was happening to them. She didn’t stay to watch though, wanting to find Osha then.

She can hold me again. Just until I stop shaking.

The wildling was in the arms of another when Arya found her. Lorren was laying Osha back against the rail, frowning down at the arrow poking out from her chest. Osha’s face was pale and twisted in pain as she coughed up a red mist. Yet when she saw Arya coming, it all fell away.

“Child… come here.” Osha held out a hand, Arya taking it numbly so she could be drawn down to the wildling’s side.

“Where’s the healer?” She asked, fearful at how weak Osha’s grip felt. “They need to take the arrow out. We need boiled wine, like you told me-”

“No use.” Lorren grunted. “It’s in the lungs. Make your peace with your mother now.”

“No!” Arya lashed out, striking Lorren across the face. “You shut up! You just want to hurt her-”

Osha took hold of her hand again, her bloody hacking and pleading eyes driving Lorren off so that they were alone. Her friend pulled Arya close, fingers running in her hair.

“So strong… so wild… a mother would be proud of such a girl…”

“Don’t die.” Arya pleaded, tears running down her cheeks. “Please don’t die. I didn’t mean for this to happen. Any of it. You should have run away. You should have left me.”

“Might be that’s true.” Osha’s words were followed by a gurgle, like someone choking on drink. “But… but then… I wouldn’t have… a little wolf here... to sing me a song…”

“Osha…”

“Mother.” Osha squeezed her tight, her hard eyes glistening and soft. “Please child… let me pretend… you sing like her… a mercy for me... please…”

She was crying and shaking in Osha’s arms but Arya found the strength to do as her friend asked. The lyrics came back quicker than her voice but she managed to steady herself, to do justice to the song.

‘Oh I am the last of the giants… my people are gone from the earth…’

As she sang, Arya closed her eyes and pressed her head against Osha’s. Like this, she could pretend that they were back in the Wolfswood, huddling together around a fire. Osha was teaching her this song, filling Arya with hope that they’d find Robb together. That everything would be okay.

She could believe if she just kept singing.

‘In stone halls they burn their great fires… in stone halls they forge their sharp spears.’

‘Whilst I walk alone in the mountains… with no true companion but tears.’

She kept singing long after Osha’s breath stopped warming her cheek. Not stopping even when Osha’s hands went limp. The rest of the crew went about their business as Arya hugged Osha close and sang through her tears.

All they saw was a girl mourning the loss of her mother. The pain that came with losing a loved one so dear.

A lie veiled in truth.

 

JON 

“You lied to me.”

Dany flinched at Jon’s accusation. The green dragon nuzzling at her feet wasn’t bothered, nor the black and white ones that flew over their heads, continuing to explore the Dragon Pit. Dany turned away for a moment in shame while Willem began sheepishly scratching his head and Marwyn frowned.

“We didn’t lie.” The Archmaester shrugged. “There were just parts of the truth we didn’t share with you.”

“Parts even I didn’t know.” Willem added. “I only took part in this whole business as far as the Bloody Gate. I had no clue what Marwyn’s lot did after that…”

“How many months did we ride together Will?” He asked, still trying to piece together all that he’d heard. “We fought side by side and yet you never spoke one word of this.”

“He couldn’t.” Daenerys finally spoke, her eyes full of regret. “Ser Willem was sworn to secrecy by Rhaegar. Then after the dragons hatched on Dragonstone… how they hatched… Marwyn and I didn’t want the secret getting out.”

Jon should have known this was coming. When Dany proposed this trip to the Dragon Pit, he had thought it was an attempt at pleasant afternoon together. Some time just for the two of them, away from prying eyes and gossip. They could take in the wonder of the dragons and Jon could bask in the Daenerys’s beauty.

His hopes were dashed the moment that a grizzled old Marwyn and an unusually somber Willem stepped out of the shadows. Dany’s fellow conspirators, ready to come clean at last, to share with him a truth that they’d kept hidden for months.

“You couldn’t trust me?” Jon asked, looking to Dany again and trying to hide his own hurt. “I’ve made mistakes Dany, at… at Winterfell, but truly? I could’ve been trusted with-”

“It wasn’t about trust.” Dany sidestepped Rhaegal to hold Jon’s hand, her soft fingers piercing his anger in a way that made him feel weak. “I wanted to spare you this. Of all the burdens you carry, could any of them be as foul as this? What Willem found in that cave... to wake that power… the cost is a terrible one.”

“Fire and blood.” Jon shook his head. “To wake the dragons… it took fire and blood.”

Dragon eggs as well… one of the rarest things in the world. In my whole life I only knew of three.

Now we have four more.

When Willem and Marwyn admitted to undertaking a secret quest on behalf of his father, Jon wasn’t all that surprised. Father had always been secretive and often trusted important matters to only a select few. Yet when Willem explained that this quest had recovered long lost dragon eggs, Jon had been shocked.

“So was I!” Willem had jerked a thumb at Marwyn. “I thought the old fool was as mad as he is ugly. Actually, I still believe that… he just happened to be right too.”

“The Dance of the Dragons!” Marwyn explained. “Although I agree with Archmaester Gildayne, it should be called ‘The Dying of the Dragons.’ Your father was very focused on studying that bloody and costly war. Lessons from our past he called it. It was from Rhaegar that I got the idea to look over all the accounts of the war again, to study the movements of the last living dragons. Which then led me to tales of the Vale and Burned Men. That’s how our short knight ended up in that cave.”

As Marwyn told it, a young girl named Nettles, one of the few dragon riders to survive the Dance, had escaped the conflict with her dragon Sheepstealer. The pair flew away from the carnage of war, only to disappear into the mists of history.

“Horseshit.” Marwyn called that. “There was plenty of talk! Tales of a dragon in the Mountains of the Moon after the war! A new mountain clan sprung up, one devoted to some fire witch and her winged demon. Men who liked to prove themselves by being burned. When I learned that these Burned Men fiercely protected one area of the mountains in particular, that there was talk of some sacred treasure, well… my curiosity was piqued!”

Willem had grunted at that. “That’s where I came in. Lucky me.”

As Willem told it, he was lucky to have survived the trip into the mountains at all. His friend’s mad feats had led him to Sheepstealer’s lair and the dragon’s final resting place. A place which doubled as a hatchery it seemed, for that was where Willem had found the dragon’s four eggs.

“Four!” Marwyn had smiled giddily. “I spent years trying to find one more to add to Rhaegar’s three and in one simple quest, we get four!”

“Simple?!” Willem came close to cuffing the maester while Dany told him the rest.

Ever since the eggs were delivered back to Dragonstone they’d been kept hidden in the depths of the Dragonmont. They were there now, their existence known to only a select few. Which now included Jon.

“I cannot believe this.” He muttered, pulling free from Dany’s touch to watch as Rhaegal beat his leathery wings until he was joining his brothers’ in flight. “A year ago dragons were stories, long forgotten memories. We still get ravens from lords across the realm that question the truth of these three. Now you’re saying that we could have four more. Why tell me all this now?”

“Because you deserve to know.” Dany spoke softly. “With the army leaving for Maidenpool so soon, I wanted to send some men back to Dragonstone. I wanted you to know why.”

“That’s one reason.” Marwyn broke in as he pulled on the Valyrian steel link in his chain. “There is another. You said it yourself, my prince. House Targaryen has three dragons now and soon it could have four. I think you and your upcoming endeavors might help us hatch those eggs.”

“What are you saying?” It was Dany’s turn to be taken aback, a reaction that the old Archmaester ignored as he came to Jon’s side.

“From what I can tell of the ceremony performed on Dragonstone, all the elements involved in waking these dragons can be brought together again. If King Aegon is so willing… and his Hand is able to make the necessary sacrifices in the days to come.”

All the elements? Sacrifices? What does that have to do with me helping the Starks?

Jon was through delaying what had to be done. As they spoke, an army was being readied to depart the capital in a matter of days. While Edmure and Mace Tyrell handled things at the Red Keep, Jon would drive the last of the sellsword taint from the Crownlands and retake Maidenpool. After that his goal was Riverrun, where he would reunite with Lady Catelyn and Rickon. He could meet little Lorra then and help deliver the newest Stark to her rightful home.

My uncle’s children belong in the North. They are the Starks of Winterfell.

And until my uncle returns, or Bran is of age, it is Lady Catelyn who rightfully should rule that castle.

No matter what Roose Bolton might think.

When Jon read the proclamation sent to the capital by Lord Bolton he’d become wroth. The letter, signed by Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Lady Barbrey Dustin, and Lord Rickard Karstark, decried all southron meddling in the North’s affairs and rejected Lady Catelyn as any sort of regent. Calling themselves the Lords Declarant, the group insisted they were better suited to safeguarding Bran and Rickon’s future than a ‘southron flower.’ That was not the only outrage the Boltons had a hand in. Stannis Baratheon had re-emerged at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, accusing Roose and his allies of unlawfully seizing Castle Black and murdering men of the Night’s Watch and wildling prisoners. From White Harbor, Wyman Manderly put the blame for the North’s recent troubles squarely on Domeric’s shoulders but of late the lord’s accusations had quieted.

“A good sign?” Grand Maester Gorman had said at the small council meeting. “Proof perhaps that these Lords Declarant are returning order to the North?”

Mace had agreed. “Lady Stark should welcome their help after losing her husband to the wildlings. Lord Bolton cares for Robb Stark’s wife and child after all.”

It fell to Jon to point out that his uncle was only missing and that if he was dead, then Bran was the Lord of Winterfell and Lady Catelyn the rightful regent. Edmure backed him in all that but was less vocal after Jon reminded the council that Roslin would have the same rights if she bore Robb’s child.

He found it troubling that, if Lord Bolton and his ilk did not trust those southron ladies to rule, that they had not looked to Benjen to act as regent. In regards to Stannis’s claims, the council was torn at the idea of trusting the word of Robert Baratheon’s brother. With some Stormlords still in revolt and the war against the Greyjoys raging in the Reach, the others were content to let the Lords Declarant set the distant North to rights.

Jon was not.

“The realm is not limited to the Reach and the Stormlands.” He’d said, rising from the table. “My brother has taken Nightsong and makes to help Highgarden, but what of the sellswords who still hold Maidenpool and Torrhen’s Square? In the North these lords mean to deprive a loyal lady and her children of their lawful rights. A family I do not altogether trust holds the potential heir to Winterfell in their power. Viserys Targaryen, a traitor and a murderer, remains at large. This will not stand. I will enforce the king’s law, in his stead, by my own hand.”

The Tyrells were unwilling to pledge any of their men to the cause and Jon wanted Edmure to stay behind to represent Lady Catelyn’s best interests on the council. In his place the Blackfish would lead half the Tully strength alongside Jon. With other lords like the Blackwoods, Brackens, and Mallisters pledging their support, he would lead an army of eight thousand north in only a few days time.

What any of that had to do with dragons was a mystery to him. Marwyn was looking at Jon like he was simple but Dany and Willem acted lost as well.

“I swear, Rhaegar got all the wits in this family.” Marwyn ran a hand down his face. “On Dragonstone, the dragons didn’t wake because the fire grew too hot, nor were they tempted to shake off their shells by Daenerys’s nakedness.”

“Watch it.” He warned, not caring for the sideways leer Marwyn gave Dany’s body. She rose to her own defense, shooting the old lecher an evil eye and pointing to the dragons flying overhead.

“Make sense Marwyn or tonight I’ll be serving my children an old goat.”

“I’m trying to!” Marwyn shook his staff at her. “Goats, sheep, all of that only feeds a dragon’s hunger. To bid them into breaking free from their slumber, you need a living sacrifice. A life for a life. Just like Josie-”

“Jackie!” Dany snapped. “She wasn’t a sacrifice! I let her burn for Rhaegar… for justice…”

“Different names, different words, same meaning. Either way, a girl burned. A king as well. The body of one at least. One with the blood of a king and kings before him. That’s where the power comes from, the blood. It all comes back to the blood. Blood is life.”

“You want my blood?” He asked and Marwyn shook his head.

“Not yours, nor your life. Go forth and fight your foes. Save the North if you care to… but make sure to catch Viserys… alive would be best…”

“No.”

Dany’s face was twisted in horror as she took a step back from them. She had grasped Marwyn’s meaning quicker than him. When Jon understood what the old man wanted, his hatred of Viserys was battled against his disgust at the idea of strapping anyone to a pyre and watching them burn. He’d watched Thoros’s body burn outside Darry and often his nightmares would be of flames engulfing Sansa and the rest of Winterfell.

Viserys did that. He destroyed Winterfell. The home I loved.

He took Sansa away from me. The lady I was supposed to marry. A girl I loved…

While Jon struggled with what his heart had lost, the princess it beat for now sprung into action, putting herself between Marwyn and jon’s dark thoughts.

“That’s kinslaying!” She snapped at the old man. “You want him to track down Viserys just so you can work your twisted magics! He’s using you Jon! He did the same with Elara when she was vulnerable. He knows you want to do right by the Starks and-”

“There’s an opportunity here.” Marwyn ignored Dany’s words. “One way or another, Viserys is going to suffer for what he’s done. He stole a life from you and we both know you want to take his. See justice done, or vengeance, whatever you want to call it, but let his death serve a grander purpose. If we wake a dragon you can name it after that Sansa girl if you want-”

“Shut your mouth!”

Jon’s shout echoed off the massive walls of the Dragon Pit like a monster’s roar. Dany and Marwyn jumped but seemed more fearful of his hand on Blackfyre’s pommel. He hadn’t meant to reach for the sword, nor for his fury to take hold of him then. The numbness was creeping up again, spreading out from his wounded face and chilling his blood. In that moment, if given the chance, he could burn Viserys. Joffrey too. Even Cersei. In this place right now, with the memories of those he lost, his heart turned to ice.

Until Dany placed her hand on his. Her eyes were filled with more care than accusation, her actions more loving than fearful. She guided his hand away from Blackfyre, warming the numbing cold away.

There was fire in her touch. There always was.

A screech drove them apart. Jon’s shout had done more than frighten the others, it had drawn Barraxes down upon them. The white dragon landed between the couple and Marwyn, throwing up dust and sending the old maester falling backwards onto his arse. Barraxes arched his serpentine body and bared his fangs, hissing a threat at Marwyn.

“No! Barraxes!” Dany shouted, earning a hiss from the dragon as well. One that Jon pushed her away from and faced himself.

“Lykemas.” He spoke in High Valyrian, the language that the dragons were being trained in. “Lykemas… Be silent.”

Two eyes of molten gold stared back into his as Jon raised a hand and squared off against the dragon. Ghost appeared soon enough, coming from the shadows of an alcove and adding to the challenge that Barraxes faced. The direwolf still had a size advantage on the dragon, but not by much. Whether it was Ghost or Dany’s unrelenting stares, or something Jon did, Barraxes backed down.

Swishing his tail back and forth, the dragon moved away from Marwyn, sticking his head between Dany and Jon. The dragon’s eyes turned to slits as both of them ran their hands across his scales.

“Fuck me.” Willem exhaled as he went to help Marwyn up. “And you want more of these things around? Damn you maester, someday one of these beasts will do us all a favor and torch your sorry self.”

“It all ends in flames.” Marwyn answered absentmindedly as he brushed himself off. If Marwyn thought to continue their conversation Jon’s expression convinced him to drop the matter.

They departed the Dragon Pit not long after. When repairs were done to the city and its walls, Jon had made it known that the Dragon Pit’s restoration would need to be completed. He eyed Arturion in a careful manner, for the black dragon was the largest and fiercest of the three. The day would soon come when the dragons could no longer be safely kept at the Red Keep.

Not today though. While Dany and Jon mounted their horses, the dragons were all loaded into three large wagons, specially made and fitted like bird cages with thick iron bars. Ghost nipped some at the dragon’s tails to urge them on but Jon suspected that it was the freshly charred mutton within the wagons that won the beasts over. He had a bit of meat tossed to Ghost as a reward for his help. Arturion began whipping his tail at the sight of this, hissing in jealousy.

“They don’t like being caged.” Dany spoke in a thoughtful way. “A dragon’s place is in the sky. Flying as far as their wings can take them. Free.”

Jon took in how the sunlight hit Daenerys’s hair then, making her look like a silver goddess. She was the one who belonged in the sky among the clouds, her radiance eclipsing the sun.

When their party began its descent down Rhaenys’s Hill and its cobbled streets, he found himself glad that Dany scorned travelling in a litter. Her beauty was such that it would be a crime to hide it away from the world. If any city deserves something to believe in, it’s one without a king.

“You’re staring.” Dany whispered, smiling and looking him up and down. “Did you not see enough of me this morning, your grace?”

“Dany!” He grew flush, looking about to make sure none had heard. Most of the guards marching with them gave the royal pair a wide berth while Willem and Marwyn were far behind, arguing over some gambling debt.

It wouldn’t matter if Willem heard or not, he was one of the few who knew of Dany’s frequent visits to the Hand’s chambers. Visits that came at the end of long days and made the night feel far too short. His cheeks burned to remember waking that morning and staring at Dany’s nakedness as she lay beside him. Her bare back had been facing him, the top of her shapely arse beckoning his hand to run down the length of her body.

A kiss to the neck, a cupping of her breast, and a gentle pressing of his manhood against her back had woken Dany smiling. It was his turn to smile when she pressed him back into the bed and climbed atop of him. Men were meant to take women, cocks were for driving into sheaths, at least that’s what Oswell and others had always told him. He thought them all fools. The world only made sense when Dany lowered herself onto his cock. She’d pulled his hands to her breasts, guiding his thumbs over her nipples and moved her hips in a way that made them both gasp and groan. She would raise herself up with those long legs of hers before sliding back down at a pace that slowly grew harder and faster.

His eyes would roam her body but mostly they stayed locked on her eyes. Daenerys would always stare at him during their lovemaking, a hungry stare tinged with desperation. Her face would become pained but in a good way, teeth biting at her lips when Jon would begin to buck beneath her.

Their horses were much better behaved as they rode through the streets of the city. Jon could not help but look to Dany’s hips as they moved in her saddle. He’d watched them moving so confidently, so gracefully, as she rode him only hours before. Driving him into thrusting up and filling her with his seed, their cries echoing throughout the room.

“You’re staring again.” Dany swatted at him with a riding crop, grinning wickedly. “I don’t beat my horses but I was told to never spare the crop if a wanton man acted in such an improper way.”

“I’m sorry.” He leaned forward, grimacing at how uncomfortable his arousal felt while in a saddle. “Gods Dany, you’ve ruined riding for me.”

“Have I?” A bit of color came to her cheeks. “Let me make it up to you. I can have Tess arrange a private dinner for us in your chambers tonight. Some wine, maybe a minstrel playing outside the tower…”

It all sounded perfect. He disdained taking meals with the small council, of late all they ever spoke of was the cost of rebuilding the fleet. A supper with Dany would be a treat, something he’d enjoy very much.

“It can’t happen.” He sighed. “You know it can’t.”

“Why?” She drew back. “Why can’t it be? Jon, a betrothal is not a marriage-”

“Sansa deserves to be mourned.” He gripped his reins tightly. “It’s the honorable thing to do and I owe her that much at least. I love you Daenerys. I fought that for so long, as long as I could, but I do love you. But I won’t let my feelings taint Sansa’s memory or your good name. When the time is right, I will ask Lady Catelyn’s forgiveness and blessing. I will go to Aegon and beg for your hand but not now. Not yet.”

“Aegon won’t care.” Dany whispered as she ran a hand through her horse’s mane. “We could marry on the morrow and it wouldn’t matter-”

“What do you mean?” He asked, wondering why she spoke with such authority on Aegon’s mind. “You can’t be sure of my brother’s thoughts.”

“I know Aegon better than you.” She said in a nervous manner. “We were apart for so long Jon, Aegon would want us to be happy. If Lady Stark cares for you half as much as you do for her, she won’t begrudge your happiness. I hate Willem and Brienne sneaking me out of your tower every morning. Why must everything be a secret?”

“You tell me.” He replied, the revelation of the Dragon Pit still fresh in his mind.

That took Dany aback and he was surprised that he’d spoken so harshly. She was right to feel upset, he was treating her as dishonorably as could be done. In the aftermath of the trial, when his failures were laid bare and his body broken by the defeat, Daenerys had been there. Like she had been for most of his life. Once it was Dany who came crying to him. When it came time for him to seek her comfort, the walls had broken.

He was too weak to fight against his wants anymore. His love for Dany was too strong. So he’d dishonored her and Sansa’s memory all at once.

That guilt had paled to losing the trial of seven and having Cersei declared innocent in the eyes of the Faith. Jon hadn’t seen it, but Edmure and Garlan claimed that Mandon Moore had taken a fall early in the match. When the petition to retry Cersei was brought before the High Septon, the knight had told a different story.

“Ser Meryn’s lance barely struck me, it is true.” Mandon testified as he knelt before the High Septon. “Yet when it did, my body became numb, chained by some power I could not see. A presence I’d only felt twice before, once when being knighted before the eyes of the Seven and again the first time I prayed before the statue of Baelor the Blessed.”

The Blackfish and Willem had named Mandon’s words as lies, yet after deliberations with scholars of the Faith, the High Septon decreed that the knight had been bound by the Warrior himself. The holy authority then decreed that Edmure must have seen the Crone’s wisdom when he retracted his accusations against Cersei.

“The dowager Queen put her faith in a trial of seven.” The High Septon had proclaimed. “And it was the Seven who declared her innocent. I shall not argue with that which has been ordained by the gods.”

Jon would never forget how Cersei had knelt and kissed the man’s hand in thanks. Nor the scattered cheers of support from the city’s nobility as she prayed before each altar of the seven. Some had even scowled and hissed when Jon’s men took Cersei into their power again.

Cersei might be innocent in the eyes of the Faith but I’m not so blind.

That woman will be kept under guard at the Red Keep until Aegon can sort out what to do with her.

My brother can’t bungle things any worse than I have.

Aegon would need the Lannister twins to get Joffrey back from Lord Tywin. Ser Jaime had been confined to the White Sword Tower ever since the trial, the knight’s repeated attempts to speak to Jon rebuffed. He refused to speak to Jaime until the man admitted to all that he knew of the Lannister crimes against House Stark. Until then he could rot in the tower.

The court began spreading vile rumors about Jon for that. Varys reported that some claimed Jon had no respect for a verdict of the Faith because he was a follower of false gods of the North. Others whispered that he was bent on seizing power, willing to murder his own kin to do so, starting with Cersei and her children. Another rumor held that he was more loyal to the Starks than the Targaryens.

Something Jon wished was true.

Such thoughts had weighed heavily on him, until Dany dragged Jon from his misery in the Red Keep. Rather than let him spend a day hearing petitions from the city’s nobility, who loved him little, Dany brought him down into the heart of the city. Where the streets converged at a large paved square, with lines of trees adding a touch of green to the city’s bland stone. It was there that Dany had Jon sit and proclaim that any could come forward and make petitions to the Hand.

“Rhaegar always wanted to do this.” Dany had told him as the smallfolk stared at them in astonishment. “He never found the time but he told me, a king must hear the problems of his people to remember what real problems are. I can only imagine that it would help the Hand as well.”

In a strange way she’d been right. From the mouths of the people, he heard of their woes and grievances. How bread given over from the royal kitchens was picked away by the gold cloaks. That many of the highborn were bribing builders to work on their manses rather than repairing damage from the siege. Most troubling was the plight of those who’d fled from fighting during the war. Many were willing to return to their lands but their lords expected payment on the crops they’d been forced to abandon for their lives.

“It is for a warrior to lay down his life for the king.” He’d risen to speak to the growing crowd. “My brother would never demand the same of those who till the soil for their lord’s harvest! A dead man can sow no crops! A lord who cannot defend his people cannot fault them for fleeing! I swear to you, here and now, in King Aegon’s name, that when I march north, justice will be done by you all. You will all have homes to return to.”

That had gone over well and his spirits lifted greatly to see hope in the eyes of the people again. From the morning until nightfall, Jon had stayed and helped as many as he could. Dany did much the same, hearing petitions of her own and handing out coin and bread to the poorest. Later that night, she’d come to his chambers and gave Jon reason to take heart again. Thus it had been for weeks now. At least once every few days, he would go and hear the people’s grievances and more often than that Dany would come to his bed.

He could not say which made him feel more worthwhile. Helping the people or basking in the love of a woman like Daenerys.

“The Mother of Dragons!” Someone cried to the side of their procession, an old man with his cap in hand. “Your mercy was with us in the pit! Bless you!”

“Your strength was with me!” Dany called back, her good cheer returning. “May the Seven keep you well!”

“The silver princess!” A little girl squealed from a woman’s side. “Mama it’s the silver princess!”

Many people packed the streets now, perhaps more than usual since the dragons were such a sight. Ghost earned his fair share of stares as well but it was Daenerys who the crowd called out for. Him as well.

“Glory to Prince Jon!” A man shouted. “Glory to King Rhaegar!”

“The White Dragon!” Another added. “The white prince!”

“Is that Blackfyre?” A young boy asked as he ran with his friends behind the guards. He held the hand of another lad. Together they reminded Jon of Robb and himself at that age. So he did something to make them as happy as Robb had once made him.

He pulled Blackfyre out of its sheath and held the fine blade up to catch the sunlight.

“It’s the Conqueror’s sword!” The boy exclaimed as the smallfolk pointed to Blackfyre. “That’s the blade that killed the Usurper!”

“What?” He blinked in shock, lowering the sword. “No, that wasn’t-”

“Down with the lions!”

“Long live the dragons!”

“Fuck the Lannisters!”

“Well said!” Willem laughed loudly at that, grabbing a coin from his saddle bag and tossing it to the man who had shouted the last part. Yet Jon was troubled by how many were crediting him for victories he’d never won. Armies he hadn’t led.

“They love you Jon.” Dany pulled his attention back to her. “That’s no secret. There’s no shame in it either. Enjoy this.”

“How can I? Ghost killed Robert, not me. Edmure and Mace brought the army that won the day. If not for Ser Barristan, I wouldn’t have come at all. If you weren’t-”

“And Rhaegar did not have the voice of an angel yet all say he did.” Dany smiled sadly. “He still sang beautifully. That’s what the people see when they look at you Jon. They see Rhaegar’s son. One who helped save this city, no matter the details. A good man and a fair ruler. There’s no lie in that. No secret.”

Despite himself, Jon let Dany’s words cheer him. She had that way about her. Whatever hardships arose, no matter how great the darkness became, Dany was there. A touch of fire to keep him warm and drive off the worries. Being with Daenerys caused Jon his fair share of toubles, yet in his heart, he knew he had to be with her.

She is the one good thing in my life right now and I treat her like something to be ashamed of.

To take my pleasure of her by night and scorn her come the day. You make your shame hers.

At that moment, something caught his eye in the crowd. He called a stop to the procession, surprising Dany and the others when he dismounted and pushed through the guards. The smallfolk parted before him, some drawing back in fear while others bowed. Soon enough he came to who he sought, a fair-haired young woman carrying a babe in one arm and a basket of flowers in the other, a mix of purple lilies, both dark and bright.

“Are those for sale?” He asked the woman as she gaped at him. “The flowers?”

“Yes m’lord!” She answered, fumbling to try and lower herself with so much in her hands, an action he halted with a wave. “That is they’re yours! Yours if the white prince be wanting them. As many as m’lord would have.”

“I want them all and I’ll pay for them.” He looked down at her babe who smiled a toothless, innocent grin at him. “Which one of you do I hand the coin to?”

The mother and many of those listening laughed at that, even more so when the babe lifted a small hand up and grasped his finger. He couldn’t stop the smile that came to his face, for Rickon had done the same when Lady Catelyn would let Jon see him as a babe. He was still thinking of Winterfell when he returned to the procession with a handful of flowers, finding Dany eyeing him curiously.

“It’s no winter rose.” Jon said as he handed a dark purple lily up to her. “Not like the one you gave me at Winterfell. Yet I pray that you let it act as a token of all that I cannot say… and wear it like the promise it’s meant to be.”

He doubted any but Dany heard his words yet excited whispers and laughter moved through the crowd of onlookers. Jon didn’t care. His eyes were locked on hers, which were far more beautiful than any flower. Her smile even more so.

“I’ll wear it right here.” Dany spoke softly as she took the lily and made to tie to the strap of her gown. Right over her heart. “Jon… this is lovely… but people will talk.”

“They’ll see me treating a princess as she deserves.  Join me for dinner tonight? Just the two of us? A proper farewell.”

“What about the rest?!” Willem’s shout interrupted them, pointing at the basket of flowers. “Are those for me? I’m married you know!”

“They’re for any Princess Daenerys would share them with!” He answered back, handing the basket up to Dany, who leaned down. When she took hold of it, her fingers rested on his. “We cannot marry, not yet. I love you all the same, Daenerys Targaryen. I want to have a life with you. I cannot leave this city letting you think otherwise.”

Dany smiled but did not whisper a reply back, instead rising up and away from him, the basket of flowers in hand. If she meant to torture him she did a marvelous job of it. When the procession began moving again she didn’t speak a word to him, instead focusing on finding those among the smallfolk in need a flower. Dany laughed and smiled as she sent lilies flying through the air.

While many pressed to get a glimpse of Ghost or the dragons, young maidens and girls sought one of the princess’s flowers. As they soared through the air, Jon suddenly had the image of Dany flying atop Arturion, raining flowers across the entire city. It was a wonderful thought until the Dragon Pit came back to him.

Dragons don’t spread flowers. They spread fire and blood wherever they go.

That’s the cost of bringing more into this world… one that will accurse me before the eyes of gods and men…

He was worrying on this still when they came to the foot of Aegon’s Hill. The smallfolk were left far behind and the way up to the Red Keep stretched before them. It was then that Dany finally deigned to speak to him.

“You’re maddening.” She said in a hushed whisper, running her fingers over the petals of the lily. “To do something so lovely, so kind, and yet be so blind to things. How you can know me so well and still think that some dinner will keep me content?”

“Two meals then?” He asked, confused once more. “Breaking our fast together might be too obvious Dany. Still, whatever you’d have of me before I leave-”

“There, right there.” The princess shook her head. “You’re worried on when we can eat together, even though we’ll have weeks of doing such ahead on the road.”

A screech from Rhaegal drew their eyes then, the green dragon clawing and beating at his cage, its patience for the bars at an end.

“I’m a dragon Jon.” Dany continued, her voice firm but her eyes still as warm and loving as they were when in bed with him. “And I will not be content locked away in this city, no matter how gilded a cage the Red Keep may be. I won’t be left behind again. Not by you.”

“When your army marches let all know that the white dragon goes forth to guard the realm. With the might of the dragons at his back.”

“Dany-”

“And a princess at his side.” 

 

BRAN  

“Protect the king!”

Ser Oswell’s commanded of the knights surrounding King Aegon, who was leading a charge right at the heart of the enemy army. A charge Bran was proud to be a part of, his horse riding hard just behind the king’s. In his hands he carried Aegon’s standard, the black and red banner of House Targaryen flying high as they rushed into the fray.

The wondrous castle of Highgarden was at their backs and the Mander lay ahead. The king’s men were driving towards the river, pressing the reavers against its mighty banks. Already thousands of men were locked in combat, a writhing mass of armor and sharpened blades spilling blood, filling the air with the sound of clashing steel.

Dornish spearmen fought side by side with Tyrell men-at arms. Knights of the Stormlands shouted Aegon’s name as they rode over foes on their advance along the river’s edge. Their horses’ kicked water up into the air as the sky darkened with the smoke of burning longships. Much had depended on Ser Richard outflanking the Greyjoy army and the Kingsguard knight had proved his worth.

Now it was time for Aegon to prove his. Bran as well.  

“To glory!” Aegon shouted, his visor raised so that all could see his face and know that the king fought with them. His black and gold cloak flapped behind him, displaying the fine suit of polished armor he wore to battle. Harry had been up all night preparing the king’s plate for today’s battle, yet the older squire was full of vigor today.

“To glory!” Harry and Bran shouted as one. The heir lifting his sword, Bran his banner, both doing their duty.

Whatever dislike lay between them was long forgotten in this moment. Their true enemy was here and the king was leading a hundred armored men straight at him. Balon Greyjoy and his personal guard. They were fearsome looking men, garbed in salt-stained leathers and armor. Warriors who fought fiercely with axes and swords, killing any who tried to break the cordon about the kraken lord.

Even with one eye, Bran could see how dangerous this battle had become. His heart was pounding, his body soaked in sweat born from fear and some excitement. He was glad Uncle Benjen rode to his side, a halfhelm doing little to hide the knight’s worry. Summer was with them too, running in front of his horse. Their protection offered Bran some comfort when the charge hit the Greyjoy ranks.

Bran was far from the front yet was still spattered by blood when Darkstar’s lance broke through a reaver’s shield and nearly ripped the man’s head clean off. Ser Daemon and Obara Sand both speared a foe each while the slash of Ser Oswell’s sword sent blood spraying across his white armor.

I’ll have to clean that later…

That was Bran’s first thought upon seeing his ser kill someone. That was all he saw now as the king’s men pierced into the thick of battle. People killing one another. Blood and death. After Summer felled a thin swordsman, he could even taste the blood.

A storm of swords was raging in every direction yet Bran was in the calmer eye of it. Being near the king meant he was surrounded by an armored ring of protectors, all dedicated to laying down their lives to keep Aegon free from harm. A task which grew more difficult with every passing moment. The riders were plunging deeper into the Greyjoy lines, pushing the reavers downhill and into the river. His horse was riding over the dead left in the charge’s wake.

“Bran! Stay close!” Benjen shouted, cutting down at two foes and falling behind some. “Bran!”

“Forward!” Aegon urged the rider, waving his sword that had yet to be bloodied. “Forward good men! To the Mander! To victory!”

He wanted to obey his uncle but Bran's place was beside the king. Aegon had given Bran the honor of carrying his standard and he would earn it.

Even if that meant conquering the terror he felt now. Every reaver that raised a blade became Joffrey. Their shouts and cries twisted into Bran’s own screams of pain. The bloodshed brought back flashes of his own hands turned red as he clawed at the hole which had once been his eye. He tried to escape those memories and suddenly it was Elara that came to mind. How she had come to him. Weeping with him. Holding him close.

I’m safe… and I’m not scared. A squire of the Kingsquard can’t be scared.

A wolf wouldn’t be scared. I’m a wolf… a winged wolf.

Summer robbed King Aegon of a kill then, pulling down a spearman with his fangs and tearing into the man’s throat. His death was as ugly as Ser Cletus Yronwood’s. A throwing axe took the young Dornish knight right through the gaps of his helm. The loss of Cletus created a gap in Aegon’s protectors, one the king exploited before the enemy could. Aegon rode straight at Cletus’s killer, who sent another axe sailing at the king. The world slowed as Aegon’s life hung in the balance. Time righted itself when the king raised his shield and caught the axe before slashing open his attacker's shoulder.

“To the king!” Ser Oswell roared, beating his horse and cutting a bloody path to try and regain his place by Aegon’s side. “Rally to the king!”

The king needed little help as he cut down another foe and then stabbed a man with a black leviathan on his cloak right through the eye. Bran’s lost eye twitched at that yet he kicked at his horse and held the standard higher. He wanted it to stand taller than the Greyjoy banner that rose up ahead of them. The charge had carried the royal army right to a circle of warriors who guarded a gaunt, hard looking man wearing a wooden crown. A lord who shouted orders to the reavers as they fell back to the riverbank.

“Balon Greyjoy!” Aegon pointed his sword right at the lord. “You call yourself a king?! Come and earn that mummer’s crown! Coward!”

Truly the iron king had nowhere to run. His longships upriver were either burning or under attack by Ser Richard’s men, the rest too far to reach. Still, the Kraken Lord held his ground while his men ran forward with bellows of rage at the insult that Aegon had given their king.

Ser Oswell met the attack first, Darkstar, and Daemon Sand not far behind. Others rallied to the king’s defense yet still more reavers broke through. Harry bravely met one who tried to take Aegon from the right while two more lifted axes to cut the king down. Aegon was battling the fierce pair when a third man appeared. A tall and severe looking man in armor that Bran feared to be a knight. His tunic was quartered with peacocks of some house that Bran did not know but he recognized the scythes as the sigil of the Harlaws from Maester Luwin’s lessons.

The knight’s sword made even more of an impression. Bran had only seen a finer sword in the hands of his father. While Ice was a greatsword, the Harlaw warrior wielded a smaller longsword, yet one made of Valyrian steel with a moonstone pommel.

It was that blade that the mysterious foe raised up to cut at Aegon. The king’s back was turned, his horse facing the other way. Every man who could help him was already fighting.  Except for Bran.

He was still thinking on what to do when, without thinking, he kicked his horse onward. Panic welled up inside his chest as he took in the warrior's stance he was about to challenge. Then he was swinging the king’s standard down onto the attacker.

“Winterfell!” He tried to shout as the staff struck the top of the knight’s helm. Yet his cry felt like a whimper when the knight turned his way, the Valyrian blade lashing out and cutting the standard in two.

Suddenly Bran faced the knight alone. The king was fighting hard to reach Lord Balon and away from Bran. Summer was growling and Uncle Benjen was shouting his name somewhere behind a press of reavers but they were both too far to help him.

“You little shit!” The knight raged, aiming the longsword at him. “I could’ve killed a king! A dragon!”

Bran was terrified but not as badly as his horse. At the sight of the sharp blade pointed up at it, the poor beast bucked and reared. Then Bran was falling, tumbling back out of his saddle and over the horse’s arse so he still hit the damp ground like a sack of potatoes.

Get up… get up… you’ll die here…

He was hurt and fearful that any moment now the reaver knight would fall upon him. As it turned out, the man had problems of his own. The knight was now fighting an unlikely foe, one that beat at the knight’s helm with large wings and pecked at his visor with a vicious beak.

“What that fuck!?” The knight roared as he swatted at Winter, the white raven cawing as it continued its assault.

As Bran made to stand, he was suddenly wrenched upwards by a powerful arm. It appeared that Ser Oswell had lost his horse as well, though his footing was steady as he forced Bran to a stand on his shaky legs. The voice that came out of the ser’s batwing helm was thick with worry.

“Say you’re well.”

“I-I am…”

“Good. I’ll kill you later then.” The white knight growled. “If someone else doesn’t do it first. Pull your blade and stay at my back.”

Bran was fumbling with his shortsword as Ser Oswell moved to follow their king. When the knight finally succeeded in driving Winter off, he gave a shout to see the Kingsguard knight. Not one of fear though, but of happiness.

“Oswell Whent!” The knight swung his sword through the air in threat. “We met on Pyke! I shouted to you across the battlefield, do you remember? I told you then that Nightfall would be the end of you! I know you feared the day you would cross swords with Harras Harlaw! Now I mean to make good on my-”

The ser moved quickly, striking at Harras’s sword before driving a fist into his face. The knight was staggering when Ser Oswell drove his blade through a gap in his armor.

“Woe to men who make speeches.” Ser Oswell grunted, pulling his blade free and letting the dead man fall. “Talk, talk, talk. Not like there’s a battle on.”

He cursed at Bran soon after for attempting to unhook Harras’s swordbelt so he could sheath Nightfall and slide it over his shoulder. It was heavy and slowed him down but Bran couldn’t let a prize like that go to anyone but his ser. They were on the move soon after, Benjen and Summer among those following the Kingsguard as the fight moved to the riverbank.

Aegon had reached it first. The king had dismounted so that he now fought among the shallows and reeds. His helm tossed away, Aegon’s silver-blonde hair was matted to his forehead as he battled both Lord Balon and a Greyjoy guardsman. Balon met the king's blade with his own while his guard was hacking Aegon's shield to pieces with an axe. Aegon smiled the whole while.

For the reavers were sorely pressed to hold their own against the king.

His sword moved deftly, his stance everything that the ser wanted Bran’s to be. He was outnumbered yet his foes never once held the advantage. Water splashed and steel sang as Aegon turned the clash into a dance. Bran had seen the king practice at swords before and knew him to an able warrior but this was different. Aegon now fought like the Warrior himself.

When Balon’s guard buried his axe deeply into Aegon’s shield, the king spun so that the weapon was wrenched from the man’s grasp. Shield and axe hit the water only moments before the guard did, the king having backhanded him with the pommel of his sword. Lord Balon then stabbed at Aegon with a hoarse cry of rage. The young warrior parried the attack, then the next. Of the two, only Balon wore a crown but it was Aegon who looked like a king. When the older man faltered again Aegon struck, slashing across the rebel lord’s chest. The golden kraken borne across his garb dripped red with blood and Balon’s cry of pain grew shriller when the king cut at the back of his leg.

When Balon Greyjoy fell to his knees in the water the battle looked to be at an end. Bran thought perhaps that Aegon would offer words of mercy. Instead the king cut down at Balon’s wrist, sending both sword and hand falling into the river. The reaver watched them disappear beneath the blue waters with unbelieving eyes before he himself was kicked back into the current. Aegon drove Lord Balon beneath the current, one boot pressing down upon his chest. His face was a mask of rage as he held the kraken below the deep.

Some reavers along the shore shouted for mercy. Others turned their backs on foes to try and save their king, only to cut down by Aegon’s protectors. None of this saved Balon Greyjoy.

His crown drifted above the water well before Aegon let his lifeless body rise again. Mud and weeds caked Balon’s hair as his eyes stared up at the king. That was when the anger fell from Aegon’s face and he appeared stricken. Indeed the king staggered some as he backed away from Balon’s body.

Lord Greyjoy's death stunned many but none as greatly as the reavers, most losing heart soon after. When the royal army began to chant of Aegon’s victory and Balon’s death those ironmen that could flee did so. While the king’s men dragged Balon’s body ashore and took what prisoners where they could, Bran watched longships pull away from shore all up and down the river.

What seemed like hundreds of the ships were burning and just as many rowed away from the battlefield. Some loosed arrows back at shore, others hurled curses, but many were silent as they passed the sight of Lord Balon’s body being strapped to a horse. Winter did much the same when she landed on Bran’s shoulder. Her dark eyes locked on the dead rebel as he was carried on to Highgarden.

The raven soon followed after while Uncle Benjen was more interested in seeing to Bran’s hurts.

“Let me have a look at you.” He sighed he cradled a helm in one hand and cupped Bran’s chin in the other. “Gods lad, when you got away from me I feared the worst. You can’t be so reckless. Serving the king and acting brave is all fine and good but there are more important things. Think of your poor lady mother.”

“I do.”

He thought about his mother everyday. Father and Rickon too. Even his new little sister. Yet whenever Bran tried to picture Lorra, only Sansa and Arya came to mind. Then Robb. Sometimes it hurt too much to think on them so he pushed it all away until he could cry into his blankets at night.

That’s where my tears belong, far from where anyone can see them.

People don’t think much of a one-eyed squire in the first place. I have to be strong.

As strong as Ser Oswell looked when he led a new horse over to where Uncle Benjen and Bran stood. Summer was with him, whining slightly, and Bran understood why when he caught how the ser’s hand shook as it held the reins.

“Clean his face some.” The knight grumbled, doing all he could to hide his hand behind his back. “I don’t want its filth dirtying up my fists when I pummel him.”

“Are you sure you can?” Benjen eyed the ser’s hidden hand curiously. “Were you injured in the fighting?”

“Look at this uncle!” Bran spared the ser from Benjen’s questioning by hefting up the longsword hanging over his shoulder. “It’s Valryian steel! Ser Oswell beat some Harlaw knight so the sword’s his now, isn’t it? He’ll be the finest knight that ever was with this blade!”

“Didn’t help Harras much did it?” Ser Oswell waved him on. “This be Nightfall I believe, a fine blade, but a sword is only as good as the warrior wielding it.”

“Wasted on you then, Whent.” Benjen grinned. “Though its name does lend itself well to your sunny demeanor.”

“I’m all rainbows and dandelions, Stark.” Ser Oswell climbed up on the horse before reaching down to lift Bran up behind him. “Come on then, the king’s calling us all to meet at Highgarden. Mind your wolf doesn’t piss on any roses.”

After months in Dorne, journeying into the lush lands of the Reach had felt like traveling into another world. Nothing Bran imagined had prepared him for the beauty of orchards as far as the eye could see or fields of flowers stretching out like bright oceans. He nearly wept at the sight of such lands being burned black by the ravages of the Greyjoys.

Longships had prowled the Mander like rabid dogs, sending out raiding parties deep into the unprotected lands south of the river. Cider Hall and many other castles had been sacked, hundreds of villages and farms ravaged, some attacks reaching as far inland as Horn Hill in the Dornish Marches. The reavers hunted up the tributaries of the Mander as well, striking Goldengrove in the north and Ashford and Longtable in the east. The Tyrell army that was trapped north of the river had split, with Willas Tyrell continuing to defend the lands he could while Randyll Tarly departed on a long march west in search of a crossing that the ironmen had yet to take or burn.

Oldtown was under siege and suffering greatly and Highgarden had seemed poised to endure the same fate. With Lady Margaery trapped in her own castle and Balon Greyjoy amassing an army outside its walls, King Aegon had hastened their march to save his betrothed.

They were only a day or two away from Highgarden when Aegon learned he was marching headlong into a trap. A Tyrell rider arrived from the castle with a raven from Lord Hightower, warning of longships and reavers laying in wait to ambush any who attacked Lord Balon’s host.

“The kraken’s tentacles spread wide.” Aegon had said during his war council, frowning down at a map of the Mander. “Too wide. They might have strangled the fight from our flanks but the Hightowers and their informant have spared us that. Now let us hack these tentacles off one by one.”

Thus Aegon had set about forming a trident. Long before he led the assault against Balon’s host, he sent three smaller forces out to attack the hidden reavers. Prince Oberyn, Lord Renly, and Ser Robar were all given a command, and struck at the ambushes long before they had any chance to act.

The success of that strategy was made clear by the triumphant reunion outside the gates of Highgarden. Oberyn was kissing the cheeks of the Lady Nym, Tyene, and Sarella Sand when he spotted Obara returning and embraced his eldest daughter. Renly shouted Ser Loras’s praises, holding the young Kingsguard’s arm up high for all to cheer. Not all were jubilant though. Bran caught sight of Princess Arianne comforting her brother Quentyn as Ser Daemon spoke of Cletus’s death.

Bronze Jon looked little better as he followed Ser Robar in riding up to them. His friend’s face was pale, his tunic bloody, as he cradled something Bran could not see.

“What a glorious day, heroes were made in this battle!” The Royce knight laughed before gesturing to the sword on Bran’s back. “What’s this? Did young Bran take a prize as well? And here I thought my squire would stand alone in his brave deeds! The lad saved my life from a reaver that nearly had me beat.”

“I killed him.” Bronze Jon said with his eyes downcast. “His back was turned… he didn’t see me coming…”

“Lucky for us both.” Ser Robar added. “And you got quite the rare sword out of it. Not so big as what Bran is carrying but a fine one all the same. Yours to keep lad.”

Bran saw now that it was a small, slender sword that his friend had laid across his lap. Some of his lessons under the ser had him learning different types of blades and this one looked like the kind used by bravos of Braavos. A stranger thought came to mind then, a firm belief that Bran had seen this sword somewhere before.

No… no I dreamt about it… it wasn’t my eyes that saw it… whose eyes were they?

He was struggling with his hazy memories when the bells started ringing within the castle. The sound made Highgarden even lovelier to behold. The many tiers of the castle were divided by tall, white walls and its many towers flew the bright green and gold banners of House Tyrell. Atop its tallest keep, a new standard was being raised, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Soon enough Aegon summoned together his retinue, including the Kingsguard and their squires, before riding through the gates. Within Highgarden, the king’s party rode by groves, masterfully built fountains, shady courtyards, and more stables than Bran could count. Between the outer and middle walls was a labyrinth that tempted the explorer in Bran. The whole castle was a temptation really, full of wealth and grandeur unmatched by anything he had ever seen.

Margaery Tyrell fit in well with her surroundings. The young lady was among those who met the king’s coming within a wide inner yard. What looked like the entire Tyrell household flanked their approach with the ladies of House Tyrell at the end of a long trail of scattered rose petals. Margaery stood between her mother and grandmother, her chestnuts locks falling down over a dress of deep emerald with gold lace embroidery.

When Aegon dismounted, he drew gasps by kneeling before Margaery.

“My lady, you’re a vision.” The king said before kissing her hand. “Forgive me for not coming sooner, no one so pure and good should have reason to fear in my realm.”

“Please your grace, do rise.” Margaery put a hand to her chest and blinked rapidly as she pulled the king to his feet. “Whatever terror those fiends inspired was driven off the moment your banners appeared on the horizon. I knew then my king had come.”

“Be glad he had an army with him.” Lady Olenna chortled. “Give me a choice between an army and a king and I know what I’d pick. No need to kiss my hand your grace, those lips are meant for finer things.”

“Nonsense.” Aegon kissed the woman’s hand all the same. “Age does not dull beauty.”

“And charm is wasted on those hard of hearing. Send those fine words my granddaughter’s way. She’s quite put out that her father postponed the wedding until he can attend. The old windbag.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery sounded exasperated as Aegon and many others laughed, Lord Renly the loudest of all as he and Loras stepped forward

“Lady Olenna.” Renly smiled widely and bowed. “I missed your wit my lady, though not as much as I’d be missing my head, was it not for Ser Loras here.”

“Loras! Renly!” Margaery beamed to embrace both men, kissing Loras’s cheeks only once more than Renly’s. “I hear congratulations are in order my lord! You’ve become a father.”

“That I am.” Renly looked to Aegon who stood stone faced. “We had word during the march. Rhaenys has given me a son. Ten fingers, ten toes, with black Baratheon hair to boot.”

“And your heir’s name?”

“Orys.” Aegon answered for Renly. “My sister named her son Orys Baratheon. One of my favorite heroes as a child. A fine name…”

The talk continued for some time until the Tyrells began to bestow honors on their saviors. Garlands of roses were placed over the king’s neck and whomever else he saw fit to be honored. Many were called forth but Bran had never expected to hear his name.

“Bran Stark and Jon Royce!” Aegon waved both boys to his side before putting a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “I have it on good authority that young Bran saved my life in the battle and his friend did the same for Ser Robar. My brother Jon and I only played at being so brave as boys. Truly you two acted like men.”

Bran’s face burned when Lady Margaery kissed his cheek in thanks. He was glad that Bronze Jon managed a grin when the same happened to him. They weren’t the only squires to be honored. For his valiant actions during the battle, Harry Hardyng was knighted by King Aegon himself. The newly made knight joined the royal party within the nearest keep while Bran and his friend were left to tend to their masters’ horses.

“Great.” Bronze Jon grumbled. “Now Harry’s going to be twice as big an arse. Ser Harry Hardung.”

“He earned it.” Bran watched Ser Oswell disappear into the castle with Nightfall in his hands. “Harry fought like a knight and he risked his life. It’s a good thing really. If the king would knight Harry, what do you think he’ll do for us when we’re older?”

“Oh wow, you’re right.” Jon rubbed his chin as they led the horses through the press of people. “We’ll be knights for sure. And Margaery will be queen… I was just kissed by the future queen!”

“She kissed me too.” Bran argued.

“Just to be polite. She kissed my cheek longer, everyone saw that.”

Bran was about to call Jon a fool when something hit him upside the head.

“Ow!” He jerked about and found Elara standing above him, red in the face and hand raised up. “What? Why-”

“Stupid.” Elara smacked his head again and again, admonishing him between slaps. “You. Stupid. Little. Fool.”

“What did I do?!” He escaped her attack and held his hands up in defense.

“I saw you Brandon Stark! I told you to be safe! To be careful! To stay by Uncle- to stay by your uncle! But no! You attacked a knight empty-handed!”

“I didn’t!” He protested. “I mean, I wasn’t empty-handed… I had the standard- ow! Ow!”

“A bit of wood and cloth?” Elara was slapping him again. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

“How’d you see him?” Bronze Jon stopped laughing long enough to ask. “I mean, Bran was with the king at the river. Weren’t you back with the baggage train?”

“It doesn’t matter how I saw.” Elara crossed her arms and silenced the boy with a glare. “Now go on Jon Royce. I need a word with Bran and if you even think of hiding around the corner I swear by the greatsword Dawn-”

“Yes, yes, you’ll throw me off the walls.” His friend grumbled as he turned away. “Find me later Bran, if the lady doesn’t beat you senseless.”

Then the pair were alone save for the ser’s horse and Summer, who Elara was treating far better than Bran. As she pet the direwolf, her dark blue eyes looked at him with disappointment.

“I’m sorry, really.” He said. “But I couldn’t just sit back and let the king die. I had to do something.”

“I know the feeling.” Elara sighed and he remembered who had held Ser Harras off when he was in need.

“Was that you? In Winter?” He asked and Elara nodded. “Thank you… I hope Harras didn’t hurt her. Where is she?”

“She’s watching a storehouse.” Elara’s voice quieted then. “One I need your help getting into. After battles like these, there are always celebrations. As rich as the Tyrells are, with a king here, I wager half the castle will be drunk. When it gets dark meet me here.”

“Why? What’s in the storehouse? I don’t want to steal from the Tyrells-”

“It’s not them we’ll be taking from. Just tell me you’ll help. It’s something I need to have before we go south.”

“South?”

That confused him. The fight was here, along the Mander, and they’d only just arrived at Highgarden. Yet Elara acted quite confident in what she said, her hand touching at her ruby necklace.

“The last thing I saw in the flames showed us going south but there was so much more I couldn’t make it out… things I need to understand, Bran. I can’t summon the visions without what's in that storehouse. So please, say you’ll help.”

He didn’t want to, it felt unchivalrous to skulk around the castle stealing things, but Elara had saved him in the battle so Bran agreed. The kiss she placed on his cheek before she departed felt better than Margaery’s had.

I bet men go their wholes lives without being kissed by such beautiful ladies.

And I’ve been kissed by the realm’s finest before I’m two and ten.

Later that night, Elara was proven right as the Tyrells did feast the king and his victorious army. The castle boasted many feasting halls but the largest and finest was reserved only for those of the greatest importance. King Aegon sat at the high table with the Lady Margaery to his right and the rest of the Tyrells and Lord Renly following after. Princess Arianne sat to Aegon’s left with Princes Quentyn and Oberyn. While many a toast was made to Arianne as the future Lady of Highgarden, there were some tense moments as well.

The Sand Snakes and Elara had been given a place of esteem just below the high table, near to where Bran sat with Uncle Benjen. When Garth Tyrell, the Lord Seneschal of Highgarden, made a comment about never having seen bastards reaching such heights in Highgarden, Prince Oberyn rose to lift a cup to the high table.

“To our flowery hosts!” Oberyn called out. “Whose welcome is as sweet as their wine. Though to be honest, I prefer a good Dornish red, a far stronger spirit in all ways.”

“More bitter as well.” Olenna added, raising her own cup. “Must be all that sand.”

“To the sands then!” Oberyn grinned widely and the Dornishmen in the hall erupted in laughter while Lady Olenna's face fell and those of the Reach did the same.

Aegon acted as peacemaker for most of the feast. Praising each of his allies in turn, filling both Arianne and Margaery’s cups with his own hand. The Tyrells had let Summer into the hall and it delighted many to toss bits of meat in the air and watch the direwolf snatch them in flight. Yet as the night wore on he grew tense. When Elara finally rose from the table she shot a look toward Bran and he nodded.

After a short amount of time, he was getting ready to make his excuses to Uncle Benjen when Maester Lomys rushed to the high table to whisper something in Aegon’s ear. The king’s expression dropped dramatically and soon after it was Aegon making excuses and summoning a trusted few to follow him.

Ser Oswell was among that group of course, but this time the ser demanded that Bran follow. So rather than going to meet Elara, he was forced to attend to the needs of the king’s war counsel.

They met in the spacious chambers that the Tyrells had given over to the king. Bran was being put to work as a cupbearer, offering wine to all, though none save Prince Oberyn seemed to have a thirst.

“Tywin Lannister is mustering an army.” Aegon declared, handing a bit of parchment to Renly. “At Casterly Rock, thousands strong. Lady Catelyn Stark attests to this from Riverrun.”

“The lion is stirring then.” Oberyn’s eyes narrowed. “This has been coming for some time. Your Hand losing that trial made the throne look weak.”

“Jon was betrayed.” Benjen countered. “If any here know the depths of Lannister treachery it would be you Oberyn.”

“Point taken.” The prince nodded while Aegon walked to a table and picked up a handful of other parchments.

“All of this poison was waiting for me when I arrived. The High Septon decries that the gods' judgement of Cersei is being ignored and I’ve no doubt that this gave Tywin enough reason to call his banners. However, Willas writes from Goldengrove of his suspicions that the Lannisters are already on the move. Some of Lord Rowan’s men seized a crossing of the Mander that could have been crucial in sweeping the ironmen out of the Reach, but by the time Willas arrived it was in reaver hands again. The locals claimed it wasn’t the ironmen that won it back, but armored men on horseback, a raiding party crossing south.”

“Then perhaps we must take our own crossing.” Renly put in. “March up the Ocean Road and take Lord Tywin to task outside Casterly Rock.”

Ser Oswell frowned. “And let the ironmen continue their attacks? That’s leaving one war unfinished to go and start a new one.”

“And if the Lannisters start the war for us?” Benjen asked. “The Riverlands sent most of their men to the capital, to protect the king's people. Riverrun and my goodsister are unprotected and right in Tywin’s path.”

“He might hesitate to do so.” Renly offered. “What with Prince Jon’s army on the move.”

“My army needs to be on the move as well.” Aegon shook his head. “But I can’t leave the Reach the way it is. We need to crush the reaver threat, secure the Mander, and lift the siege at Oldtown.”

“You just killed their king.” Renly said. “Perhaps they’ll lose heart-”

Oberyn laughed. “Reasonable men might. These ironmen are a different sort, almost mad. Trust me, they’ll want vengeance. I would.”

They argued like that for some time. Uncle Benjen wanted to let the Reach lords defend their own lands. Oberyn proposed an attack on the Westerlands while Renly worried that they didn't have the strength for such without help from the Reach. At some point it became too much for the king and he sent everyone away save for Oswell and Bran.

“Some wine, please.” Aegon held out a cup and Bran filled it with haste. “So I might raise a toast to Rhaenys and her babe. I wasn’t give a chance in the hall. She’s at Horn Hill you know. Lord Blackmont couldn’t hold my sister back… no one ever could. I was wrong to try.”

“The army couldn’t wait around at Blackmont your grace.” The ser waved away Bran’s offer of wine.

“I meant not listening to her. If I had, we wouldn’t be in such a poor way. The Florents wouldn’t be letting their thousands of men and heavy cavalry sit on their arses while the Reach burns. Jon meant well, but if I’d listened to Rhaenys he would have never had a chance to bungle the Cersei matter.”

Bran couldn’t hold his tongue. “Jon was trying to get justice for Robb! The Kingslayer and the Queen crippled my brother-” 

“And Jon made a mistake in allowing her a trial by seven.” Aegon patted his head. “I don’t blame him for it Bran, even kings make mistakes. I did today… I should have taken Balon prisoner. I-I meant to. I was fighting like I always wanted to. It got it into my head that my father was watching and I was making him proud. Then I thought of the Usurper killing him and… well, Balon suffered my wrath. Alive we could have used him as leverage to make the ironmen bend the knee. Now he's dead and Oberyn is right, all they'll want is vengeance. How many thousands more must now suffer for my foolishness? Damn my temper… damn that I turned it on Rhae…”

The king drained his cup then and held it out for Bran to fill again.

“Rhaenys would’ve had me too focused on capturing Balon to do something so stupid. Do not worry ser, I’m going to heed your counsel. We are not leaving this war against the reavers half finished. Highgarden needs my men so, just like Nightsong, we’ll split the army. I’ll take the horse south, stop the reaving along the Honeywine, and lift the siege at Oldtown.”

“That’s a tall order your grace.” Ser Oswell crossed his arms. “Longships move swiftly and all accounts put the ironmen's numbers matching, if not exceeding ours.”

“That’s why I’m sending word to Horn Hill.” The king smiled. “Just as I still trust in Jon to do what’s right for the realm, I also trust in Rhaenys to do right by me. I can win battles but she’s always been better at playing the game. Seven hells, Margaery and I were alone for less than an hour before she almost had me naming Mace as my new Hand! Rhae told me to be wary of that, she was right about how Marg might try it too. You see ser, my sister has never failed me, not when it counted… she doesn’t let loved ones down. Not like I do.”

Aegon drained his cup with vigor, a dark red line escaping his mouth and running down his chin.

“I wasn’t there for her.” Aegon spoke hoarsely. “For Rhaenys, for little Orys… for Jon and father. I rush off and leave my family behind to face trials we should share in… no more.”

The ser exchanged a worried look with Bran then, for he likely saw the same doubt in Aegon that they’d once witnessed at Summerhall. Yet this time Bran couldn’t think of any words to say to his king.

Nor did he have the chance. A pounding on the chamber door drew all their attention.

“Your grace!” Ser Robar called within. “Igon Vyrwel, the captain of the guards is here! He’s got a prisoner he claims was acting as a spy!”

“Or saboteur!” Another voice shouted and Aegon beckoned them with.

Bran’s heart fell to see who the Tyrell guards led within. Elara stood defiantly between the guardsmen but he saw fear in her eyes as well.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Aegon demanded. “Lady Dayne is a friend. Release her!”

“My king, she poisoned one of my guards.” Igon declared before holding out a slim dagger with a touch of red on it. “We found him passed out and the girl with Balon Greyjoy’s body! She was desecrating it with this blade!”

Bran understood all at once, what Elara had wanted in the storehouse. She went on and on about the power of blood all the times recently. Yet there was only one type she’d brought with her to Dorne.

They locked eyes then and despite his disgust, his fear, Bran felt ashamed to see how upset Elara was. How she had flinched to find him here when he was supposed to be with her.

For he had done what Aegon had been lamenting only moments before.

He had let a loved one down.

Chapter 23

Summary:

When dreams turn to nightmares.

ARYA  

The feast was more tiring than the fight.

The small cousins were still gorging themselves on the dead men and horses. The three riders who had carried cloths of pink with red men upon them. They were part of a much larger group that their pack had been hunting for a few days. Men with many horses and hounds.

Together, the menfolk were too many to fight. Yet these three had broken away from the others. They were confident. Or foolish. They thought themselves the hunters, not the hunted.

When the wolves came upon them the men had raised blades and torches, bellowing their rage while the horses screamed in fear. They were powerful but easy to overwhelm.

Now there was little left of them save bones and entrails. Her belly was full and her hunger sated as she laid down beside her sister. The gentle one had been scarred and weak when they found her. Now she grew strong again, with fang and claw as sharp as any.

They nuzzled one another, content to be together. There was no such peace to be found in their swift brother.

Long ago he had eaten his fill yet still he moved about their kill. He set upon one of the men’s pink cloths, tearing it apart with fury. Something about it fueled a burning rage inside him. The same instinct that kept driving them east.

Always east. For east was where their kin was. The gentle sister’s girl. Her and another the swift brother howled for every night.

None were howling now, so she laid her head over her sister’s back and closed her eyes. The feeding had made her weary. Sleep was needed. 

Then she was dreaming. The dreams she always yearned for.

It was only in dreams that she could reach so far and see her missing brothers.

The fierce brother was in safe in a stone den. It was night and he was content, his dark fur blending in with the shadows of the room. He laid beside a wooden cage, his green eyes staring inside it, watching. His ears keened to hear the small breathing from the little one within. Somehow she felt this babe was special. That this child was meant to be with them. It was kin.

Pack.

So was the little boy sleeping against the fierce brother. He was curled up against the large form of the black wolf, a wooden sword in his hand, a handful of fur in the other. His shaggy hair was a shade of red that hurt her heart to remember. Hair that color meant home. It meant love. She missed it.

The boy and the babe could sleep safely with the fierce brother watching over them.

Far away, the quiet brother was watching another pair. Moving like a silent spirit, her brother found a place between some bushes near to where a couple hid among the trees. The woman’s hair was silver, her skin pale and bare. The only parts hidden were covered by a fur cloak or the man’s body. 

A man she knew him. His face was older and scarred, but she remembered the kindness and love he had always shown her.  Now he was lost to something else. 

The couple were rutting in the shelter of an old elm, their fingers entwined in each others' hair. Gasps and groans were muffled by the pressing of their mouths together, only parting to seek air or whisper words of love.

There was no love to be found when the dream shifted to her last brother. Only a terrible, burning hatred.

The loyal brother, the strongest of them, was hunting now but not for food. He was running through the night, moving through green fields and warm lands far away. Something had earned his wrath. A scent he knew, one her that brother hated. His fangs were bared as he sniffed at the earth and followed after the cold trail of horses and men.

The wolf she was knew he was far away yet another part of her felt that he was close. Not to the cold lands where the pack rested. No, he was in a land of summer. A land she knew without ever having seen it herself.

Not with these eyes at least. Not her wolf eyes.

Her real ones.

Arya awoke then, opening her eyes.

She quickly shut them again against the painful brightness of the sunlight. When she sat up her neck ached something terrible, for the Black Wind's deck was hard and unforgiving. Once it would’ve been Osha’s lap she rested her head upon.

Osha’s gone, she thought sadly, she’s gone but I’m not alone.

I still have family out there.

The thought gave Arya strength so she opened her eyes once more to take in the sights around her. The Black Wind was anchored in a small cove along the Honeywine, rocking some against rolling currents. This was where the small ironborn armada had dragged its most recent prize. Four longships surrounded a fat, river cog they’d captured early that morning. Most of the reavers were still on the cog, stealing valuables from its cargo and tossing the rest in the river. That’s where the bodies of the traders had ended up as well. Most of those the ironborn came upon were killed rather than taken prisoner.

Arya couldn’t count how many she’d watched die since Asha’s armada had entered the river. No vessels headed to Oldtown were left alone. Any village or farm that the ironborn found in their progress were put to the torch.

Arya had bid farewell to her last friend at one of those villages. While Asha had tossed most of dead from the Oldtown fight into the river, so they could be welcomed back to the sea by their strange god, the captain spared Osha such a fate. Instead Asha had let Arya do as Osha would have wanted.

Lorren and Arya had built a pyre in the burnt remnants of the Honeywine village and laid Osha's body there. Lorren hadn’t stayed to watch, preferring to pillage some more, but Asha had arrived in time to see Arya set flame to her friend’s body

“Thought you northmen dug graves.” Asha had said as the fire engulfed Osha. “Is this how your people finally get warm?”

“This is what she wanted.” Arya spoke truly. “She told me, she said if she ever fell to burn her body. That way the Others could never have her. Not like they had her daughter.”

“The Others.” Asha shook her head dismissively. “Wait… her daughter? Did you have a sister?”

“I did. She died.”

At time Arya hadn’t thought that a lie, now she desperately wished it was so.

Her dreams told her that Sansa was alive, that somehow her sister hadn’t died at Winterfell but Arya wasn't sure. Not like she was about having a new sister. In her heart, she knew Mother had birthed her babe. A little girl. Her little sister.

Shaggydog is with her and Rickon. Ghost watches over Jon. Nymeria is near to Sansa.

And I’m close to Bran.

Her dream showed Summer hunting some strange, infuriating scent. The wolf was stalking lands as lush as the ones Asha's longships now sailed through. Bran wasn’t in those dreams but Summer wouldn’t leave him for long. So, deep down, she knew her brother was close.

Which made sense, since many of those captured by the reavers spoke of a giant wolf fighting beside King Aegon at Highgarden. They talked about the king coming south to fight the Greyjoy threat, that Aegon was coming to finish what he started by killing Balon Greyjoy.

Arya smiling at the thought of it when Asha took note of her.

“Nan!” The captain shouted down from the cog. “Finally awake are you?”

She nodded. “You said we could rest.”

“I did, but you’ll never be a captain if you choose sleep over bounty!” Asha tossed something down to her, which Arya caught after twirling around the bucket. The crew made her dance so often that it came second nature to her. Her reward was a soft, ripe peach, one she raised up high to Asha before taking a bite of it.

“Enjoy it, that’s all I’ll let you have from this haul.” Asha smiled. “That’ll be a lesson you won’t soon forget.”

The peach juice dripped down her chin and she savored the taste. The Greyjoy woman treated her better than most but Arya couldn’t forget all those people Asha had slain, by her blade or command. Still, Asha spared women and children where others wouldn’t, and for that reason she hadn’t earned a place on Arya’s nightly list of names.

Asha had a list of her own though. One she proclaimed for the whole crew to hear.

“Aegon Targaryen!” Asha had held her throwing axes up high and bellowed to her crew. “By the Drowned God, I’ll see him dead! Suffering the same pain we feel now! For my father! For our king!”

In response, Steffarion Sparr, the captain of the Warrior Wyk, took up a different cry.

“To our queen!” Sparr had shouted. “The Iron Queen!”

Arya joined in shouting with the rest. It was easy to be joyful after hearing that Balon Greyjoy and thousands of his men were dead. The good cheer died away when Asha refused to retreat back down the Honeywine.

“My father’s crown is mine by blood but I shall earn it!” Asha declared to all. “This river and its lords still feed Oldtown and I swore to bring that to an end! I will see Oldtown burned to the ground. Let the Drowned God witness my crowning in the ruins of the Starry Sept itself, where Aegon the Dragon was declared King of Westeros!”

The men soon clamored for pressing their attack up the river. Lorren and Hagen said it was a good sign that their new queen wanted to follow the old way. Arya knew better though. She saw what Asha truly wanted every time someone mentioned King Aegon.

In her quest for such, Asha and her ironborn had visited their fury upon any river galley or Reach defenders that gathered to face them. Even now, Arya only had to glance upriver to see smoke rising in the air. The rest of the longships and their war parties had struck at a village just north of Honeyholt. The smallfolk there did fealty to House Beesbury Asha had said. The same family that this cog served before they had pillaged it.

Arya was leaning against the longship’s bow, watching Asha descend a rope ladder from the cog, when a shout caught both their attention.

“Ship ho!” A mate from the Sea Bitch hailed, pointing upriver. “It’s the Warrior Wyk!”

“Good.” Asha declared, hopping down onto the deck. “Let’s hear what plunder they’ve taken.”

Arya hoped to hear of how the village defenders had numbered in the thousands and killed every ironborn, save the men on this longship. Instead the vessel came rowing into the cove, the crew laughing and holding up their spoils for the others to see.

Golden trinkets. Barrels of wine. Fresh meat.

To her it looked like the usual take after such an attack until she spotted the prisoner. He was an older man, dressed in a steward’s livery. An altogether odd sort of captive, since Asha had forbidden taking any save for lords and knights worthy of ransom or men with strong backs for rowing.

This man looked to be of neither causing Asha to frown as the Warrior Wyk drifted alongside the Black Wind. She was less impressed when the prisoner tripped and fell while being carried between the ships. Lorren planted a foot on the old man’s back and kept him low while Asha looked to the arriving captain for answers.

“What’s this then, Sparr?” Asha pointed down at the captive. “Either Mace Tyrell is dressing poorly these days or you’re hard up for rowers.”

“He’s no green lord, true. He’s worth more than that.” Sparr grinned in a way that seemed more a snarl. “Found him loading up no less than three wagons outside some big house. I thought maybe he’s a petty lord or knight. Turns out, he’s a steward. The head one to the Florents at Brightwater Keep… where King Aegon will be soon enough.”

“Aegon Targaryen.” Asha smiled and led the crew in looking down at the cowering man. A moment later he was on his feet, Asha’s axe but a hair’s breath from his neck.

“Please. I beg of you. I’m no danger-”

“That’s it. Talking is what I want from you.” Asha waved the axe back and forth. “All the tales you can tell me about the dragon king and this Brightwater Keep. Start with your name so I can mark your grave if you displease me.”

“Olan.” The old man spoke sadly, his pale green eyes glistening. “I wish not to name my family… I fear you mean to make me shame them.”

“The greybeard still has his wits.” Lorren laughed and Arya swallowed her anger as the others mocked the poor man. He reminded her of Maester Luwin, kindly and proud. That made her even angrier when Asha took hold of his ear and pulled it viciously.

“You’ll bear shame better than losing this ear.” Asha hissed. “Is Aegon Targaryen at Brightwater Keep?”

“He should be. Or soon enough.” Olan spoke, his voice strong despite his obvious fear. “King Aegon leads an army there, to join forces with House Florent. Together they’ll crush you reavers and free Oldtown from your ravages- ah!”

Asha had pressed the axe against Olan’s throat again, drawing a thin line of blood.

“How many men do the Targaryens have? The Florents?”

Olan answered Asha’s questions with little hesitation after that. The old steward put the royal strength at six thousand horse and the Florents at over two thousand, proud to note that most were mounted. Arya knew the Florents were strong, it was that family who sent the largest challenge against Asha’s armada. A half score river galleys had met the krakens in battle only a week past. Only two Florent ships escaped that defeat, having to flee downriver. Yet none of the survivors that they'd fished out of the water had any useful information.

Not like Olan.

“How long did you serve at Brightwater?” Asha asked, her eyes shining. “How well do you know that castle?”

“I spent most of my life there.” Olan lifted his chin proudly. “I served Lord Alester well and his father before him. I would’ve proudly done so until the end of my days, but Lord Axell didn’t care for me… nor Lady Selyse. I made arrangements for the feast but they would not let me have the honor of meeting the king… they expelled me from my home…”

“Do not fret, dear man.” Asha spoke with false comfort. “For I intend to do you that courtesy. I’ll even deliver you to this castle that you called home.”

“Lord Axell won’t ransom me-”

“It’s not gold I want.” Asha rose and faced the men with a look of determination. “I want blood. I want Aegon Targaryen dead by my blade.”

“He’s got too many men.” Grimtongue said, followed by grumbles of agreement. “A dead dragon be a fine trophy cap’n, but he’s got an army and a castle to hide behind. All we have is eight ships.”

“Eight of the finest ships and crews ever to sail!” Asha answered, leading Sparr and Ralf to cheer. She then pointed back at Olan. “With this man, we can overcome all of Aegon’s advantages. Every castle has its weak points, ways within that their lords neglect. Olan here is going to tell us how to break into Brightwater Keep.”

The old steward gaped and paled in horror. Arya hid her scowl better than he did the truth of Asha’s words. There was no doubt in her mind now that Olan knew a way into Brightwater. The way Asha smiled at his distress, the old man had betrayed the Florents without even meaning to.

“If we’re lucky, Aegon’s army will be feasting.” Asha’s voice had an edge to it. “Green, soft men getting tired and drunk. Confident in their numbers. Aegon will be in a castle, safe and warm. He will let his guard down. None will expect such a brazen strike. If we get in that castle, his fate is sealed.”

The others were nodding, Arya doing much the same.

Though for different reasons.

King Aegon and Bran were at Brightwater and Asha was planning to ambush them. To sneak into the castle and murder the king in his bed.

She bet Asha was right, none will expect an attack like that. The ironborn might be able to pull it off.

If Arya wasn’t there to stop them.

Asha wants blood. She wants vengeance. I won’t let her have any of it.

They’ll find nothing at that castle but betrayal.

 

BRAN  

“I think this dragon needs to fly.”

King Aegon smiled down at the bundle cradled in his arms, a babe whose only answer was to continue bawling.

The tiny face of Orys Baratheon was wrinkled and reddened from his wailing, sharing none of the king’s enthusiasm. That didn’t deter Aegon one bit. Instead the king added a bounce to his step as he paced about the flowery fields with Orys in his arms. The sun was shining above them yet seemed only half as bright as the Aegon’s smile when he began to lift the babe up and down, making sounds somewhat unbecoming of a king.

“Look at Orys fly!” Aegon soothed the boy. “Watch the little dragon fly!”

“Careful, Aegon.” Rhaenys urged with a smile, which caused the king to laugh.

“Don’t worry Rhae, he won’t hurt me. He’s too busy flying!”

Bran laughed along with the onlookers then. The king and the babe made a fine distraction while the army’s camp was set up beneath the walls of Brightwater Keep.

Just like the camp, those watching Aegon were a mix of old allies and newcomers. Lord Renly and Prince Oberyn were laughing, as well as Uncle Benjen and Princess Arianne. Margaery Tyrell shared a whispered word with Quentyn that set the awkward prince to grinning. Despite all the good cheer, there were some who refused to take part.

Ser Oswell stood grim faced, though he always looked like that. His expression was nearly cheerful compared to the Florents. Lady Selyse appeared to have soured further since Bran last saw her at court. Her uncle, Lord Axell, a stout and homely man, eyed the whole spectacle with impatience.

He should be happier. The king just gave him everything he wanted.

All so the Florents would do their duty.

The newly made lord clutched a roll of parchment tightly in his hands. On it was a royal declaration, setting aside all other claimants to the Florent castle, including Randyll Tarly. It granted Axell all the Florent lands and Brightwater Keep.

It was no great castle, not like Winterfell or Highgarden, but it appeared strong all the same. The castle walls were tall, pushing up against the banks of the Honeywine. Its main gate was fortified by a barbican facing south, where much of the Florent army already camped. Overlooking the river and dominating the other towers in size, was the large keep for which the castle earned its name.

Atop the Brightwater Keep’s four tallest turrets flew several banners. Most bore the Florent fox head, encircled by blue flowers, but a few Targaryen banners had been raised as well. All hanging so far below the Florent banners that Bran knew it to be a slight.

Aegon had been forgiving of the offense, happily pointing out the large feasting tents that their hosts had arranged for his army below the castle walls.

“It is a gift to find the Florents flying my banners at all.” The king had said. “One I owe to my lovely sister.”

The princess had taken the credit in stride, for it was Rhaenys who arranged things with the Florents while treating with the Tarlys at Horn Hill. Whatever deals Rhaenys had struck seemed far from her mind as she joined Aegon and Orys at play.

“You act more a child than a king.” Rhaenys laughed. “Mother would scold you if she could see this. Hand me my child before he gets sick upon your finery.”

“Not until I win him over.” Aegon winked at his sister. “I have to learn to tame a dragon sooner or later. No matter how fearsome he might be.”

Renly laughed at that. “He has the Baratheon fury alright! My son is small but I challenge any trumpet to match his bellows.”

Rhaenys and Renly had been saying such things ever since the army had reunited with the princess and her party on the way to Brightwater. They argued good-heartedly whether Orys’s dark hair had the Baratheon coloring or that of the Martells. Rhaenys swore Orys had Renly’s eyes but Bran thought they were a far dark blue, much different than the lord’s. To him they looked almost purple.

If anyone else believed the same they didn’t speak to it. All had fawned and clapped when Rhaenys placed Orys in Renly’s arms for the first time. All save the king. Bran had caught Aegon’s look of sadness as Renly proudly named Orys his son and heir. The king’s mood only changed when it was his turn to hold the babe.

“He looks like father.” Aegon had said with tears in his eyes. “Rhae… he’s perfect…”

Tears sprung from Rhaenys at those words and the siblings had embraced around the infant between them. Bran thought their time apart had strengthened what was once frayed between them. They only parted when Orys began to wail.

Now it was the babe’s quieting that drew the siblings together. Aegon’s efforts having calmed little Orys.

“Aegon was the same as a babe.” Rhaenys whispered to the others. “Quick to rage, easy to calm. Though our mother never tossed him in the air. She preferred to soothe Aegon through song.”

“I love this child too much to subject him to my singing.” Aegon said as he rocked the babe gently.

“The king is right.” Renly smirked. “I’ve heard him sing. At the time, I had a fit worthy of my son. We must pray his grace’s children inherit their mother’s voice.”

Aegon acted startled by the jest until he noticed Lady Margaery nodding. The king’s betrothed had insisted on joining the march and the ser had told Bran that Aegon didn't have the heart to deny her. He could understand that. Margaery was so lovely, he couldn’t bear the thought of anything making her unhappy. Margaery was a beaming vision when she pressed her hands to her chest and sighed loudly at Aegon and Orys.

“I am so jealous of you, Rhaenys. Orys is a delight and I cannot wait until Aegon holds a son of his own.”

Rhaenys and Aegon looked to each other and both appeared at a loss for words. Before either could speak, Selyse made a sound close to a scoff, shooting Renly a sideways glance.

“A delight. It's remarkable how quickly you and the princess found each other after casting aside our Delena. Clearly shaming my cousin once was not enough for you.”

All grew silent then. Bran had wondered when the ugliness from court would come back. Renly had offered to make himself scarce at Brightwater but Rhaenys had assured him all was forgiven by Lord Axell. Apparently Lady Selyse didn't share such feelings.

Renly handled it well, putting a hand to his chest and bowing to the Florents.

“My lady, my lord, I accept that there was bad blood between us and my part in that. Yet I hoped to leave such quarrels in the past. Brightwater Keep has a new lord, I have a new wife and child, and King Aegon has pledged to find a new husband for Delena as soon as we return to court. I vow to help that effort in any way I can.”

“Pledges and vows.” Selyse hissed. “We know how well you honor vows Renly Baratheon. You twist them to your own meaning. Your actions speak louder and-”

“King Aegon’s speak loudest.” Axell interrupted his niece harshly, his close-set eyes narrowing on her in fury. “We are reconciled, Selyse. As long as Brightwater Keep is in my care, it shall forever serve the man who saw the truth of my claim and did honor by our family. Remember that. We Florents shall rise all the higher for it.”

Selyse did not so much demure as she did grow silent, her eyes still shooting daggers at Renly. Something not missed by Rhaenys when she approached Axell, Orys in her arms.

“Hearing you speak so is most welcome, Lord Florent. We are all friends now, and should behave as such.”

“Yes, of course.” Axell eyed the armed men around him warily. “Though you must forgive Selyse. Only a short time ago, the king was set on stealing this castle away from me and handing it over to Randyll Tarly. It would put my mind at ease if no blades were carried into my hall.”

“Out of the question.” Ser Oswell snapped, his hand sweeping down to Nightfall’s pommel. “This blade protects the king wherever he goes. By my vow, with my life.”

“A compromise then.” Rhaenys offered. “All blades stay in the camp. Save those of the Kingsguard.”

“And their squires.” Aegon added, suddenly throwing an arm around Bran. The king shook him like Robb once did, bidding the Florents to look upon him. “This is Bran Stark, the Winged Wolf, and as loyal to me as any Kingsguard. Allow him his blade and I’ll feel all the safer.”

“The Kingsguard and some squires...” Axell rubbed one of his chins in thought as he stared at Bran. “I can accept that. Bran Stark was it? So this is the new Lord of Winterfell?”

“My father is Lord of Winterfell.” He replied in earnest. “He’s only missing. He’ll come back, I know it.”

“We must pray for that.” Aegon squeezed his shoulder. “Yet we cannot depend on prayer alone, can we Benjen?”

“No... no we can’t.” His uncle’s face grew longer than usual. “Not with the Boltons about their foul work.”

The king nodded. “I’ve no doubt that you and Jon will set things right in due course.”

Things in the North were bad, no one could say otherwise. They were so bad that Jon was taking an army up north and Aegon had named Benjen as the Regent of Winterfell. A position his uncle did not want yet accepted all the same.

“These Lords Declarant are puppets, mark my words.” Benjen ran a hand through his dark hair. “If Ned’s gone, Winterfell belongs to Bran or Robb’s unborn babe. Anyone who says Roose Bolton is a better fit as regent than Catelyn is nothing short of mad. I’ll take the bloody regency, but I swear to you Bran, it shall be your mother that rules until you are of age. Not I.”

“How noble, Stark.” Prince Oberyn looked to Axell. “Imagine, putting your family before your own selfish wants. Some men could learn from you.”

“Do you mean to insult me, viper?” Axell flushed. “The day a Dornishman with a rabble of mongrel bastards to his name tries to lectures me about nobility-”

“I could do more than lecture.” Oberyn pointed to Axell’s sword. “Care to see who wins when the fox and the viper dance? If not, be careful how you speak of my daughters.”

“My beloved cousins.” Arianne added to which Aegon glowered as well.

“Mine as well. I was told all my court were welcome here my lord. Are you breaking your word to me?”

Axell swallowed deeply and shot a hand out to quiet Selyse from speaking.

“I meant no offense. To the future Lady of Highgarden, or my king. All are welcome to celebrate our arrangements this night.” Axell’s mouth widened in an ugly smile. “If only to prove the worth of the fox to the viper. I wanted to tell you this in a more private setting, but House Florent has done their king a great service already.”

Axell waved forth a page who produced a torn bit of cloth, barely bigger than the lord’s hand. When he gave it over to Aegon the king’s eyes widened, showing a Lannister crest to the group.

“Where did you get this?”

“Off a party of raiders that we captured in our lands.” Axell spoke proudly, looking about the group with a sneer. “Nearly forty mounted men they were, and not simple criminals either. Half were Lannister soldiers led by a Ser Amory Lorch.”

“One of Tywin Lannister’s dogs.” Ser Oswell spoke angrily. “That man would not be so far south without the leave of his lord.”

“Lorch would not say.” Axell warned quickly. “We put the others to the question, but I wanted to let my king see to their sentencing. These men admit they came here to burn, not to steal. To weaken King Aegon’s allies. Those were their orders when they left Casterly Rock.”

“We have him.” Aegon smacked a fist into his hand, turning to Rhaenys with a fiery look in his eyes. “Proof. This is the evidence we needed to rally the realm against the lions. All I need to declare Tywin Lannister a traitor to the crown.”

“Aegon…” Rhaenys sounded upset as Orys began to fuss. “You’re right, this is proof, but we must move cautiously. Look what happened when you shared your suspicions with Mace Tyrell.”

The king didn’t like being reminded of that. Bran thought Aegon did the right thing by telling Mace Tyrell that Lannisters war parties were most likely loose in his lands. However right that was, the lord’s reaction had displeased them all. Much of the Tyrell strength in the capital had departed on Lord Mace’s orders, Ser Garlan leading them back south instead of holding the capital as Aegon, and Jon, had wished.

“You’re right.” Aegon reached out to stroke Orys’s cheek, the babe having grown silent in her arms once more. “I have yet to save Oldtown and the shores of the Honeywine are in flames. Let’s hope Jon’s march to Riverrun gives Tywin pause.”

“I have more faith in Edmure holding Tywin's golden twins.” Rhaenys countered. “We do not have to be idle. Seek out powerful lords and quietly inform them of what Lord Axell has told us. Let them prepare for what may come. Just as you did with Lady Stark. Now that she is made ready in regards to Daenerys-”

“Later, Rhae.” Aegon interrupted before offering an arm out to Margaery, which the lady took in a dainty manner. “Lord Axell, I think it is time we took in your castle. We’ll have need of your maester and his ravens, for my sister has magic to work.”

Some laughed at that but the mention of magic bothered Bran. So much so that he walked straight into Ser Oswell when he made to follow the royal procession. The ser crossed his arms and glowered down at him.

“I go with the king. You go and fetch Robar and that fool squire of his. Horpe is still out scouting the Honeywine, so I want all the Kingsguard left by Aegon’s side. He puts more stock in your blade than I do. Hear me? Straight to Robar, straight back to me. No running off like that wolf of yours.”

“Yes, ser.”

Bran lowered his head and felt the knight’s eyes on him as he walked off. The ser hadn’t been happy with him since Summer ran off some days past. Bran couldn’t help it though, Summer had smelled something in the air that led the wolf away. A scent Summer knew, one he hated. A scent they both hated, but Bran could not name it.

Truly the ser's anger with him truly began at Highgarden.

After Elara had been caught with Balon’s body everything had changed. She’d lied of course, about why she was found stabbing at the corpse with her dagger.

“It was for Cletus!” Elara had sobbed before Aegon and Oswell, who were both as confused as Bran.

“Cletus Yronwood?” Aegon had asked, handing Elara a kerchief to dry her eyes.

“Yes, my dear Cletus. My love.” Elara went on weeping. “They killed him. My love. They killed him and I wanted to hurt them back. I drugged the guard and… I’m sorry, but I had too… for Cletus…”

The whole matter was deemed by Aegon as strange but not treasonous. He believed Elara’s tale of love for the slain Yronwood knight, a lie so poor that it angered Bran. Not just because Aegon was fooled by it, but that Elara had used the name of a good knight to excuse her sneaking around. She was confined to chambers for the rest of the visit yet managed to convince the king into allowing Bran to escort her there. Elara called Bran her savior, telling Aegon she needed his strength now.

More lies.

“You have to go back to that storeroom.” Elara had whispered to him in Highgarden’s hallways. Her tears long gone. “I bled him. Balon. Into a vial that I kicked under a sack when I heard the guards coming. You must go and get it.”

“You lied.” Bran mumbled.

“Yes, not as well as I wanted to though. I had to think of that Cletus story on the way there. I dropped a scarf in the storeroom, so when you go there say that that’s what you seek. I need that blood, Bran. If you had helped me then I would have never been caught. You owe me this.”

He hadn’t wanted to do it. The thought of taking part in some lie to steal blood from a corpse made his skin crawl. Yet Bran had failed to do as he promised. Ser Oswell taught him better than that. A knight keeps his word.

So it hurt all the more when Ser Oswell discovered him leaving the storeroom with the vial of blood in hand.

“No lies.” The ser had commanded gruffly after dragging Bran back to his chambers. “Not to me, Bran. Tell me right now, what have you and that girl been up that needs the blood of dead men.”

Bran had no idea what Elara wanted to use the blood for really. Nor would he betray her trust in him. So he did the one thing that shamed him most. He defied his ser.

Ser Oswell had been wroth. He threatened Bran with a beating. Then he threatened Bran with worse beatings. The ser followed that by musing on discharging him from his service and that's when Bran started to cry like a little baby. Still he would not speak to it.

“You disappoint me.” The ser had said, staring at his hand which did not shake. “That makes me even more angry. I’m certain you do this to protect that girl. You already lost an eye for her, would you lose your honor too?”

“I-I am trying to be h-honorable.” He’d sobbed. “I’m s-sorry, ser. I c-cannot answer.”

“You’re a stubborn little shit. Annoying too. Of all the ways to disappoint me, you do it in defense of a lady. Act a cowardly squire, not a true knight. It makes it easier to yell at you.”

In the end, the ser hadn’t sent him away. Or beat him. Instead he made Bran swear off whatever foulness Elara had planned for the blood. Beyond that, the ser had also forbidden Bran from speaking to Elara, except out of courtesy. When Bran asked what to do with the blood, the ser had told him to keep it on his person always.

“To remind you of what I’ve tasked you with. To remind you just how far you were willing to fall for love.”

He had the vial on him now and looked at it often. It hurt so much to scorn Elara, especially since many others were doing the same. The tale of her and Balon’s corpse had spread throughout the army. Harry no longer tried to woo her and he rarely saw anyone around Elara except for the Sand Snakes.

It was even harder to keep from slipping into Summer’s skin. Elara had helped him improve at skinchanging and, to Bran, becoming the wolf meant betraying the ser’s command.

It’s so hard though, he lamented, I can’t control my dreams.

I don’t want to either… it was my dreams that told me about Arya’s sword.

When he found Bronze Jon near a line of horses, his friend was still wearing the slim sword. The one bearing a mark that Bran knew well, that of Mikken, Winterfell’s blacksmith. He had a hazy memory of Arya holding such a sword, in a forest he thought to be the Wolfswood. How it ended up with some iron reaver in the Reach Bran was not sure. All he could do was hope that somehow, his sister would show up somewhere too. Alive and well.

“Just take it.” Bronze Jon said, the squire having caught Bran looking at the blade. “Really, Bran. You think this is your sister’s sword so I’m not going to fight you for it. I bet if I said you were holding my father’s blade, you’d give it over.”

“No, you keep it.” He tried to smile. “It’s not mine anyways, it’s Arya’s. She hated when I would touch her things. I’ll let you get caught holding her sword.”

“I can handle some girl.” Bronze Jon smirked. “By the way, did you see the size of those feasting tents!? Robar said you could fit a small army in each one! We didn’t even have to set them up, imagine how long that took.”

“Awhile, but shut up a moment.” Bran suddenly remembering the arrangements for the feast.

“You shut up.”

“Shut up!” Bran fumed, grabbing at his head to keep from throttling his friend. “Lord Axell said only the Kingsguard can have blades at the feast. The king made him let us keep ours too!”

“We get to keep our swords? When lords and knights can’t!? Shit... people will see us and think of Kingsguard! Maybe Princess Arianne will notice… she caught me looking at her arse and blew me a kiss.”

“Jon-”

“She did! I swear it. With those pretty lips o’ hers… oh shit! That means Harry can’t have a sword either! I’m going to rub that in his stupid face! Sorry, Ser Hardung, don’t mind my blade-”

“Shut up! Where’s your knight?” Bran rolled his eyes. “Ser Oswell wants him and all the other Kingsguard in the castle.”

“Oh, I’ll go get him. I think he was looking for Ser Erren Florent, the knight that came to Summerhall for us. Robar and him were good friends, but I heard he got hurt in some fight…”

Bran listened a little while longer but left his friend soon after. He was eager to get a look at the inside of Brightwater Keep. The camp was bustling, the tents pressed up against the castle walls. He was almost run over by a cart of ale coming from the castle. His legs tripped up but he was saved from falling by the arms of another.

Elara’s arms.

“Be careful, Bran.” She said in bland way, even though she looked anything but. Her dark hair hung loose about her lavender gown, the feel of her hands on him almost as exciting as the bare skin of her shoulders.

“Thank you.” He made to leave but she held him firm. “I have to go Elara. The ser is waiting for me-”

“In the castle.” Elara whispered. “I know. Winter is there already. I am here and there. Aegon and Rhaenys are eating bread and salt.”

“Pray, excuse me my lady.” Bran tried again. “I’m on the Lord-Commander’s business.”

“You always are.” Elara spoke sadly, her eyes and fingers moving to his eye patch, running over the leather in a soothing way.

He jerked back all the same. “Don’t.”

“I understand.” Elara sighed, finally releasing him and stepping back. “You never gave me the blood because you think the worst of me. You think my hands filthy with the dead. That’s what everyone says now. How I dig up corpses. Drink their blood. Bathe in it. Some say I even make love to them…”

“Stop.” Bran felt horrible then. “None of that’s true… it’s just rumors.”

It must be.

“I thought you must believe them. You stay away like the others.” Elara looked so sad that Bran almost went to her then. Almost. “Did I go too far at Highgarden? I told you why I had to. I didn’t want to do that. It’s like when you would run and I would fly. You liked that, didn’t you? I wasn’t a monster then.”

Elara knelt before him, the red ruby of her necklace so bright that he focused on that instead of her eyes. If he looked into her eyes he would be lost. He should have fought it when she pulled him close, her arms wrapping around him, her lips pressing against the top of his head.

But he couldn't.

“I remember, Bran. All that you did for me. I’m so sorry.” Elara's hands moved away from his back to clutch at the front of his tunic. “What we learned together, about what we are, it’s so much more than what Marwyn taught me. I learn what I can from the flames so that we can be safe. Safe and free to run like wolves. To fly like ravens. That’s what matters. What we can do together. I want to teach you how to fly-”

“I don’t want to fly.” He pushed away from her, remembering what Oswell had commanded of him. “I want to be a knight. A true knight, like the ser. Not some thief who steals blood and-and lies all the time. To bring shame to-”

Bran stopped there but Elara still cringed like she'd been slapped. Her face was paling while his felt like it was on fire. People were passing them by, shooting them strange glances. It was surely a strange sight, a lady kneeling before a one-eyed squire.

Bran suddenly realized that he and Elara weren't even friends anymore. The gap between them was too big, their worlds too far apart, and he moved to widen that gulf despite all his thoughts telling him otherwise.

“I’m sorry, Lady Dayne. I spoke poorly.” Bran looked to the ground, anywhere but at her. “I must be going, I have duties.”

“As do I.” Elara rose, stiffly. “Forgive me, Bran. I pray one day that you will. Guard those you care about in your own way. I’ll do the same.”

Elara was gone then, disappearing into a press of Dornishmen and other warriors. A part of him wanted to chase after her. Another half was already chasing something. He could feel it. His hunt was nearing an end. He felt angry and hungry all at once.

He wanted blood.

He shook that away.

I want to be a knight, Kingsguard, not a wolf.

To guard the king, not hunt after... after...

Blood.

Bran reached down into his pockets, padding and searching them for the vial of Balon Greyjoy’s blood but it was gone. Taken.

Elara now had what she wanted.

 

ARYA

“This is a night for blood.”

Grimtongue shook Lorren’s shoulder, both reavers grinning to heft up their axes at the ready. Through the darkness, Arya could see scores of warriors readying themselves of battle all up and down the length of the Black Wind. Men on the Warrior Wyk and the Sea Bitch were probably doing the same.

The three longships were making careful progress up the Honeywine. The river at this point was wide but lazy, easier for the rowers to ply. They made little noise, and even that was drowned out by the sounds of merriment beyond the riverbank. A large camp was pressed along the castle’s imposing gate and Arya thought she could make out thousands of tents but several giant ones stood out more. Not only because of their size, but how much activity was centered around them. The kind of shouting and singing she heard reminded her of when father and mother had welcomed guests to Winterfell.

Winterfell was burnt and ruined now. A place of death. Not like Brightwater Keep.

The castle stood as a shadowy giant against the evening sky. Its towers blocked out the stars, none more so than the massive keep overlooking the river. That was where the Florents would be hosting King Aegon, perhaps right now. Bran was probably winning them all over with his happy ways and tales of climbing.

She focused on one of the high levels of the keep. One with windows that seemed brighter than all the others. They almost acted as replacements for the stars that the fortress hid from view.

The wicked, curved dagger in her hand was a poor replacement for Needle. Wide and heavy, it felt like a sharpened chunk of metal. Hagen had laughed to give it to her.

“If it comes to you using that, it won’t matter. We’ll all be dead and you soon with us.”

A lie veiled in truth that the fool doesn’t know he’s telling, Domeric's voice rang in her mind.

All of the reavers might die tonight but not me.

They’ll die because of me.

Water was lapping lightly in the bucket by her feet. She cared more for what was inside, the horn that she’d smuggled away from Six-Toed Harl. That would be her real weapon this night.

Still, Arya wished she had Needle.

“Water.” A hoarse voice begged of her.

Old Olan sat bound and beaten, leaning against the rail. His weathered face was cut and bruised, his hands tied together in front of him. He was lucky to still have any fingers. After Olan had told Asha all he knew, Grimtongue and Ralf kept working him over. They said just to be sure, but when they made to cut away his fingers Asha put a stop to things.

Olan didn’t act like he’d been spared. He’d wept when they began his torture and wept still when he betrayed his home. Now he looked ready to weep again at the sight of Brightwater.

“Please, child.” Olan begged again. “Some water…”

She nodded and was soon kneeling beside the old steward, holding a skin of water to his cracked lips. He drank greedily, like a younger man would. Yet the water upset him in time, for he sobbed suddenly, spilling on them both.

“I’m sorry.” Olan hung his head low. “I’m so sorry… the taste… by the seven, the waters here taste like summer itself… and I guide evil across them.”

“It’s alright.” She lied, offering him the water again. “They would’ve kept hurting you. Worse and worse. You did your best. Better than many knights and warriors they’ve caught before.”

“I love my home.” Olan blinked back tears. “When Ser Axell sent me away, I thought my life was at its worst. How wrong I was… years and years of serving House Florent, only to betray them… to betray King Aegon….”

He ran his hands over his face and pressed his knuckles against the sides of his head. None were paying attention to her, so Arya sat down beside Olan, nudging him gently.

“You didn’t betray anyone. Not really. These people, they make you do things you’d never do. They make you help them steal, help them kill. Don’t let them beat you. Survive, make it through, then maybe one day, things will be better than they were.”

You might get a chance to hurt them back. To save some lives.

To find your family.

Olan stared at her for a moment. “Your accent, you’re not from the Iron Islands.”

“I’m from the North. They captured me after Theon Turncloak murdered Robb Stark.”

“The Young Wolf.” Olan spoke in admiration. “We had some tales of him, even here in the south. A crippled lordling leading a valiant defense of his lands, fighting despite his wounds. I thought such the mark of a brave man. Ser Axell thought differently… one of the many things we disagreed on.”

“Robb was brave.” Arya snapped.

She kept grief from her voice but feared to speak more of her family, lest the feelings overwhelm her. Silence fell between them then. Other sounds filled the gap. The boat rocking and swaying. The rowers. The soft clanging of steel as men readied their weapons. The camp growing closer.

Olan could only abide it for so long.

“I often wondered what it would be like to serve a brave lord.” He said suddenly, confusing Arya.

“I thought you liked the Florents.”

“I do. I love House Florent. It’s not proper of me to say so, but I counted Lord Alester as my friend. We grew up together, swam races across this river. He would never admit to how many I won but I was always the stronger swimmer… I can still outlast many of the castle youngfolk.”

“Really? But you’re so old.” She frowned at the old man whole nearly smiled.

“Old but able, that’s what Lord Alester would say. He was a smart man, a fair one, with great hopes for his family. The Florents have blood of the Gardener kings and my lord thought the realm had forgotten their greatness. I wish I could say it was for bravery that he rallied to meet the rebel stormlords. Alas, my lord was more ambitious than brave. His son as well. They died trying to prove themselves to our new king.”

Olan sighed sadly and drank of the water again.

“Ser Axell, Lady Selyse, Ser Colin, they called my lord and his son fools for going. After what happened with Delena, they had little love for King Aegon or Princess Rhaenys. They said such vile things about them… ugly slander. Horrible rumors. Ser Erren and I tried to have Axell honor Lord Alester's last wishes, to heed the royal call to arms but it only hardened them against me. I thought it would get better after Ser Axell was named lord, but he still sent me away…”

“Axell sounds like an idiot.”

“Perhaps... but even a lord such as Axell should not be made to suffer this disgrace I bring upon him.” Olan shook his head. “Helping the Greyjoys… helping murderers and cutthroats into my home… aiding them in killing my king… seven save King Aegon.”

Not the seven. Me.

She turned to watch Asha as she strode along the deck. Whether it was checking her men’s armor and weapons, or repeating the plan to make sure all understood, there was no detail that Asha didn't personally oversee.

Including the attack on the castle itself.

“There’s a blind spot.” She’d pointed down at Olan's map of the castle with a knife. “Where a turret juts out a bit too far and blocks the view of the guard towers watching the river. Apparently that’s where the Florent guardsmen take to fucking serving girls.”

Steffarion Sparr laughed at that. “Imagine if there was a pair going at it when we climb that wall!”

“They wouldn’t be the last ones to get fucked tonight.” Lorren jested but Asha put a stop to that soon enough.

“We get in good and close, wait until its late, when the castle is good and drunk. I wager we can fit three ships into this spot. We use grappling hooks and ropes to get over the wall. Then we split off. Sparr crew heads for the main gate. Take it and keep those iron bars down for as long as you can. We’ll have enough fight without a whole army coming after us. The Sea Bitch’s crew guards our escape route.”

“Like any of us are going to survive this.” Grimtongue had grumbled, earning an evil look from Asha.

“I’ll gladly trade you for a corpse, Grim, if it means we kill King Aegon, I’ll even slit your throat myself. Though I’d rather have you beside me, doing what you do best. Killing any green landers that stand between the Black Wind and its prize. The King of the Seven Kingdoms, his head at my feet.”

Asha’s plan was certainly brave. The ironborn claimed her plan was a mixture of boldness and madness. Yet none balked when she began gathering the fiercest warriors from the armada onto the Black Wind. They were to get within the main keep and fight their way to the king. Asha pegged her hopes on the castle barracks being nearer to the landward walls and that many enemies would be asleep or too drunk to fight.

Olan was terrified it could be done. With the information he had given them, and surprise on their side, the ironborn might just murder the king.

Too bad for Asha this isn’t like Oldtown. I had to help her get through that city.

To reach Bran. To protect Osha.

Now Osha’s gone and Bran is here… and this wolf is going to howl.

As Arya hunkered down in the shadows with Olan, she couldn’t help but think of Ser Jaime then. He'd told her once to look to the shadows for threats. Asha would be smart to do so now. Instead the captain was bringing the longships to a stop, dropping anchor a safe distance from the still rowdy castle and camp. Her mind was set on murdering a king, Arya on saving one.

She would have to betray Asha and her crew to do it, but Arya figured her father would understand. No matter how kindly Asha treated her, the ironborn were thieves and killers. There was honor in meting out justice to them. Jaime would support her in this. She just kept repeating that to herself.

I know he would. Jaime knew that doing the right thing was always worth it in the end.

He’d act like a Kingsguard right now. He’d stop Asha and her killers.

He’s not here so I’ll save the king for him. Bran too. Maybe others…

She was helping Olan drink again when Ralf came over and roughly gagged the old man. They weren’t taking any chances that the steward might betray them, overlooking Arya entirely. When Ralf was gone, attention drifted away from their corner of the ship so Arya grabbed a tangle of rope and sat on a bench near the captive.

“Don’t try and speak. Or move too much.” She whispered to Olan as she pretended to practice her knots. “Just nod if you want to stop the Greyjoys.”

His eyes widened and he straightened up before thinking better of it and lowering his head again. He gave a small nod then.

“I can stop them. It might get us killed though. Understand?”

Olan stared at her long and hard, his eyes moving over her face in the caring way that Maester Luwin would whenever she hurt herself. In the end he nodded.

“When the reavers are over the wall, I’m going to blow a horn. It’s a loud one. The castle will hear it.”

The surprise would be gone then. She’d wake the sleeping castle and warn its defenders before Asha’s men could do what they needed. Olan was shocked once more but nodded all the same.

“After I do that, I’m jumping in the water. I’m diving low and swimming far…” Arya whispered in the hopes that she spoke truly. If she moved swiftly with the current, it might spare her the ironborn’s arrows. “I’ll be free of them. You too. Just jump as soon as you hear the horn. Swim far and fast.”

It would be good to save Olan. He was the kind of man father would like, loyal and honest. Something she wanted to be again. Suddenly at that thought, helping this old man became just as important as warning Aegon and reuniting with Bran.

The hope she’d inspired in Olan fell away abruptly. He raised his bound hands and shot a glance towards the ironborn. However good a swimmer he might be, with his hands tied he wouldn't make it far, and none of the ironborn were likely to untie him.

Arya smiled, setting aside the rope and standing up. Olan was confused as she began to walk by him when suddenly she stopped and jerked about.

“Fucker!” She cursed, just loud enough to grab the crew's attention. She lashed out and kicked Olan in the shin as he yelped in pain. “Grabbin’ my arse, you shit?”

Then she fell upon the old steward, smacking and punching while she growled curses at him. It felt horrible every time he groaned or grunted but thankfully it didn’t last.

“Shut it.” Asha yanked Arya back by her hair, pulling her away from Olan. “The fighting doesn’t come for awhile yet, little Nan!”

“Yeah, calm down.” Lorren smacked her soundly across the face. “You should take it as a compliment. Man’s about to die and he chose your arse as the last he’d ever grab.”

“Let him play with yours then.” She rubbed at her burning face but knew better than to tempt Lorren. He made to slap her again but Asha grabbed his hand.

“Save it for the dragons.” Asha growled. “There’ll be enough blood soon enough.”

As Arya skulked away, she shot Olan one last glare. The steward did not dare nod at her, instead his eyes hardened with resolve.

The scuffle was the best way to get in close and slip Olan the dagger without suspicion. She was unarmed now but it made little difference to her. Needle was the only blade she really wanted.

And the only weapon she needed tonight was the horn. So she settled in beside Asha, staring at Brightwater Keep.

Biding her time.

 

BRAN

“To King Aegon!”

Ser Colin Florent’s toast was followed by a hundred cups, rising toward the roof of the hall. Loud voices, filled with cheer and drunkenness, rose even higher. Aegon, who had just finished a dance with Lady Margaery, would not be outdone.

He snatched up a goblet. “To my betrothed, Lady Margaery Tyrell. Who I long to wed and crown as my queen!”

“May your children grow strong!” Renly added and again the hall took to toasting.

They cheered when Aegon bid Rhaenys into joining him for a dance. The princess accepted with a swish of her long silk skirts, then caused many to laugh when she avoided Aegon’s hands to straighten the crown of Aegon the Conqueror upon his brow. Aegon laughed as well before they began to dance. With him garbed in deep black and Rhaenys in red, the pair became a twirling mix of Targaryen colors.

It made a splendid sight for an already lively feast.

This hall was not as spacious as others he'd seen, but wherever Bran looked he saws signs of wealth. Ser Robar had jested that Axell was going to go into debt holding such a lavish celebration. The many trestle tables ringing the room were full of food and wine, and the ale never stopped flowing. A huge boar roasted over a glowing pile of coals, its dripping grease sending flames licking into the air. Along the walls hung the banners of their hosts and the royal family, yet they were also adorned with many murals as well. Most were of knights battling in brave duels or of beautifully painted foxes, for which this hall earned its name. One of the foxes stood feasting over a fallen hare, its fangs bared.

The Fox Den it was called, it took up a whole floor on one of the higher levels of Brightwater Keep. Earlier Bran had taken in a view from its tall windows, marveling at the brightness of the Honeywine’s waters, which flowed directly below the keep. From another window he'd viewed the king’s camp, which had started their own celebration just before dusk. Bronze Jon swore he could make out men singing a Dornish drinking song just before servants had shuttered the hall windows. Lord Axell hadn’t wanted the noise from without interrupting their festivities, which included his own musicians on a raised dais.

“This music is bloody horrible.” Bronze Jon scowled at the band’s poor playing. “Sounds like a lord on the privy after eating some Dornish peppers.”

“That’s disgusting.” He said, despite agreeing with his friend. “Be quiet, Jon. The king looks happy and so do the Florents. The band must be doing something right.”

“Maybe it gets better the drunker you are.” The squire scratched his head, gesturing to Harry Hardyng. “Or the dumber.”

Harry was certainly enjoying himself as he danced with Delena Florent, the third time he'd done so by Bran’s count. There was a lack of highborn ladies here at Brightwater, so what few were in attendance were quite popular. Margaery allowed Lord Daeron Vaith the honor of her next dance, while Arianne partnered with the Grandison heir. All of Margaery’s ladies had partners and most of the Sand Snakes as well. Tyene Sand was being led by Ser Imry Florent and Lady Nym had Lord Franklyn Fowler laughing.

There were only three ladies without partners. Lady Selyse watched the celebration from her seat beside Lord Axell at the high table, her nose upturned in disapproval. Obara Sand watched her sisters dance about, trading a word or two with Uncle Benjen as he filled her goblet. The warrior woman was not dressed for dancing anyway, having worn a tan tunic and riding breeches to the feast.

Obara still managed to look like she was having a better time than Elara, who also stood watching the revelry all by herself. None had asked her to dance, even though she looked lovely in her gown. It was as deep blue as her eyes. Bran almost wanted to ask her for a dance, in a fit of madness, until he looked to her bronze necklace and was reminded of all her lies.

I bet she already used the blood to look into the flames. I hope it was worth it.

She’s got not one to blame for being alone but herself…

Earlier, Sarella Sand had kept Elara company, but she departed when Oberyn and Darkstar did. The two men had traded one too many barbs with the Florent knights so Rhaenys had begged a boon of them. Bran had overheard the princess and the viper’s hushed conversation. Ser Richard had yet to return from his patrol, and she asked that her uncle help track down her favorite Kingsguard.

“It’s about time you sent me away from here.” Oberyn had smirked and kissed Rhaenys’s cheek. “I’ve been acting an arse all night so that you or Aegon could win some esteem with your hosts. It’s one of Doran’s favorite tricks, the grass and the snake. Did he never tell you?”

“By the seven, uncle.” Rhaenys had laughed. “Didn’t you chide me at Summerhall for keeping my arrangements hidden? Was Darkstar in on this as well?”

“No, the man’s just a shit. I’ll keep him in line and find your wayward knight. You keep a bottle of Dornish red ready for my return.”

While Prince Oberyn might have been performing a mummery, there was no doubt some amount of tension left the hall with him. Ser Oswell appeared almost at peace as the white-armored knight walked about the hall. He was being pestered again by Ser Hosman Norcross, who was in service to the Florents. The knight wanted to share a drink with the famed Oswell Whent and trade war stories, something the ser scowled at.

“If you want stories go seek Orys’s nursemaid.” The ser spoke brusquely. “The little lord is likely sleeping, so you’ll have her all to all to yourself.”

“Share a cup with me then!” Ser Hosman chuckled. “Just one cup, ser. So I can say I drank with the Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“Keep this up and you can brag about me beating you senseless.” The ser growled. “That was me being polite. Do not tempt me into becoming rude.”

The Norcross knight retreated after that and Bran cursed him for putting the ser in foul spirits before he came upon the boys.

“Hey! Fool Royce.” The ser snapped at Jon, who raised his hands in fear.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You did something, I’m sure of it. Go and fetch the other Kingsguard. Now.”

That left Bran alone under the withering gaze of his mentor. He had been extra careful in dressing for the feast. He wore his cleanest doublet, the one with a direwolf over the heart that his mother had sewn in. His boots were polished and his sword belt and sheath were well oiled. It was his short sword that Ser Oswell focused on.

“You’ve had no wine?” The knight asked over the horrible playing of the minstrels. “I’ll not have you getting stupid with drink and baring steel.”

“No, ser. Not one drop.”

“Good lad.” The ser said as he took in the revelers. “There’s got to be some clear minds in this hall. We're just asking for trouble by putting this many drunks and Dornishmen in a room together.”

The other Kingsguard arrived then, laughing loudly amongst themselves. Ser Loras and Ser Robar were smiling as the Vale knight kept a struggling Bronze Jon in his tight embrace, while Ser Daemon sipped of his wine behind them.

“Come now, Oswell!” Ser Robar freed Bronze Jon while Loras mussed with the squire’s hair. “If there’s any trouble here tonight, it’s the right kind.”

“We’re here to stand watch, not take part.” Ser Oswell gestured to their goblets, causing to Ser Loras to lift his and bow.

“Take heart, Lord-Commander. This is my first and only drink, King Aegon insisted on the one.” Loras drew their gaze to where Aegon and Rhaenys danced together. “He said even the Sword of Morning would partake from time to time.”

“Our Florent hosts would be offended.” Daemon added with a nod to Ser Colin, who was now speaking with Benjen. “It was the knight there that filled my cup. A rare thing for a Reacher to treat a Dornish bastard so well.”

“You’re more than a bastard, Daemon. You’re Kingsguard.” Robar clinked his goblet against Daemon’s but lost his cheer when Ser Oswell grabbed his cup.

“Exactly right, you’re Kingsguard. Look at what you just missed.”

The ser drew their attention to where Margaery stood with her arms extended, wine staining the front of her dress. A Florent knight was apologizing with an upturned cup in his hand while Renly was checking himself for similar stains.

“There. What if that cup had been a blade instead of wine? Our king instead of a lady? You did not take our vows to drink, you swore them to protect the royal family. Warrior save me, why is Bran here the only one who sees the sense in staying sober?”

“I’m sober!” Bronze Jon stood proudly, hand on top of his slim sword. “I haven’t had any wine, ser. Ready to serve!”

“Seven hells.” The ser put a hand to his face. “Even the Royce lad is earning my praise now. For shame.” Oswell shook his head at his brothers then. “No. More. Wine. That’s an order. Get to your corners and watch these squires patrol the room, as you should be.”

Ser Robar grumbled but did as he was told while Ser Daemon departed in his silent way. Loras was the only one still in good spirits, likely because Renly awaited him at his corner. When Bran and Bronze Jon began their walk about the room, they were nearly trampled by Lady Margaery and her ladies. A Florent steward was leading them off so the wine-soaked lady could change and return to the feast.

The dancing went on for a while but, with fewer ladies, there were fewer partners moving about. Bronze Jon was all smiles as he walked the hall, acting as a Kingsguard. He was even so bold as to nod at Princess Arianne as she considered between four different dancing partners. Even with the one eye, Bran caught the wink that the Dornish princess sent his friend’s way.

“Oh pleeeeeaase tell me you saw that.” The squire asked desperately. “You had to see that!”

“I didn’t see a thing.” Bran lied and tapped his eye patch. “I’ve got only one eye and it’s staying on the king.”

He was telling the truth about the last part. While his friend complained and jested, Bran remained focused on Aegon. The king alternated between dancing and speaking with his lords and knights. With Margaery gone, and Renly jesting with Loras, Aegon and Rhaenys were constant dance partners. By Bran’s guess, in the next hour they'd shared the floor no less than four times, their smiles growing wider each time.

Yet something felt wrong. With each passing moment he was growing tense. Anxious. Everywhere around him was joy and merriment but he felt the room growing darker. Fouler.

A glance to the highest torches showed them burning brightly still. Then he caught sight of something in the rafters. A flurry of movement among the shadows. White wings.

Winter… that’s what’s bothering me… Elara’s up to something…

She’s cast some spell.

He scanned the room and found Elara and Benjen speaking in one corner. Without a moment of hesitation he made his way to them. A deep feeling of anger and fear was building up inside him. The pair were still talking when he came upon them.

“I appreciate the offer, ser.” Elara said with downcast eyes. “But my place is here for now. Not in the North.”

“If you say so. I had to ask though Elara. Whatever truths or lies are told in this world, know that Winterfell will always have a place for you while I’m there-”

“What did you do?” Bran asked hotly when he arrived, surprising both Elara and Benjen. “I want to know what you did with it! Right now!!”

“Bran, show some manners.” Uncle Benjen spoke sharply but Elara stopped any further criticism.

“Do not worry, ser. It's Bran who was wronged… might I have a moment alone with him?”

Benjen gave them that, but not before giving Bran a disappointed look. He didn’t care. He was sure something was wrong now. His mind was screaming with it.

“What did you do with the blood?” He hissed at Elara. “What spell did you cast?”

“None.” She spoke softly, pulling at her hair. “I’m sorry I took it… when I saw you had the vial, there wasn’t any choice. Not really… but I haven’t used the blood yet. I didn’t have time. It’s with m-”

“Liar. You’re lying again. I may only have one eye but I see you, Elara Dayne. I see what you are. I know you did something. I can feel it.”

“I’m not lying, not about this.” Elara frowned in confusion. Or perhaps worry. “What do you mean? What do you feel?”

The stream of feelings flowing through his mind were so intense that he struggled to put them to words. A shout from behind him caused Bran to jump. His hand was at his sword when he turned to see Princess Arianne pawing at her gown. Delena Florent had spilt her wine and the princess’s dress was stained red.

Red like blood.

“Bran.” Elara's pulled his hand away from his sword and forced him to face her. “Tell me what’s going on. You’re as pale as a sheet.”

“I thought… you didn’t do anything? You swear?”

“If there’s lying going on tonight, it’s not being done by me.” Elara narrowed her eyes at Delena, who was now speaking in a corner with her father, Ser Colin. “I’ve been watching her all night. Winter and I both. Her smiles are all false. Every single one. She was careless when she smiled at Renly. Delena hates him. I don’t trust-”

“Hey!” Bronze Jon came up to him breathless and all smiles. “King Aegon wants to know what’s keeping Lady Margaery, so he’s sending me to find out! I’m going to escort Arianne on the way! Thank the gods for clumsy Florents!”

“Ask Ser Oswell first.” He reached for his friend but Jon was already rushing towards Arianne. The squire whipped about laughing and shot him a wink.

“Sorry, Bran! I’m about the king’s business!”

A moment later, both Bronze Jon and the Dornish princess left the hall. Delena soon made for the door as well. When Harry tried to take her hand for a dance, she jerked away, her face flashing in fear. Harry backed off and let the lady continue out of the thick double doors, followed soon after by several of the serving women.

“That’s not right.” Elara said before bending down to peck his cheek. “I’m going to go and find out what she's up to. If you think something is off, I bet that it’s her. I trust you, Bran. If you can see anything, see that…”

He barely heard the last of her words, having sprinted away. He didn't mean to offend her but he needed to find the ser. That what’s he needed to do.

Get back to the ser. Get back.

You have to get back. They’re coming… they’re coming…

He had no idea who they were but he knew whose foot he trampled in his haste.

“Watch it!” Harry snapped as Bran flew by, bumping into Tyene as well. He caught a glimpse of Elara leaving the hall as he pushed his way through the crowd. Voices were rising in anger at him and Ser Oswell was furious when Bran stood before him.

“Stop acting a fool.” The ser grabbed his shoulders, squinting at Bran’s face. “Have you been drinking? What's wrong?”

“There’s danger.” Bran tried to put his feelings to words. “I’m scared…”

“Scared of what?” Oswell’s face softened some. “I saw you talking to Lady Dayne. Did she threaten you?”

“What?! No! Not Elara!”

Bran looked about in a panic, trying to name his terror. He saw people dancing. Aegon and Rhaenys were still laughing and twirling. Foxes were hunting on the walls. Lord Axell raised a hand to his minstrels. Selyse was smiling.

Selyse was smiling.

There was no warmth to that smile. Only bared teeth. Like the fox feeding in the mural.

The sight horrified him.

That's when the drums started. The minstrels beating them far too loudly.

BOOM-BOOM BOOM BOOM  

BOOM-BOOM BOOM BOOM

Their pounding filled his ears. His heart grew heavy. He couldn’t hear anything else.

Then he was somewhere else.

Outside the castle, running through the dewy grass and black night nearest the camp. The pounding of the drums reached him all the way out here.

Almost as loud as the hooves beating the ground behind him. He'd been hunting them for days. Now he was the hunted.

Not far behind him were hundreds of armored men on horseback. They rode in a long, terrible line. Swords, spears, all sorts of man tools for killing. The steel glinted in the light from the camp.

BOOM-BOOM BOOM BOOM

A monster led the men. A massive, armored creature with a metal fist upon his helmet and hounds on his tunic. Near to him rode the white-cloaked man he hated so much. The one whose scent started this hunt. The man who hurt them.

Now the hunt was over and he needed to run. Back to the ser. To the castle.

BOOM-BOOM BOOM BOOM

He had to warn the men in the camp, for his ears told him that they were lost to joy rather than fear. When he broke over a hill and neared the tents, he saw many men already ready to fight.

Thousands of men donning fox tunics and pulling blades, moving between the smaller tents towards the larger ones. Some tried to stab at him when he darted past. They raised no blades against the coming of the riders though. The monster and his men were welcomed by the foxes.

BOOM-BOOM BOOM BOOM

A strange whooshing sound broke free from one of the tents, and he watched as the cloth roof collapsed down on the hundreds of allies within. Shouts of rage and terror soon rose up into the night as more tents fell. Others began to ring with screams and the clashing of steel.

The foxes were armored and ready. Their prey was shocked and confused.

Some men rushed from the smaller tents to arm themselves only to be cut down by flaming arrows. High up along the stone walls above them, hundreds of archers readied to unleash hell upon the defenseless men below.

BOOM-BOOM BOOM BOOM

Tents were burning now. Thousands of foxes and riders tearing through the camp. Killing anyone they came across.

Coming to kill him.

BOOM-BOOM BOOM BOOM

The drums pounded louder than ever. Bran was back in the hall now, leaving Summer as he fell under attack. He was being attacked as well, Oswell shaking him with worry etched across the ser’s face. When Bran’s eyes focused on the knight, the ser exhaled in relief.

“Shit lad, you were having a fit.” Oswell said while wincing at the drumming. “These minstrels are bad but they’re not that… no, they are that bad. This is the worst rendition of the Rains of Castamere I’ve ever heard. They’ll earn the ire of Tywin Lannister himself-”

“Oswell!” Aegon called over, leaving Rhaenys’s side to approach them. “What’s going on there?”

“The camp!” Bran shouted, ripping away from his mentor and running towards a shuttered window.

Ser Hosman tried to grab his arm but Oswell knocked the knight aside. The drumming had stopped by the time Bran threw off the wooden bar and wrenched the shutters open. The horrors that Summer had shown him were plain to the hall then.

The camps were aflame. Under attack from the castle walls and the Florent army. The smell of smoke and the sounds of screaming reached them even this far up.

When he turned, Ser Oswell was standing there, the flames reflected in his eyes.

“AEGON!”

Nightfall was in Oswell’s hands before Bran could reach for his sword. Aegon stopped midstride and gaped at his sworn defender.

Then the king stumbled and shouted in agony. Aegon’s cry mingled with Rhaenys’s scream as he clawed desperately at the bolt sticking in his side. The minstrels had tossed aside their instruments to raise up crossbows. Weapons they now loosed with abandon.

Oswell backhanded him suddenly. His world was sent spinning, but he still felt the bolt as it sailed a hair away from his head. A moment later Bran was tossed below a table, safe from the barrage.

Others weren’t so lucky. He saw Ser Robar take a bolt right through the throat, tumbling over a bench to lay dead. Ser Daemon was struck twice before he fell trying to reach Aegon. The king collapsed after a second bolt took him in the leg, and Rhaenys was hit in the shoulder while running to him.

“Aegon!” Rhaenys screamed when she hit the ground. “Mercy! MERCY!”

Across the hall, the Florents were falling upon the royal party with utter ruthlessness. They pulled daggers hidden on their persons, or swords and maces from behind the banners. Ser Imry cut down Franklyn Fowler before the old man even had time to raise a hand in defense. Uncle Benjen threw off a serving man, only for Colin Florent to hit the back of his head with a wooden club. Quentyn pulled the iron spit free from the boar, and jumped over the coals to slash at knight who was making for Obara’s back. The blow did not fell the Florent man, whose tunic tore away displaying the mail he wore beneath.

“Oh.” Prince Quentyn spoke in surprise before the knight kicked him into the cooking pit. He landed in the hot coals and was engulfed in flames.

Over his screams and many others, Axell was bellowing commands to his men.

“Renly! Get Renly! I want that deviant dead!”

Lord Renly was under attack by two men when one cut into his arm, spraying the air with his blood. When they moved in for the kill, both men met their ends by Ser Loras’s blade. The young knight threw Renly over a table, leaving himself to face the foe.

“Highgarden!” Loras shouted as he leapt at the men challenging him. They simply moved aside and let the crossbowmen do their work for them.

A bolt took the Knight of Flowers square in the chest, bringing him to a startled halt. Loras was staring down at the fletching when Ser Imry gripped him by his curling brown hair and slit his throat wide open, spilling blood over his handsome armor.

Loyal men were falling left and right. The three Sand Snakes were battling to reach the doors, Obara wielding a torch like a spear when the doors swung open. The doorway filled with armored newcomers, and Bran held hope that help had arrived.

Until one crimson clad man drove a poleaxe right into Obara’s stomach.

“Traitors!” Oswell shouted in rage as he battled. He drove Nightfall through Ser Hosman’s gut and raised it in threat against the short, jowly-looking knight that led the reinforcements. “Amory Lorch! You son of a pig fucker!!”

“The Kingsguard were to fall first! You promised us!” Amory Lorch complained in a shrill voice before waving his men forward. “Kill him, kill him, kill him! U-unless he yields!”

Bran had his sword in hand and was about to crawl out from under the table, when the ser met his gaze.

“Stay where you are!” The Kingsguard knight looked as if he was warning his attackers, but Bran knew the words were for him. “You don’t have to die here! You can live! You can be better! I know you can! Heed me! One last time!”

Bran’s eye was brimming with tears to watch Lorch’s men close in on his ser. Oswell fought bravely. He fought like Bran always pictured knights should. The beauty of his Valyrian steel blade paled in comparison to the ser's bravery. The fiends could not bring down the Kingsguard knight whole. The ser made them take him piece by piece.

When he fell, the knight’s leg was hacked to shreds. His left arm was gone. Half his face was cleaved away, one eye and an ear lost as well. It was his remaining eye that sought Bran’s.

As the axe came crashing down, Ser Oswell Whent, Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard, had a smile on his lips.

 

ARYA

She stared in horror at the carnage along the river shore.

One moment Brightwater Keep was shaking the world with loud drums. The next, thousands of men were being murdered before her eyes.

The longships had been sneaking up the river, creeping closer to the castle, when the celebration in the royal camp went sideways.

“Fuck. They’ve seen us.” Lorren had cursed when they saw the lines of men forming. “We best turn back now.”

“Just wait.” Asha had commanded, peering at the camp in disbelief. “If we’ve been discovered, why do they face toward the camps?”

The horrible truth was revealed when hundreds of cavalry charged out of the black of night. They rode freely into the camp, and death came with them. The giant tents tumbled down suddenly. The flaming arrows followed after. The gates rose, and more armored riders came from within the castle to turn the Targaryen camp into a flaming hell.

There were thousands of men fighting for their lives. Just as many trying to flee for the same reasons. It didn’t matter. They weren't ready. Their enemy was.

The Targaryens were betrayed.

No! Not them! It was supposed to be Asha’s men!

The betrayal was going to be mine!

“What do we do cap’n?” Grimtongue asked as the ships drew closer to the castle. “I mean, it’s a sure bet that no one’s going to be watching the river walls now… but if this is happening out here-”

“It’s probably happening in there too.” Asha nodded, pointing up to Brightwater Keep, to a part where one lonely light still shined where the feast was meant to be. “I came to see Aegon Targaryen dead… and I think someone else beat us to it.”

“You can’t know that!” Arya argued. “The king could be alive! All the people with him could be fine!”

She told herself that Bran wasn’t in the camp. That he was in the castle, far from all the killing. The horn was forgotten. Betraying the ironborn didn't matter. Now she wanted them to succeed in their attack, if only so she could get into the castle.

“Nan’s right.” Asha declared. “I want a closer look. I want to know that my father’s murderer has met his end. Bring us as close as you can.”

Bring me closer still. All the way there. All the way to Bran.

She regretted handing her knife away now. If there was a fight coming she would need a weapon. The longships were pulling closer to the castle, passing the slaughter among the tents and the burning Targaryen banners. Men burned as well, some running towards the river, only to fall long before reaching it.

If Bran could reach the river he’d be safe. She’d be here.

Don’t worry little brother. I’m coming.

I’ll save you.

 

BRAN  

The hall was quieting now. The constant sounds of fighting and killing were falling away. That made Rhaenys’s voice ring out all the clearer.

“Enough! My lord! Enough!”

Her pained cry tore Bran away from the grisly sight of Oswell’s body. The princess had been dragging herself across the floor, trying to reach Aegon’s fallen form. The king was still alive, struggling to crawl out from beneath the corpses of Symon Santagar and Emmon Cuy.

“Hold!” Axell rose from his seat, his hand up to the crossbowmen. “The royal whore wishes to speak.”

Rhaenys climbed shakily to her feet, clutching the bolt in her arm and looking fearfully at the ring of killers surrounding her.

“End this…” Rhaenys pleaded. “There’s still a chance-”

“A chance for what?” Axell gestured about the hall at the carnage his men had wrought. “Speak up, I don’t think so of your men can quite hear you.”

The hall was silent of all sound except for Axell's laughs at his own jest and Aegon's struggles.

“I take it you wish to offer me something? Another bargain perhaps?” He finally asked.

“Anything!” Rhaenys pleaded. “Anything, my lord! Spare Aegon and whatever you want is yours! Take me even, I don't care, just spare my brother! Allow him to walk free from this castle!”

“Not so high and mighty now.” Axell snarled. “You were so proud then... smiling when you dragged my family’s name through the mud! All for the sake of that boy buggerer! So you could have a husband to hide your abomination!!”

“Disgusting.” Lady Selyse hissed. “You take your own brother into your bed! You take wives away from husbands! You take castles from good men... you violate all the laws of the gods, and then expect them to protect you now? Filth. That's all you are.”

Rhaenys was shaking in either fury or fear when she suddenly became very still. A sound was coming from the corridor that made Bran’s hair stand on end. A noise that grew closer with each passing moment.

The wails of a babe.

“Orys...” Rhaenys choked out as a party of men appeared in the doorway.

Their leader barely fit below the arch. Eight feet tall, massive in muscle and armored in thick plate, the monstrous beast wielded a gore encrusted greatsword with only one hand. As terrifying as he appeared, the smaller knight to his side made Bran recoil beneath the table. Preston Greenfield threw his white cloak over his shoulder as he sneered down at the corpse of Oswell.

“Is that Whent? He’s never looked better.”

Bran held back his bile and rage. The tiny bundled form of Orys Bartheon was held in the arms of a blood spattered man-at-arms, who handled the wailing babe like a sack, shooting the child an ugly look at the constant noise.

“Honestly, Polliver.” Preston muttered with a glance to Rhaenys. “Show some care, we wouldn’t want anything to happen to the king’s bastard.”

“Don’t hurt him...” Rhaenys was weeping now. “Please… hurt me if you have to. It was all me. All of it. Just don’t hurt them. I beg of you. Let them go.”

“No, Rhae.” Aegon flipped over onto his back with an anguished groan. His pained expression only deepened to see Orys. “Not again… not this time. Whatever you want of me… Ser Gregor… Lord Axell… spare my sister… spare her son…”

“We want your crown.” A deep voice echoed out from Ser Gregor’s helmet as he handed off his sword to a squire. His heavy steps thudded across the blood soaked floor as he came to stand over the king. “Get on your knees and hand it to me.”

The Mountain held his massive, gauntleted hands in front of Aegon's face. Men were snickering at how long it took the king to force his bleeding, broken body up to a kneeling position and he was trembling when he looked to Rhaenys, who watched all this with her arms outstretched, like she was cradling a babe to her once more. The king lifted his crown free and held it up for Gregor to take.

“I am yours.” Aegon said. “On my word as a king… whatever your master wants of me… it is his… just don’t hurt my family…”

“Not much of a king without a crown.” The Mountain boomed, handing off the crown to Preston. “Just some man now. Some man whose family I’ve been sent to kill.”

Aegon jerked back but the Mountain’s hands closed around the sides of his head like a whip. Massive thumbs drove into the king’s eyes, digging deep within and causing Aegon to unleash a bloodcurdling scream. Rhaenys was screaming too when the Mountain’s hands crushed Aegon’s head into bits of bone and brain.

“Noooooo!”

Rhaenys tore at her dress as she ran at the Mountain, her hands raised in idle threat. One that Amory Lorch met with his blade. He drove it up and through the princess’s middle before twisting the blade. Rhaenys cried in pain and rage, still managing to bring her nails down across the knight’s face. He cursed and pulled his blade free, stabbing Rhaenys again. Then again. And again. And again. And again.

Orys was wailing as his mother fell. Still Amory stabbed into Rhaenys’s body in a mad frenzy, the wet smacking sound of the princess's corpse barely heard over her son’s cries. Polliver held the baby up to look at Ser Amory's tiring thrusts, laughing.

“Gods, Lorch, she's dead.” Preston said with a shake of his head, inspecting Aegon's crown with a bored expression.

I won’t let them have the babe.

All attention was on Amory and the princess, so when Bran leapt out from beneath the table no one noticed. By the time they saw him, he already had a hold of Polliver’s tunic, his sword pressed against the monster's side.

“I’ll kill him!” Bran wept along with Orys, jabbing his sword so that Polliver grunted. “I swear I will! You murderers! Monsters! I’m taking the babe! You can’t have the babe!”

“That’s the Stark boy.” Axell frowned. “The winged wolf.”

“You again.” Preston said in surprise. “More like the one-eyed wolf. King Joffrey ordered me to wish you well. He was put out to miss this. Frankly, I had hoped you'd be dead by now, so I could finally put that whole nasty business with the Dayne bitch behind me.”

“Shut up! Joffrey’s no king! You’re no true knight!”

Elara wasn’t here. She got away. She had to.

He backed up towards the wall, pulling Polliver with him. The ser said to never let anyone get behind you. The Mountain hadn’t moved but all of his men were closing in, Preston in the lead.

“I said I’ll kill him!”

“Little fool.” Preston shook his head. “We just killed a king. What do we care about Polliver?”

Before Bran could answer, a lady’s voice spoke up over Orys’s cries and from behind the press of men.

“Spare him.” She spoke in a familiar way. “He’s just a boy. And he’s valuable.”

“Delena.” Axell grunted to the unseen lady. “You shouldn’t be here… what happened to you? Gods, what are you wearing?”

“The Dornish bastard attacked me, nuncle. She pulled a blade but I fought her off. She’s dead… and I liked her jewelry.”

“No.” Bran whispered the protest as Delena came into view.

Her dress was torn and had blood staining it all over. Around her neck she wore a bronze necklace, a ruby glowing red at its center. Elara’s necklace.

“No!!!” He screamed. “Why?!”

The men came for him then. Just like they had at Oswell. So, without truly thinking about it, Bran stabbed his blade into Polliver’s side and twisted. His mind was filled with Elara’s face. Her kind eyes. She had seen him through the pain. His blade was pulled away.

It was red. He would have to clean it.

The ser will be mad… I can’t have that.

Strong arms grabbed at him then. They were rough but his mother’s hands had always been gentle. Father too whenever he would toss him up into the air. These hands jerked him about in every direction. They pulled his eye patch away and he remembered Elara’s fingers running over it.

He wanted to hear her voice but couldn’t over the sounds of screaming. Polliver fell onto his back, Orys’s naked body sprawled across his chest. The babe was writhing and wailing but it was not Orys’s screams he was hearing.

It was his own.

He could hear distant voices too.

“He’s gone mad.”

“We only need the one Stark.”

“Spare him! Please!”

Wood creaked and he felt cold wind on his wet face.

“You called him the winged wolf? Let’s see if he can fly.”

“No!”

Yes. I want to fly. Elara was going to teach me.

Then no one was holding him. He was in the black world outside the keep, his body plummeting towards a moving abyss that grew closer and closer. The wailing was gone. Only the wind whistling in his ears.

No. Not whistling. Howling. A howling which called to him. A cawing as well.

Elara… Elara… watch me…

I’m flying.

When the end came it was cold and dark.

 

ARYA

“That’s it then. Let’s get out of here.”

Asha turned her back to Brightwater Keep and moved away from the bow. They were so close to the castle, Arya had heard the screams echoing down from the keep. Now the Black Wind was turning away from it. Away from Bran.

“You can’t be sure!” Arya grabbed Asha’s arm, forcing the captain to meet her glare. “There could be prisoners! Valuable people-”

The backhand was harsh, sending her back against the rail with blood filling her mouth. Asha then took hold of her shirt and jerked Arya about to face the castle.

“They’re throwing bodies from the windows you little fool!” Asha said, shaking her violently. “Whatever you’re trying to prove, don’t! I’ve no idea what kind of evil went down here but I won’t let us be swallowed up in it.”

“But-”

Asha hit her again and threw Arya down onto the deck. When she started crying, the crew probably thought it was because of the pain. They were partly right. Though she hurt more from turning away from Bran.

He was there. She’d heard Summer howling from the battle at the camp, she knew it for sure. Yet Summer had been quiet for awhile now. As quiet as the bodies in the river.

It didn’t matter how many dead bodies they saw floating in the water. Or that some had come plummeting down from the keep. Arya wouldn’t let Bran be dead. Not after all this.

When she raised her head from the deck, Asha had already moved on. The crew was snapping to her orders, the longships preparing to leave the scene of this great betrayal, one they’d played no part in.

Olan didn’t seem to take comfort in that though. He’d watched all this unfold with a deepening expression of disgust and pain. They’d had to take his gag off when he retched.

“Guest right.” The old man had moaned between heaves. “Guest right… how… they’ve forsaken the gods…”

Arya didn’t care about Olan’s shame anymore. Her pain was worse. Bran’s life was worth more. So when she was standing again, her goal was to get her knife back.

Get it and then press it against Asha’s thigh. Domeric said that’s a quick kill.

Tell her that. Tell her she’ll die that way unless she takes me to the castle.

To Bran.

“There goes another one.” Grimtongue laughed as he watched another shadow fall into the river. “I keep waiting for one to fly.”

Arya pushed past him, heading straight for Olan. She wasn’t surprised that his ropes were cut yet he kept his hands pressed together in mummery.

“A crime.” Olan whispered up to her. “A monstrous crime… how could they…”

“Give me my knife.”

“Why?” Olan blinked. “What good can it do you now?”

“I can save a life with it.” She rasped back. “I can save someone from this. I have to.”

Olan was still trying to make sense of her words when she heard the cry. This one was different than the screaming coming from Brightwater Keep. It was closer. Far closer than it could be if it came from the castle or the shore.

“Help!” The cry came again, bidding her to look to the river beyond the ship. “Help! Please!”

The voice belonged to a boy. A young boy. It was mingled in with too many different sounds for her to be sure that it was Bran. That didn’t matter though. Not when she saw the dark figure splashing about in the river as the current carried him by the ships. A body fighting to stay above the water.

“We have to save him.” Arya said to no one in particular but it was Asha who answered.

“Don’t be a fool. I told you, Nan. You can’t save everyone.”

“I can save this one.” She glared at Asha then, kicking off her boots at the captain defiantly. “Just because you couldn’t help your brother doesn’t mean I can’t help mine.”

Asha became livid at that and opened her mouth to shout but it was too late. Arya climbed up onto the rail and dived into the water in one fluid motion. The water was cold, far colder than she was ready for. The darkness of it was all around her as she kicked and worked her arms to carry herself beneath the surface.

Her lungs were burning by the time she sought air again. She was gasping, treading water to try and get her bearings as the river pulled her down. The longships were behind her. She hoped it was too far for her to be seen or an arrow to hit her. There were bodies in the water nearby but it was the floundering one she sought.

He wasn’t shouting anymore, just splashing and crying pitifully. Nor was he as far as he had been.

I’m coming, Bran. Just hold on. Please.

Don’t let me watch one of you die again.

Arya swam her hardest. Her arms and legs ached. The chill of the water made her chest feel tight. She couldn’t stop though. Not with hope so near.

The shadow was disappearing beneath the surface for longer and longer every moment. A terror crept up inside her. She’d be right there and Bran would be lost to her. He’d sink below and drown with her right above him.

The boy was only moments away and he looked like he was going to sink again.

“I’m here!” She cried. “Bran! Bran! It’s Arya!”

“Arya?” A choked reply came back before he was lost under the water.

She dove below, frantically waving her arms about. Everything was black and her hands moved through nothing.

Until she touched something warm. An arm. Then a hand.

I have you.

Arya kicked and fought to pull Bran up out of the water. She felt the blade on his hip. The strength leaving his body. So she swam all the harder. Osha had drifted away from her. Robb was stolen.

Not Bran. Not now.

When they broke through the water the world was dark but the stars were bright.

They both heaved desperately as the flames of Brightwater Keep grew distant. Arya hept her and Bran afloat to continue their escape.

Except it wasn’t Bran who met her gaze then.

Just some boy she didn’t know.

“Arya Stark?” The boy spat water as her heart fell. “Are you Bran’s sister?”

“Where’s Bran?!” She begged, looking about in vain to find another boy. “Where’s my brother?!”

“They’re all dead.” The boy wept. “They killed them all…”

“Ser Robar… the king… the children…”

“Even the little children.”

Notes:

I'm sorry.

This was the hardest chapter I've ever written. I hurt real bad writing it. There were times I nearly backed off. Tried to think of ways around this.

Sadly, this is the story I set out to tell.

If someone asks on Tumblr, I'll post the song that I listened to for Bran's last POV.

Man, writing that phrase makes my heart hurt.

Chapter 24

Summary:

To rise and fall, all at once. No power in this world comes without sacrifice.

EDDARD

“Cat?”

His voice echoed some, a pleading sound which became quickly faded into nothingness. Something had woken him from his slumber, a never-ending stretch of white haze, where half-remembered moments and faces drifted out of the fog.

Sometimes his children would be there. Other times it was Lyanna and Brandon.

And Catelyn. His Cat.

Hers was the last face Ned saw before something pulled him back into the world. It filled his heart with hope to imagine being home at Winterfell. He would be abed, with Catelyn coming to wake him. Perhaps with a kiss. A welcome caress.

“Cat?” Eddard rasped again through parched and cracked lips. “Cat? Love?”

When he opened his eyes, Eddard saw the truth. He was not in his home. Nor was his beloved wife nearby. Something he was grimly thankful for. Cat shouldn’t be here, not in this place.

The pale haze of his slumber was lifting and darkness took its place. He was sprawled out upon a jutting rock, cushioned by moss and lichens, surrounded by deep, stifling black. He blinked again and again, his eyes struggling to adjust to what dim light he could find.

He was underground, that was certain. Here, beneath the world he knew, there was no sky, no sun, or moon, or stars. Instead he beheld pale roots threading the cavern’s earthen roof and walls like a mad tapestry. From their bone-white shade, Eddard knew these to be weirwood roots. That caused him to rememer how he came to this place. He had a distinct vision of a tall, ancient weirwood overlooking a hill.

It was the last thing he saw of the world above before he was brought below to this ancient place. One of darkness and monsters.

His eyes were beginning to adjust, and he saw now what had awoken him. Its short stature and slight form could have been mistaken for a child’s but not its eyes. They were large and molten-gold, with green flecks and slitted like a cat’s.

“Gods.” He cursed lightly, causing the creature’s eyes to narrow upon him. 

“Your gods are all around you, young Stark.” It spoke with a woman’s voice, high and sweet, like a singer’s, though there was something sad there as well. “Your wife is much farther, in the lands of men. You called for her again in your rest. Many times.”

The creature took a step forward and more of its body was revealed. He saw large ears and nut-brown skin, with pale dappled spots. Her hair was a tangle of autumn colors, with vines and withered flowers woven throughout. She wore a cloak of leaves that stuck out in Ned’s mind.

Leaf… this one is Leaf… I called her such but I can’t recall when…

Old Nan never spoke of any Leafs when she told us tales of the children.

That’s what Leaf was after all. A creature out of tales and fables that he thought as long gone as the Others. Yet those pale demons had still managed to rise from the old tales, killing good men and nearly ending him. His rescue by the sworn brother and his cold hands had led Eddard here, all so he could be imprisoned by more of Old Nan’s bedtime stories.

They were here in the cavern with them. More children of the forest. Perhaps two or more, all creeping along the walls like moss, watching him intently. He feared them less than a hazy memory that sprang to his mind then. Of a glowing red eye which saw far more than it should.

“Catelyn.” Leaf sang in her strange way, pushing the memory away. “Cat. My love. Many names for the same thing. You should not have been able to speak. The potion was meant to keep you at ease.”

“At ease?” He snarled, narrowing his eyes. “You mean to keep me prisoner.”

He jerked his wrists up then, to test the strength of the vines which bound him to the rock. The living chains were always there when he woke, yet this time his arms rose unhindered, free at last. His bindings had been cut away. For the first time in a long while, he could move as he wished.

Has it been days? Weeks? Months?

I can remember little more than pain and darkness.

His memories were a jumble of mad images and feelings, strange flashes of tunnels and queer faces poking through roots. He remembered his broken leg being tended to and an ancient voice speaking his name. Others forced him to drink strange things that made him retch before begging for more. He hobbled through these tunnels every day, to keep his muscles strong, the slight creatures would whisper to him.

The memories felt more like dreams than truth. Eddard could be sure of none of it.  Save that his leg was on the mend.

When he rose to sit, his wounded limb ached at the effort, yet the pain was now a dull roar compared to what it once was. It was still wrapped in red weirwood leaves where the bone had broken, yet all that remained of the spear wound was a gnarled scar.

The sight was more troubling than anything else about this place.

“How long?” He demanded of the creature. “How long have I been here? What have you done to me?”

Leaf blinked. “I cannot say. Time has always moved differently for us. You men rise and fall in the span of a breath while we continue to linger. It is time for you to rise again, young Stark. Take a breath, find your strength, and do so.”

One of the other children stepped out of the shadows then, one his mind called Ash. It held a long bit of wood with a rounded knot at the end. Eddard took hold of it cautiously. His first thought was of escape. Ice had been taken from him, but he could do some damage against his captors with this stick. Leaf was now close enough to strike and he desperately wished to be free of her.

Until she reached out to steady him, her strange eyes falling to his leg. Her fingers were three dark black claws, frightening to behold, yet felt firm and warm on his arm.

“Come now, Stark. We do this together. Like before. Breathe first, to ready yourself.”

Like before? I’ve never done anything with you...

That was a lie. He felt the truth of that when Leaf took hold of his arm and Ash helped guide him into cradling the staff with the other. When they urged him off the rock he took a breath, steeling himself against the pain. A small, sharp sting moved quickly through his hurt leg. He clenched his teeth at it and helped relieve it some by leaning on the staff more and accepting the creatures’ help.

My leg should be weaker. Even if I’ve been laying on this rock for as long as I fear, I should be weaker.

His first step away from the rock was made on instinct. He knew how to angle the staff and lift his hurt leg to avoid pain. None of which he remembered learning, yet his body did. The realization filled him with dread.

“I have been walking.” He looked down to Leaf, his voice full of accusation. “How have I been walking if I don’t remember doing so?”

“He did not want you to remember.” She answered, urging him forward. “A Stark was meant to come, but not this one. This place is not for you. It was your kind that drove us here, for there was no place for us in your world. We took much less from you. The last greenseer offers more.”

“Who?”

His flesh was already crawling at the mention of this newest creature. Though his guides did not answer, he felt a familiar unease as they bid him through the passages. The winding tunnels were cramped and full of roots, behind which he saw glowing, slitted eyes, watching. The scraping of his footsteps and the staff against the ground were the only sounds in this silent place, save the soft echoes of dripping water.

It is like the crypts of Winterfell, a dead place not meant for living men.

He remembered his screams bouncing off these walls, a time of great pain for him. His journeys here had been horrible. The agony of his leg kept mingling with his heartache at losing Jory and the others. Terror had added to those woes when Coldhands delivered him to the cave, and into the hands of the children. His efforts to fight them off proved weak and fruitless. They had pawed at his battered body, pulling him through the dark abyss of the cave’s mouth.

Those were the last moments that Eddard could be sure actually happened. In the cave he lost himself, all time and sense stolen away in this unyielding darkness.

He was thankful for the lack of light at times, for there were things down here Eddard was better off not seeing. This was an old place, a remnant of a time long forgotten. Only in the godswood of Winterfell did he ever feel so close to the old gods. Yet this cave pulsed with a power far greater, far more terrifying. Moving through its depths was like nothing he had ever experienced… save for the first time he’d ascended the Wall.

His heart was pounding when Ash and Leaf guided him out of the tunnel. They had entered a cavern as large as the great hall of Winterfell. Sharp stones hung like teeth from its ceiling and piles of bones littered the jagged floor. At its edge there was nothing but an abyss where the sounds of a rushing river rose up from the dark chasm.

The children led him towards it, moving silently over the ground while his feet kicked and scattered bones. There were dead from all manner of creatures here.

Wolves. Bears. Giants. Children of the forest.

None of the dead drew his eye more than the corpse he saw near the edge of the abyss, sitting upon a throne of woven weirwood roots. The skeletal man was garbed in the black clothing of the Night’s Watch, now faded and in tatters. His skin was as pale as his brittle hair, which hung so long that it brushed against the floor. Roots grew around his body, some even growing through it like the one which poking out of through an empty eye socket.

Eddard was looking at the dark red stain across the man’s neck and cheek when the horrid thing stirred. The only eye left to the corpse opened then.

A bright red eye. One filled with terrible knowledge. Yet when the thing began to speak, its voice was slow and dry, as if it had forgotten how to form words.

“And now you rise at last, Eddard Stark, though the hour is late.” Dust shook from its arm as the creature pointed a gnarled finger his way. “The time for healing and mending is over. The Stark of Winterfell must return.”

“Who are you?” He demanded, jerking free of the children and ambling forward with his crutch. “What are you? What gives you the right to hold me prisoner? To keep me in this place? Speak creature!”

“I see our potions have done their work…” The corpse blinked slowly, leaning forward some, setting its bones and roots to creaking. “You might not remember me… but you should be thankful for all that I’ve done for you… Ned.”

His name echoed through the cavern. Ned, Ned, Ned. That unnerved him some, for hearing this monster speak his name also felt familiar. Everything about this did. He was sure he had been in this place before. He had not stumbled once over root or rock to get here, as if he knew the way. Nor did the corpse upon the throne frighten him. It was like a dream he had had many times, finally coming true.

“I have had many names.” The red eye moved to Leaf then. “The singers, they call me the last greenseer. Those with the sight know me as the three-eyed crow. Before I came here I was a lord. To some, I was Bloodraven. Yet my mother named me Brynden... and my father made me a Rivers…”

Brynden Rivers. Bloodraven.

By the gods.

These were names from a time before his own. Brynden Rivers had been born a bastard of Aegon the Unworthy. He lived as kin to kings, a Hand of kings, and finally a Lord-Commander of the Night’s Watch. One who, if memory served, disappeared under strange circumstances during a ranging. It seemed that Bloodraven had come to be entombed in this strange place of wonder.

A fate Ned was determined not to share in, if only for the sake of his family.

“If you are who you claim to be… then release me.” Eddard straightened, his tone becoming as hard as it would when he took a vassal to task. “The Wall is threatened. The North is in danger. You swore an oath to defend the realm from perils beyond the Wall. I mean to do the same and can linger here no longer.”

Bloodraven made slight a movement with his head that might have been a nod.

“You speak of danger, if only you knew.” Bloodraven rasped. “The army you led to these lands, much of its strength now marches against you. As thralls of the Others... traitors for the Boltons…”

“Roose Bolton leads my men?”

He feared the Others had killed and turned many of northern army, yet he was shocked to hear the last part. That Roose Bolton had betrayed him and the North itself was clear… but he could not fathom any northman following the un-loved lord.

“You can’t know this.” Ned shook his head, taking a step forward towards the throne. “Even if it’s true, Robb still has most of the Northern strength, ready to heed his call. My son will take the traitors to task-”

“Much has happened, Lord Stark. Much and more while you’ve been away. The strength you dream of finding in the North is lost. It shall not rise again without a Stark of Winterfell. All hope for your lands, for the realm itself, lies with the army that awaits you here beyond the Wall. You must save them from the ice, then from the fire. Winter is coming, Eddard Stark, and it shall be your family that suffers the Others first.”

“No!” Eddard shouted, his voice echoing all around them.

‘No no no no no…’

He was gripped with fear for what Bloodraven’s words meant for his family. It had been so long since he saw them. Since he’d held Cat or his children. What else had he missed? What could this man know of the North? Why did Bloodraven sound so certain that his people had suffered?

“Despair if you must.” Bloodraven’s voice was a whisper. “I’m afraid there is no stopping the pain that your heart will soon bear. I’ve supped of such myself. The Others, however, can be stopped. They have halted their march. They are cautious beings… they sense what I have. The dragons have come again. Here, in Westeros. Fire made flesh.”

The corpse spoke the last part with something akin to excitement. Eddard didn’t care for it, or the glint in his red eye. He couldn’t fathom why Bloodraven spouted such nonsense like dragons returning. Yet the man continued on, undeterred by his unspoken doubts.

“If they are to face dragons, the Others must become stronger still. It is in their power to make every living thing beyond the Wall a part of their grand army. They hunger for such power, to enslave every last one of the free folk and all the surviving northmen. A vast army that could choke the dragons’ flames so the ice dragons can-”

“They cannot be so powerful.” He said, a cold feeling climbing up his neck. “These lands are not well peopled but still, there must be too many for the Others to overwhelm. Mance’s host was a hundred thousand…”

Before we broke them, he realized with dread, before I killed the best of their warriors and handed my own over to the power of these Others.

He gazed about at the bones around them and imagined a land full of corpses rising up with bright, blue eyes. An army, a hundred thousand strong. The undead masses of the wildlings. The giants. The dead from his own army. The surviving-

“Northmen.” Eddard seized on the glimmer of hope that Bloodraven had given him. “You say there are northmen still alive beyond the Wall?”

“Thousands of them.” Bloodraven’s eye turned and a flapping sound echoed above their heads. A moment later a raven landed upon a root near to the corpse’s head, cawing loudly. “A thousand eyes and one… that’s what they said about me. I can see farther now, through both tree and beast. I watched your lost battle against the wights. I watched how many of your men fled. Many fell and rose again, but some… some did not take the white walkers’ bait to strike south. They marched north instead, hiding amongst the hills where the giants once dwelled. I wonder if the Umber lord understood the irony.”

“Umber? You mean the Greatjon lives?”

“For a time longer perhaps.” Bloodraven answered, closing his eye. “No help came, only death. Your men now flee south once more, where the Others stand between them and the Wall. Unless you can guide them away from the cold winds, Eddard Stark. Save those men, so that they might save even more. I can show you your path.”

“Then do so.” He struck his staff into the ground. His men needed him. His family needed him. “Lead me from this cave and point me to my people. I will be forever in your debt if you can help in any way. Whatever wrongs you’ve done by me will be forgiven.”

“Forgiven?” The red eye snapped open then, burning so bright that it drove back the darkness some. “This is not a place of forgiveness. It is a seat of power, a force far beyond that of the Iron Throne. This is where all that was and will be is held sacred. Where all can be seen. No power in this world comes without sacrifice… that, Eddard Stark, is the price you must pay for my help.”

He didn’t care for the sound of that. Not in this place of the dead all around and the children watching him. Their eyes were more like those of beasts than men. Bloodraven had demonstrated terrible power already. If he could do all that he claimed, Ned worried on what such a man could want from him.

Does it really matter? He could ask me to lop off my hand right now and I would do it.

To return to Cat and the children, to save them and my people, I would do anything.

“What sacrifice would you have of me?” Ned asked.

Bloodraven’s mouth twitched. “That will be revealed with time. One day I will call upon you. What I ask of you cannot be denied. For the sake of your family, of mankind, I need you to swear now that you will heed my demand. I would have a vow, on your honor as a Stark.”

“Tell me what you will ask.” He answered. “Name it now, so I can swear that it is something within my power to give. I enter into no agreement blindly.”

“Your vow.” Bloodraven repeated, gesturing to the shadows where more children appeared. One held a sack, another had his cloak, while the last carried Ice, the massive sword twice the height of the creature. “Give me your vow and become a lord again. Give me that, and my help is yours. Refuse, and your family suffers more.”

“Damn you.” He clenched his fists and grew wroth. “Damn your riddles and half-answers! Whatever dark magics you work here, do not curse my family with them! Tell me what you would have of me! I cannot swear to something you will not speak to! I must know!”

“Knowledge is a terrible thing, my lord.” Bloodraven’s tone grew low, his eye narrowing. “I had hoped that you would not need to endure this to be convinced. The experience is meant for those with the sight… a hard lesson for one like you to learn.”

The children understood that better than he did. Leaf disappeared among her people for a time, only to return with a weirwood bowl in her hands. It was carved with a dozen faces, like the weirwoods themselves. Within it was a paste he did not like the look of. Red veins ran through it, which in the torchlight looked like blood.

“Weirwood paste.” Leaf sang as she held up the bowl to him, a stone spoon dipped within. “Made of the seeds of weirwoods. Life itself. Eat it… and see.”

“No. I will not let you poison me any more than you have.” He turned from Leaf but saw a score of other children circling him. All holding carved weapons of sorts.

“You will.” Bloodraven said as he watched all this from his throne. “Doubt me all you wish but this paste will show you what your heart knows to be true. After that, if you still deny me you may go.”

“And if I refuse to eat this poison?”

“Then your bones shall rest here rather than the crypts of Winterfell like your forebears.”

He held little doubt that the ancient man could do as he said. The children were small but agile and quick. If the torches were dosed, their eyes would see more than his. With their numbers he would stand little chance.

So it appeared he had little choice.

He spooned the paste into his mouth, the first taste as disgusting as he feared. It was bitter, its texture shifting as he choked it down. Yet as he ate more, the paste became better, each spoonful tasting sweeter than the last. The tastes shifted too, from newly-fallen snow to honey, from cinnamon and freshly baked sweet bread, to Catelyn’s lips during their last kiss.

When it was gone the bowl was taken away. The children moved off as well, sheathing their weapons and making their way about the cave, dosing torches as they went. The last illuminated both Bloodraven and himself. The shadows dancing across the corpse.

“Now you will see like you were never meant to.” Bloodraven’s voice sounded distant. “Know now what was, is… and will be.”

He made to say something but his mouth felt glued together. Before the last torch went out, his eyes had already grown heavy. When the darkness enveloped him he welcomed it. Bloodraven’s distant murmurings melded with the sound of the river below. His own heart beating louder than them all.

When Eddard opened his eyes again he was overjoyed.

He was far from Bloodraven’s cave, far from the cold lands beyond the Wall. Now he stood within Winterfell, in the godswood. Where his heart beat stronger and his leg ached not at all.

He was home.

Home and with his family. He found them by the heart tree, all of them, enjoying a rare day of warmth and sun. Robb and Jon were swiping at each other with weirwood branches, young men acting like the little boys they had once been. Arya leapt into the hot springs with an excited cry, joining Bran as he swam about, spitting water up into the air. Twirling about the heart tree was Sansa, his little lady doing her best to teach Rickon to dance.

Watching all this was Cat. Her laughter sounded as sweet as it did the first time he had ever heard it. Back when Eddard doubted he could ever make Cat happy. Now she turned to him with a wide smile, her eyes were full of tears of joy. Any memory of wights with burning blue eyes were forgotten as he gazed into hers.

The horrors of the Haunted Forest were a fading nightmare when he embraced Cat and listened to the sounds of their children playing around them.

“Ned… Ned, where have you been?” Cat asked when they pulled apart. She drew his hands down to her middle, which now swelled with child. “Our babe, Ned, I’m going to have another. We need a name for her…”

“A name.” He agreed as he ran his hands through Cat’s hair. The feeling of it moving between his fingers soothed him greatly. He was becoming lost to it when he was suddenly bombarded by his children’s shouts.

“Father, watch me!” Bran beckoned as he climbed out of the pond to stand at its edge, preparing to jump. “Watch me fly!”

“Dance with me, father!” Sansa called with her hand outstretched as Arya waved from the water.

“Look what I’ve learned!”

“I will, I will…” He smiled despite feeling overwhelmed by all the voices calling to him. “One at a time…”

He was then shocked to find Robb standing in front of him, no longer moving about freely but leaning on a cane and favoring his twisted leg. Robb’s face was tainted with discomfort but he bore it stubbornly to amble Ned’s way.

“Father, I tried.” Robb reached for him. “To protect the North and Winterfell. Our family… I tried to be the son you wanted.”

“Tried? Robb, you’ll always be-”

Before he could finish, Sansa’s scream cut him off. His daughter continued to scream as she pointed in horror at the castle beyond the godswood’s walls. He shared her terror, for Winterfell was burning. More screams followed, what sounded like hundreds of them, all rising up like the flames engulfing the castle.

His home was burning. His people were dying. His family was in danger.

“Jon! Robb! See to the girls!” He shouted, yet when he turned to his son, he froze.

Robb was there still but in a way he wasn’t. His son was fading before Eddard’s eyes like smoke dispersing in the air. He shouted Robb’s name but his words were drowned out by a strong wind blowing through the godswood. It was borne from the growing inferno of the castle, the air burning hot and full of ash. When it struck Robb, his dear boy was broken apart piece by piece.

Robb cried out but the words were twisted by the wind into a mournful howl.

Then he was gone. His first boy stolen from him.

When Ned sought the others, he found Sansa now on the ground, beaten and covered in blood. Shadows swirled all around her as she raised a bloody blade up high. Her screams grew so loud that he could no longer tell the difference between them and the gales whipping through the godswood. The tears Sansa shed turned into a stream when they hit the ground, pouring forth into the hot spring in a powerful torrent.

Arya fought to stay afloat there and Bran was sinking beneath the waters. The boy was clutching at his left eye when he fell out of sight.

“Bran! Arya!” He shouted as he ran to them, seeking help from Jon and finding him gone. “I’m coming! Hold on!”

He dove into the hot springs but did not sink below. Instead he landed hard upon a cold surface. Ice now covered the pond, cutting him off from Bran. He could see the boy through the ice and Bran stared up at Ned with the one eye that remained to him. Yet there was no life left in it as Bran sank deeper into the depths.

“Bran!” Eddard beat his fists against the ice. It didn’t so much as crack as Bran’s pale face was swallowed by the darkness. “BRAN!!!”

“Bran!” Arya’s shouted as well, though her voice was more distant.

He saw now that the ponds had become something else entirely, a dark, rushing current that stretched out like a river. The waters were carrying Arya away, towards a storm that flashed and raged with violence. When Ned tried to rise from the ice it shifted beneath him, breaking away from shore and becoming so unsteady that he couldn’t gain his feet. Nor could Arya fight the force of the current. He could only watch as she was carried off, into the blackest waters.

“Ned! Ned, our babes!”

Cat’s cries bid him to look back to shore. He barely caught sight of Rickon being stolen away by a shrouded assailant. They made off into a wood, far deeper than the godswood had any right to be. Rickon’s feeble struggles against his kidnapper were as hopeless as Cat’s plight. She was surrounded by armed men, with nothing but a wailing babe held to her chest. As Cat’s attackers pressed in, his patch of ice was pulled farther out into the river. The last thing he saw of Cat before she was swallowed up by the ring of men was her hair. A burning beacon that was soon snuffed out.

The wind pushed the ice flow around, tearing him from that sight to bring him to a moment from his past.

Night had fallen and Winterfell was long gone. On the other side of the river, standing along its banks, were a group of men. It was like it had been all those years ago, a meeting in the middle of the night. When Howland had bid him to meet Rhaegar and forge a peace.

Through his tears, he saw that things were not as they should be. There had only been four there that night, yet now he saw five. There was a white-cloaked warrior and a shorter man, but neither were who they were meant to be. Nor was Robert meant to be there, yet there he stood as Eddard had known him.

Strangest of all was watching himself be kicked to his knees. That had never happened. Nor had he been forced to stretch out his neck as a golden blade was drawn.

When their eyes met, Eddard saw the truth. He wasn’t looking at his younger self.

Only a boy he had raised as his own.

When the blade moved through the air, a flight of crows burst free from the waters, rising up into the reddening sky. Now tainted with blood.

The blood of everything he held dear.

“NOOOOOOO!!!”

Ned was still screaming when he opened his eyes.

He lay on the ground before Bloodraven’s throne, clutching his crutch tightly to his sweaty chest. Bloodraven and Leaf both stared down at him, the smaller creature holding a single torch. His side ached as if he had been lying prone for too long, his hands hurt the same as he released the crutch. They were alone now. He sensed that much time had passed since he’d eaten the paste.

His tears were still fresh on his face.

“Was any of that real?” Ned asked as he rose shakily to his feet, seeking any assurance from Bloodraven. “What I saw… what happened to my family…”

“All of it has happened or will happen.” Bloodraven answered with a touch of sympathy. That drove a dagger deep within him, tearing at his heart. Ned was already sure that some of those horrors were real. That his home and family had suffered in his absence. That both might be lost to him.

“Why? We-we had peace… I left them in peace…” He tried to make sense of what evils could have befallen his family and Bloodraven grunted at his efforts.

“It is the innocent who suffer most when lords play their game of thrones. A lesson you and I know better than most.”

“Can I change it?” Eddard pleaded, wiping the sweat and tears from his eyes, focusing on the man upon the throne. “What I saw, can I spare my family? Can they be saved?”

“Many can still be saved.” Bloodraven responded, bidding Leaf to move the torch so that his belongings and Ice were now illuminated on the floor. “You can spare your family a dire fate, Eddard Stark. I offer you wisdom for the trials ahead. A guide to lead you to your army. A chance to save this realm and those you love dearest.”

The torch flickered and the man’s pale skin became as black as night for a moment. Only his red eye stayed bright.

“But a sacrifice must be made. A vow needs to be given. Swear to me, Eddard Stark. Give me your word and our deal is struck.”

Only a fool would trust such a man. A creature that held the loyalty of monsters from legend and continued to live when any mortal man would have perished long ago. A man who lived among bones and darkness, who knew far more than he had any right to. To owe such a monster some debt disgusted him. It strained at his honor to even consider it.

Yet the vision of Cat surrounded by swords came to him. The suffering of his children drove Eddard to the brink of madness.

His honor was rigid and strong and he lived his life by it.

Ned didn’t live for his honor though. Since he’d sworn vows to Cat in the sept of Riverrun, he had lived for her. For their children.

It was for them that his honor broke. He gave his word to thus monster, to do whatever was asked of him tomorrow.

For today, his family needed him.

 

DAENERYS  

This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

The thought repeated itself again and again as Dany peered down into the pool this town took its name from. Songs told of how Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with her sisters at this place.

No one would wish to bathe in this pool now. Like the rest of Maidenpool, it was tainted by strife and death, smothering the beauty that was once here. Its masonry was cracked and chipped, the waters murky with filth. The statue of Jonquil in the center had not been spared either. She remembered it as a thing of beauty, as strong as the stone it was carved from.

Now it was ruined, hacked to pieces. No mercy shown.

Oh Rhaenys… how could they?

She could see only her own shadow in the pool’s dirty waters yet Rhaenys’s face came to her all the same. As it had in her dreams. Gone were the princess’s sly smile, the glint of cleverness in her eyes. Much of what she loved about Rhaenys was washed away by the blood. So much blood.

There was no escaping that hurt. Pushing the thoughts of Rhaenys away only bid her torment to allow another face to float to the top. That of a dear friend’s. A dead friend’s. One doomed by Dany’s friendship.

Elara… I sent you away to protect you… I only wanted to help… forgive me.

She might have wept when she turned from the pool but there were no tears left to shed. Her eyes were drained of them, her chest heavy with grief. Sleep eluded her ever since news came of the massacre.

Dark wings, dark words.

The maester’s hands had shaken as he read the letter out loud. A list of dead so long, his voice was hoarse towards the end.

Not as hoarse as Tess’s though. Tess and her husband had drawn close together during the reading, and when the maester spoke the name Jon Royce, the lady had unleashed a bloodcurdling scream that drove many from the room. She gave voice to the anguish that Dany suffered silently, the rage as well. Willem’s attempts to console her were met by Tess slapping him then beating his chest.

“He wanted to be like you!” Tess sobbed through her fury. “You let him go! You let them take him from me!”

It was an ugly thing to witness, though Willem endured it nobly, a pained expression across his face. Gone were his quips and smiles. When he finally enfolded Tess into his embrace, the parents grieved together as one. Something others had scorned doing to her disappointment, yet she was thankful Willem and Tess had each other in such times.

However they suffered overnight, neither balked from their duties come morning.

Willem was off somewhere with Jon while Tess attended her with Brienne and a score of men-at-arms. The lady’s red-rimmed eyes followed Dany as she walked from the ruined pool back to her retinue. Tess wore a black gown, much like Dany’s, though the sleeves and bodice were torn as a sign of mourning for her lost son.

They were like shadows in comparison to Brienne’s white cloak and armor. While quite different in most respects, both Tess and the Lady Kingsguard shared in exhaustion. Tess had spent the whole night weeping alongside her husband while Brienne remained on guard at Dany’s door, refusing sleep.

How can she? Four of her sworn brothers are now dead. Jaime Lannister is locked away in a tower. Richard Horpe is missing.

She is the last Kingsguard, left to do the duty of seven.

“This isn’t what I expected.” Brienne eyed the pool with some scrutiny. “The songs I heard as a child, of Florian and Jonquil, they spoke of… never mind. That was a long time ago and this town has seen hard times.”

“There were bodies.” Tess added in an absent manner. “Will told me. After the fighting. The pool was choked with corpses. F-floating in the w-water…”

She gently took Tess by the arm and led her away, so they could continue their journey through the newly freed town. Few shops or inns remained open yet men of the royal army packed the streets all the same. Only days ago, the last of the sellswords were defeated and the beleaguered townsfolk had cheered them as she and Jon rode through the streets. Now the mood was as black as the ladies’ gowns.

All celebrations had been soured by the death of the king.

No, not just a king. Aegon.

He was more than a crown. More than my nephew. Same with Rhaenys.

I loved them. It wasn’t supposed to be like this…

She wanted to shout that to every man who bowed in condolence as they passed. To tell them all how Aegon would carry sweets for the children whenever he walked among the commonfolk. Or how deeply Rhaenys had cared for her fat, lazy cat, Balerion. The princess was already a woman flowered when the poor thing passed, yet Rhaenys still held a burial for it in the godswood. They even dug a tiny grave.

Of a kind Rhaenys’s child would likely be buried in.

Orys… Rhae named her babe, Orys… a child I never had a chance to know.

May mother and son be together now… let all of them find each other…

Aegon and Rhaegar. Oswell and his sworn brothers.

Elara and Bran.

She looked to Tess then, whose eyes were still distant. Bran and Jon Royce had been of age together. Before her eyes the two boys became fast friends at the Red Keep, filling the castle with their laughter.

Had Brightwater Keep ring with their screams?

Dreams of such horrors and worst things had caused Dany to wake retching and weeping many times throughout the night. She’d been so loud that she managed to distract Tess from her grieving long enough to tend to her.

She pulled Tess closer now. “You should be with Willem.” Dany whispered. “Act as my handmaiden another day. It is too cruel to force you here by my side.”

“The gods are cruel.” Tess shuddered. “When my Jon was little… I told him that if he prayed and did good in this world, the Seven would watch over him. A lie. They were all lies, spoken with the same lips that I used to kiss him with.”

The last part was something she could relate to, yet Dany prayed never to fathom how it felt to lose a child. To look into the lady’s eyes usually meant gazing into a well of hurt. Or a tempest of rage.

“I cannot go to Willem, for he is where he needs to be.” Tess raised her chin. “He urges the king to avenge my boy, to give us justice. Vengeance. I want whoever murdered my Jon to suffer.”

“And they will.” Brienne said with a grim determination. “A crime as terrible as this will bring the wrath of the new gods and the old upon the guilty.”

Dany had more faith in Jon than any god when it came to delivering justice. The Faith’s representatives had instilled little confidence in her of late. The High Septon decried that the massacre was a punishment from on high, for the throne’s toleration of false gods and numerous sacrileges. Such ravings left a bad taste in her mouth.

Aegon and Rhaenys had had their faults but they weren’t monsters. What sacrileges could newborn Orys Baratheon have performed? Or young Bran Stark, who had lost an eye defending a lady from rape?

None of the answers which came to mind satisfied her. Nor was she content to accept the tale of how all this came to pass.

Axell Florent named Oberyn Martell and the Dornish army as the culprits. He insisted that the Dornishmen had come to Brightwater with treachery in their hearts and that the Red Viper and Darkstar were leaders of a bloody attempt to seize the castle. In the chaos of the ensuing battle, the king had fallen with most of his army following.

She was the only woman, save Brienne, allowed to take part in the tumultuous meeting of lords and knights who debated this tale. Jon was silent as his commanders fell into an uproar over the supposed Dornish betrayal.

“Traitors! Murderers!” Lord Jason Mallister had beaten his fist upon the table. “Never count on a Dornishman and you won’t be disappointed!’’

Some shouts of agreement answered that but more were not so convinced. Chief among the protests were Lord Beric and the Blackfish.

“I dislike the taste of this tripe.” Beric had argued. “The Florents feed us naught but lies. Oberyn Martell is hot-blooded, yes, but gods be damned if he’s not loyal to his family. Dorne still grieves for Princess Elia nearly twenty years later, and the Martells forced King Aegon from the field once already to safeguard his life. Now the foxes want us to believe that Prince Oberyn had a hand in the murder of his own kin?”

“Lord Axell writes that it was in the chaos of fighting-”

“Fighting that the Red Viper ran away from?” The Blackfish’s smoky voice had been filled with derision toward the maester. “Oberyn is vengeful, and proud, and perhaps a bit mad, but never craven. With so many of his family slain in front of him, he would have never left that castle unless he was carried out on his shield. I say bugger blaming the snakes. Look to the foxes.”

Jonos Bracken and other riverlords were hard-pressed to accept that. The Florents had shared bread and salt with their king, they argued. Guest right was sacred, and the Florents were an old family with blood of the First Men. That house would understand the laws of gods and men better than any Dornishman with their strange Rhoynish ways.

“To break guest right would be suicide.” Jonos had finished arguing. “Forget Rat Cooks and curses. If any family did such a thing, every noble house in the realm would turn on them. What gain could they take from that?”

“All the gold in Casterly Rock.” Willem’s voice was hoarse when the short knight  broke through the clamor, his face full of disgust. “I can’t be the only one thinking it.”

“You aren’t.” Marwyn had tapped his staff mournfully. “Aegon backed every move the White Dragon here made against the Lannisters, as did the lords Tully and Tyrell. Now the king is dead, the rose lord has been tempted away from the capital to defend his home, and strange raiders are burning through the Riverlands…”

“That’s an outrageous accusation.” Lord Mooton spoke with quivering jowls. “To claim that Tywin Lannister would fall to such depths, to murder his king and-”

“The Rains of Castamere!” Whatever calm Willem had kept over himself shattered then, the short knight roaring red-faced to all. “They wrote a fucking song about the kind of monster that Tywin Lannister is! He would kill anyone in his way! Women! Children! My boy! MY SON!”

The tirade only ceased when Jon stepped forward to take hold of the knight. Whether his silence up until that point was borne of contemplation or misery, she couldn’t say. Nor did she hear the whispered words that Jon spoke to the poor man. After Willem was calmed, Jon addressed the rest in a tone as cold as his demeanor.

“Our king is dead. Tonight we grieve him, Aegon and all the rest. Seek the sept. Or the godswood. Pray for all of those we’ve lost. What must come after, we can leave to tomorrow.”

“Some things cannot wait.” Her words had stopped any who thought to depart. “You are right, Jon. The king is dead. Aegon is gone… but he left an heir. Those who served the last king should kneel to the new one.”

Jon’s expression had darkened further but that didn’t stop Dany from going before him. With her skirts in hand and knees bent, she had bowed her head in respect towards him.

“My king.”

“Dany…”

His objection had come as a little more than a whisper. It had less effect than her words did on the assembled bannermen. The Blackfish was the first to kneel beside her.

“Our king is dead.” The weathered knight had declared. “Long live the king.”

“King Jon Targaryen.” Beric followed his example. “First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men.”

“Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.” Brienne went next, leading many others to kneel. “Protector of the Realm, who I swear to protect in turn.”

It was not much of a coronation. No crown was presented. No prayers were offered. No celebrations commanded. None of that changed what Jon was when he bid them to rise.

Their king. Her king.

She had to remind herself of that when Jon commanded that she bed down in the castle without him. In these dark times, she had hoped that they could comfort one another, yet Jon spurned her. He refused to hear any argument, from Dany or Brienne, who Jon sent to protect her despite both wishing to stay by his side.

Now they sought him again, outside the walls of the town where their army encamped. They came across Gendry and Edric Dayne first. Both squires had been sent to fetch her, and while Gendry did all he could to remain formal, young Edric allowed Dany to embrace him. The poor boy mourned Elara as well, clinging to her for a moment in silence. She had hope that his duties as Lord Beric’s squire would help him through this time as Gendry’s service to Jon had helped him.

“Princess Daenerys, we were sent to find you.” Gendry said with a bow, looking quite sharp in his black tunic which bore Jon’s livery. “The king tasked us to deliver your grace to the gathering of lords.”

“Has there been more news?”

“It is not for me to say.” Gendry replied awkwardly, clearly not comfortable denying her. “King Jon only asked us to tell you letters and riders reached the army in the night. If you would follow us please, princess.”

They led Dany and Brienne to a field far from most of the army’s tents, next to where the dragons were kept. Jon had forbidden her children from entering the town. During the battle, Arturion and Rhaegal had become wild at the smell of blood in the air, nearly destroying their cages with tooth and claw and flame before she managed to calm them.

“Just barely.” Jon had eyed the dragons with the same distrust that Ghost did. “Your children could set flame to the entire town, Daenerys. Maidenpool has suffered enough. I will not take that chance. They stay caged or chained.”

Such was how they found the dragons. The three beasts were each tethered to a wagon made heavy enough with armor and weaponry to kddp them aground. Barraxes appeared content enough there, stretched out in the sun, his cream scales gleaming in the light. Rhaegal was perched atop the wagon, flicking his tail back and forth as he stared at Ghost, who sat nearby. The two beasts were the same size now yet Ghost showed no fear to guard Rhaegal, meeting the dragon’s gaze with silent determination.

There was no such peace to be found in Arturion. The black dragon was in the air, his chain stretched taut as he beat his wings furiously. It appeared that Arturion was doing all he could to try and move the wagon, to no avail. His hissing was near constant, the dragon’s displeasure apparent to anyone nearby.

At least he is honest about his feelings. I wish Jon was so easy.

What has happened? Why does he push me away? It’s not just grief, I know it.

As if in answer to her thoughts, the king appeared beneath a dark canopy with his closest advisors, knights, and lords. While Jon showed some boldness in holding his meeting so close to the dragons, she could tell that he was doing his best to hide his true feelings.

Still too far to hear their words, Dany stared at Jon’s face. His jaw was set and his shoulders slightly slumped, his hands crumpling a bit of parchment. Whatever words the maester now read from another letter clearly wasn’t helping. Nor did her appearance for that matter. There was no mistaking the flinch Jon made when he caught sight of her.

That hurt, but her surprise at some of the attendees distracted her from it. Marwyn, the Blackfish, Lord Beric, Jason Mallister, they were all the usual advisors. Yet to see Ser Justin Massey and Lord Guncer Sunglass was quite unusual. Those were the men she had depended on to lead her Dragonstone men, since Richard Lonmouth’s departure. Jon had never summoned them without her presence.

“Your grace.” Ser Justin bowed in greeting towards her. He was a large man, with blue eyes and pale hair. Often he was pleasing to speak with, though a touch too flattering for her taste. Today he tempered his flattery with condolences. “The entire realm mourns with you. I prayed to the Seven for your departed kin. To the Father especially, to see justice done for them.”

“Getting some of the Crone’s wisdom would be better.” Marwyn grumbled, pulling on his whiskers and shooting Jon a foul look. “There’s a great many in need of it.”

Jon ignored the slight but Dany seized on it. “What’s happened?”

“Riders from Antlers.” Jon spoke with a hard edge to his tone, his eyes refusing to meet hers. “They bring word of a battle in the Reach. The Dornishmen that Aegon left to defend the Mander and Willas Tyrell’s host north of Highgarden… they gave battle to one another. The losses were heavy.”

“The Tyrell heir was gravely injured.” The Blackfish said. “From what we can tell, the Dornish won the day but they try and flee back to the Prince’s Pass. Randyll Tarly and his army are hot on their trail. If Tarly catches them…”

“This must stop.” She moved straight for Jon, who backed up slightly. “We can’t have the Martells and Tyrells fighting one another. Not if everything we fear from the Lannisters is true. We’ll need their strength.”

“I know.” Jon spoke brusquely to her, choosing to face the dragons rather than meet her gaze. “I’m sending word to Highgarden and Sunspear both, commanding them to stand down. The Tyrells must see to the ironmen, not wage war against the Martells. Edmure will summon Axell Florent to the capital and begin an inquisition into the massacre.”

“He had best snap to it.” Ser Brynden added. “Hopefully by the time we’re done in the Riverlands, Edmure will have some answers waiting for the king-”

“The Riverlands?” This caught her by surprise. “Jon, we’re returning to the capital. Aren’t we?”

“No.” He said, watching Arturion fly about. “I made a promise to Lady Stark that I would fortify Riverrun. Raiders are attacking the western Riverlands, drawing defenders away from the Tully army near the Golden Tooth.”

“The Freys could help.” Beric added. “Their army marched to Darry after the capital, it’s there they remain. Lord Walder has ignored all our calls to arms. Because of Ryman Frey’s execution, no doubt.”

“That had to be done.” Jon shot a glance Gendry’s way, where the squire did his best to blend in with the others. “Justice had to be served. Lady Stark requires the same at Riverrun and I will go where I am needed.”

“You are needed on the throne.”

The words came forth without hesitation. There was no question in her mind that Jon’s part in all this needed to be called off. With Aegon and Rhaenys dead, Jon was king, and his place was back in the capital. Nowhere did that ring more true than here in Maidenpool. This was where Jon had set sail for the North all those years ago. She had it in her head that he would take ship from here again, this time to King’s Landing.

With her by his side this time.

She remembered watching his ship grow distant, cursing her own role in sending Jon away from the place that he belonged. Now most of the lords and knights acted like she was the one out of place. Their expressions ranged from incredulous to disdainful. Once such scrutiny would have kept her silent, and had led to Jon’s exile in the first place. Yet Dany was no longer a child, and she had no doubt what needed to be said.

“This is not right. The king belongs on throne, not on the march.” Dany addressed the lords, challenging them to speak against her. Instead she found agreement from Brienne.

“Your grace.” The lady warrior bowed to Jon. “Forgive me, but I beg you to reconsider. I would lay down my life to fulfill my vows as Kingsguard but I’d be failing those vows if I didn’t urge you to seek safety. Your protection is not what it could be.”

“We’ll see to his safety.” Lord Mallister spoke to the other men, rather than the women. A slight Dany took the lord to task for.

“I would rather you take command of this army, my lord. Or you, Ser Brynden. Either of you could lead this army on to Riverrun. Any of you good men could be equal to the task. Yet none here save Jon is fit to sit the Iron Throne! He must rule!”

“He needs to do more than that.” Marwyn pointed his staff out at the dragons. “Forget sitting on the Iron Throne. Harness the power that forged it! The princess is right. Abandon this march and retire with the dragons back to Dragonstone. Any fool can lead an army. It takes a special kind of man to command dragons.”

Jon flexed his sword hand at that last part. “I’ve heard you out, Archmaester. Clearly you did not hear me. I will not abandon my duties to play at taming dragons. This is my army and I shall lead it. My father and Lord Stark saw the wisdom in leading their own men. As my brothers- my brother was doing-”

“Before he died.” She finally snatched Jon’s attention then, the power of that truth like a smack across his face. “Aegon died before he ever sat the throne as king. Is that a fate you wish to share? Rhaegar, Lord Eddard, Robb Stark, they were all leaders, brave and honorable men. And they all died for it. Honestly Jon, don’t you wish they had let others ride in their stead?”

“Honesty.” Jon said, shoulders tensing, hand closing even tighter around the parchment in his grasp. “Honor… yes, let us speak on those things, Daenerys. My lords, a few moments of privacy if you would. Do not go far.”

The men did as they were asked, filing out and disappearing into the camp. Ser Brynden lingered though, joining Brienne and Gendry as they took up their customary positions just without tent. A clear hint that this private audience was not to be like the others they’d had during the march. A month of stolen moments, every battle and loss pushed away with every kiss and embrace. When they made love under the stars, she would lean in close to see the distant lights reflected in Jon’s eyes, only adding to the loving way he beheld her.

It was hard to picture Jon doing so now, not with him staring at her as he did at this very moment. He kept his distance, his expression cold and unyielding, but Dany kept her resolve.

“Jon, you’re smarter than this.” She said with a shake of her head. “Rhaegar would want you back in the capital. Barristan too.”

“This is not about wants.” Jon replied coolly. “Theirs or ours. It’s time I became the son my father wanted me to become when he sent me to Winterfell. Both the Starks and the Tullys have been loyal to the throne, and now Lady Stark calls for aid. The Freys could help, but their army remains idle because of me.”

“Nonsense, Lord Walder acts a child. So you must act as a king. Come back with me to the capital. Once you’re crowned, you can raise many times the men you have here. Offer positions to powerful men and bind their strength to-”

“More secret dealings?” Jon glowered at her. “I was there when everyone named me king, Daenerys. I haven’t been idle. Ravens have been sent to the Eyrie and Runestone. I call on Lysa Arryn to muster her son’s forces and I sent for Lord Royce to act as my Hand. It might displease you to know I’ve made no secret of that.”

The harshness of his words nearly masked the wisdom in them. Dany knew the Lord of Runestone fairly well. Rhaegar had had him visit court often. Bronze Yohn was well-respected throughout the realm for his martial abilities, and the most powerful of the Arryn bannermen. With all the challenges facing Jon, Lord Royce would make a fine ally. Yet Jon did not seem pleased to speak of him.

“It should have been Benjen.” He paced to the edge of the tent, looking south. “If he wasn’t held by the Florents… they say they are giving him time to heal from his wounds but there’s no trusting that. Not now. Not after what my men suspect they did to Bran.”

She heard the pain there and felt it herself. “He was a dear boy. I mourn Bran. Just as I do the others. So let us seek justice for them, but not at the head of this army. You can do more good on the throne, with the dragons at your back and me there to help you. We can get through this Jon. Just like we planned-”

“Our plans?” Jon whipped about, striding towards her and pushing the parchment into her hands. “Are these the plots you worked up with Aegon and Rhaenys? Am I to be included in these schemes at last? The insult is already done after all, why not let me earn my full place?”

She was lost at Jon’s sudden outburst until her eyes began to move over the words. It was a letter to Jon from Lady Stark and clearly something he wished her to read. As she did so the lady’s words caused her stomach to tighten and her mind to race. Lady Stark professed knowledge to things that she could not have known. Specifically Dany’s dealings with Aegon… in the hopes of setting aside Jon’s betrothal to Sansa Stark. The letter spoke of how the pair intended to marry, with Dany travelling to Riverrun to follow through on that arrangement.

The worst came at the end of Lady Stark’s coldly worded letter.

‘King Aegon apologizes for any insult that this does to Sansa’s memory. He swears that the princess’s journeys by your side were not sanctioned by him. I’m not sure what to believe of this. I thought the prince that my husband and I fostered at Winterfell honored both my daughter and his commitments. If he has failed at the first, for the sake of the children I have left to me, I beg you Jon Targaryen, do not disappoint in the rest.’

When she lowered the parchment her hands were trembling. Aegon’s betrayal was so terrible, so cruel that it felt like Jackie all over again. What made it worse was how, in the midst of revealing damning truths, Aegon had even added deception as well. Jon knew nothing of her dealings with Aegon and Rhaenys. That shameful secret she had kept hidden, for she knew Jon well enough to know how he would react.

“Tell me that it’s not true.” Jon asked, his voice was rough with anger yet tinged with hope at the end. “Say that Lady Stark was misled about more than my involvement. Say that there was no plot to break my betrothal to Sansa.”

“I can’t.” She let the parchment fall and tried to take hold of Jon’s face then. An action he violently jerked away from.

“You lied to me! Back at the capital, you said there were no more secrets between us!”

“Everything about us is lies and secrets.” Dany snapped back. “That’s how you wanted it! I’m sorry I kept this one thing to myself. How I fought for us! Rhaegar wished me to marry Aegon, so we worked together to stop that. To find a way for you and me to be together…”

“So you worked against father too?” Jon’s anger melted away into disgust, inflaming her own rage.

“Don’t you dare! I always loved Rhaegar while you scorned him! You had the father I always wanted yet you turned your back on him. Why are you like this, Jon? Why do you push away those who love you? If you had your way, I would still be back at the Red Keep!”

“Yes.” He nodded, hand to his head. “Yes, that’s right. I couldn’t push you away but I should have. I love you, gods I do, but every time I give in to that love I dishonor you! I dishonor Sansa! I dishonor myself! Now the Starks-”

“The Starks?! I’ve heard enough about the Starks!” She nearly screamed the name, since it always came back to that family. “You’re a Targaryen. You are the king! Yet all you ever think about is the bloody Starks, even now. Your brother and sister were just murdered! Who cares what Catelyn Starks thinks! We are dragons! You are a dragon! You will never be a Stark, no matter-”

“I AM A STARK!” He stormed out to the edge of the tent, pointing to where Arturion was still struggling against his chains and Rhaegal hissed at Ghost. “You want me to be like these things? If they weren’t chained they would fly free, burning everything in sight. No, I would be like Ghost. A direwolf. Like my mother and my uncles. Someone to be trusted…”

Jon didn’t bother to face her when he spoke such insults. Speaking of burning things brought Jackie to her mind as well. She could smell the burning flesh and hear the screams and felt sick again. She didn’t understand, it was like a madness had taken hold of them. They had never fought like this. Not once.

“You think so little of me?” Dany grabbed at Jon’s arm and spun him about, finding his face as troubled as her soul. “What am I to think of you? You bed me. You make promises to me of marriage. You say all the right things… but when a Stark is in need, that’s all that matters. If Lady Stark bars me from entering Riverrun, would you even argue for me, or let me wallow outside the walls with the rest of the camp followers?”

“I would never...” His hand covered the one she had on his arm, gripping her fingers tightly before urging her back. “That’s not going to happen anyway. I won’t allow it. You’re not coming with us to Riverrun anymore. I’m sending you back to Dragonstone, with the dragons.”

“What!? No!”

“Yes, to spare Lady Stark from insult. To spare you from me.” Jon’s hands became fists at his side. “Marwyn is right. The dragons need to be trained and he’ll go with you to see that done, Lady Brienne as well. I can raise up other Kingsguard during the march while she watches over you and Myrcella. I’m putting my sister in your care…”

His words went on but she kept waiting for him to smile and declare it all a poor jest. Yet Jon’s mouth kept moving, his plans for her tumbling forth, until she had had enough and put a stop to things herself.

“I won’t go, I cannot go.” Dany declared, knowing full well her contribution to this march. “You need my Dragonstone levees, two thousand of your most loyal men. It is me they follow.”

Jon was not put out in the least. “They follow you because father told them to. What one king gives another can take away. I have given Lord Sunglass command of your Dragonstone men. A small garrison will follow Ser Justin when he escorts you back to Dragonstone. After that, Lonmouth is tasked with your protection.”

“You stole my men.” She whispered, arms falling to her sides as Jon raised an eyebrow.

“They are the crown’s men. You were not the only one who named me king, Dany. I gave commands and they were obeyed. Things are already in motion. You set sail before nightfall.”

She felt like he’d struck her. This was not some petty slight. It was a betrayal, a well-concerted effort, akin to how Jon had struck at Cersei’s power in King’s Landing. Back when they had worked together. 

Now it was all crashing down around her. Dany could barely look at the man she loved, who wore the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, yet plotted like Rhae.

“Jon, this is a mistake…”

“I pray not.” He lifted a hand as if to cup her cheek, pausing at how she flinched at its approach before letting it drop entirely. “I won’t hold you to your pledges of love for me. Not after this. I can hope though… after all this death and suffering, you still make me hope, Daenerys Targaryen.”

You make me hurt, Jon Targaryen.

My king. My love. My betrayer.

She fought more to stay, though soon she realized it was a lost cause. Lady Stark’s letter had hardened Jon’s resolve. He was deaf to her arguments, to her pleas, even to her tears. His trust in her was lost, why else would he send her to Dragonstone rather than the capital?

At least at King’s Landing she could be of use. Perhaps even help rule. Nonetheless, the vessel that Justin Massey led her party to remained bound for Dragonstone. Just like it had been for Jon all those years ago, the length of her exile was undetermined.

As she watched the dragons be poked and prodded into their cages, she felt a deep kinship with her children. They too were being loaded onto a ship against their will. Whenever they screeched she wanted to join them. To scream out her frustration.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Jon was meant to be boarding the ship with her, not standing on the docks watching as the vessel began to depart.

His dark hair flew some in the wind, one hand on Blackfyre’s pommel, the other on Ghost’s head. He hadn’t dared to touch Dany again after commanding her to leave his side. There was no embrace. No kiss. Their last words to each other spoken in the midst of the fight.

Jon now acted more like Ghost than the man she loved. The pair were standing as still as statues from the shore, silently staring back at her atop the deck of the moving ship. Her stomach rolled to think of her last journey to Dragonstone.

Rhaegar had been alive then. Aegon and Rhaenys. Elara and Bran. Thousands upon thousands. All still living.

Now they were all gone and Jon was growing distant as well, watching her be pulled away by the winds. Dany couldn’t bear such a sigh again. So she turned her back to Jon, to Maidenpool. To all that she’d lost.

Knowing that if she looked back, she would be doomed by it.

 

SANSA  

“Please! Please! Leave her be!”

Sansa beat her filthy hands against the thick, iron door. Here, in her tiny unlit cell, she could barely see anything let alone her own feeble strikes. She was forced to depend on her other senses. Like the pain she felt in her hands following every blow.

Or hearing Roslin’s screams echo through the Dreadfort’s dungeon.

“Roslin!” Sansa wept and clawed at the door. “Mercy! My lord! Domeric! Mercy!”

She had feared this since Domeric dragged into the dungeons together. That she and Roslin would be given the same treatment that Domeric had given Viserys. Roslin might be tied to a crucifix even now, Domeric cutting at her with his wicked blade.

To kill Roslin’s unborn babe.

She was near hysterical when the screams abruptly became shouts.

“Sansa!” Roslin called to her. “Sansa! It’s alright! I’m alright!”

No, that’s wrong. Neither of us is alright. Nothing will ever be right in this place.

“What happened?” She asked desperately, pressing her face as close to the edge of the door as possible. “Is it the babe?”

“No… no, its fine. We’re fine.” She could hear Roslin's embarrassment, even through the door. “It was a rat. I fell asleep and woke to it gnawing at my hand…”

As horrid as that sounded, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. She sank back onto the hard floor and leaned against the cold metal of the door. It sent a shiver through her through the threadbare fabrics. All she wore was her night shift, now covered in dirt and dust from her stay in the dungeons.

It was a feat that Roslin had fallen asleep at all. Every time Sansa closed her eyes she remembered what the cell looked like. The cramped stone walls were caked with filth and etched with scratches that she could not pretend were made by beasts. The rats had scurried off when she was thrown within by the Dreadfort guardsmen but they returned soon after. When the door slammed shut the torchlight was stolen away, her pleas drowned out by the screech of a rusty hinge.

Now her ears were keen to the sounds of rats as they stole across the floor. The disgusting beasts were bold, and she feared how many more bites she might have to endure through the night. As far as she could tell, they'd been imprisoned here less than a day.

How long will Domeric keep us here? What he wants I cannot give.

I will not give….

“Sansa?” Roslin spoke again. “The gaoler… do you think he’s gone?”

She hadn’t given it any thought but now she strained her ears to listen for any sign of others in the dungeon. Earlier their gaoler had shouted down any attempts that the ladies made to speak to one another. Either by threatening them or kicking his heavy boots against the door, its clanging quickly became unbearable in the small cell.

Now Sansa heard nothing but silence and she dared to hope.

“I think they’ve gone.” She replied, eager to break the hours of silence. “They’re gone or they don’t care if we speak.”

“Do they care if we eat? Or drink?”

Sansa tried not to think of her hunger or thirst then. Her mouth was dry and her stomach hurt something terrible. No food or water had been given to them here and the last meal she had had was supper the previous day. Domeric and his men had burst into her chambers long before she meant to break her fast. 

She'd been dreaming of a hero, coming to save her. Most times that her took the shape of Jon. Other times it was father, returned at last to hold her close. At her most desperate, Robb would rise from the dead with an army of wolves. Even the Hound had acted a hero in her dreams.

All of that was lies though. There were no heroes coming for her when she woke. Only a villain.

Domeric’s pale eyes had been full of malice when he ordered his men to pull Sansa from her bed, watching with relish as their rough hands manhandled her.

“My patience is at an end.” Domeric had snapped as they forced her out of the room. “These were my mother’s chambers. A Lady of House Bolton. When you agree to become one yourself, you will rest easy once more. Until then, you are no more than a prisoner to me and it is high time I treated you as such.”

She remembered how cold her bare feet felt as they walked the stone floors of the Dreadfort. The chill in her heart was even greater when Roslin was brought along with them. The lady was heavy with child, the maester predicting she would give birth any day now. That didn’t dissuade Domeric from casting her down to the dungeons as well.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt her!” She had screamed at him. “Or Robb’s babe! You swore not to force me! Do not be so vile! Domeric! Be better-”

Her pleas only made Domeric worse. In a rage quite alien to the usually calm lordling, he snatched hold of her, ripping the top of her shift. While she had been forced to cover her exposed breast with both hands, his gaze did not seek her naked flesh. Rather those milkstone eyes had burned right into her own as his grip tightened.

“Do not blame me for your stubborn honor, Sansa Stark.” Domeric spoke through clenched teeth, so near to her face that she felt his spittle. “You had to be strong. You had to act like your father, like Arya. No matter how I treat her, the Stark girl must defy me. Who needs a warm bed when you have Stark honor? When I seek you again, you had best be prepared to begin anew.”

With that, Domeric had thrown her back into the arms of his men. His demeanor was frightening as he watched them descend into the deepest parts of the Dreadfort.

“We can’t stay down here.” Roslin lamented. “Domeric knows I could give birth soon… he was there when the midwives told me what to do. He acted like he cared then, like he wanted us to be happy. After all this time... all the months of us being here... why do this now?”

“Because I keep refusing him.” Sansa answered, wringing her hands together as she blinked back tears. “I’m sorry, Roslin. If I marry Domeric… I would be marrying a monster. Jon might think I’m dead but he’s still to be my husband… I-I musn’t break our betrothal…”

He would be my prince. My hero. The one who would come and save me.

Once she believed that, but foolish hopes like that had led her to a dank cell surrounded by vermin and fear. It was easy to despair here but Roslin refused to let her rot away in such a manner.

“That’s not right.” Roslin hissed, like she was about to whisper some secret. “Did Domeric ask for your hand last night? Did you refuse him again?”

“No… no, he hasn’t asked in days.”

“Then why did he do this?” Roslin asked. “Sansa, in all these weeks, all Domeric has done is try and court you. Your refusals did not harden him to us, so what could have angered him so? What changed? Why is he doing this? Why?”

Sansa heard the desperation in Roslin's voice and found herself asking the same questions. Her goodsister was right, Domeric’s behavior before this was more befitting of a suitor than a captor. He insisted on quiet walks together, where they would speak about Roslin’s health or visit with Hodor and Old Nan, who both remained at the Dreadfort. Stranger still was how Domeric tried to include her in the affairs of his family, which had risen to new heights of influence in the North.

His lord father and his fellow Lords Declarant were moving swiftly, gathering support and crushing any dissent to the North’s new order. Robett Glover’s staunch loyalty to the Starks had led to his family being cast out into the Wolfswood after Deepwood Motte was overrun by Bolton and Karstark forces. Domeric told her whatever outrage that might inspired in others was stifled when the Bolton army retook Torrhen’s Square from the sellswords.

“Not much of a battle there.” Domeric had pointed out. “Brown Ben and his Second Sons were simply meant to draw the North’s eye. They were always going to be defeated and impressed into my father’s service. He’ll use them to... hunt Viserys. Or crush the Manderlys if Lord Lamprey proves troublesome.”

While Lord Bolton marched across the North, Domeric had been busy heaping blame on the shoulders of the Manderlys. Scores of ravens were sent out, reminding any and all northmen how the sellsword fleet had slipped by White Harbor, and of the Manderly ‘betrayal’ during the Siege of Winterfell.

All of that Sansa knew to be lies.

“The Manderlys are innocent.” She had challenged Domeric over a meal. “They were true and loyal, it was you who burned Winterfell. Lord Manderly will share that tale with the North.”

“That he did. Though all that served to do is create confusion.” Domeric had smiled at her. “Such discord is an ally in times of great upheaval and doubt. Few trust my father, like the Reeds and Mormonts, but more than a few northern lords dislike the Manderlys more. They see them as southron still, and begrudge their wealth more. This keeps White Harbor from gaining allies, while my father’s men are stalwart and growing in number. Then there are his hostages...”

Domeric named Wylis Manderly, Lord Wyman’s heir and only surviving son, among the Bolton captives. Threats to Wylis’s life had quieted the Manderly denunciations of the Boltons. Lord Bolton wanted more than that though, he wanted White Harbor’s complete submission. If it was not given, Domeric was to join his father in besieging the city. Viserys was meant to make that journey as well, which amused Domeric in a distasteful way.

“Viserys will be discovered in the care of his Manderly friends. Or perhaps he'll be captured by me to rally more men to our cause, father hasn't decided yet.”

Sadly she'd been fooled into thinking that Domeric’s mercy towards Viserys of late had been a result of their quarrel, the disfigured prince having been moved from his torture chamber to a tower cell. She had only seen Viserys the one time since, when Domeric summoned him to the Dreadfort’s hall while they were dining.

“He has something to say to you.” Domeric had whispered to her while his eyes commanded something else of Viserys. The hobbling, ruined prince bent his wobbly knees before her seat and clasped his shaking hands together with the fingers left to him.

“Thank you…” Viserys had wept, his purple eyes mad with earnestness. “Lady Sansa, merciful Sansa, all I wanted was for the pain to stop… for that I thank you… and I beg for your forgiveness… for all that I’ve done.”

“You have my mercy.” She had swallowed down bile to think of Maester Luwin, or poor Jeyne’s suffering and young Roderick’s arm. “But you will never have my forgiveness. Not for what you or your kind did to my home.”

Sansa might have gone too far then, for Domeric was not ignorant to how she accused him in the same breath as Viserys. The jab was ignored though, sending Viserys away. Domeric then tormented her with talk of a different Targaryen altogether. Little word of the south reached her ears, save what Domeric wanted her to hear. Most often it was gossip, of how Jon served as Hand of the King... with Princess Daenerys by his side.

“He’s a prince, Sansa.” Domeric would say. “One who believes his betrothed to be dead. You did not miss what I saw at Winterfell, you couldn’t have. There’s something between Daenerys and Jon. I say this not to hurt you, but it won’t be long…”

She tried to ignore those attempts to unnerve her, which usually just resulted in her hiding her turmoil. Domeric promised much if she agreed to marry him. A chance to return to Winterfell and rule the North together. The promise to help Roslin raise her child in the same castle that she and her siblings had grown up. She wouldn’t have to be a prisoner anymore. At long last she could act as a lady again. That’s what she was meant to be. Mother and father had called her their ‘little lady’ for as long as she could remember.

They wanted me to be a princess… I wanted that too…

Now all I want is them. My brothers. My sisters. My family.

That was the only thing keeping her from accepting Domeric’s proposal. Every time he spoke of reuniting with her family, something would change in him. He would turn away from her and avoid her eyes any time she tried to mention her mother or brothers. He didn't even bother comforting her with lies, simply changing the subject to something else. Domeric rarely betrayed any of his feelings, so whatever he was hiding must have been too horrid for even him to comprehend.

Everything he tells me could be lies, she would tell herself, of what happens in the North and beyond. I cannot trust any of his words.

Jon and Daenerys… it's all a trick so that I break the betrothal first… he wants to force me into dishonoring the Stark pledge…

She clung to her honor more nowadays than her devotion to Jon. Domeric wanted to flay Jon from her heart, and at times she feared that there was little to cut away. She feared her prince becoming a distant memory to her.

The life she had lived in Winterfell felt more a silly dream with each fresh horror. To the realm she was dead, and being locked away in this dungeon could not be called a life. Domeric’s sudden change made her fear that this would be her fate. It was in his power to let her rot here.

No one would ever know. Save Roslin, who could be doomed as well.

She pictured Roslin curled up in her cell, cradling her belly like she often would whenever the babe kicked. Roslin always let Sansa touch her middle when such happened. A chance to feel new life after so much death, some hope in this dread place.

The only family she had here. Locked away. Starving.

“Roslin.” She called again, her voice sounding pathetic and weak in the echo that followed. “Roslin… don’t worry. Not about Domeric, not about anything. We won’t let your babe be born in this place.”

“What can we do?” Roslin replied in a mournful way. “Neither of us can pick locks. Elara could, the Sand Snakes taught her. She tried to show me once but I just wanted to do needlework…”

“You do wonderful needlework. Better than mine.” Sansa ran a hand over the door, pretending she was brushing Roslin’s hair. Like mother would do for her. “Together we should sew something for the babe. Something adorable, to keep the little one safe and warm. When we get out that’s what we’ll do.”

“The Boltons won’t let us out-”

“They might.” She bit back a sob at the choice she was considering. “Let’s focus on what will happen after. Only good things, yes. Tell me… tell me what you’ll name the babe.”

“Sansa, you already know…”

Roslin grew quiet for a moment and Sansa feared to be left alone in the dark. She couldn’t let that happen, not to either of them. She wouldn’t let anyone else get hurt because of her selfish wants. Not like Winterfell and Brown Ben.

“Robb.” The answer drifted through the door. “If it’s a boy, I will name him after Robb. I pray that that he gets Robb’s hair and eyes. I miss him so much… sometimes I dream about his eyes.”

“And a girl?” She pushed on despite knowing it was to be Bethany, after Roslin’s mother. Roslin would often speak of her mother after saying so and such distraction was needed.

“Sansa.” Roslin said suddenly, leaving her in shock. “I shall name her Sansa. After her brave aunt and the sister I love like my own. I see Robb’s strength in you, in your eyes. If you’d give your blessing. I would hope that my daughter could be half the lady you are.”

That’s not true, it can’t be true. If I was strong I would not break after less than a day in the dungeons.

There was no going back after hearing that. If Domeric came to her cell right now, Sansa would agree to his demands. To spare little Robb the fate of his father. Or little Sansa any of the suffering that this world had dealt her. She only prayed that her family would understand.

Robb died for us, he died a hero… now I’m to marry the villain…

There was no telling Roslin of her plans. Roslin had supported Sansa through all of this would only try and argue against her choice. There was no use though. No doubt this would make things harder for mother or Bran when they came to take back the North, but what choice did she have anymore? If she didn't have any family left in this world, she would die kicking and screaming, defying the Boltons until the end.

Domeric planned this, she wept, that’s why he put Roslin down here when she’s so far along.

He used my family against me… he mocked the Stark honor because mine is so weak…

That’s my future husband…

Sansa was surrendering to her fate when she heard it coming for her.

Noises were coming from elsewhere in the dungeon. Heavy footfalls and shuffling steps. Roslin grew quiet as the clinking of chains grew closer. Those were for her she imagined. Instead of a bridal gown, Domeric would drag her before the heart tree in chains.

The noises paused right outside of her cell and she could not fight the urge to flee. There was nowhere to go but she moved to the back wall and tried to make herself as small as possible. Robb and Arya would sometimes miss her when she hid like this in the crypts during a game of hiding.

This was no game though and the door was wrenched open. Torchlight burned into her eyes and she turned away to shield herself from its brightness. There was nothing to protect her from whatever came next.

“Hodor.”

Hodor?

When her eyes adjusted Sansa could not believe them. Standing in the door of her cell, holding a number of heavy bundles, was Hodor. The giant stableboy wasn’t alone either. Beside him was Old Nan, the shrunken old woman making a disapproving sound as she moved to drape a cloak over Sansa.

“Forgive Walder, my lady.” Old Nan said kindly, patting her shoulder. “He knows to knock before going into chambers but dungeons are something else.”

“Nan? What are you doing here?” She asked when a third voice answered from without.

“They are being imprisoned.” Domeric spoke softly as he came to the doorway and stuck his torch in a holder to the side.

Sansa was more worried by the blade she saw beneath his pink cloak and cursed him silently for it. This was some game Domeric had concocted to give her hope of rescue, so he could force her to watch as he locked more of her people away.

“Domeric, leave them be-”

“I intend to.” Domeric held a finger to his lips. “All the guards know of this is how I wanted to bring these two down to the dungeons myself. A ruse that gives us a chance to do what we must. I’m sorry to lock you down here, Sansa, it was the only way to see you away from the Dreadfort.”

“Hodor.” Hodor nodded and Domeric snatched a bundle from his arms and handed it out to Sansa.

“Now get out of that shift and dress quickly. These are washerwomen’s clothing, they’ll confuse the scents. Nan, see to Roslin. We do not have much time.”

She was too shocked to argue when all three left her and went towards Roslin’s cell. Within the bundle Sansa found several garments, including a commoner’s gown and a plain cloak that was well worn. All of it looked better than her filthy and torn shift so she stripped it away and did as she was told. The cloak was too large and stank of lye but that mattered little. She was tying it about her shoulders when Domeric returned and snatched up her discarded shift.

Sansa jumped, because of how odd he was acting and all he had done before. She did a poor job of hiding her feelings towards him, which Domeric acknowledged with a grim nod.

“I will not waste my breath asking you to trust me, so put your faith in them.”

Domeric gestured to where Roslin now awaited with Hodor and Old Nan. Her goodsister was garbed like a commoner as well and her face was hidden under the hood of an ugly cloak. Roslin was also forced to hand over her former garments to Domeric before he grabbed his torch and bid them to follow.

“Are you freeing us?” She asked, grasping Roslin’s hand and sharing an uneasy glance with her. “The stairs to the dungeon are the other wa….”

“You have a sharp memory, Sansa.” Domeric shot back. “But the stairs are the way back to the castle. Not to your freedom. There’s only one way to escape the Dreadfort and my family built it where they bury most of their secrets.”

Domeric led them to an older part of the dungeons, far from the torches and other cells. Here the cobwebs and dust were thick and the passage was partly caved in. Or so it appeared. When they came to a bit of rubble where two collapsed beams formed an axe, Domeric waved Hodor to come forward. Together they lifted the beams aside with ease, and with a kick to the stones piled behind, Domeric revealed a hidden passage.

He stepped forward and jabbed his torch within, nodding at what he saw.

“King Harlon Stark could never fathom how the Dreadfort held out against a siege for two years. This was how my forebears fed themselves. Smuggling food right under the Starks’ feet. Now we will smuggle a Stark out the same way.”

Roslin squeezed her hand tightly before they were forced to separate and enter the tunnel. It was narrow and so short that even Sansa had to duck down. Poor Hodor was forced to crawl behind while Old Nan helped Roslin’s waddling steps. Sansa was right on Domeric’s heels as he guided them on, whispering warnings whenever a rock jutted low or water made the floor treacherous.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She found the nerve to ask him. “Why throw us in the dungeons without a word? Roslin might have fallen ill.”

“A desperate gamble by a bloody fool.” Domeric cursed without looking back. “It was the only way. You weren't the only ones being watched anymore. My father’s men were spying on me and I didn’t know who I could trust.”

“Boltons can’t even trust each other.” She mumbled but Domeric heard her and laughed without mirth.

“My father did trust me, right up until I spared Roslin, I think. Or maybe it was all my letters to him about renewing our fealty to the Starks. I told him it wasn’t too late, we didn’t have to go through with all of that Lannister scheming. No one else had to die…”

The talk of Lannisters and death was ringing through her ears almost as loudly as the scuffing and scraping of their feet along the passage. Domeric cursed suddenly, having caught his head against a rock. When he pulled his hand from the spot, there was blood there and their eyes met.

“My words were wind. This is what my father wants.” He scowled, showing her his bloody hand before carrying on. “Blood. A whole legacy built on blood and corpses. His letters told me what I wanted to hear. That he would consider my ideas. That I should keep you and Roslin safe until his decision was made. Aunt Barbrey warned me first.”

“Warned you of what?”

“That father was doing as he taught me. Acting quiet and peaceful so I wouldn’t suspect him. I didn’t want to believe it. And I didn’t... until Coll Lothien’s father wrote to me. Their keep is a two day ride from here and last night a raven came, warning me that my bastard brother had stopped there. He rode in with fifty men and a pack of hounds-”

Domeric stopped abruptly, dropping to his knees and peering ahead into the darkness. It took her a moment to catch sight of what he did. A faint light up ahead. The end of the tunnel.

Domeric took hold of her wrist then and she thought she saw a glimmer of hurt in his eyes. Though it was likely just a passing shadow, for his voice did not waiver.

“My father would not send Ramsay to the Dreadfort to help me care for you. Ramsay is a brute, nothing more. He is the monster you fear me to be. Coll’s father writes he comes to take command of the Dreadfort. I wager to put me in irons as well before he turns his attentions to you ladies. I’ve done horrible things, Sansa, but my sins would be nothing compared to letting Ramsay Snow get ahold of you or Roslin.”

From anyone else she might have believed it, but Domeric had disappointed her one too many times. As they drew closer to the distant light, Sansa need only look behind her to find holes in Domeric’s tale. A huge stableboy, a frail old woman, and a woman so heavy with child she was about to burst. How could a group like this hope to escape Ramsay Snow if he had horses and hounds to chase them with?

When they stopped again, she feared their escape had already been thwarted. Voices were drifting down their way, through the jagged mouth of the tunnel. Creeping moss hung down across it but Domeric took no chances and dosed his torch as they moved closer. The voices became clearer after a time, more familiar too.

“Did you hear that, Al?” A young man asked from somewhere beyond the mouth.

“All I hear is you yapping, so shut it.” A gruffer reply came and Sansa recognized it quickly.

“It could be those wolves.” Came the younger voice again, which belonged to Coll Lothien, one of her minders at the Dreadfort. “That demon pack we heard about. They say there are hundreds of them now. All direwolves.”

“Aye, or maybe it’s that Stannis Baratheon.” Aldred Hilgard grunted with some laughter. “Him and his new army of cockless spearmen, all marching south to meet my axe.”

“No, no, I think they’d make more noise.”

“By the gods, lad-”

“None make more noise than you two!” Domeric shouted as he burst through the moss.

Sansa caught sight of Coll falling backwards over a log and horses rearing at the surprise. Aldred was up like a hare, axe raised in threat. When he got a better look at the party exiting the tunnel, he lowered his weapon and helped Coll to his feet. The passage had led them to a rocky clearing, one so far from the Dreadfort that all she could see of it was the light from its towers. Though hidden by the darkness, she knew they were close to the Weeping Water. The sound of its tumbling waters reached her ears from somewhere in the darkness.

“You weren’t followed?” Domeric asked his men and both shook their heads.

“Doubled back twice.” Aldred grunted before jerking a thumb back at one of three horses saddled nearby. “As far as anyone at the Dreadfort knows, we’re escorting your prize stallion to Lady Hornwood.”

“But we’re not.” Coll waved to the newcomers. “We’re here to help you get away. You and Lady Roslin both.”

“Thank you, Coll.” Sansa stayed near to Roslin and Old Nan, mindful of how few horses there were. “Domeric… Roslin cannot walk far.”

“I can’t see far either.” Old Nan wheezed. “A torch. A torch or I’ll break my hip.”

“Hodor.”

“No lights, no Hodoring, not yet.” Domeric took hold of his horse’s reins and soon had Sansa and Roslin gripping the sides of the saddle. “The journey will be short, I’ll see you through.”

The others were guided by Coll and Aldred in the same fashion. Once more they all followed Domeric through the night, heeding his warning of rocks and dips in the land. Each step brought them closer to the sound of the river. They headed straight for a copse of trees, a shadowy palisade of pine and oak that hid a small cove behind it.

There a small vessel drifted in the calmer waters of the sheltered rock. It looked to be a cross between a cog and a trading galley. She spotted few men upon its decks, but those she did see wore clothing as black as its sails.

“Men of the Night’s Watch.” She said aloud.

“They take no part.” Roslin whispered back. “The Watch doesn’t take sides, why help us?”

“Because I gave them no choice.” Domeric answered with a shrug. “They ran aground a week past. We captured their ship before they could make it back onto the river toward the sea. I suspect they were heading for White Harbor, to treat with the Manderlys. My father has enemies of both the Manderlys and the Watch… and now of me. So now, I suppose, we find ourselves allies. The begrudging kind at least.”

The wind moving through the trees shook the leaves and flapped the sails of the ship some. Yet something else was carried on that foul gale. A queer sound. One muffled by the sounds of the surrounding hills.

“My lord.” Aldred spoke up then, eyeing the way they came. “We should make haste.”

Domeric nodded, pulling free the garments that Roslin had worn in the dungeon and tossing them to the Hilgard warrior.

“You know what to do. Ride hard and ride fast. Head towards the Lonely Hills, lose them there. If you can’t, don’t let Ramsay take you alive. Go on now.”

Both Aldred and Coll climbed their horses and departed swiftly, riding hard upriver and away from them. She noted that Domeric now held her ruined shift as he set Hodor to lifting Old Nan into his arms and carrying her to where the ship awaited.

“Here.” Domeric pressed a small pouch into Sansa’s hands. “It’s gold, not so much to call attention to you, but enough to get you out of the North. These men think you carry my bastard, Roslin. That you lot are all kin. Stick to that tale, keep yourselves hidden. Nor should you linger in White Harbor, do you understand?”

“Why?” Sansa asked. “The Manderlys stayed loyal to my family. Lord Wyman will help us.”

“Things change, Sansa. Wyman Manderly might help you... or he might use you to bargain with my father for his son’s freedom. Heed me in this. Stay hidden. Seek the Vale. Your father still has friends among its lords. Your aunt Lysa rules there now. Beg for her protection. See to your own in the meanwhile.”

Domeric then placed a sheathed dagger in Roslin’s hand, which the lady gaped at. Sansa was at a loss too. She knew little of her aunt, save for mother’s stories. Of the Vale she only knew Bronze Yohn Royce, from his short stay at Winterfell. Already she was thinking of how much better it would be to seek mother at Riverrun. Or Jon at King’s Landing. She was about to argue this to Domeric when a realization struck her.

“You’re not coming with us, are you?”

“No, I cannot.” Domeric’s words came out as a mist in the night chill. “Robb tasked me with saving you two, as we once did against the wildlings. Soon enough, fiends far worse than them will come hunting after you-”

A sound interrupted them again and this time Sansa caught it clearly. She heard it often at Winterfell before a hunt.

The howling of hounds.

“He made good time.” Domeric moved a hand to his sword before bowing slowly towards both of them. “Roslin, be sure to raise that child to honor his father. A man who chose me as his brother, who I... I loved as one…”

Roslin surprised them both by stepping forward to place a kiss upon Domeric’s cheek.

“Thank you, Domeric. Robb was right to believe in you… my child shall hear the truth of that.”

Roslin backed away, leaving Domeric and Sansa to stare at one another. What was she to think of him? This man had burned her home, killed its menfolk, plotted against her family. He had locked her away. Lied to the realm of her death. Tried to drive a wedge between her and Jon. He had lied to her, over and over again. He had done so much wrong.

Yet now he acted like a hero out of some song. She did not know how to treat him when he abruptly climbed into his saddle, her shift in hand.

“I seek no forgiveness, Sansa.” Domeric ignored the distant sound of hounds as he gazed down at her. “I’m not such a fool as to think I’m worthy of it. I do hope for mercy though. When the wolves come again and justice is returned to the North, I pray you find it in your heart to beg mercy for me.”

Sansa nodded, wringing her hands.

“Mercy then. If the day ever comes, I promise mercy, Domeric Bolton.”

Domeric’s pale eyes looked her up and down. “I thought Arya was the only true she-wolf of House Stark. I was wrong… If we had married, I think you might have made me a good man.”

“You’re wrong about that as well.” She met his gaze then, seeing her father’s ward instead of her captor in that moment. “Arya called you a good person. She had the right of it.”

“Let’s hope I ride half as well as Arya. Remember your wits, Sansa Stark. May they be sharper than my family’s blades…”

Domeric snapped his reins and kicked so that horse and rider were soon on their way. Sansa did not linger, collecting Roslin and seeking the help of the galley’s crew to help them aboard. A black brother of slight build lifted her aboard, a man missing the fingers on his left hand. He proved to be the captain of this vessel.

“Davos Seaworth.” The man spoke in haste. “And the lord is damn lucky I was the honest kind of smuggler before I ever took the black. Let’s be away from this accursed place. At the Wall we know, no good comes from the Dreadfort.”

The anchor was lifted and the vessel moved out into swifter currents. Soon they were moving downriver at a pace which quickened with her breathing. Her first breaths of freedom, something she had not had in nearly a year.

Those who had survived the horrors of Winterfell and the Dreadfort gathered on the deck together. Perhaps they all prayed as Sansa did. That all the pain and trials were behind them now.

Just like the howlings of the hounds, and the pink-cloaked rider that Sansa saw disappearing into the black of night.

And she felt Davos Seaworth was wrong in what he said.

One good thing had come from the Dreadfort.

Chapter 25

Summary:

To do your duty in a time of lions.

CATELYN

The Trident ran swiftly here.

They were not far from where the three forks of the mighty river converged. Her mounted party was collected along the southern side of its wide banks, watching as the current rushed by them. All that water destined to reach the Bay of Crabs, then onto the sea itself.

As a child she would tell Petyr and Lysa that every toy boat they launched out onto the Red Fork was destined for the sea. Those were the days of youth and games, when mud pies could made and summer swims were all that life was.

Time had cured her of such ignorance.

As the Trident flowed by, another river plagued her thoughts. Catelyn had never set foot near the Honeywine, nor sailed any toy upon its waters. Yet that river had stolen something away from her all the same.

The Honeywine empties into the Sunset Sea, she thought, is that where my dear boy was taken?

Far from these lands and all the pain they caused him… now Bran can chase the sun itself…

My sweet boy…

“There’s someone coming.”

Ser Robin’s gruff declaration set the knight and the rest of Catelyn’s escort to readying their weapons. They were ten in all, ten awaiting the coming of thousands. Up until now all they had spotted were two riders cresting a hill to the east. Those men soon disappeared from sight, heading back the way they came. There was little doubt her party had been seen. One would have to be blind to miss them, what with the banners of House Stark and Tully flying to either side of her.

After all, Catelyn wanted to be seen.

And it appeared these newcomers wished the same.

Six riders approached from just downriver, breaking through some brush a ways from the more well trodden trail Ser Robin had been watching.

“Outriders.” Robin said, the older knight squinted ahead. “I see no sigils…”

“They need none.” She replied, for her eyes were sharper and could not mistake the man at the head of this group. “Look again, ser. It appears our bait has hooked a Tully.”

A Blackfish in truth. The last she had seen of her uncle Brynden he wore heavy plate, now he was garbed in mail and leather. He rode with haste and as he drew closer it pained Catelyn to note how Brynden had aged in the past year. His grey hair was now streaked with white and his face bore more wrinkles than she remembered. Even his eyes, once so bright and blue, appeared to have faded somewhat.

Few things have been spared these harsh times. My family least of all.

Her thoughts turned to Winterfell when Catelyn’s eyes fell to a stocky northman among Brynden’s party. There rode Harwin, one of the Stark guardsman who had escorted her to Riverrun so long ago. The smile Harwin sent her way was akin to those he’d give the children as he led their ponies around Winterfell’s yard. It pained her so to think on those days, for they felt a dream now.

“Cat!” Brynden hailed when they arrived and he climbed for him horse, crossing the distance between them afoot. “Dear girl, if you only knew… to find you here of all places.”

“It does me well to see you too, uncle.”

She leaned down to give the knight her hand, which he kissed and then pressed against his weathered cheek.

“I have been away too long. Family, duty, honor, I put our words to shame. My place was at Hoster’s side, at your side. In your hour of need, I failed you. To think of you enduring all that loss alone-”

“You are returned to us, I am grateful for that.” Catelyn would not let herself sink into despair once more. That helped no one, especially not those she meant to protect.

Brynden’s expression hardened then. “Why are you not at Riverrun? Ryger! There are raiders all about these lands. How do I find my niece on the trail to Darry?”

“Ser, know I spoke against this!” Robin defended himself but Catelyn would speak for herself in these matters.

“You find me here because this is where I needed to be. I am the Lady of Winterfell and my duties as a Stark demanded I make this journey. For I seek the king.”

She tried to have iron in her words, like the swords used by the Kings of Winter, and just as they won their crowns with such, Catelyn won over her uncle. He wasn’t happy yet soon he abided her, leading his men and hers downriver, following the trail that the outriders had scorned before.

“It’s good to be wary.” Brynden eyed the trees they rode by. “Just because the Freys sit on their arses at Darry, doesn’t mean they’ll stay that way. It would be folly to ride blindly into their clutches until the king has a chance to win them back. Not that there’s much hope of that.”

“There could be.” She answered. “If the crown is willing to meet his terms, Lord Walder has granted his relatives leave to aid Riverrun.”

The knight’s expression twisted in disgust. “Terms? The realm burns and they have the gall to demand terms of their king?”

“We are fortunate that Lothar Frey was willing to treat with me at all after Ryman Frey’s execution.”

She left out the part where Black Walder had wanted her put in chains, for she doubted her uncle would care how Lame Lothar had calmed the ire of all his kinsmen. In the end Brynden grew wroth all the same.

“You met with the Freys?! Please tell me you didn’t come to Darry with so few protectors.”

“Riverrun needs every sword it can muster. The army guarding the Golden Tooth was already dwindling when these raiders appeared. We needed men, the Freys have them, so I sought to win their strength.”

“There was no need to leave Riverrun at all.” Brynden scowled, gesturing to his own riders. “We were coming to you! Eight thousand men! King Jon had us marching from Maidenpool to answer your calls for aid. We sent word-”

“I never received it.” She had likely left Riverrun before it arrived. There was only time for one letter to pass between her and Jon, a letter which filled her with anger and regret. “I could not afford to wait. Truly I had doubts that Jon’s army would come at all. After Brightwater, Patrek Mallister and I thought it more likely you would return to the capital. My children’s safety could not afford waiting for word.”

I left them behind for their own good. Riverrun is the safest place for them.

And it needs to stay that way. That’s why I left them, I had to.

That was what Catelyn told herself when she turned away from her remaining children, her youngest babes and their cries. Rickon had been a terror, pulling at his hair and clawing at Desmond and Utherydes as they held him back in the yard. It was good that they’d locked up Shaggydog beforehand or the wolf might have killed the horse beneath her to keep her in the castle.

“No! Mother, no!” Rickon had screamed through rasping sobs. “Stay here! They die out there! They all die! Stay! Don’t leave me!”

Rickon wasn’t alone in his protests, little Lorra had given to high-pitched wailing in Brigid’s arms. The babe understood none of this, save perhaps that she was being held by someone other than her mother and that her brother was in turmoil. Each cry from both of them was like a dagger through her heart.

“Look to your sister.” She told Rickon from atop her horse, quite unable to meet his eyes. “You are the Lord of Winterfell now, Rickon, and Lorra needs you to be strong. I will return in a short while. Be strong, sweetling. I love you.”

“You don’t!” Rickon had raged as Shaggy began howling from the kennels. “You don’t love me! Stay! Mother! Please!”

She couldn’t. When Catelyn rode out of the castle gates, the screams of her children echoed around her, bidding her to turn around. Pulling at her heart to go back to them. Yet the faces of those she’d lost kept her going. She wouldn’t let the only children left to her suffer the fates of the others.

Perhaps even their father’s as well.

Oh Ned, where are you? Are you with the children now? Holding them as I wish to?

I pray not… please live, my love. Wherever you are, however lost you’ve become, come back to us.

Many would call her a fool for holding out hope after all this time, yet she did. She had to. Hope that Rickon and Lorra could see their father one day. That she would feel Ned’s touch again and together they would rebuild Winterfell. Or try to at least. It was hard to think of a life there without Robb’s laughter or Sansa and Arya’s bickering.

Or a dark prince’s rare smiles.

She was thinking on that when they came upon the royal vanguard. Lines of mounted men packed the trail through the wood, hundreds of lances and swords at the ready as Brynden guided their party down the army’s length.

“The king shouldn’t be far off.” Her uncle stated, waving to those who hailed him. “He was among the van last I saw him.”

That’s reckless, she thought, he was taught to be smarter than that.

Instead of giving voice to her doubts, Catelyn gave voice to a question that she’d worried on for some time now.

“How is he?” She asked, pulling her uncle’s attention from his comrades. “Jon, how does he fare?”

The shadow that passed over Brynden’s face didn’t fill her with confidence.

“I won’t lie to you, the kings suffers. Even before he wore the crown, or being named Hand, the lad already carried the realm’s burdens on his shoulders. He’s led us to great victories but… you would think we lost every battle to look at him. Every death, every life that couldn’t be saved, every misstep, he finds some way to blame himself for all of it. I worry about him. King Jon acts as if his honor is a shield, yet I see only a stone, chained about his ankle as it drowns him.”

She worried to hear such things, for she remembered a solemn young prince riding into Winterfell years ago. She and Ned had taken responsibility for that boy, for his safety and happiness. Now she feared that they might have done poorly by him, her more than any.

“Surely there is something Jon takes joy in?” She pressed Brynden. “Someone perhaps?”

“There was.” Her uncle eyed her in a suspicious way. “For a time, in the capital and on the march, he seemed happy. It withered away at Maidenpool though. Then the news of Brightwater came and… well… that sent all his good cheer far away. He split the camps, made new orders to march to Riverrun and sent… the dragons away.”

That Jon had done such a thing came as a surprise. Most of the Freys were enthusiastic about little, save for a chance to see the dragons again and they were sure that the beasts of legend travelled with the king’s army. Yet some had raised worries as well, not only about the danger that the beasts posed, but of the approach of Jon’s army. It was a volatile situation which could end in calamity with just one misstep.

That was why Catelyn had to come, so she could safeguard the fragile agreement she had made with the Freys. To guard the life of her king.

They found Jon near the rear of the van, thankfully within a ring of knights and steel. Four massive standards caught her eye, three displaying the red Targaryen dragons while the last bore Jon’s own white dragon. One of the standard bearers was the young Harry Rivers, no longer a bastard squire but a knight. Upon Ser Harry’s shield she saw a golden stallion on red, the reverse of his lord father’s sigil, though she knew that if Lord Jonos had his way, this bastard would soon become a legitimate Bracken.

A trueborn heir held another of Jon’s standards. Edric Dayne appeared to have lost some of his youthful innocence, the squire’s face now hard and expressionless. Catelyn was given a fright when she caught sight of the man carrying the white dragon banner. He was tall and muscular, with thick, black hair and the features of a man she knew to be dead. Edmure had written of Jon accepting Robert Baratheon’s bastard to his cause but she never pictured him as the ghost of Ned’s former friend.

A moment later the knights parted and she thought of ghosts again, not because of the large white direwolf that padded her way, but for the king who followed. Jon was taller now, his hair longer, but more alarming was his deathly pallor. The simple gold band upon his brow did not draw her eye like the antler-like scar upon his cheek or the dark circles beneath his eyes.  

She herself had once said that Jon was the image of Ned. Now it was a young Rhaegar she saw riding towards her.

The hair was wrong, the eye color as well, yet the sadness that had always surrounded Rhaegar now did the same to Jon.

“Lady Catelyn of House Stark, to see the king!” Brynden heralded just before Jon rode up, reminding Catelyn of her duties.

She bowed her head in respect. “Your grace, I thank the Seven above to find you well. Long live King Jon, first of his name.”

Many men echoed her sentiment yet Jon’s eyes were only for her when he nodded for her to rise. He rode so close, it appeared he meant to reach for her, yet his hand paused and fell to steady her horse instead.

“Aunt Cat-” Jon’s fumble was short-lived, the king straightening in his saddle. “Lady Stark, it does me good to see you. How do you come to be so far from Riverrun?”

“With threats so near, I had little choice.” Catelyn looked at every riverlord gathered about. “Raiders attack the lands of we loyal riverlords. Marq Piper fears a Lannister host descending on the Golden Tooth and has not the men to hold them.”

“He soon will.” Jon spoke with certainty. “My army stands with the Tullys and the Starks, as they have stood by me.”

“More are willing to do so.” She added to Jon’s confusion, soon leaning forward to whisper to him. “My king, might we speak in confidence? I have come from Darry with matters of great import.”

Jon agreed without a moment’s hesitation and soon they rode off to a small glade. While the royal guard took up positions about the trees and shrubbery, Jon helped her dismount so they could seek the shade of an old elm. Ghost joined them there, pressing to her side and seeking the same kind of affection that Shaggydog always expected.

“He was injured.” She noted while petting the giant wolf, for Ghost’s gait was somewhat awkward now.

Jon nodded in a grim manner. “It was at the Siege of King’s Landing. Ghost nearly died bringing down Robert Baratheon. He did his brethren proud though, the Starks chose well in their sigil.”

“They surely did. My dear Rickon would not be alive, save for Shaggydog.”

And Jaime Lannister… though I spit to speak that family’s name.

“Your children, did they make the journey with you?” Jon asked in a hopeful manner, though he seemed relieved when she said they remained at Riverrun. “Those walls offer better shelter than the open road. We’ll have to hasten our arrival there… I am quite eager to meet Lady Lorra.”  

“She’s a lovely girl.” Catelyn smiled to speak of her babe. “Her looks lean closer to the Starks but she has the Tully eyes. Rickon’s quite taken with her, though he does complain some about her crying. He won’t believe me that he was much the same. Apparently Robb and Sansa told him he was a mute compared to Arya. I think Lorra takes after Bran most…”

That pain was too fresh for her to continue. Jon’s expression had fallen at the mention of her dead children, though it was Bran’s name that bid him to close his eyes.

“I could have saved him.” Jon put a hand to his heart, his voice somewhat pleading. “About Bran my lady… I should have forced Aegon to send him back-”

“It was not in your power.”

“I was the Hand!” He snapped, his eyes opening and filled with pain. “Aegon gave me the power to do so much and I wasted it! I failed them! My brother! Bran! Even Rhaenys! She hated me but I had hoped… gods, her child… your children… I am so, so sorry…”

He buckled some then so that he leaned against the elm, a hand going to his stomach. That caught the attention of Ser Harry and two Mooton knights so Catelyn acted quickly. She took hold of the king and pulled him upright, forcing him to face her with his grief. The mother inside her, the woman who had comforted the little boy that Jon had been, was pushed aside in that moment.

“Jon, you are the king now, act it.” She urged, tightening her grip on his shoulders. “The realm is in chaos and men will not follow a king who weeps for things he could not prevent. You need to be strong, to rise above all this. For the sake of my children, act the man Ned raised you to be.”

Whether it was her tone or her nails gripping into his flesh, something forced Jon to pull himself together. He rose up and looked down on her once more, blinking back whatever turmoil raged within him to bow his head before her.

“My apologies Lady Stark, it seems I shame you once more. This is the second time you’ve been forced to remind me of my duties as king, of my pledges to your family.”

“You speak of my letter… Jon, you need not-” She released him only for Jon to take hold of her arm this time, though in a far gentler fashion.

“No matter what Aegon wrote, hear me now.” Jon did not plead this time. His voice was firm and commanding. “If there were plots against my betrothal to Sansa, know that I took no part in it. Nor did I have any knowledge of them.”

She believed him. Of course she did. Whatever suspicions Catelyn held about Jon and Daenerys’s feelings towards each other, deep down she knew he could not have endeavored to hurt Sansa in such a way. Jon had taken to Ned’s brand of honor like a fish to water and such lessons would not stand for half of what King Aegon had implied in his letter.

It was in her grief at Bran’s loss that she’d penned that letter to Jon. She couldn’t help but blame the Targaryens for everything then. Viserys had stolen her home and her daughters away. Aegon had led Bran to his death. Then came word that Daenerys stood to benefit from all her family’s hardships, that she would marry the new king as she had always plotted.

She knew better than to write anything of import in such a rage yet Rickon’s nightmare had spurned her on. He’d woken half of Riverrun with his screams, barely settling when she took him into her arms.

“I saw Bran! I saw him!” Rickon had wept in terror. “Summer found him in the water and he was cold and wet, his eye was a hole! He wouldn’t wake up! The men came and he wouldn’t wake up!”

Of course she told the boy that it was only a dream, yet Catelyn still wept to think of such a thing when she snatched up the parchment. In that moment, she acted more a child than a woman grown, her anger and fear spilling out in her words toward Jon.

“I regret it.” She petted Ghost as she confessed. “That letter. The septons would say not to speak ill of the dead, but I believe King Aegon meant to drive a wedge between us. Princess Daenerys was the easiest route in doing so. Is it true you have sent her away?”

“It is.” Jon reached up to adjust his crown, an attempt perhaps to hide the twinge of pain she caught upon his face. “The dragons as well. They are growing wild and Daenerys is best suited for taming them. Nor could I abide presenting her at Riverrun. Aegon spoke truly in one respect, Daenerys did plot to break my betrothal to Sansa. It was not in me to ask you to forgive such a trespass after all my family has done to yours...”

She wondered if he was right to do so. It would have been wise to forgive the young princess her foolish plots, love often drove youth to the worst of decisions. Petyr’s duel with Brandon, Lucas Blackwood and Jayne Bracken’s affair, Lyanna leaving with Rhaegar. The last one had at least led to the fine man standing before her now.

One she hoped would do what was needed.

“Your grace, since we speak of forgiveness… I must tell you that I have been treating with the Freys. They are willing to forgive the loss of Ryman to your blade and pledge their men to Riverrun’s defense.”

“Truly?” Jon was taken aback. “I hoped at best for them to let us pass Darry unmolested. I remember well our visit to the Twins and how hard it was to win Lord Walder’s favor, and that was before I did his family any insult.”

“The insult is not forgotten.” She said with a sigh, shaking her head. “And the price for Frey forgiveness and swords is quite steep.”

There was no lie in that. When Catelyn first arrived at Darry she’d hoped a promise to wed Rickon to a Frey girl and to name a Frey castellan to Harrenhal might win them over. She had little more to give yet the Freys wanted more. Things she alone could not grant, for only a king had such power.

When she laid out the terms to Jon his expression darkened to the point of rage.

“Harrenhal?!” He nearly spat. “Aegon granted that castle to Bran and they wish me to strip it from Rickon?”

“Yes. I raise no protest to this if it means Rickon’s life.” She swallowed her bile to think of giving away a title that Bran had earned with his pure heart to such a grasping family. “They seek a marriage as well. I feared they sought my hand but it was a royal match Lord Walder eyes. He wants a Frey married into the royal family.”

Jon nodded before suddenly catching her meaning, his jaw dropping some.

“My lady I… well, Harrenhal is one matter, but if the Freys wish me to marry one of their own I… I cannot… on my honor…”

So there it is. The Stark honor and Targaryen passion all at once.

“I thought as much.” She said, deciding not to force Jon into admitting what he was clearly struggling to put to words. “The Freys were told what I suspected, that you already forged a marriage pact with another. It is Princess Daenerys, is it not?”

“It-it is… agreed upon in the capital before we departed. I meant to ask your blessing but the dishonor…”

“Say none of that to the Freys.” She interrupted. “Only that you are betrothed to the princess, that is all. Speak of Prince Tommen and how he remains unmatched.”

“Tommen?” Jon stroked his beard in thought. “I mean to name him my heir but I’d not truly considered matching him to anyone yet... Aegon might have done so with Myrcella in Dorne but I’m not sure I’m comfortable doing so quite yet.”

“These terms gain you nearly four thousand men. My sister has yet to rally the Vale and the rest of our allies are distant or already under attack. If the Lannisters mean to make war, you will need these swords.”

Jon made a face which gave her pause. “Perhaps it was a mistake to send all those sellswords and Unsullied to the Wall. It would have disgusted me to impress them into my army, but those men would have cost me less than this bargain does.”

“Your grace-”

“Fear not, my lady.” Jon waved off her worry. “Those who have served the throne faithfully shall have its protection. I will put my seal to what the Freys ask. As soon as can be done, for Rickon and Lorra surely miss their mother.”

“I hope they forgive me for that.”

Catelyn looked at the glade around them and remembered a picnic she had enjoyed with the two children outside Riverrun’s walls not long ago. Rickon and Shaggydog had chased each other about to the giggles of Lorra. All that laughter washed away with the memory of their screaming.

“They will.” Jon spoke softly. “No child could begrudge a mother who cares as much as you. Some can only dream of such a woman being their mother.”

It was a kind thing to say, and Jon soon did her another kindness by helping her back onto her horse so they could continue on to Darry. She was already picturing riding through the gates of Riverrun to gather Rickon and Lorra up into her arms when Jon paused by her horse’s side. His brow was furrowed in thought when she grew curious.

“My king, is something amiss?”

“You didn’t trust me.” Jon met her gaze then, his grey eyes distant in a way. “That’s why you sought the Freys, isn’t it? You didn’t think I’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure.” She tried to soften that blow. “After everything that’s happened-”

“It’s alright. You had no reason to believe me.” The young king turned to Ghost, who drew close to her mount. “I’m a dragon, I know that and what it means. Most of the Targaryens I grew up with have been selfish or cruel, ignorant of honor and hungry for power. My father… he was guilty of some of that. Then he died for me. Even though I told him I loved Uncle Eddard as a father, he sacrificed himself for me.”

“A noble deed.”

“A foolish one.” Jon shook his head. “Unless I prove myself worthy of it. When I look at Ghost, I see strength, honor, and truth. My father sent me to Winterfell to learn from the Starks. If I’m to be a king, I would be the kind father wanted me to be. The kind you raised me to be. I’ll earn your trust again, Lady Stark, I swear it.”

He made to return to his horse but Catelyn couldn’t allow that. She caught the edge of his cloak and bid the king to look her way again.

“Aunt Catelyn.” She spoke with a tremble in her throat. “I beg my king to call me such. For he has my love and my trust. Ned gave me six beautiful children, fate handed me a seventh. A dragon I entrust my life and children’s over to.”

This time, when Jon’s hand sought hers, it did not falter. He laid it overtop hers and though it was calloused from the sword, his touch was a welcome one.

He would have made Sansa so happy, she thought, I cannot begrudge him happiness with Daenerys.

Not if it means Rickon and Lorra will live to find some themselves.

The army made good time to Darry, though it was forced to camp a good distance away. The Freys were wary, thus only Jon and fifty of his loyal men were permitted to meet with their hosts outside the walls of the castle. It was disconcerting how many armed men were gathered there yet Jon and Ghost strode by them without a hint of hesitation. She was happy that Black Walder was not among those who greeted them, for Ryman’s son would likely have not bowed to Jon as his kinsmen did.

“Your grace.” Lothar greeted them, with Aenys and Hosteen Frey at his back. “We welcome you to Darry, though I regret that Lord Lyman cannot do the same. He has taken ill-”

The man’s words were cut off by the sound of Ghost snapping in his direction. In a rare display of rage, the direwolf’s teeth were bared, his hair standing on end as it snapped again at the Freys.

“Control that beast!” The brawny Hosteen commanded, hand on his sword.

“My apologies!” Jon tried to do as the Freys asked, joining with Brynden and Lord Beric in pushing the direwolf back. “Ghost! Stop! Gendry, lead him away!”

“Yes, your grace! Come on Ghost, what’s gotten into you, boy?” Gendry and young Edric Dayne set to the difficult task of driving Ghost off with their shields.

Just like that, Jon not only leads away Ghost but removes Gendry from the Freys’ sight as well, a clever move

Worthy of a king.

Only when they were out of sight did Lothar appear to settle from his fright.

“If that’s how it treats loyal men, I pity traitors.” Lothar wheezed. “Mayhaps your grace would like some bread and salt? Whatever comfort that offers you in such foul times I suppose.”

“Only fools trust Dornishmen.” Aenys added, the tall, round-shouldered Frey eying her hungrily. “Not even guest right is sacred to them. We hear the Red Viper creates such chaos in the Reach that the Florents dare not let the survivors of his treachery leave their castle.”

“I’m sure certain King Jon will return order to the realm.” She said with a nod in Jon’s direction. “With the help from his loyal friends of Frey of course.”

“We helped once before and earned only insult and injury.” Hosteen growled, earning a harsh look from Lothar. Jon chose to ignore those angry words and addressed the collected men with his best attempt at cheer.

“Lady Stark has told me of what role Lord Walder wishes his family to play in the realm, and I find it all within my power to grant. If I can be assured that your army will be ready to march as soon as possible.”

“The toll is high, but if paid, we shall gladly serve a new king.” Aenys answered as Lothar searched about Jon’s escort.

“I do not see Princess Daenerys. Does she wait back at your camp? Is our welcome more fearful than those dragons of hers?”

When Jon explained that the princess and the dragons had sailed on to Dragonstone, not even a child could miss the disappointment of the Freys. Of course the beasts were likely a magnificent sight, but Catelyn thought it unbecoming of grown men to act so petulant to be denied viewing them.

They could barely tolerate Ghost’s behavior. Seven help them if they inspired the same rage in the dragons.

The talks went a tad smoother after that. Lothar led his kinsmen in accepting Jon’s pledges with a good humor that eluded Beric and Brynden. They likely disdained all that their king was forced to give away, yet Catelyn still accounted them fortunate to win over the Freys with such ease.

Lothar had even gone a step further in opening Darry’s stores to the use of the royal army before proposing a feast that night, to celebrate a future Frey princess. She had half expected them to delay their march on to Riverrun until Lord Walder could be reached by raven.

Instead the Freys appeared content to march. And when a raven arrived, it came not from the Twins, but from Riverrun.

Ser Patrek’s message was as simple as it was terrifying.

The Lannisters have broken through the Golden Tooth.

Tywin Lannister comes. Fifteen thousand at his back.

Send help, for the sake of the children.

 

JAIME  

Well, here I am again.

Jaime leaned against the window of his prison, gazing down at grounds of the Red Keep and what could be seen of the city beyond. It had the makings of a fine day in King’s Landing, the smell of shit barely reached all the way up to the White Sword Tower.

Some might take solace in their prison being such an honorable one. Jaime could have last few months could’ve been spent in some tiny tower cell, or languishing in the Black Cells themselves.

That’s not where Kingsguard as piss poor as me deserve to end up.

If there was any justice in the realm it be my corpse rotting in some grave, not Arthur Dayne or Barristan the Bold.

Or Oswell Whent, that black humored bat.

Kingsguard were dying left and right these days. There were some he never had a chance to stand vigil with, like Loras Tyrell or Robar Royce, yet even those newly made Kingsguard had died doing their duty to the king. From what little Edmure Tully allowed him to hear, the only Kingsguard actually guarding a member of the royal family was that bloody Tarth wench.

Richard Horpe was missing. Preston Greenfield had been attainted.

And I sit here a prisoner of Edmure Tully. Again.

He pushed back from the window and retreated deeper within the tower. On a table he found a pile of armor awaiting him. Freshly cleaned and polished from the night before. Ready to be donned again for another day of uselessness. That was his life now. With no others to share his prison, Jaime had the four levels of the Kingsguard tower all to himself.

Each day here was spent like the day before. Preparing for a duty few thought him worthy of any longer.

With no squire to aid him, Jaime had become quite the expert at armoring himself with his one hand. It took less than an hour now. He refused to let his left hand grow lax with the blade either. His captors had permitted him a tourney blade and he would spend hours at practice with it, dancing about the Round Room, battling the shadow he cast against its whitewashed walls. In the center of that room sat a weirwood table, carved in the shape of shield, where once Jaime and his six brothers would meet. It was them he imagined dueling against at times.

Most often it was Rhaegar. His king helping to keep Jaime sane in this time of madness. Though, of late, he could not bring himself to face the memory of Rhaegar.

You betrayed him. You forgot your vows and protected a traitor.

If you hadn’t, you’d have been with Rhaegar at the Red Storm. Aegon and Rhaenys might yet live.

This new king might welcome your blade at his side, not curse you to this tower.

Jaime wanted to explain things to Jon before the prince left the capital. What exactly he meant to say eluded him, for he still could not bring himself to betray Cersei. Not that he hadn’t been tempted to after that farce of a trial. When Jaime realized what Cersei had set Trant and Moore to do he had fought his hardest to reach Jon’s side. To his shame the Tarth wench proved more than his match. So he’d taken a page from Mandon Moore’s book and feigned his injury, letting the giantess rush to Jon’s aid instead.

His reward was to rot away in the tower, with nothing more than the ghosts of his brothers to keep him company.

After he was armored and ready, it was time for another of his rituals. With his white cloak sweeping the floor in his wake, Jaime made his way to the Round Room, though not to spar. Not quite yet.

It was the massive book sitting upon the weirwood table he sought. The White Book was two feet tall, a foot and a half wide, and thousand pages thick. Usually the tome rested before the Lord-Commander’s seat but Jaime would not dishonor the memory of those men by sitting there, so he had dragged the book to his place.

Within the tome the deeds of every Kingsguard were recorded, for better or worse. To sate his boredom, or keep his wits, Jaime had taken to reading the book from the first page on. So far he’d made it as far as the reign of Aerys I, and had left on Ser Roland Crakehall, who had ridden at the Ashford Tourney where Prince Baelor died and helped put down the Second Blackfyre Rebellion at Whitewalls.

Yet before he could move to the next man, Jaime flipped ahead, to seek names he knew well.

“Gerold Hightower. The White Bull.” He spoke the name with respect as he ran his hand over the page of his former Lord-Commander. “Died of a chill during the reign of Rhaegar, in the company of his sworn brothers.”

To flip the page was to find another lost brother. “Lewyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, who fell valiantly during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Come on, Arthur, you could have least mentioned the two men he took with him on the end of his spear. Like a Kingsguard would.”

 

He couldn’t really fault Arthur though. The knight’s own entry had been woefully neglected as well. It was for the Lord-Commander to write in the White Book, and since none holding that title had been in the capital for some time, much had gone unmentioned. Many sacrifices gone unrecorded.

Arthur. Jonothor Darry. Barristan Selmy. Oswell Whent.

Pages hadn't even been started for Robar Royce, Daemon Sand, or Loras Tyrell. All had worn the white cloak and deserved to be remembered. Even Brienne of Tarth was surely owed a page.

If Horpe’s alive, it will fall to him to put this all down. He’s the only one left of us who Jon could trust with the duty.

He knew what he would write if given the chance. His left hand was better with swords than quills, yet he would try for those so deserving.

Jaime was reading over Selmy’s duel against Ser Simon Toyne again when something reached his ears. The ringing of bells. Loud ones. A familiar sound in the capital yet quite out of place as well.

After he made his way to the window, the sound became a little clearer and he was sure of the source now. His eyes moved to the distant shape of Visenya’s Hill and the Great Sept of Baelor. Rising up from the large marble dome of the sept were the seven crystal towers, each with a set of bells, many of which were now ringing.

That’s not right, services were only a couple days past… and if King Jon has fallen, they’d all be ringing.

His confusion only deepened as the bells continued on without end. Then a new sound crept its way up to the heights of the tower.

Shouting. A flurry of curses, followed by the clashing of steel. The song of battle was ringing out clearly now.

Jaime leaned out the window as far he could and spied great activity along the walls and in the yards of the castle below. Gold cloaks were fighting royal guardsmen and, stranger still, some of the city watch and the guards were fighting amongst themselves. There were others as well. Men wearing tunics and colors that could belong to anyone for all he could tell from this place so high up.

“Hey!” He bellowed, waving his golden hand down at some of the nearer combatants. “What the fuck is happening?”

The only answer that came was more fighting and the distant sound of trumpets. What was at first a dull tone, suddenly became hundreds of the bloody things being blown at once from the other end of the city.

“Oh enough with this.”

Jaime was armored and ready, and though he only had a tourney blade, Barristan the Bold had once boasted that even a spoon could be of use in a battle. He went straight to the bottom of the tower and began to beat upon the door. It was barred to the other side yet the guards stationed without could often be taunted into shouting an insult or two at him.

Yet when he reached the door, only the sounds of battle raged beyond it. Steel struck against steel, and the unmistakable cry of someone being run through made Jaime ready himself for the worst.

When the door opened an ugly sight did welcome him, though one he happened to love.

“Tyrion?”

It was indeed his brother standing without. The smallest Lannister was dressed for battle, wearing mail and leaning upon an axe. The bandage Tyrion had worn since his injury was gone, displaying a long, crimson scar down the right side of his face. It ran from his jawline all the way up to his eye, which now had a droop.

Nothing about his foul sense of humor had changed though.

“Beloved brother.” Tyrion smiled to look him up and down. “You’ve gotten shorter.”

“And you prettier.” He shot back, stepping out to find Bronn and a few other Lannister men standing over the bodies of his Tully guards. “Tyrion, if this is some sort of rescue-”

“Perish the thought.” Tyrion waved a man forward to offer Jaime a sheathed blade. He barely had it in hand before Tyrion was waddling down the corridor, bidding him to follow. “Come along brother, there’s plenty more treason to be done, Seven save us.”

Tyrion praying? This must be bad.

It truly was.

For Cersei was in the process of seizing the Red Keep.

As Tyrion explained things, every man loyal to Edmure Tully or Jon was under attack by a coalition of forces united behind the Queen. Gold Cloaks, royal guards, the personal levees of the city’s nobility, were wresting control of the castle from their rightful king.

Their descent to the ground level of the castle was marked by the sounds of battle and the corpses of dead men. Most who owed loyalty to the riverlords.

“Where’s Lord Tully?” Jaime asked his brother as they entered the yard near to the Maidenvault. “There are thousands of men in the capital loyal to him.”

“Those men are likely asking the same question. Edmure went to meet the High Septon at first light and, quite fortuitously, Uncle Gerion then took his party in the streets. This Serpent of the Faith has proven himself quite the useful ally for our sister. That’s how she arranged all this. Her visits to the sept had septons scurrying back and forth between the serpent and her agents all across the city. I wager Edmure thought himself quite generous to allow her such piety-”

“Tell me she hasn’t killed him.”

“No, Gerion is trying to use the lord to get the rest of the rivermen in the city to stand down. It would go better if father’s army isn’t forced to slaughter them to the man.”

Jaime stopped midstride, bringing the entire group to a halt as a strange chill began moving up his back.

“Father’s here?”

Tyrion nodded. “Him and thousands of the Westerlands’ finest. Or foulest, I can’t decide. As soon as they were within sight of the capital, the seven holy bells rang out to signal the attack from within. Alliser Thorne and his loyal men control nearly all the gates, but that doesn’t matter much. Robert Baratheon failed to take the city but the breach he made in the walls has let our father march right in.”

No, no, no... this is madness. Treason.

Please not again.

“Tyrion!” Jaime grabbed hold of his brother and jerked him about. Bronn grunted in protest yet was ignored. “This can’t happen! How could you let this-”

“Me?!” Tyrion’s outrage came out as spittle in his face. “I’m not the one who gave Cersei the chance to do this! Do you think she shared her little plot with me? Varys has scurried off without a warning too. By the time I knew what was happening it was too late. My only crime is freeing you, brother. Let’s not speak of yours.”

He’s right… but even the Kingslayer can see the folly of this. Father needs to stop.

The last time he marched on King’s Landing a good woman died.

I could’ve saved Elia…

The princess’s screams were fresh in his mind when Bronn gave a shout of warning. Rounding the corner of the Maidenvault came ten or so men, holding blades slick with blood. All loyal to the Tullys. Two of whom were a squat knight and a squire Jaime knew by name. Ser Andrey Charlton and Lucas Roote both rode with Jon and Jaime during their pursuit of Joffrey. They had fought bravely during the Mountain’s ambush in defense of their prince.

Now they fought for their king.

“King Jon! King Jon!” Ser Andrey bellowed, leading his men in an attack against the six of them. Bronn and the others loyal to Tyrion lunged at their attackers in what became a mess of blades and curses.

“Stop!” He shouted yet instinct forced him to draw his sword. “Stop this! We can-”

“Traitor!” A Smallwood man-at-arms cursed, swinging a mace at Jaime’s head. He backed away rather than meet the challenge, for they were on the same side.

Until he saw Andrey knock Tyrion to the ground. His brother managed to raise his axe up to defend the next cut of the knight’s sword, and then again, but he doubted there would be a third time. Jaime backhanded the Smallwood man with his golden hand, knocking blood and teeth into the air. When Andrey stabbed down again, the blow was deflected by Jaime’s sword, the two knights facing each other.

“Kingslayer! So it is true.” Andrey shook his head before readying his weapon. “You were a traitor all long.”

“Don’t be a fool Charlton, we can end this.”

“On that we agree!”

The knight lashed out and their blades met. Jaime’s left hand would never be what his right had been, yet years of practice left him able enough. The shadows of his dead king and sworn brothers had helped Jaime ready himself to survive Ser Andrey’s wild assault. He defended more than attacked though, trying to reason with the man.

It was no use, Charlton wouldn’t listen. Every word of reason was met with a curse, or drowned out by the cries of men dying around them. After a cut came so close as to slice some strands of hair from his head, Jaime decided to make the knight yield. He laid a strike down across Andrey’s sword hand with the flat of his blade. The man hissed in pain and dropped his guard so Jaime could lay his blade across the man’s neck.

Only to cut right through his throat.

Tyrion, in an attempt to help, had bowled into Andrey from behind, throwing the knight forward and right into Jaime’s blade.

The blood from the man’s wound sprayed out across his face and armor. Jaime could only watch as the knight collapsed, his head striking the cobbled ground with a sickening crack.

“Jaime!” Tyrion shouted, eyes wide. “Behind you!”

He spun about and found young Lucas Roote ready to strike him with his longsword. The lad froze though, his face bearing a shocked expression and his blade lowering down to his side. That was when Jaime saw his sword buried in the youth’s gut, running the boy through like a stuck pig.

He’d done it without even realizing.

“Shit.” Jaime cursed as he locked eyes with the dying squire. Light brown eyes that were swiftly dimming. “Shit…”

As weak as he felt, his grip held firm when the youth fell back, the bloody sword pulling free. Then Lucas’s corpse joined his ser’s upon the ground, him and all the rest of their men. Others had joined the fray without Jaime realizing. Two score men, led by none other than Meryn Trant and Mandon Moore.

The Vale knight was using the tunic of a dead man to clean his blade when he nodded at the dead squire.

“That’s the last of them.” Moore said. “They gave us a decent chase, trying to reach the sewer passages we used to get our men in. Fleeing for their lives most like.”

They should have run faster… they shouldn't have crossed a traitor’s path…

His guilt was interrupted by Trant pointing at Tyrion with his sword.

“Imp! The Queen told you to assemble in the throne room. Are you trying to get taken hostage?”

“I’m sure Cersei would hate that.” Tyrion patted Jaime’s arm. “My brother needed to be freed. You all seemed too busy killing all you found to pay him much mind.”

Mandon raised an eyebrow at Jaime. “I’m sure the Queen would have sent for you as well, ser. We’ll lead you to the hall. The High Septon is ready to make an announcement before the entire court.”

“Is there even anyone left?” Jaime spat.

His hand went to his sword, tempted to end this treason right here by slaying these false knights. He stopped short from doing so, preferring to find Cersei so he might convince her to put an end to this.

That would be a struggle though, as a large crowd filled the Great Hall, blocking his way. The room writhed with a mix of shock and excitement, Jaime spotting few if any lords who once favored Aegon or Jon. Those of middling loyalties whispered amongst themselves or held one another for support with fear in their eyes. Few of those bold enough to smile were men he recognized. It seemed like the hall was filled with mostly new faces, minor nobles of the city and its wealthiest merchants.

They were the ones who beamed up expectantly to where Cersei and the High Septon stood in front of the Iron Throne.

To his fury, Cersei looked an absolute vision. Her dress was a regal red, as dark as blood, the jewels about her neck a collection of emeralds and rubies. Her golden locks bounced lightly as she moved her head, taking in the crowd with a triumphant grin. Once he dreamt of smothering himself in that hair. Now he was tempted to strangle her with it.

The High Septon was already in the middle of some grand speech, his face red and sweaty, and voice hoarse.

“… no easy decision! I prayed for guidance from the Crone! The Seven spoke to me! They did! They said, this king is no true one! They did, I say!”

A murmur went through the crowd, Jaime and Tyrion growing nearer to the wretch with each passing moment.

“King Rhaegar’s second son is not one of us!” The man continued. “He follows the old gods, the false faith, or tree worship and blood magic! There’s no piety in his heart towards our holy faith! Our dear queen was found innocent of her crimes before the Seven yet he ignored their divine judgement! He had the gall to name a woman to the Kingsguard! I urged him time and time again to convert to our the true faith, like all the great kings before him, but Prince Jon turned his back on me! On the Faith!”

“It’s far worse than that.” Cersei joined in, her voice loud yet smooth as silk. “As Jon’s stepmother, I say that he disdains the Seven. He holds the old gods and the Starks above all true and noble things. The Starry Sept in Oldtown is besieged and yet he leads an army north! North! Why does he do nothing to defend the Faith from the ravages of the ironmen?”

“I thought that was why Mace Tyrell was allowed to leave the city.” Tyrion muttered.

The High Septon held out his hand and one of his septons ran up the stairs to hand him a parchment. He unfurled it with a comically grim expression, as if he was about to shit himself and need to grimace to hold it in.

“This is testimony from Grand Maester Gormon. He swore to me that the prince sent a letter to Lady Stark, promising to slay Prince Viserys himself! To become a kinslayer before the eyes of the gods and men!”

Jaime wouldn’t be surprised if that was true, he had been tempted to kill Viserys himself for the murder of the Starks girls. Especially that wild one. The hall erupted into gasps, as if this was the worst thing they had ever heard. Cries and shouts of anger echoed through the hall and he saw Cersei's smile transform into something predatory.

“Can we truly be surprised?” She put to the crowd. “We all know that man for what he is! A bastard! A bastard born of polygamy, the greatest of sins! It’s in his nature to express the worst of himself!”

“I fear Queen Cersei is right.” The High Septon nodded gravely. “My predecessor surely erred in naming Jon Targaryen a legitimate son of King Rhaegar-”

“A decision which doomed my husband!” Cersei interrupted. “Rhaegar was a good man! A loving man! But to a fault I say! If not for the love he bore that bastard, our king would still be alive today. All know he fell because of the bastard’s follies at the Red Storm!”

Cersei’s accusations didn’t stop there. There was no Prince Jon in her eyes, only the most nefarious of villains. A monster who'd forced a delirious and dying Barristan Selmy to knight him before the Kingsguard’s death. She accused him of arranging a vile plot to besmirch Prince Joffrey’s good name, saying that his Stark kin had been given orders to murder her son with his savage wolf. The only true witness to Joffrey's supposed crime was a bastard, a Dornish bastard no less, and the Dornish had proven themselves more fiend than man with their betrayal of King Aegon.

Jaime was forced to listen to all of this trite and treachery, for Trant and Moore blocked his advance towards the throne. The crowd continued to hang on every word, especially when Cersei broached on salacious gossip.

“This bastard who would be our king, he wasn’t content with stealing away my trueborn children, nor locking me in a tower. No, he even sought to seduce his own aunt! I have witnesses who can attest that Princess Daenerys was made into the bastard’s mistress against her will. The beautiful silver princess, our guiding light during the Siege of King's Landing, deflowered by a villain!”

“Good for him.” Tyrion grumbled as Jaime clenched his teeth. “Should we join in? Climb those stairs and attest to all of our dear sister’s crimes?”

“Let me pass.” He snarled at Trant, only to have Moore and two others take hold of him to keep his sword in its sheath. “I’m Kingsguard you shit excuse for a knight.”

“Then listen up.” Trant scowled as the High Septon bid the hall to quiet once more.

“Hear me! May the realm know what the Seven have shown me to be true! For there is no Jon Targaryen! That man is no trueborn son of King Rhaegar! His claim to the throne is a falsehood! From this day forward, let all know him as Jon Sand-”

Cersei took hold of the serpent’s arm, whispering in his ear with barely contained glee. The High Septon nodded and spread his arms wide to continue.

“Let the realm know him as Jon Snow! Natural son of Rhaegar! A man of suspect loyalty to our true king!”

The mummery of this whole thing was almost too painful to bear when suddenly both Cersei and the High Septon paused to stare at the doors of the hall. Most others followed their example so that nearly every pair of eyes in the hall joined in the awkward moment of watching an unmoving door.

“All hail King Door!” Tyrion shouted. “We are not worthy of his wooden-”

The door suddenly swung forward, allowing two mounted riders to enter and draw gasps from several.

As long as Jaime could remember, his father had had this effect on people. Tywin Lannister was both fearsome and resplendent. His cloak was made of many layers of cloth-of-gold, held in place by a pair of miniature lionesses crouched upon his shoulders. The greathelm tucked under his arm bore a male lion, wrought in gold and swatting at the air. He wore heavy steel plate, decorated in dark crimson, all of it polished to a shine. The only hair on his head were his bushy side whiskers, the same shade of gold as the flecks within his green eyes.

Eyes that the Lord of Casterly Rock did not see fit to turn upon his admirers, for his gaze was only for the Iron Throne ahead.

Joffrey on the other hand could not get enough of the attention. Jaime’s nephew rode proudly beside his grandfather, his haughty face framed by golden curls. He smirked down at those who bowed at their coming, his chest pushed outward to display his fine doublet. Over his heart was a crest bearing a golden dragon on black, with what looked to be tiny stones of jade for eyes. Stones as cold and unfeeling as Joffrey’s eyes as they moved over Jaime and Tyrion.

“Here!” The High Septon bellowed, descending the stairs as the pair drew close. “Here comes King Aegon’s true heir! Prince Joffrey of House Targaryen!”

“King Joffrey.” Cersei corrected with a nod to her son. “A dragon of gold, as brave as he is pure. He returns to us in our time of need to save us all. To take up his father’s place on the throne.”

“And so he shall.” Father’s voice seemed to make everything stand still, and only then did his gaze move from the throne, falling on Jaime and Tyrion. “We Lannisters will serve our new king in all things. We shall be his shield, his sword, and his most loyal advisors. Let his uncles now help our king to his seat.”

Those barring Jaime’s path stepped aside at the lord’s command. Tyrion hesitated but he did not. He strode straight on to his father, reaching up to grab his reigns.

“Stop this.” Jaime whispered up to him. “Father, I serve the crown-”

“Captivity has made you soft.” Father’s stern expression brooked no argument. “Rhaegar stole your paw, but worry not my son, we shall make a lion of you again. You wear the white cloak of a Kingsguard for the moment so act the part. Deliver Joffrey to the throne.”

He couldn’t. No matter the betrayals he’d dealt Rhaegar or Jon, however he’d dishonoured himself, this was too much. In the place where he’d killed Aerys to spare Aegon and Rhaenys, father now wanted him to steal Jon’s crown.

Whatever power his father held over him, Jaime was nearly ready to rebel against it until Tyrion grasped at his arm. He looked at Jaime with his mismatched eyes, his gaze filled with the same disdain Jaime felt right now. His brother was no fool. He liked Jon as much as any and likely knew all this for the crime it was.

Yet Tyrion didn’t urge him on. Instead he gave a curt shake of his head, pulling Jaime forward. Towards Joffrey.

On to treason.

“Might we help you dismount, dear nephew?” Tyrion asked as Jaime gaped at his capitulation to all this. Something Cersei did not think went far enough.

“Your grace.” She corrected, wrinkling her nose at Tyrion, yet softening some to look at him. “Let the new Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard help his true king.”

“I bow to your wisdom, of course.” Tyrion stepped back and Joffrey was suddenly there, holding his hand out toward him. He noticed then the long, ugly scars beneath Joffrey’s sleeve, running up his arm.

That savage beast did its duty to the Stark boy.

What can I do now?

He moved as if in a daze, not quite realizing what he was doing until Joffrey stood before him. They were of a height with each other now, yet the boy was as green as grass. The cocky manner in which he beheld his uncles did not dissuade Jaime of that thought.

“Uncle, I did not think you could become any uglier.” Joffrey squinted at Tyrion’s scar. “You never to cease to amaze. Surely you’ve missed me?”

“Not as much as that Stark boy missed his eye.”

Joffrey chuckled at that. “He doesn’t have much use for it now-”

“Enough.” Father commanded, inclining his head towards the throne. “We did not travel all this way to dally. Take your seat, Joffrey.”

The youth appeared ready to defy the lord but father's unyielding glare made the boy think better. Cersei arriving at Joffrey’s side helped speed the treason along. Jaime watched her lead Joffrey up the stairs, as she did once with Rhaegar. Scattered applause rose up when Joffrey finally sat the Iron Throne, leaning back and throwing one leg over the other.

Jaime was choking on his objections when father came to stand beside him, not looking too impressed.

“He acts more a boy than a king. He will need our guidance to overcome the trials ahead. Lysa Arryn and the Vale will need to be dealt with and the Tyrells brought into line. The Martells will be the greatest concern-”

“What of the king?” Jaime shot back, glaring at his father. “The one whose crown you just stole? Do you forget Jon so easily?”

“Nothing is forgotten.” The lord replied coolly, their words continuing as Joffrey began some speech. “Jon Snow is merely another boy, playing at a game he never had a chance to win.”

“Robert Baratheon thought the same-”

“Robert was a fool, though he had his uses.” Father eyed his golden hand then with an obvious look of disgust. “Whatever power Jon Snow once had is lost, or soon to be crushed.”

“What have you done?” Jaime demanded but father’s attention was back on the throne, where Joffrey had risen again, a hand on his golden sword.

“As your king, I hereby make my first decree!” Joffrey pulled his sword free. “I declare my false brother a traitor! I declare him, and any who choose to stand by his side, guilty of treason by penalty of death! The closest this King from the North shall ever come to my father’s throne again will be at my feet!”

Joffrey’s smile was wide and his eyes alive with excitement when he pointed his sword down at the pair of them.

“I charge my grandfather, Tywin Lannister, with delivering the bastard to justice!”

“It will be done, your grace.”

Lord Tywin's words to the king were simple and compulsory yet Jaime knew his father well. This was no idle boast.

In that moment, Tywin Lannister reminded him one of the caged lions at Casterly Rock. A powerful predator, who had no need to hunt to sate his hunger, for surely his meal would be delivered to him.

Wherever Jon was, Jaime prayed he stayed there. Far from this place, this hall where he had killed Aerys to save Rhaenys and Aegon.

He had done treason here. Become the Kingslayer for them.

And now they were dead and Jaime was a traitor once more.

His cloak hanging heavy on his shoulders.

 

JON  

At this distance, Riverrun looked like an island unto itself.

With its moat flooded and the Tumblestone and Red Fork rivers flowing unabated, the three-sided castle now had water ringing it in all directions. Thus the castle could stand defiant against the invading army arrayed before it.

The Lannister horde had beaten Jon here, a sea of thousands upon thousands of men flying crimson and gold banners. The lions had likely been preparing for a siege before they caught sight of Jon and the royal army approaching from the south. Now the Lannisters were forming battle lines and moving away from Riverrun and its moat, turning their backs on Rickon and Lorra.

And Patrek Mallister, Jon thought, gods let him seize on this.

May all Lord Jason’s confidence in his son be deserved.

His men certainly acted confident. The royal army stretched out in long lines across the southern approaches to Riverrun. Whether they be common spearmen or a knight in heavy plate, not a man paused at the sight of their foe. Even Ghost, who had been acting uneasy for days now, strode forward with purpose before Jon’s horse.

Jon took heart at Ghost’s courage. As he did from the others collected about him, a mix of his bannermen and honor guard. Lord Beric, whose breastplate bore the purple lightning bolt of his house, kept especially close. Gendry and Edric hung back some, the two squires both donning half-helms and mail, though the older squire dwarfing the younger in height and muscle.

More dear to him was the presence of Lady Catelyn. She wore no armor and lacked a weapon, yet Jon saw a woman ready to fight for what she loved. Now and again she would brush a strand of auburn hair from her face, the lady refusing to allow it to block her view of Riverrun. If the Lannister army standing intimidated her, she showed no sign of it.

Nor did she celebrate the tidings the Blackfish now shared with them. The knight, once more armored in steel plate, had ridden hard from the vanguard to share word the others welcomed with vigor.

“You’re sure of this?” Jonos Bracken asked without his usual bluster, lifting his greathelm away, the horsehair from its crest flicking at his face.

“My outriders saw the banners.” The Blackfish nodded. “A Lannister commands these men but not a Lannister of Casterly Rock. It’s Stafford Lannister we face this day.”

Jon knew the name. “He’s a cousin to Lord Tywin isn’t he? The brother of Jaime and Cersei’s mother?”

“That he is.” The older knight gave him a wry smile. “That’s about all Ser Stafford is known for. No songs are sung for his prowess in the battlefield.”

“For good reason.” Beric added, gesturing at their enemy. “A few thousand more men means nothing in the position Stafford’s in. He’s caught between us and Riverrun, if we hold our ground they have nowhere to flee.”

“This is a time to be bold.” Aenys Frey declared. “Charge forth, crush them against the castle walls.”

Hosteen grunted and looked in Jon’s direction. “We were promised a chance to show the strength of House Frey, I’d not stand idle like some green boy.”

He let the jab roll off his shoulders. If the Freys could see to it to follow Jon after the death of their kinsman, he could stomach some lingering resentment. It wasn’t like Hosteen was entirely wrong either. Compared to most of the men gathered about him, Jon was but a child.

This isn’t like fighting the Dothraki or ambushing Robert Baratheon’s siege. It’s a pitched battle, like the Red Storm was.

A battle I helped lose.

He thought of Aegon and all the victories his brother won at the head of an army. Aegon won every battle he fought, and still he fell. Just like Robb. Father.

They came on like a wave, the names and faces of all those he had watched die. Or worse, doomed because of his decisions.

Jonothor Darry. Lucas Blackwood. Thoros. Perwyn. Barristan.

Viserys would never have hurt Arya and Sansa if not for me. Bran wouldn’t have been with Oswell…

Jon felt like a chasm was opening up beneath him, a black abyss he would become lost in again. After the trial of the seven it was Daenerys who had pulled him out of that misery. Now it fell to Ghost to see him through, the direwolf leaping between Jon and the Freys, baring his teeth in challenge.

Before Jon could get his friend in line Lady Catelyn rode forward.

“My lords, do forgive Ghost. Perhaps he worries on the thousands of men besides Stafford Lannister coming our way. Fifteen thousand of them, is that not right, uncle? Surely some of them are worthy of being cautious about.”

“A few.” The Blackfish said. “Stafford’s son, Daven, for one. He’s a warrior of some repute. I think the lords Banefort and Lefford as well but Andros Brax for sure. It looks like Brax and Daven have commands of their own, squaring off against our friends of Frey here.”

“Surely this is a good thing.” Lothar Frey spoke nervously, and stroking his pointed beard. “For if our king’s strategy works as we hope, the Lannister’s best commanders shall be overrun. The whole army should put to rout after that. Lady Stark might be fearful but I see no reason to change our arrangements-”

“Nor do I.” Jon cut off Lothar yet his apologies were only for his aunt. “Though I think you confuse wisdom for fear, Lothar. Lady Catelyn knows what’s at stake in this battle, those are her children in Riverrun. I aim to escort her to them. These men stand in the way of that. They can move or be moved, either way, I’m reaching that castle.”

He turned to the Blackfish then, catching the knight giving him an approving look.

“Return to the vanguard, ser. Much of this day will depend on your blade and those of your men.”

“We’ll get through.” The old knight bowed his way and winked at Lady Catelyn. “I’m eager to see how much that boy of yours has grown.”

Willem chuckled. “As slow as you move he’ll be as grey as you, Tully.”

With a curse and snap of his reins, the Blackfish was gone, riding hard through the lines towards the van. There awaited some of the most battle hardened troops Jon had, men who had fought with him as far back as the early days of Robert’s War. Every bone in his body wanted to lead them this day, but as his aunt and bannermen insisted, that was no place for a king. So the Blackfish would have that honor.

He had no qualms about that choice, yet the politics involved in others left a sour taste in his mouth. Jon wanted Tytos Blackwood at his center but Jonos Bracken refused to follow his rival and they needed the Bracken forces there. Thus Lord Blackwood was given command of the left and Jason Mallister named to the center, a compromise Lady Catelyn suggested.

They had spoken on it while sharing a meal in his tent two days past, something he always looked forward to after a hard day’s ride.

“Jonos can make little complaint about that.” Catelyn had said. “Jason is a renowned warrior and my father held him in high regard, he’ll serve you well in this.”

“I’ve no worries on the lord’s abilities. There’s just something in the air… something I feel but cannot explain. Do not think me a coward, it just sets me on edge.”

“Tywin Lannister can have that effect.” His aunt had offered a sympathetic gaze. “Truly I’d think worse if you acted a man free of fears or worries in such times. Though if I added to them by insisting on you sending that will…”

“No, no it wasn’t that.” He spoke the truth then. “Things haven’t felt right for some time but writing that will actually made me feel better. To put some of those things to parchment… to let people know where they stand with me.”

Those words had brought forth a smile from Aunt Catelyn, for she was one of those he spoke of. His will set out that, until Benjen was freed from the Florents, the lady would serve as acting regent of the North on Rickon’s behalf. Winterfell would be hers to rule until Rickon or Roslin’s child, should he be a boy, reached the age of majority. This was important to Jon but not the decrees most focused on, namely the matter of succession.

It was strange still how easily those words had flowed from him onto the parchment.

‘With no child of my blood I must name an heir. As my half-brother Joffrey has proven himself unfit and little more than a criminal, I set him aside as a claimant. If I should fall with no son of my own, it is my wish that my brother Tommen be named king.

Should he not be of the proper age to sit the Iron Throne, I wish for several regents to be named to him. All of which shall be chosen by the only regent I shall name myself, Daenerys Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone. I entrust her with the care of my heir and realm, let none attempt to wrest from her either, nor the island of Dragonstone or the dragons themselves.

If she is not already named my queen, all this confers upon her the power of one.

Thus my will is set and shall be done,

Jon Targaryen. Son of dragon and wolf.’

There were other decrees included but these were the words that betrayed so much of his heart. He feared too much and had regretted inviting others to witness it. Beric and the Blackfish had shown no emotion while Aunt Catelyn bore a grim expression, though the occasion certainly called for it. He was laying out what should happen if he died and much of it focused on Dany. As Jon did nearly every waking moment.

He missed her. The touch of her lips on his skin. The strength in those purple eyes. That smile which forced all other thoughts away.

The weeks had dulled his anger. The pain at losing so many he loved now a constant ache, one he had not borne alone. Aunt Catelyn helped, for they could share in that grief, yet it was Dany he longed for. He didn’t regret sending her away, for allowing Dany to join the march in the first place had been folly. What troubled him was thinking of Dany having to suffer with no one by her side.

She didn’t understand what I meant about the dragons and wolves… I didn’t have the patience to care.

I should have cared. She betrayed me but I dishonored her. Abandoned her to face all that pain by herself.

Jon had sought to make up for that by aiding another who suffered. Willem had taken a downward turn bidding farewell to his wife at Maidenpool, Tess having sailed off with Dany. He drank most nights and claimed he did so to keep the worst from his dreams.

“If I can’t share my bed with my Tess, I’ll share it with the bottle.” Willem was often heard saying. Yet when Jon offered Willem the chance to see Tess again, by delivering his will to Dragonstone, the knight gruffly refused. “I’m not apart from Tess because I want to be. I swore vengeance for our son and I can’t face my wife with nothing better to show than a wine soaked sot.”

After that, Jon turned to an unlikely pair to safely carry his will on. Brynden Blackwood and Harry Rivers, sons of men who could not stand to be within spitting distance of each other. The young knights had inherited some of that animosity yet each accepted the duty Jon charged them with.

Jon could not help nothing their absence as he looked about his guard. In their place were the knights Benfrey and Tytos Frey. Just part of the detachment of Freys lent to the rear by Aenys and Lothar.

Those two were among the last of the lords to depart Jon’s side in anticipation of battle. Aenys held command of the vast majority of the Frey forces, which made up nearly a third of his army and its formidable right. Lothar was no commander like Aenys, nor a warrior like Black Walder or Hosteen, yet the amiable man had his uses.

“I believe it is time for me to see to the baggage train.” Lothar bowed to Jon before looking to Aunt Catelyn. “Lady Stark, the king was kind to entrust you to my care and I would be remiss if I did not escort you from here.”

“Lothar’s right.” He said despite feeling odd doing so. “The fight is soon upon on us and I cannot fight it if I fear you to be in danger, my lady.”

The lady nodded, gripping her reins tightly to look between him and the approaching Lannister army. The enemy cavalry were stretched out in two lines to their fore and back. They had nearly twice the heavy horse yet Jon’s men were seasoned, having withstood charges before. He knew they could again. He prayed so at least.

Whether it was in him to withstand the coming of his aunt’s horse now was another matter.

“Jon, if things go badly…” The lady started before shaking her head. “These men have sworn to give their lives to safeguard yours, do not allow them to fail in that duty. It is yours to live and rule.”

“I remember my duty.”

Jon put his gauntleted hands overtop hers, as gently as his aunt had the first time she’d done so in Winterfell. Robb was always embarrassed when his mother would do so to him in front of others. Jon shared in that embarrassment, for in those moments he pretended the lady’s touch was that of a mother’s.

Now he did his best to soften the touch of a king. 

“I remember a little boy.” She whispered to him. “Two little boys who played at leading legendary armies in the godswood. Sometimes they begged favors of Sansa and me but it was most important that Ned and I watch… Jon, this is no game in the godswood and I beg you, take care. I could not bear to watch…”

“You wouldn’t have to, Lothar and his men know to hurry you away should things take a turn.”

He reached beneath one of his chest plates then and soon pulled forth a bit of cloth. It had once been the purest white but time and war had added stains to it, the edges frayed some as well. None of that had tainted the embroidery though, for the stitching of grey direwolf and red leaves held firm. As lovely as it had been the night he snatched it from the floor of Winterfell’s Great Hall.

“This has seen me through the worst of days.” He said. “And I will tell Rickon that when I show this to him. Lorra will know how dear this favor is to me, as are the women who made it.”

All that would have to wait though. Not a moment later trumpets began to blow from across the field, the Lannisters coming a halt on their chosen ground. There was nothing to left to pass between Jon and his aunt but the briefest of farewells. Lothar and his men led Aunt Catelyn off towards the distant baggage train, though the brightness of her hair made her easy to spot no matter how far she rode.

He forced himself to look away. To face the larger army blocking the way to Riverrun. Men he meant to kill.

Hosteen looked ready to do so when he wheeled his horse about, forcing Gendry to rein up himself. The squire’s build was powerful, yet Hosteen was far more menacing.

“Back away, bastard. This is no place for the likes of you.”

“My place is with King Jon.” Gendry shot back. “There’s foul sorts about. Kin to child killers.”

“You gutter trash-”

“Gendry is where I’d have him.” He held up a hand to warn Hosteen. “Less you would care to relay my commands, ser?”

Hosteen’s scowl answered that and the knight let Gendry pass. The ser might be the fiercest warrior of House Frey yet Jon would trade him for Olyvar without pause. Not that his old comrade hadn’t been of use. Lothar insisted Olyvar’s presence at the Twins had helped win Lord Walder back over to the royal cause.

Now let us win this day.

“They’re holding firm.” Beric stared out at the Lannister lines as their own men inched forward. “What say you, Jon? Press on or stand fast, you know my mind on it.”

He did. Jon might command this army and the rear, but Beric led his guard. The knight disdained the role they were to play in all this. Yet with so much depending on the outcome and his men’s eyes upon him, Jon could not balk.

“We advance.” He grasped at the pommel of Blackfyre against his waist. “Signal the Blackfish to ready his charge. We hold with the right but have Blackwood and Mallister press on. If the old gods and the new are with us, we’ll meet at Riverrun.”

“Then on to Casterly Rock.” Willem added, checking his swords as he met Jon’s gaze. “Brightwater Keep. Oldtown. The damned Wall itself. I don’t care where this takes us, only that it ends with my blades bloody and son avenged.”

“We’ll have justice.” Jon promised. “Before peace, we’ll have that.”

A quest as long as the list of those I’ve lost…

He touched his face and focused on the numbness there, bidding it once more to flow through him. At times he felt maybe some feeling was returning there and he willed it not to. Not until he shed all the blood that needed to be shed.

As the banners waved and his commands given, one burden was taken from him. His simple crown lifted away by Edric, Jon not missing its weight one bit. He preferred the greathelm Gendry presented him with. The one his father had gifted him, though reworked by the squire after Jon’s defeat in the trial. The dragons were gone, replaced with a golden ring with large ivory squares inset. The visor now had at handle its top, a snarling dragon’s head Gendry must have spent hours working on.

It was cradled in his arms when the battle truly began.

More than half the army now marched ahead of Jon and the rest. The center and left backing the Blackfish’s line of heavy horse as it closed on the enemy lines. The Lannisters were not idle. Their lines stepped aside so hundreds of archers could come to fore, bows at the ready.

Brynden wears armor but some of those archers will have bodkin points…

“Sound the charge.” The words sounded like they were spoken by another. “Full attack, right at their heart.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Gendry did as he told and the trumpets sounded. The rumble of horses’ hooves followed, the vanguard working up to a gallop, forming a wedge pointed near to the center of the Lannister lines. This did not go unchallenged. The enemy archers loosed as one, sending hundreds of arrows arching through the air. Ghost was pacing about in front of him when they struck, the wolf jerking at the distant sounds of screams. Horses and men both fell, some of the dead likely known to him.

The archers took a greater toll on the lines of foot that trailed the Blackfish’s charge. Hundreds fell before the barrage was ended, the enemy archers fleeing back behind the ranks of Lannister riders and spearmen. It was those men who met the charge, few of which bore any sigil significant enough for Jon to name from memory.

Many were killed as soon as the van hit. Whether it was by lance or horse’s hoof, the enemy’s front line fell before the charge. He watched men flying the Tully and Targaryens banners ride hard into the midst of the Lannister host. The rest of the riverlords joined the fray soon enough, more than seven thousand battle-starved troops meeting the foe head on.

The air was thick with arrows and the sounds of killing. Lord Mallister had his archers hang back to loose over the heads of royal army and into the Lannister rear. Aenys did the opposite when the Lannisters sent a body of skirmishers towards the right. The Frey bowmen were brought to the front of Aenys’s forces. They were too far back from the main fight so most of their arrows fell far short of doing any good. After they threw back the charge Aenys let his archers loose again and again. Until one barrage drifted and felled some Mallister men so Jon angrily called a halt to it.

“Fucking Freys.” Willem cursed under his breath. “It’s simple isn’t? Our army, good. Other army, bad. We’ll have a hard enough go of this without them making a mess of things.”

“Aren’t they supposed to hold?” Edric asked loud enough for Hosteen to hear and turn about.

“We know what we are about, boy.” The knight said. “My family will move when the king commands, but we’ll not stand idle if any move to bloody us. Not again.”

To him this bickering was all part of the waiting. Jon wished to be in the fight, to stand with those men who now fought and died with him. Yet his place was here. His gaze shifting from the battle to Riverrun. Right now the Blackfish’s men were fighting hard to carve their way through the Lannister lines.

Thinning them but doing something far more important. Something Jon and the Freys aided those brave men in.

For if the Lannisters were focused on the men in their midst or those yet to commit to battle, they would not be looking to their backs.

Where a drawbridge was now lowering over moat protecting Riverrun. If it made any noise it wasn’t heard over that of the battle. No warning was given before a column of riders emerged through Riverrun’s gate. Their armor gleamed and they held their lances high as they followed their leader across the bridge. A knight with the Tully trout and Mallister eagle flying behind him.

“He comes.” Edric announced with vigor. “Ser Patrek got our raven, he makes to strike at their rear!”

“A brave deed.” Jon donned his helm and inclined his head towards the others. “Let us make sure that bravery is honored in the songs of our victory this day. It is time we got into this fight.”

The others gave a cheer and prepared themselves for the attack to come. Beric appeared ready to protest but held back, likely knowing it was fruitless. This had always been the plan. Patrek had maybe a couple hundred with him, survivors of the Golden Tooth fled back to Riverrun. Knights like Marq Piper and others eager for vengeance and this surprise would surely aid them, but that alone would not win the day.

Jon needed to launch a powerful strike at the Lannister left. With his men and those of the Freys, the others thought it likely they could overwhelm their foes and roll up the flank.

We break them there, cut through and push the rest into the Tumblestone.

The Trident can carry them all the way to the sea… just like Bran…

“Make haste!” Jon urged, drawing Blackfyre and inclining his head towards Gendry. “Forward! Summon the Freys! We go forward!”

“Hear that you bastards!” Willem shouted from beneath his helm, his mount rearing. “Let’s show Tywin Lannister where he can shove all that gold!”

They were off then, the riders and men of the rearguard rushing to the right, forming a hard edge to the Frey advance. Beric took the lead, helping to encircle Jon in a ring of protectors. Everywhere he looked he was guarded. Gendry to his left, Willem just ahead, the Freys trying to tighten up along his right.

Ghost refused them that, anytime a Frey drew close the direwolf snapped at their horses. If it wasn’t for the brisk pace they set and Ghost’s struggles to meet it, Jon feared his friend would have attacked his allies.

Please Ghost, don’t fail me now. You’re supposed to be the dependable one.

We cannot fail in this.

That thought bid Jon to look back at the baggage train, where he caught sight of his aunt’s bright hair. So much like Sansa’s.

“The reserves move!” Beric shouted with urgency.

The lord was right, while most of the Lannister forces fought on against the assault by the riverlords, their reserves were shifting to meet his charge. A thousand or so horse, Lannister knights with the sigils of others like the Jasts and Braxs interspersed. Nowhere near enough to hold back both Jon’s men and the Freys.

Is Stafford Lannister blind? Surely he’s spotted the Riverrun attack by now. There’s no way he could miss ours.

He serves us victory on a golden platter.

His men were hungry for it. They spurred on their horses, lifting their weapons and shouting war cries. Soon they outpaced the Freys, Aenys’s horse sticking close to his lines of infantry. Jon was about to order the rearguard to slow up when the Freys gave their own signal. Flags flapping and trumpets blowing, a curious display considering the charge had already begun.

That was when the whole of the Frey army split apart behind them. Some rushing on towards the Lannisters. The rest wheeling about to the main fight.

“What are they doing?” He bellowed to Hosteen. “Those men are needed here! They’re our reinforcements!”

The Frey knight’s visor was down, the black eye slit turned Jon’s way yet Hosteen did not answer. There was something haunting in that silence. More in the scream which rose up just behind them. He glanced back just in time to see Tytos Frey being pulled from his horse, Ghost’s jaws closed around his arm.

“Jon! Look out!” Willem’s shout gave him but a moment’s notice before Hosteen’s sword slashed at him. Had the blow landed he would have lost his head for sure, something Hosteen lamented with a curse.

“Fucking bastard!” Hosteen roared, urging his horse closer and readying for a second strike. “This is for House Frey!”

Jon met this one with Blackfyre as the others gaped in shock, for Freys throughout their number were turning their cloaks as well.

“Treason! Protect the king!” Edric cut at Hosteen from his other side, the squire drawing the massive knight’s attention. Willem was clashing with Benfrey and Gendry against Danwell Frey as the whole charge fell to pieces.

“Fall back!” Beric tried to rein up as the Lannister horsemen charged forth. “Jon! Flee! Get out of here!”

There was no escape though. Not that he could see. The Freys came at them from behind, the Lannisters from the front. Soon swords and spears stabbed all around him, shields cracking as horses pounded across the ground.

Hosteen cast Edric down from his horse with a vicious blow but was set upon by Willem, the two knights hacking at each other in a fury. Jon kicked at his horse to help and found Black Walder blocking his path. The ill-omened warrior slew one of Lord Mooton’s sons to reach him, tossing aside his lance and drawing his sword.

“You thought us fools?” Black Walder raged when their horses came together, their blades singing. “That we’d kiss your boots after you murdered my father? Time to pay the toll owed, bastard!”

“What have you done?!” Jon shouted back, catching sight of Freys now rampaging across the royal lines, allowing the Lannisters to push forward.

No, they have to get away. We have to regroup. Get to Aunt Catelyn.

Sound a retreat, dammit. Someone sound a retreat.

The only trumpets he heard were those commanding his foes onward. As Walder and Jon dueled Lannisters and Freys surged all throughout the royal army, his rout giving way to chaos. When Walder’s blade clanged off his helm the ringing nearly stole his senses away. He was saved by the white blur that leapt between them, Ghost tearing into the throat of Walder’s horse.

“Retreat!” He pleaded with no one in particular, for none had to freedom to sound one. Beric was hard pressed by a golden armored Lannister. Willem now battled Hosteen and a Lefford knight. Gendry was still a horse, and it was he who cut down one of the red-clad spearmen running Jon’s way.

The other stabbed his mount right through its hind leg, the beast’s bucking sending Jon tumbling out of his saddle. He managed to grab hold of it and slow his fall, yet the weight of his armor wrenched his arm badly.

The pain bid him to cry out as he landed on his knees, pressing his sword against his shoulder. He tossed free his helm and found his attacker pulling a dirk. It did the man little good when Jon skewered him through the stomach. Yet as he fell away Jon’s heart fell a well.

He now had a clear view of the hill where he left Aunt Catelyn. The hill where fighting now raged. Freys putting the baggage train to torch. So bright were the flames that he could not catch sight of his aunt anymore. She was lost somewhere amidst the traitors.

“To me!” He roared, rising to his feet and cutting about one-handed. “To me! We fight free of this! To the Lady Catelyn!”

His cries brought one rider to him, a lord in steel plate and mail, bearing a purple unicorn on his shield. Lord Andros Brax wielded a flail, swinging it down in a powerful blow Jon somehow threw aside. As the lord passed by he lashed out with a boot, striking the side of his head and drawing blood. It ran down from his brow and into Jon’s eye as Lord Brax wheeled about.

“Yield!” The lord commanded. “Yield in the name of King Joffrey!”

King Joffrey?!

“I know of no such king.” He slurred through the pain, trying to tighten his grip on Blackfyre. “Only a traitor… kin to traitors…”

“The High Septon says differently.” Lord Brax lowered his visor and swung his flail about. “Dead or alive, it makes no difference to Lord Tywin-”

The lord choked on those final words as the head of a lance plunged through his chest. Wood splinters flew through the air and Brax slumped back in his saddle, the bloodied vision of the Blackfish riding out from behind him. The knight looked a demon from hell, his cloak and armor slick with gore, his face a mask of fury.

“Thank the seven you live.” The Blackfish hailed him, waving his sword to urge on a number of other loyal men, before leaning down to offer Jon his hand. “We cut through half this disaster to see you through. Come, my king. We don’t have much time.”

“We don’t.” Jon fought through the pain to be lifted up behind his loyal knight. Others were forming around them, and it stung to see the only ones left of his guard were Gendry and Ghost. He could see none of the others through the fighting and blood in his eye.

“Hurry, ser.” He said, leaning against the Blackfish’s back and pointing Blackfyre towards the distant hill. “We must hurry… Lady Catelyn…”

“Is lost.” Brynden rasped, kicking at their horse. “She might yet live, but you won’t if we don’t get you to safety. That’s what Cat wanted.”

He didn’t understand how the Blackfish could say such things. Nor why the knight now rode towards Riverrun, leading a desperate charge through the battle towards the castle. Away from where Jon had left Catelyn.

“No… we have to retreat…”

“We have to get across that bridge before they raise it. Cut through! Cut through! Save the king! For King Jon!”

“King Jon!”

The riders around them added to that war cry. Others battling afoot took it up as well. All throwing themselves into any and all foes that tried to block their flight. Men dying left and right to see him through. He could do little from where he was but watch.

Desmond Grell took a spear though his throat. A Vance fell to the blade of Lord Antario Jast. Then it was his squire’s turn.

When the Lannister knight who had battled Beric made to grab Jon, Gendry cut at the man’s horse. The dying mount tripped up Gendry’s as well and Jon lost sight of his friend in the tumble of horseflesh that followed.

He shouted for Gendry but the Blackfish pressed on, riding hard until they finally broke through the battle. Even then they did not slow, for a large party of Freys were in hot pursuit. Hosteen and Black Walder gaining upon their much small number.

“We won’t make it…” He warned the Blackfish, readying his sword. “Leave me… they’ll let you be if…”

“Maybe, but Barristan won’t.” The knight growled before turning to the few others left around. “Any here wishing to die heroes? With honor to their names?”

Jon made to name himself when the Blackfish cursed, their horse startling some at Ghost suddenly jerked to a stop. He met his friend’s red eyes as they rode by and something in them filled Jon with horror.

“Ghost! GHOST!!!”

This time it was Ghost’s turn to ignore his warnings. The direwolf turning his back to Jon and Riverrun, running back at the closing Freys.

Their horses screamed at bucked at his coming, their pursuit scattered as Ghost weaved about their number. His friend fighting with all the ferocity he brought against Robert Baratheon. Ghost ducked beneath their swords, pulling down man and horse, bringing death to the killers. A silent spirit, moving like the wind itself.

It would have been a thing of beauty if not for the sound of Jon’s cries. Or the sight of Ghost’s blood as the blades found their mark.

They were halfway across the bridge, a howl echoing through the gates, when Jon felt the blow...

A cut to his side. It screamed with pain. Then another across his chest. His neck.

The hurt mixed with his fury as the men and horses surrounded him. He couldn’t move as fast anymore. When the spear stabbed into his hip he wanted to yelp. To scream. He could hear his brother howling from the castle but that wasn’t for him.

That wasn’t his way though. It never had been.

When he hit the ground he could hear chains clinking. The drawbridge to the castle was being raised. He watched it rise as the big Frey climbed down from his horse. He held a large sword and readied it as he drew nearer.

That didn’t matter. What did was now safe in the castle. The man he loved. The man who was with him now, sharing his skin as the Frey came on.

The man was scared for him but he felt no fear. That wasn’t his way.

He’d done his duty.

And when the Frey brought the sword down, he met his end in silence.

 

 

Chapter 26

Summary:

Guides to lead the way, or to lead all astray?

SANSA  

The ship struggled against the waves, its rowers fighting hard to pull the vessel away from shore and out to sea again. Sansa wanted them to lose that battle as she watched her hope sail away from the rocky beach they’d abandoned her on.

Please turn back. Please. Ser Davos, win over your men… come back…

It’s not too late to take us away from these accursed lands.

She felt a stab of regret to think of the North in such a way but there was little to love about it now. The shore around her was as barren and drab as the grey sky above, a hard world with no cheer to be found.

Yet these were her lands. Stark lands. 

Not anymore, shelamented, the North has been taken from my family.

She looked back to where a handful of crumbling shacks and huts clustered together in front of an outcrop of rocks and pines. The ugly place was all that remained of a small fishing village. Ser Davos claimed to have traded here before, that a healer of sorts could be found among its folk.

Yet no one lived in the village any longer. It was abandoned.

Like us.

“I’ve taken you as far as I can.” Davos had told her when his men brought them all to the deserted shore. “Farther than my Lord-Commander would have ever allowed.”

“Just a bit more.” She pleaded with him, holding true to her false identity. “Good ser, White Harbor’s not far. Wait but a day or two, then we can sail there together. Like Lord Domeric asked of you.”

“Whatever debt I owed has been paid. This might not be White Harbor but it’s far from the Dreadfort. That’s what he wanted, you lot alive and away from that place. Better to leave you here and give that girl a chance than have her die in my hold.”

At times the rolling of the sea and pitching of the ship made Sansa feel like she was dying. Roslin’s pains were far worse. Her whimpers and moans had started but a day out to sea and by the time they neared Widow’s Watch the screaming began. When Old Nan declared the babe to be coming Ser Davos to cut their journey short, saying he had no wish for his boat to become a funeral barge for mother and child.

“There’s no healer here.” Sansa argued when the sailors carried Roslin into a hut. “No people. No help at all. There’s nothing! ”

“And nothing I can do.” Davos had clutched a small bag hanging about his neck. “Lord Commander Stannis wanted us at White Harbor weeks ago. My crew already thinks me half a traitor for taking you along. If I delay any more… not all my brothers are the decent sort.”

“There’s worse in these lands. Sellswords. Brigands. Monsters. Ser, what of your vows of chivalry? What of your honor?”

“We all do what we can.” He would not meet her gaze. “Oldcastle is a day or two walk away and there’s some villages nearer still. I’m leaving you with all your gold and half of our supplies. Use that to seek a healer. I pray you find one and that... that you find it in your heart to forgive an old smuggler.”

His words meant little to Sansa, only the knight's actions mattered. Her heart was cold to his prayers of forgiveness as the wind blew off the sea and stabbed at her exposed flesh. Rain was falling by the time the Night’s Watch disappeared from sight and Sansa made her way back to the hovel.

The walls were rock and mortar, the roof made of low hanging thatch. Somehow it kept the wind and rain outside as Sansa stepped within to find a fire burning off to one corner. Near to it she saw Old Nan tending Roslin upon a pile of blankets and furs, her goodsister sweaty and pale.

“Did they leave?” Roslin asked as Nan dabbed at her brow with a cloth.

“Ser Davos went to get help.” She managed a smile while tossing a few more branches in the fire. “He’ll be back soon. How foolish we’ll feel. Hodor will have walked all that way for nothing.”

They’d sent Hodor off to find one of the villages they weren’t sure even existed. On the chance they did and one had a healer, Hodor carried a note and coin to convince them to come. She hoped Hodor had more luck than she did in feeding her fables to Roslin, who shook her head in disbelief.

“You don’t have to lie to me.” Roslin rasped, grabbing at her stomach and wincing. “They not coming back, they have no reason to. Robb did and still he never came back to me. Now this little one won’t come at all-”

“Hush with such talk.” Old Nan’s rasping voice comforted the lady. “My Walder’s a good boy. He’ll be back. I helped bring him into this world. Him and his father and more babes than I can count. Your babe’s coming, Lady Sansa and I will see to that.”

“We promise.” Sansa came to sit by Roslin’s other side, taking the lady’s hand in hers. “You must have hope. Look how far we’ve all come. What we’ve survived. Think of the tales we call tell the babe about all this.”

“No!” Roslin grunted. “Never Sansa! Not all the evil… I will tell them about the good… the good there was… Robb… Winterfell… you…”

Her words fell away to a long moan of pain so Sansa leaned down to kiss her clammy brow. While she ran her fingers through Roslin’s chestnut locks, Old Nan did some actual good. The old woman pulled away Roslin’s blankets and shift, then Nan blew on her gnarled fingers before reaching between the lady’s legs. Roslin jerked some and closed her eyes tightly in response. After that Nan bent forward to put an ear against Roslin’s stomach.

Nan grimaced for only a blink of an eye but Roslin caught it all the same.

“What is it?” Roslin begged, blinking back tears. “What’s wrong with my baby?”

“Nothing, my lady. He’s just a stubborn little wolf. Not being where he should, but there’s time left. You’re to have a summer babe, a blessing to be sure. Winter is coming.”

“Winter is coming.” Roslin repeated before another bout of pain took hold.

Sansa gave her water. Then another kiss. Then her hand and words for comfort. All useless gestures. Old Nan did better as she set a pot to boiling over the fire, so they would have hot water and cloth. The whole time the woman spun her tales, about ice dragons and Winter Kings, of Starks old and those Sansa held most dear.

“Lady Arya was trouble from the beginning.” Nan told them. “Not as much as Lord Rickard’s birth though. Most came out alright. I was right surprised that all of Lady Catelyn’s did. A southron flower we thought her, but she turned out to be strong like the Stark blade, Ice. It took me awhile to see it in her, just like in Sansa here. She came out sweet and easy, no trial at all. Only saw one other born with such ease.”

“Was it Bran?” Sansa guessed and Nan shook her head.

“The little lord climbed all about your mother’s belly before he came out. No, it was Lady Lyanna. Both of you came swiftly, eager to begin your lives. I’ve never felt quite as old as I did watching you and Lady Lyanna grow. Winter roses, the both of you.”

Roslin smiled at the tale yet Sansa couldn’t do the same. How could she?

What beauty or joy was left to her? The relief of waking free from prison? Evading the treachery and death that plagued her homeland? Her friends still drawing breath? Her family far away from her? She had endured danger and sorrow for far too long. 

Until she glanced at Roslin’s belly and willed herself to keep such miserable tidings from the babe. Sansa’s birth might have been easy but her life had become like one of Nan’s horror stories. The same could be said for Lyanna. As she watched Roslin struggle for her child, she let herself believe that the babe would never suffer such terrible trials.

She willed it to be so. She began to fight, scouring her mind for hopeful thoughts she could send the babe’s way. Like Arya being alive and well. Sansa envisioned Arya somewhere in the North, running free and surrounded by friends. Arya could make friends with anyone.

Or Lady. The dreams she had of her wolf were good ones to think on. Of her friend being among family again. Sansa desperately wished such for herself.

Then it was a kiss. Jon’s kiss. Her first kiss. So much had happened, and much of her prince had faded from memory, but that moment still shined brightly. He had been there when she needed him. Their kiss a lyric to a song never sung.

What love was left in her she willed to Roslin and the baby. Sansa found herself humming a tune which set Roslin to smiling and Nan to tapping her foot. When Roslin grunted in pain, Sansa sang to ease it.

“The thundering waves are calling me home, home to you.
The pounding sea is calling me home, home to you…

On a dark winter’s night, on the island of bears,

I heard a voice singing…”

It was a silly thing to do. Singing to Roslin who fought to birth a babe in a hovel with but an old woman and a useless goodsister to help. Still Sansa sang. If only to turn this one corner of the North into a place free of misery. A beacon of hope.

As night fell, she pictured the light of their fire and the sound of her voice piercing the darkness. Driving away ill spirits and guiding Hodor back to them.

Yet when Old Nan put her ear to Roslin’s belly once more, no song could keep the grim expression from her face.

“The babe is facing backwards.” She spoke gravely. “There was a chance it could shift but that time’s passed. We need to turn it.”

“Can you do that?” Roslin grunted.

“You and Sansa can.” Nan caught her shock and raised up her arthritic hands. “There’s little strength left in these, so heed my words for what’s to come.”

Whatever doubt she felt, Roslin showed none in following Nan’s instructions. Although it caused her great pain, she rose into a kneeling position, her head bent low.

“Rub the belly.” Nan instructed her. “Come behind and feel for the child. Push it about. Urge it. Force the babe if you must.”

“I cannot. I don’t want to hurt her.” Sansa pleaded.

“Then she and the child will die. If you love them, do as I say.”

“Please, Sansa.” Roslin groaned, her face growing red. “It’s alright.”

It wasn’t. Yet she went to do their bidding all the same. Lightning cracked and thunder boomed outside as Sansa followed Old Nan’s commands. She forced her hands against Roslin's flesh and pushed hard where she was told, Roslin's cries tearing at her soul. Growing up she’d been taught needlework and poetry. Singing, dancing, music. Not this.

Sansa was glad when Nan finally called a stop to it, her hands sore from the effort. Roslin moaned as she laid back down, Nan’s face grim when she listened at her belly.

“The child has moved little. The labor has gone on for too long and its heart grows weaker… far too weak.”

“No…” Roslin pleaded, looking between them wildly. “No, no, you said you could help me. You said you could save my baby.”

“Help her.” Sansa added, petting Roslin’s hair. “Nan you know everything. Help them.”

“There’s little more to do.” Nan closed her eyes and whispered something Sansa thought to be a prayer. When she opened them again Nan’s gaze was on Roslin, yet her words for Sansa. “The fire needs to be bigger. Hotter. My lady, there were dry logs in the hut beside this one. Fetch them for us.”

“Of course.”

She kissed Roslin’s hand before grabbing up her cloak to brave the storm. Nan was muttering whispers to Roslin... most definitely words of comfort. There was little light outside, save that which came from the open door of their hovel. The rain pelted her skin as she ran about, squinting and pawing in the darkness to reach the nearest hut. She did the same when she found it, cutting her fingers against the rough stone walls and then again on the logs sheltered near a tiny hearth. They were old, covered in webs and surely home to rats, yet dry enough for burning.

Roslin’s screams and the crash of thunder bid her to hurry. Sansa slipped and fell in her haste, dropping the wood and sliding across the mud. In the darkness and rain, she gathered the logs up again, holding them close to her chest to keep them dry. She would carry the whole Wolfswood if it meant Roslin and babe would be well.

When she finally returned, Roslin had thrown away her blankets, baring her naked belly as she wept. In her hands she held the sheath to the dagger that Domeric had given her, which now lacked its blade. Old Nan held it, stoking the coals of their fire with it.

The blade will grow too hot. She must use something else to stoke the flames.

There is no need for the blade. There isn't. There isn't.

There isn't.

“Stop it. There’s no need to do that.” She held out the logs, trying to place some in the fire but her hands would not stop shaking. She'd been out in the cold too long. “I brought as many as I could. There’s more. I can get them if you need-”

“That’ll be enough wood for now, child.” Nan spoke sadly. “There’s another task we’ll be needing you for.”

“Are we going to try and move the babe again?”

“No. The time has come and gone for that. Roslin’s child will not live much longer. We need to get it out. You need to get it out.”

“Me?” Sansa didn’t care one bit for her tone. “How would I…”

Her voice choked up as Nan’s eyes fell to the dagger. Its blade beginning to glow. Its sharp edge full of threat.

“No.” She croaked, dropping the wood and shaking her head. “Nan, no. You can’t mean to… to…”

“We have to cut the babe free.” Nan said without looking at her. “My words shall guide your hands. If the gods are good and your cuts steady, this child will breathe the air soon enough.”

The thought of what Nan proposed brought bile up in her throat. To cut into Roslin, to take a blade to her goodsister. Sansa hadn’t been strong enough to cut Viserys. A man she hated. How could she cut a person she loved?

“Sansa…” Roslin called to her, holding out a hand. “Sansa… come to me…”

“I won’t let her.” She ran to her side, grabbing at her hand and putting her own body between Roslin and Nan. “I won’t let this happen. I won’t, I swear. I wasn’t going to let Domeric hurt you before he freed us. Nan can think of something else-”

“There is nothing else.” Roslin blinked back her tears, her grip as tight as a vice. “Nan says I might have a chance if we do this… better than my child will if we don’t… I wanted to see Robb's babe so much…”

“You will. You have to but not like this. Don’t ask me to do this. I can’t… not to you…”

Roslin shook her head. “It has to be you. There’s no one else. We dreamed of this day and now it’s here… you have to do what needs to be done.”

Sansa had already failed at that. She should’ve found a healer or convinced Ser Davos to stay. If she had married Domeric sooner, maybe Roslin would be at the Dreadfort under the care of a maester right now. If it wasn’t for her helping Brown Ben Plumm, they might still be in Winterfell and Robb would be with his wife.

He would be guiding Roslin through this, not Sansa.

They’d give the blade to him, not some silly girl...

“You are a Stark.” Nan was now standing above them, the dagger glowing in her hands. “This child will be the heir to Winterfell, and needs your help to become that. By deed, by blade, live up to your birthright. Act like the Starks before you. Winter is coming.”

“Winter is coming.” Roslin echoed, her eyes wide at the sight of the blade, her voice hollow. “My babe needs you Sansa. We both need you. Help us?”

She didn’t know how to tell them that they were wrong. Her mind was still searching for the words when somehow she nodded. They needed to know how wrong this all was but instead Nan put the warm dagger hilt into her trembling grasp.

“None of that.” Nan said, guiding the point above Roslin’s belly. “You cut clean, with a steady hand. Like your father would. Lady Roslin- I’m sorry, Lady Stark, bite down on that sheath now.”

As Roslin made to do so Sansa looked right into Roslin’s brown eyes and she found the nerve to speak again.

“I can’t!” Sansa choked out. “This isn’t me. I can’t.”

“You can.” Roslin said. “You are Sansa Stark. You are of the North. You can do anything.”

“You must do this.” Nan urged. “Heed my words or this child dies. Now.”

“Please…” Sansa sobbed yet held her tears in. “I love you…”

“I love you too.” Roslin put the sheath in her mouth and nodded at them. Her face set and ready.

Sansa felt anything but when Nan pointed to where to draw the blade across. It had to be done with grace and care. Like needlework.

“Forgive me.”

Whoever followed Old Nan’s commands had to be someone else. The blood, the flesh, the screams of pain. This wasn’t the world Sansa wanted to live in. She had dreamt of being a princess. Plunging a dagger into a woman was the act of a beast.

One following its basest instincts for survival. A direwolf doing anything necessary for the good of the pack.

For a babe. There was supposed to be one in the horror unfolding before her. Being caused by her and the blade. A dagger far too sharp. It didn’t belong in her hand. Her bloody hands.

Then her hand touched something that broke her from the spell. She was now holding a tiny foot, pulling on it. Out of the blood and horror there came a leg, and then another. Soon Sansa found herself lifting a gore covered thing into her arms. Its first screech quieter than the cry which rose from her. Her eyes couldn’t focus but she knew it was Nan whore tore the thing from her grasp and wrapped it quickly in Roslin’s cloak.

No, she needs that. Roslin needs to stay warm, she'll be weak now and will need our care.

Sansa was using her free hand to hold the wound closed but no one was helping her. Nan was too focused on the squalling babe and Roslin made no effort to help.

We must stitch her wound closed before she loses too much blood.

Roslin will need her strength. For her child.

“Give her the babe.” A voice that sounded like hers said. “Nan… it’s hers… give it to her…”

“He will always be hers.” Nan was weeping as she pressed the babe to her chest. “But they’ll not meet for some time... please gods, let it be so.”

Sansa turned to Roslin and found the lady staring off at nothing. Gone was the anguish and the pain. Her face was finally at peace, yet her eyes lacked warmth. Her body was too still, her skin cooling of all its warmth.

“Help her.” She demanded, pressing her hands down harder on the wound. “Nan! Help her!”

“She’s gone.” Nan stared down at Roslin, as she tried to sooth the babe's cries.

“She can’t be!” Sansa screamed, jumping up from the body and finding the blood-stained dagger still clutched in her hands. “No! NO!!!”

She threw the blade away, spraying blood across Roslin’s face as she did so. A drop struck Roslin in her open eye and when it did not so much as blink, something shattered inside her. Sansa ran to the doorway, the babe's cries and Roslin’s unblinking eye driving her out and way. As far into the storm as she could escape too.

She ran only for a moment before her foot stumbled and she fell into the mud, light still coming from the door behind her. She could still see the red on her hands and she couldn’t bear it. Sansa scratched and clawed across the ground, fleeing over roots and rocks, more beast than woman.

When she was finally deep enough in the darkness that the babe’s wails disappeared under the sounds of rain she stopped. Yet the lightning above lit up the night and laid bare the red still staining her flesh and clothes.

Scream after scream tore from her as she rocked back and forth, willing the gods to punish her. To save her. To bring back Roslin. To do anything. She was a fool for thinking that her stupid songs could make this place any safer than the rest of the North. She wanted the gods to come down and just end this madness that had become her life. To make any sense of this world.

Then a hand touched her shoulder. Sansa jerked backed, thinking for a moment that her prayers had been answered, that the old gods had come for her.

But instead someone more familiar stood before her.

“Hodor.” Hodor gave her a little shake, water dripping every from his soaked form. “Hodor. Hodor.”

She wanted to scream at him. To blame him for not being quicker and for failing Roslin. Instead she grabbed onto Hodor’s hand to sob against his arm. An act Hodor made difficult by moving about and continuing to fuss.

“Hodor! Hodor!” He cried out through the rain and Sansa saw then that he was pointing with his other arm, out into the night where two figures began to take shape. Short and slim creatures that drew closer to her.

“Who’s there?” She clutched onto Hodor all the tighter. “Leave us be! Gods above please! Leave us be!”

She saw the shadows as Viserys coming their. Or Ramsay Snow. Robb and Roslin come to haunt her. Yet when the shadows spoke and she knew them not.

“We came too far to stop now.” The shorter one spoke in a soft, boyish voice. “I dreamt of this moment you see. Of this place. Of this storm. And of you, my lady.”

“What?” She asked bewildered. Something in his voice comforted her, though she could not name why.

“Jojen, stop.” The other shadow had a woman’s voice and a strange looking spear in her grasp. “There’s something foul in the air. What has happened here?”

“It was horrible.” Sansa found herself saying. “Everything is so wrong... I have lost everything… I have lost me… I have forgotten who I was…”

The mysterious boy knelt before her then, holding out his hand to her. In a flash of lightning, she found herself staring into the deepest green eyes she had ever seen.

“We are here to help. We have come a long way to find you, Sansa Stark. Whatever you have lost, whatever’s been forgotten, do not fret.”

“The North remembers.”

 

EDDARD

The pyre was already aflame by the time he limped his way across the snowy field. The light of dawn and the growing fire brightened the dark furs of the northmen and the black cloaks of the Night’s Watch. To a man all watched warily as the flames engulfed the mess of logs, bramble, and brush.

And the bodies of their comrades.

“How many?” Ned asked as he limped up to one Northman in particular, a thickly built warrior who wore a beaver fur cloak that once belonged to a wilding.

“My lord.” Ronnel Stout sounded surprised as Ned sidled up next to him. “You did not need to leave the perimeter, I would have come to you to soon enough.”

The man meant well but Ned disdained at how they all tried to coddle him since his his arrival. He needed a crutch to get around at times, but he was still the Lord of Winterfell. The Greatjon and Ronnel were content to keep Ned in his tent but the hundreds of others in their army would lose respect for him. He had to hold onto  that as dearly as their loyalty and faith.

So he ignored how the cold set his leg to screaming, traveling beyond the stakes and fires to seek out Ronnel. The man had watch last night, responsible for defending them against threats without and within the camp. A grim duty to be sure.

“The nights here are very long, Ronnel.” He said as the flames grew taller. “And you got us through this last one so seeking you out was no trial. Now I ask again, how many did we lose?”

“Eight.” Ronnel shook his head. “Two to the cold, three to sickness, and the rest to... them.” His eyes narrowed on the deep, dark wood around them. “Men who did not keep their fires burning well enough. They should have known better. Gods know we’ve lost too many already.”

I pray not as many as I fear, he thought, let that vision of Cat and the children be utter nonsense.

Ned could not take that chance. He needed to get back south of the Wall. A desire he shared with his men, though he had not yet shared his plans for how they would do so.

“We will break camp soon.” Ned declared, catching a few hard looks from the others around. “You men should seek some rest before we do so. Dry your boots as best you can, we’ve a ways to go yet.”

“South or east?” Ser Mallador Locke asked, the black-cloaked ranger fingering at a hole in his leathers. “Lord Stark, we could be back at the Wall by now. We’ve not enough food to keep this up-”

“We head east to stay alive.” He said for the hundredth time. “The Others know that we march. They know how desperate we are to reach safety. They want us to come stumbling into their grasp again. The path along the Antler River is clear of them. We must reach the sea.”

“The wildlings won’t let us.” Another sworn brother spoke up. “They came this way as well, thousands of the bloodthirsty savages.”

“They eat the flesh of men.” A Cerwyn spearman grumbled. “They don’t know how poor a meal we’d make.”

“My lord, we’re marching blind.” Locke continued. “We’ve had no proper scouts ahead of us and you sent the Halfhand south, why not us as well?”

“Because it was my will.” Ned straightened his stance to face the naysayers. “Trust that I mean to save every last one of you. Qhorin Halfhand and his party are not the only scouts we have in the field. I hear reports that say our present path is best and so we will continue on it. Now go and rest before the march. All of you.”

His words came out colder than the air around them. Whatever the men thought of his commands, most heeded them without complaint. The temptation of bedding down next to a warm fire was too strong for men as shabbily dressed and poorly fed as them. They had survived great hardships to come so far. Even Ronnel Stout, a man of noble birth and good standing, wore boots he had taken from a common spearman.

Still, not a man among them looked as bad as the creature he spied at the edge of the wood. There for but a blink of an eye, his undead ally slipped back into the shadows, leaving only a flock of crows cawing in the branches. Ronnel attempted to linger by his side until Ned declared that he wished to be alone, to pay respects to the dead.

It was not far from the truth. Once Ronnel had left, Ned limped his way towards the darker wood, thankful that Coldhands had found him once more.

“Come no closer.” The ranger’s voice rattled with disuse, the edge of his rotting cloak and hood just visible behind the trunk of a great pine. “The dawn protects you but it would betray us both. We cannot be seen together.”

“Then this must be quick. My men are wary of me being alone. They still count it a miracle that I found my way to them.”

“I have been called many things, but never a miracle.” Coldhands said and the crows set to cawing as if in laughter. “Your men fear to lose their leader. Harness those fears for what is to come. Today you will come upon the quarry.”

“So soon?” He rubbed at his leg. “I thought they were farther off.”

“Most are, but not this lot. A different leader holds sway over this number. He calls himself the Giantsbane.”

Of course it had to be him… Ned thought as he sighed.

“You know this man?” Coldhands asked.

“I have fought him” Ned grumbled. “During the battle against Mance Rayder and his wildling army. He is the war chief who bled the Greatjon’s men. A fierce raider and dangerous foe to be sure. Does he know we approach?”

“No, whatever eyes he had keeping watch were driven off by my allies.” The crows cawed again at that. “That will change soon though, then thousands will stir. They have three for every one of yours. Most are frail and wounded... but there are enough fighters for this to go badly. Heed the words of the three-eyed crow.”

“I have little choice.” Ned shivered at the memory of Bloodraven. “I will play my part in this, for the sake of my family and the North.”

“For all men, Stark. Remember that. You should send those we spoke of. I will guard them from the shadows, to see they reach their people. Now return to yours.”

It might have been fitting to wish Coldhands luck in the trials ahead but he could not.  Coldhands might have acted as Ned’s savior and guide but there was little warmth between them. When they had finally tracked down the northern survivors, Coldhands spoke no word of farewell to him, merely slipping away to act as Ned’s eyes and ears. A role Ned kept hidden from all when he revealed himself to his army.

At the time Greatjon had wrapped him in a massive bear hug. Now there was little good cheer to be seen in the Umber lord, who Ned found arguing with others next to the baggage train. The survivors had only lasted this long because the Others cared little for looting the stores of their defeated foes, leaving much food and fodder to be recovered after the disaster at the Fist of the First Men.

That’s where the Greatjon had salvaged the striped shadowcat furs he now wore over his leathers. None of their warmth made its way to the lord’s face as he frowned at whatever Ser Jaremy Rykker and Dacey Mormont told him.

“We didn’t endure the Frostfangs to die on this march!” The Greatjon growled. “Cut the rations again. We can feast when we make it out of this hell.”

“We’ll starve before that.” Ser Jaremy leaned against a wagon, the ranger displaying his lack of patience.  “We won’t last another week. I told Lord Stark that what little we had was only enough to get us to the Wall. Instead he takes on his mad trek to nowhere!”

“Mind your tongue.” Dacey warned, hand on her mace. “There was a reason Lord Stark was returned to us. If you think to insult him you had best-”

“Make sure he’s not around to hear it.” Ned broke into the conversation, raising a hand at the now reddening sworn brother. “Thank you for being mindful of our stores, ser. There’s a chance they may yet see us through.”

“Are we to turn south then? To follow after the Halfhand and Kyle Condon?”

“No. I’ve been told there’s a force of wildlings nearby. We must be ready to meet it.”

“Told by whom?” Dacey asked before the Greatjon let loose a booming laugh, his mood now greatly improved.

“A proper battle is it? Gods, it be good to fight men and not bloody corpses and pale demons. Some wildling blood on my blade will warm me well.”

“We’re nowhere near ready.” Jaremy protested. “The men are half starved and frozen!”

The Greatjon laughed again. “We might lose a few but their deaths would be fine ones. Less mouths for us to feed when we take what food we can from the wildlings!”

“No.” Ned spoke definitively. “We will ready ourselves for battle, but when we meet the wildlings it shall be words we use, not blades.”

They all looked at him as if he spoke a foreign tongue, the Greatjon furrowing his brow in confusion. He could see the questions forming in their minds when Ronnel Stout appeared with a trio of Glover men-at-arms and a pair of men who fancied themselves lords.

Gerrick Kingsblood and Soren Shieldbreaker were both wildling leaders, captured along with Mance Rayder and kept captive by the Greatjon’s group ever since. Out of necessity both had contributed to the army’s survival in the Frostfangs. Gerrick was likely motivated to keep his three daughters, also held captive, alive and well. Soren, a fiercer sort altogether, simply refused give the northmen or Others the satisfaction of his death.

“Is it to be today?” Soren growled at them. “Little food left, so time to slit our throats?” He spit at their feet. “Give me a blade and let me die like a man. If the Stark won’t fight me, let one of these bastards stand for him.”

“Gladly.” The Greatjon snarled but Ned kept him back.

“The last thing I want is for any blood to be shed this day. I brought you here to tell you Tormund Giantsbane is not far. He leads a host of your people, numbering thousands.”

“Tormund, you say?” Gerrick pulled on his fiery beard. “He might trade for us… I could offer one of my daughters.”

Soren guffawed. “Not the one you gave to the Umber. She’s near bowlegged after all his rutting.”

“Shut yer mouth!”

“Enough.” He limped between Soren and the Greatjon, who he knew was guilty of welcoming one of the women as his bed warmer. “Gerrick, your daughters will stay under our care and protection. No one shall be traded. I am freeing you both, to seek out Tormund on my behalf. Tell him that Lord Stark leads this army. Let him know how many men we have, that we shall soon be upon him.”

“Tormund won’t scare so easily.” Soren shot back and Ned nodded.

“I’d expect nothing less from men who have lived among the Others for so long. Tell him that my quarrel is with the White Walkers, not him. That my swords and spears are meant for monsters, not men. Tell him that if he wishes to see the next spring, we must talk.”

“Talk?” The Greatjon’s face grew red. “With that wildling?!”

“Free folk.” Soren corrected, eyeing both men in an odd way. “I’ll not help you betray Tormund-”

“Then don’t, just do as I ask.” Ned turned to Ronnel then. “Secure two horses for them. Able ones. Then see them safely through the camp and on their way.”

“My lord?”

“Do it.” He looked to Gerrick and Soren again. “Ride swiftly, get Tormund to talk. For the sake of us all.”

No one seemed to believe what he was doing, especially not Gerrick and Soren, who had to be shoved by Ronnel to leave. Their shock was nothing compared to the outrage he faced from his own men.

“You’re letting them go?” Dacey flicked her dark hair back in anger. “How many northmen did those two help kill?”

“We killed more of them.” Ned replied. “Yet not as many as the Others have taken.”

Jaremy slammed his fist against the wagon. “You’re going to treat with Tormund Giantsbane? The man’s a menace! He's nothing but a raider! He's killed sworn brothers and ravaged your own lands!”

“I know what he is.” He swallowed his own anger to think of what he was ready to offer to such a man. “Just as I know what he isn’t, a White Walker. They are our true enemies and we all know it. If they attacked this camp last night in force, who would Soren and Gerrick fought beside? Us or them?”

“They’d fight to survive, not for any sort of honor!” The Greatjon stomped forward to look down on Ned. “Whatever deal you think to make with these savages, they’ll betray us. They’ll do anything to get through the Wall!”

“I’m counting on that.”

He waited until Ronnel returned to explain his intentions. As he expected, not a man among them supported him in this. He would need to inspire the same fear in them that he had felt in Bloodraven’s cave.

“This is folly, Ned.” The Greatjon eyed his weak leg. “You’ve been through much-”

“We cannot ignore what is coming, my lord.” Ned limped forward so their chests were nearly touching. “Think on everything at risk if we do not at least try this. Forget that Roose Bolton likely awaits us south of the Wall with treachery in his heart. What happens when the Others slaughter the wildlings? Or all our men here? The Wall cannot stand against so many wights. I will not doom my lands and home because of my pride. This is a hard path to take, but I’ll take it if it spares my family. What about you, Jon? Could you surrender the Last Hearth to the Others?"

“This is not what I fought for. I did not freeze and starve all these months for-for this!"

“No... you did so because I led you here.” He put a hand on the lord’s powerful shoulder, meeting his gaze head-on. “You acted as a loyal vassal and a true northman. If you think me any less deserving of that loyalty now, say so. I cannot do this without my Lord Umber. I will not."

The words hung in the air between them, both lords squaring off in a contest of loyalty and judgement. Whether the Greatjon meant to defy him or join him, Ned couldn’t be sure.

The stand-off broke when a rumble rose from the Greatjon’s chest and what might have been a sigh escaped him.

"They'll never agree, Ned.” The lord said, shaking his head. “And if they do, they won't keep the faith."

"Then they'll answer to us. To the Old Ways." Ned offered the Greatjon his hand, in equal parts friendship and respect.  

Dacey and Ronnel were willing to listen after that, though Jaremy remained far from convinced. Ned could accept that. The ranger was not the black brother that the Halfhand and Kyle Condon needed to win over.

Within the hour, the army had set out. While Ned rode on one of the few horses they had left to them, he tried to focus on the rough terrain and dense woods they travelled through. The lands of the wildlings were not so different than their own.

Truly he could’ve been riding through the Wolfswood, or the hills of the mountain clans.

As Ned looked back at his men, he realized how little difference there was between them and the wildlings. What banners they had were torn and in tatters, fine tunics and cloaks sharing the same fate. Furs and heavy cloaks were more common now. Most still carried steel helms and weapons, but the heavy beards and hard, violent looks made his northmen appear less like an army and more like a band of savages.

These lands have changed them. They’ve changed me. For better or for worse, the North will need us.

As my family needs me… gods keep them safe. Cat, I’m coming home.

I’m coming back to you.

That thought urged Ned onward, giving him the strength to ignore the pain in his leg and his uncertainty. This path he’d set them on could easily end in disaster.

At least he knew Coldhands had been right, for the wildling camp was not far off. After a few hours the army came upon it, a vast sprawling mess of tents and fires. Its defences amounted to a disorganized ring of bonfires and sharpened logs, some so large that they must have been for a giant. He could even see giants among the hundreds standing guard. All manner of weapons and people stood ready to do battle, from half-naked men clutching spears, to tall women holding mauls and clubs.

Just like it had been before, what the wildlings lacked in armor and discipline they made up for in numbers.

Numbers that Ned braved when he commanded that a tent be set up just outside the wildling settlement. One he and only a small guard would attend. Ser Jaremy would come to represent the Night’s Watch and he thought perhaps to bring Dacey or Ronnel as well when the Greatjon volunteered.

“No, Jon.” Ned said. “If they spring a trap and try to capture me, I want you here to command the army.”

“I’d rather I cut our way free of that trap so the men could be led by their proper lord. That’s you, Ned. If you truly want this to work... we go together. Who could deny such handsome men?”

The lord’s laughter was out of place yet welcome. Far more welcome than the wildlings made him feel as their small group tentatively moved towards the camp. The whole time, arrows and spears remained pointed at them, the danger as plain as the hate in the eyes of the wildling host.

Or was it fear?

He showed none himself, even though his heart was pounding. When he went within the tent and sat at one end of the table, he waited with the Greatjon and Ser Jaremy standing to either side of him. A flagon of what remained of their wine was sitting on the table, untouched as time dragged on. He felt like a fool sitting there, waiting for a leader he saw as barely more than a criminal.

That was until Beron, a Dustin sergeant, strode into the tent to say that a number of wildlings approached.

Soren and Gerrick were the first to enter. Ned was taking note of how both were armed when a third wildling arrived. This one drew his attention immediately, for he was a broad man with a wide face and a long white beard. Over his furs and leathers he wore golden bands engraved with the runes of the First Men. Ned thought that the most impressive part about the warrior until he let out a laugh loud enough to rival the Greatjon.

“HAR!” The wildling gestured at them. “Look there! The high and mighty Stark of Winterfell, sitting at a table as empty as his belly! Soren says you’re a hungry lot.”

“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.” Ned gestured to the empty chair near to the man. “I take it you are Tormund Giantsbane?”

“Aye! And Tormund Thunderfirst!” He thumped down into the chair, waving a following boy in to hand him a horn of ale. “Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, and Father of Hosts. Oh, and skinner of wolves if one of you soft southron bastards tries anything.”

“If you’ve spoken with Soren and Gerrick, you’ll know I did not come here to do battle.”

“They might have blathered on about that.” Tormund leaned forward, sipping of his ale. “I cared more about how your lot are starving. Hungry and far from your flowery seats south of the Wall. Come to beg for your lives.”

That was too much for the Greatjon.

“Keep speaking out of your arse and it’ll be you that’s begging.” The lord puffed out his chest. “You savages have never known your place, raiding our lands-”

“Your lands? You bastards stole them from the free folk when you built the Wall! Damn you for it! Damn the lot of you!!”

“We may well be damned.” Ned rose shakily from his seat. “All of us. Northmen, Night’s Watch, free folk. The Others have returned and that Wall you curse, it is our best hope of holding back their evil. That and what we decide on here, in this tent.”

That quieted the two quarrelling men, the Greatjon controlling his anger and Tormund leaning back in his chair. He looked Ned up and down, drinking of his ale as his eyes fell upon Ned's injured leg.

“Don’t speak to me of the White Walkers. They’ve chased us from every corner of our lands. You think Mance got us all to march south because we wanted to? Fuck the south, fuck the Wall, and fuck all of you. I’d rather fight you kneelers for the rest of my days than face another battle against the Others. You speak of their evil? We’ve supped of such terrors for years now. You have no idea what you're facing.”

“This is true.” Ned admitted, pointing to his own leg. “We know little of them, but I know that they did this to me.” He then reached down to lift Ice up and out of its sheath, laying the Valryian steel greatsword on the table. “And I know that this blade can slay the White Walkers. I’ve killed one myself with it.”

“Did you now?” Tormund raised an eyebrow. “Might be after the fight is good and done, I’ll take that sword for myself.”

“Make sure to burn me then. Me and all my men. As we would for your people. Unless neither of us wins and the dead are left for them. Then we rise as thralls and it is the Others who win. As they have done in every battle so far.”

Tormund said nothing to that. For a man styled the Tall talker, Ned took that as a victory.

“I led my men into these lands to make war against your people. Just as Mance Rayder readied to make war against mine, and neither of us have won. Nor can we. We’re losing the war that really matters. The fighting must end between us. To survive we must have peace.”

“Peace!?” Tormund choked on his ale, laughing with Soren. “Peace with the Starks? With the crows? My bloody arse!”

“And your death for sure.” Ned declared, silencing the laughter. “There’s what? Four thousand people in your camp? How many warriors? Fewer than the old and young I'm sure. Not enough to take the Wall. Maybe a few hundred can sneak down south... leaving thousands behind as wights. An army large enough that they could break through the Wall itself.”

“And your peace will stop them?” Tormund slammed his mug down. “I let you go on your merry way today, and tomorrow you’ll stand atop the Wall and cut us down. Those hundreds that could’ve lived will be die because I didn’t kill you right now.”

“Try!” The Greatjon roared as Ser Jaremy put a hand to his sword. An action that Soren and the other wildlings mimicked. Things were going wrong with such haste that Ned struck the table with his fists.

“No, Tormund!” He shouted. “This is not about sparing my life alone. If we make peace here, all of us can live. All of us can get south of the Wall.”

“Hold!” Tormund reached out to lower the weapons of his companions, his eyes as wide at theirs. “What’s this nonsense?”

“Thousands, Tormund. As Lord Paramount of the North, I’m willing to settle your people south of the Wall. All those wishing to make peace, who can accept the terms we agree on here. Then we stand united with the Night’s Watch to hold back the threat of the Others. We hold them together.”

“He lies.” Gerrick shook his head. “Tormund, they’ll get our people south and then cut us to pieces.”

“They could’ve done that to us months back.” Soren argued, sheathing his blade.

“This is a Stark we’re dealing with.” Tormund made fists upon the table. “He wants us to become kneelers, like the rest of the southron.”

“Better that than wights.” The Greatjon put in.

“I want you to live.” Ned spoke honestly. “You and every one of the free folk who can help defend the North in the war to come. Earn your place there. There’s generations of hate and blood between us, and it must end. Winter is coming and I will do what I must to save my people. Do the same for yours.”

“You sound like Mance.” Tormund drained his cup and was surprised when Ned pushed their flagon his way so he might drink again. “Aye, I threw my lot in with him. A lot of us did, but not because of his pretty words. He beat us. One by one. Looking at your men, I don’t think you could beat my camp in a fight. Gods help you lot if you try and reach the Wall.”

“I don’t need to beat you, Tormund. The Others already have. As they’ve beaten my people. The White Walkers have forced us to this point. We are weak apart, but strong together. You must see the truth in that.”

Just as Bloodraven said. Weak apart, strong together. It’s this peace that will get me home.

“I see a lot, Stark.” Tormund said. “I see you and me, and our people who hate each other with little food and leagues between us and the Wall. Thousands of wights ready to tear us to shreds. That’s why I’m trying the Gorge at the Shadowtower…”

“No. You will cross as Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

“Eastwatch! Didn’t you hear me? The Others are thick between here and there!”

“Not if we go by sea.” Ned turned to regard Ser Jaremy and the Greatjon then. “We went east for a reason, and this is it.”

Both sides listened as he spoke of the quest that he had set Qhorin Halfhand and Kyle Condon on. Namely the perilous journey to Castle Black. With good horses and better trackers, the Halfhand believed it possible. Even Tormund admitted that if any could escape the grasp of the Others, it was the Halfhand. Ned hoped the ranger’s skills could also be used to win over Stannis to peace with the wildlings. If Qhorin and Ser Kyle were successful, ships would sail from Eastwatch to carry them all south, away from these beleaguered lands.

“Don’t lie to me Stark.” Tormund barked, staining his beard with wine. “There’s no ships coming. Why would they? You didn’t know how I’d answer here. Bah! This peace isn’t fit to wipe my arse with!”

“On my honor, I’ve asked for ships to come.” Ned put a hand to his chest. “I knew I might fail to win you over. You could kill me, or I you, and not a one of us would be there to sail away. Yet some could and those survivors would deny the Others more wights to be used against my lands.”

My family.

Tormund leaned back in his chair, whistling some as he beheld Ned with a curious expression. Then he waved the other wildlings forward, the group engaging in a hurried conversation in the Old Tongue that Ned and the others were left ignorant of.

“Dammit, Ned. Is that true?” The Greatjon asked. “About the Halfhand? The ships?”

“It is.” He admitted. “We didn’t have time to hold Qhorin back, waiting for all of this to bear fruit. Whatever Stannis thinks of this deal, he won’t risk leaving what few men he has to die out here. Those ships will come. Whether we’re there to meet them or not.”

He prayed he would be. Beyond his selfish longing to return home, he wanted to see this peace through. If they could unite with the wildlings, bind these free folk to the North, they could stand a chance against the Others.

If they stood alone, Ned imagined they would fair as poorly as his army. As Jory did against the Others.

“Stark!”

Tormund shoved away his companions to point his tankard in Ned’s direction, almost in threat.

“I might be willing to hear your talk of passage south and lands for my people, but hear me now. All your words are wind until you prove that we can trust you-”

The Greatjon howled. “You, a bloody wildling raider, are doubting Eddard Stark’s word?”

“Be still your tongue or lose it.” Tormund snarled, looking to Ned with renewed dislike. “Tell us truly, oh great southron lord, where are these ships supposed to land? Where are we to go?”

That gave Ned pause. He slowly eased himself into his chair, realizing that to tell the wildlings now left him open to betrayal. They could still give battle. Tormund might try to take the ships later. His eyes moved to Ice, which still lay unsheathed on the table.

This blade could stand against the Others. He wished this alliance to become that strong. And Ice was a weapon he always wielded with honor.

“Hardhome.” He said. “That is where the ships shall meet us.”

“We must go to Hardhome.”

 

ARYA  

The aching hunger she felt set her stomach to growling. Not that she could hear it, the racket coming from outside the alley was just too loud. The wheels of a passing wagon rattled so noisily over the cobblestone street Arya could scarcely herself think.

Or her companion complain.

“It’s been too long.” The squire grumbled from where he leaned against a wall. “Three days, my lady. Another and we’ll starve-”

“Don’t call me that!” Arya shot back at him, marvelling at his thick headedness. “I’m not a lady. You’re not Bronze Jon. Not anymore. Not here at least.”

“Shit, sorry.” Royce ran a hand through his filthy and matted hair. “I know the rules, I do. I just can’t think straight as hungry as I am. I could eat a whole flank of mutton right now. And I hate mutton.”

She let Royce go on about his dislike of sheep, figuring that belly aching was better than their actual aches. The people of Oldtown were not much better off. Though the market was bustling with people and movement, few of the stalls offered any food. Those that did have food almost ruined the idea of eating ever again. Arya hated how her mouth watered at the sight of dog or rat meat.

Not that she could afford any of it. People were now paying twice the value of a leg of lamb for a skinned cat and the last of her own coin had gone towards a buying a fish. A meager meal for the pair before another uncomfortable night curled up together in the alley. Arya had fallen asleep gazing up at the burning beacon of the Hightower.

She could see the towering lighthouse now, rising high above the rest of the city. It was so close that her neck hurt some from craning upward. They weren’t far from a bridge connecting the Hightower to this part of the city, hence why they had chosen this spot to wait. They would be easy to find if all went well.

But something hadn’t.

“I’ll be back before the sun sets.” Olan had told them three days past, the old steward patting Arya’s head as he did so. “Worry not, my brave young friends. The worst is over. I must play my part in making sure of that.”

“Don’t go.” She’d told him for the thousandth time. “We didn’t need the Hightowers to get this far. You’re not even sure the lord will know you.”

“Perhaps not by name, but Lord Leyton will know my face. I always attended my lord when he visited the Hightower and I saw to Lord Leyton’s needs when he came to Brightwater. I pray that my service will lend some weight to my words. Though if I was joined by a Kingsguard squire…”

“No bloody way.” Royce had crossed his arms and glared at the Hightower. “I’m not going into another strange keep in these parts. There’s no chance I’d survive a fall from that thing and neither would your old bones. We need to find the new king.”

“I cannot.” Olan said with his cap in hand, wringing it nervously. “Villains have destroyed the good name of Brightwater Keep. For the sake of House Florent, the guilty must be held to account before the Seven. Lord Hightower can help spread the truth. Only then can salvation be found for my home.”

“Nothing will save that place.” Arya remembered saying, hate rising up in her gullet to think of Bran. Olan took it in stride though, handing over what coin he had left to them.

“Use that to grab a meal. Don’t go too far though, I shall seek you here by sunset, I swear. Young squire, see to Nan’s safety, we owe her much.”

Olan left them after that, making his way down the street toward the Hightower. When he disappeared from view, Royce had kicked the wall and cursed.

“Keep you safe, he says. With what? My stink? You’re the only one with a blade.”

Arya thumbed Needle’s pommel. It was kept hidden beneath her tattered cloak and tied about her waist with a bit of rope. Her sword back where it belonged, with her.

“Olan should’ve been back by now.” Arya looked to the starving squire.

“Aye.” Royce replied in a sad way. “As old as he was, his wits were good and he knows how to tell time. Either he lied about coming back-”

“Or he can’t.”

They both looked to the Hightower again. Once she’d sailed by it in the Black Wind when Osha had been alive. Though Osha was dead and gone now, there wasn’t any reason to think Olan was dead. Yet deep down Arya knew he wasn’t coming back.

Olan never once tried to betray us or leave us behind. He could’ve, but he didn’t.

I don’t know what’s happened but I know what I should do now.

“We should go.” She said, moving away from the wall and out into the street. “We were stupid to let him leave, and we can’t be stupid again. Let’s go back to finding a ship and getting away from here before the ironmen come back.”

“Are you sure they will?” Royce asked as he followed her out of the alley “All these fools are more afraid of the Dornish, as if the Martells weren’t loyal to the end. With Asha Greyjoy a prisoner-”

“The Crow’s Eye doesn’t care about that. Trust me. After the ironmen do this kingsmoot thing, we won’t want to be here.”

“I don’t want to be here now.”

Neither do I.

It was Olan’s idea to make their way to the city and he was the best thing they had to a guide through these lands. The old man had already proved himself wily by escaping Asha’s longship after Arya. She’d been struggling to keep Royce afloat when Olan swam to their aid. He guided them through the currents, keeping the trio in the swiftest currents and away from rocks.

They were miles downstream before Olan brought them ashore. Arya had watched shivering from the trees when Asha’s longships passed with great haste. She hated their speed. She hated them. She hated Axell and Selyse Florent. Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, every single name Royce gave her when he spoke of how Bran came to die.

“It was a trap. All of it.” He'd shivered during the tale. “I was coming back to the hall and all I heard was drums. Th-then screaming. I saw the Mountain and others so I hid. I was a coward. I wanted to run far away… but when I heard the fighting I couldn’t leave Bran. I snuck back to the hall and saw… I saw them kill the king! Then the princess. They were all dead. Robar. Oswell. Not Bran though. He tried to save Orys and I was going to help! But Delena Florent grabbed me. She couldn’t… I couldn’t… the Mountain went to the baby and he- he-”

Royce had retched then and they were all crying. Olan for what had become of his home. Arya for her little brother. She’d been so close. She thought of all the bodies floating by in the river, and how close Bran’s might have been...

They never pressed Royce to speak on that night others now called the Bloodwater. She made him swear not to speak her name, nor reveal who she really was to Olan and left it at that.  Hearing how he’d brought down Qarl the Maid was a pleasant surprise though, that and when Royce handed Needle back to her.

“Bran was my friend. My best friend.” Royce had whispered to her the next morning. “We were going to be Kingsguard. Heroes. Somehow he knew this sword was yours and Bran wanted to see you with it. If I can do one good thing for him, I’ll do this.”

With Needle returned to her, Arya soon began a return to Oldtown. Royce and Olan wanted to get far from the Florent lands and the river was the safest route. Olan couldn’t walk very fast but he knew the lands well. They stayed hidden, travelling through orchards and fishing the river by night. Olan worried how they would get past the Greyjoys and their siege but it was all for naught. By the time they arrived at Oldtown, the Greyjoys were gone.

“Up and left.” A man of the City Watch told them at the gates. “With the Red Viper murdering King Aegon and no other help coming, we was as good as dead. Then we all woke up to see the reavers gone. The longships put to sea. They left some of their wounded behind though, muttering about some damphead calling a King Moo.”

“What sort of king is named Moo?” Royce had asked, earning a slap from Arya. She knew about the Kingsmoot from Asha and expected she would be there, but the watchman told them different.

“You’ve good timing. Lord Leyton is about to drag the squid bitch through the city. We caught her trying to slip back through the bridges. Lost her luck, I guess.”

Asha had lost more than that. In Arya’s mind, the Greyjoy woman forever had the deck of the Black Wind beneath her feet and throwing axes at her side. Yet Asha lacked all of that when the Hightowers paraded her before the people. They had her tied to a wooden stake in a wagon, pulled along by braying mules. While Asha’s crew might cheer her bravery the cityfolk hurled insults and dung at her. The only thing about Asha that stayed the same was her fierce pride. The captain showed no fear, only defiance as she passed by Arya and the thousands cursing her name.

As Royce and Arya walked down that very street on the way to the docks, she figured the smallfolk should’ve saved their curses for a true monster.

It’s the Crow’s Eye they should hate, she’d thought, Asha was bad, Balon was worse, but Euron’s the worst of all.

There was proof of that everywhere when the pair reached the city docks. They had been burned during the siege, leaving few enough ports for ships to anchor. Everywhere smallfolk were toiling in droves to repair what the Crow’s Eye had ruined. They watched as a hundred men were pulling on a massive rope with all their might, dragging heavily damaged galley out of the water.

“That ship looks how I feel.” Royce muttered. “It’s got the right idea. If I pass out, just tie a rope around me and drag me on.”

“You’ll get moving after a poke from Needle. Now let’s find a better ship for us.”

All manner of ships competed for a space to anchor. Arya saw cogs and carracks from strange lands she didn’t know, one shaped like a swan with dark-skinned Summer Islanders moving about. More familiar were a few of the Hightower war galleys, which were being fitted and loaded by sailors. While barrels and sacks found passage with ease, Arya struggled to gain the same for them.

“I take no passengers.” The swan ship’s captain told them, tossing aside his bright feather cloak. “We sail for home. If you want to see the Summer Islands we may speak, but you must pay.”

With what coin? Arya thought.

“Take this to start.” Royce offered a blue bearded Tyroshi his empty sword belt. “It’s finely made. My sister and I will work for the rest. Cleaning the decks, kissing your arse-”

“Finely made, eh?” The trader eyed the belt before tossing it back to Royce with a grunt. “Stolen from a better man, methinks. No need for thieves on my ship. Though the men have need for something else if the sister is selling.”

The way he looked upon her sent Arya’s hand to Needle, which the trader whistled at.

“Now that’s a handsome blade. That’ll get you to Dragonstone, but no farther-”

“No.”

Arya and Royce spoke in unison. She gripped Needle all the harder then.

“I’m not selling me or my sword. We’ll work for it, like he said. If the ironmen attack we’ll help fight-”

“Har!” The trader laughed and spat at her feet. “We sail with the Hightowers, they’ll keep the longships away. You couldn’t scare off a mouse. Your brother does better with that stink of his.”

“Hey…” Royce said dejectedly.

That’s how it went, again and again, no ship willing to take them. Many wanted Arya for the worst reasons and some wanted Royce for the same. Later they were sitting on a barrel, Royce watching the comings and goings of the port, Arya staring at Needle. The bustle of the port, the gulls screeching and men shouting, it all felt far away when she looked at her sword.

“It’s okay.” Royce said after a time. “Keeping the blade. If you tried to give it away, I’d fight you for it.”

“I’d win.”

Royce sighed. “Gods… sometimes the things you say, how you say them, I dunno, you sound like Bran.”

That’s what Arya was thinking about as she stared at Needle.

Bran. Rickon and Robb. Her parents and Sansa. Jon’s smile. Domeric’s eyes. Needle was from Winterfell and Winterfell was home. Summer snows, grey walls, laughter and love. Good times and bad. She missed them all.

“It’s all I have.” Arya whispered, tears in her eyes. “I’m being stupid. We’re starving, poor, and I’ve got nothing. Winterfell’s gone but so was Needle. It came back… and if it can come back to me… then maybe…”

“Maybe.” Royce agreed, letting Arya wipe at her tears without making mention of them. He did nudge her a few moments later, a stupid grin on his face. “Maybe if I bathe we’ll have better luck. I think there’s water in this barrel. Not that I smell worse than any of these salty sots.”

“You do.” She grinned some, wrinkling her nose at him, like she would when she teased Bran about the same. “Like a rotten goat who fell in a dung heap. I don’t stink like you and I slept in the same dirt and alleys.”

“That’s cause you and Olan hopped in that creek before we got here! I had to keep watch…”

“We took turns, stupid. I told you I’d stay look out but you got weird. Like now! There’s the bay right there and you want to wash in a stupid barrel. Are you scared of the water-”

Arya caught herself but not soon enough. By the time she realized what she was saying, Royce had already turned away from her. She remembered the night of the Bloodwater, and how tightly Royce had gripped onto her and Olan.

“Hey… hey Jon, I didn’t-”

“Don’t call me that.” Royce didn’t turn back, instead taking a few steps forward and peering into the bustle of the people moving about. “It’s Bronze Jon.”

It’s so stupid though. Jon’s a perfectly good name. There’s already a Bronze Royce…

“Ugh. Fine.” Arya hopped off the barrel to go and join him. “Listen, you can bathe in the stupid barrel.”

Royce acted as if he wasn't listening to her, instead staring at two people across the docks. One wore the simple garb of an acolyte of the Citadel, the other hid their slender and dark-skinned form behind an unremarkable cloak. Their talk ended abruptly when the slender one held up a hand. Arya swore he was looking their way.

“Shit.” Royce mumbled. “It can’t be…”

“What can’t be? Hey!”

Royce suddenly grabbed Arya's arm, startling her. The dark-skinned stranger had departed and the squire shot after him, dragging Arya with.

“Come on! We can’t let her get away!” Royce said as they ran across the docks, dodging people here and there as they went.

“Who!?” She demanded. Royce didn’t answer, save to urge her on.

The stranger’s path took them between two broken hulls standing at the far end of the docks. Yet when the pair rushed around the corner they saw no sight of the man. It didn’t seem possible that he could have run down the entire length of the wrecks and out of sight by then. Royce didn’t let up, the pair soon flying between the two wrecks until they stopped dead in their tracks.

For stepping out of a hole torn in one of the hulls came the stranger. He had curly black hair, a widow’s peak, and dark black eyes, though Arya focused more on the small bow he raised up from beneath his cloak and the arrow he had notched.

“Who do you serve?” The man asked in a surprisingly deep voice. “Tell me, or else you die here and now.”

“The knight I served is dead.” Royce answered boldly. “So is my king. And your kin, Sarella Sand.”

“Who?”

Arya was lost. Yet the squire’s words bid the archer to pause. He stared hard at Royce’s face before sparing her a glance. They knew each other not, but the soft smile which pulled at the stranger’s lips seemed friendly.

“You’re the Royce boy.” The stranger’s voice became higher as the bow lowered. “The one who stared so wantonly at Arianne all the time.”

“Not all the time…” Royce’s cheeks burned some as he scratched his head. “Does she live? Princess Arianne? Did anyone else make it out?”

“There are others, or so we hear. Arianne is still held captive, as are my sisters, Renly Baratheon, Benjen Stark-”

“Benjen?!” Arya’s excitement got the best of her. Until that moment she'd thought her wandering uncle lost too.

“Yes, the Stark.” The stranger eyed her curiously. “I do not know your face, girl child. Were you with Aegon’s army?”

“She saved me, that’s what counts.” Royce said. That he kept her name hidden was hint enough for her not to trust this person. “How did you get away, Sarella?”

“I was with my father when the foxes turned, luckily the Red Viper struck first.”

The stranger’s identity was revealed soon after. No man in truth, Sarella Sand was the natural daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell. The woman acted cagey, not sharing knowledge with them freely. She asked Royce questions about the massacre, very interested in his talk of Delena Florent.

“Perhaps she is our friend among the foxes.” Sarella stroked her chin as she put away her bow. “We fight on, young squire, the few of us who escaped the Florent trap. My father rides with the Kingsguard, Richard Horpe. The Mountain ambushed the knight’s party before the massacre, and those that lived are hungry for justice. The Red Viper has sworn vengeance against the foxes and lions, a perilous quest. Many in the realm think us the villains.”

“We know the truth.” Arya said. “Our friend went to tell the Hightowers all about it. He never came back though.”

“That is good to know.” Sarella sighed, looking them both over. “I was sent here to learn, to see what help Oldtown could offer. I did not expect much, the Greyjoys left this city broken and lords distrustful. Still, the whispers in the dark talked of some promise all the same, and now I think it was you two I was meant to find.”

“Us?” Royce hefted his empty sword belt. “I’m glad the Red Viper fights and all, really, but I don’t know what help we could be… and I’d rather not put Nan in danger because someone whispered-”

“Shut it.” Arya pushed Royce so hard he landed on his arse with a thud. She wasn’t about to let Royce act like her noble protector when she had saved him first.

“Careful.” Sarella smirked down at the wincing lad as Arya helped him up. “He’s valuable to the cause. I’m sure the two of you would make fine warriors, but I’d rather trade you for an army. Bronze Jon here could do real good if he reached the capital. Or the Vale. Wherever good men might rise up to avenge our murdered king.”

“Sounds great.” Royce explained. “But we can’t get passage out of here.”

“We don’t even have coin for food.” She added. “And some ask for worse...”

“That they would.” Sarella tugged at Arya’s long hair. “Profit or perversion, men never fail to seek the one after the other. I learned this when I began my travels, hence why Alleras stands before you instead of Sarella.”

“That’s a nice trick.” Arya admitted and Sarella winked at her.

“Oh, I have many more.”

What Sarella didn’t have much of was much coin. Most of the gold she’d had was spent buying information from friends and gaining entrance into places that the Sand Snake refused to talk of. The meager amount Sarella had left wouldn’t get them a berth on a trader ship, not that she wanted the pair on one. Sarella’s eyes were set on a finer prize.

“If you cannot afford to be passengers, you can be servants.” Sarella told them before urging Arya to hand over Needle to Royce. The woman then pressed a finger to Arya’s hair, just above her ear. “Cut carefully lad, I imagine this one’s been through enough.”

When Sarella led them out from the between the wrecks, both Arya and Royce were wincing. Royce from the cuff she’d given his ear, Arya from the hack job the squire made of her head. She was to be a boy now, for as long as it took to get away.

Royce jumped into a barrel to bathe as Sarella journeyed to a nearby tavern. After watching the crewmen from a Hightower ship drink and quarrel with one another for a while, Sarella found her man. He was a brawny mate of middling age who'd been making eyes at a particular whore for the past hour. After some time speaking with Sarella, who gestured in their direction, the mate nodded before disappearing upstairs with the whore.

“I don’t have the coin to pay for a berth, but I can buy one man off.” She said after she returned, straightening their cloaks and sniffing at Royce. “You’re to be swabs on the Lady of the Tower. Lord Leyton isn’t taking chances with his family. Most sail away to the Free Cities, to wait out these dark times, but Lady Lynesse goes to join her husband at King’s Landing.”

“Jon’s- King Jon isn’t there.” She pointed out. “Royce said he was marching north.”

“Edmure Tully is though. King Aegon believed him a true friend. Get the truth to him.”

“We will.” Royce put a hand to his heart. “On my solemn vow as a Royce of Runetower-”

“Enough with that.” Sarella shook her head. “You must both have new names. Ones easy to remember. You’re brothers now.”

Sarella left it to them to choose but Arya knew what name she wanted right away.

“Robb. Can I be Robb?” She asked and Sarella thought it as good a name as any. That left Royce, who looked long and hard at Arya before speaking.

“Bran. I’d be Bran, if that’s okay?”

It was fine by her, though she caught the grimace that crossed Sarella’s face. Arya had seen enough in her travels to recognize fear when she saw it. Sadness too.

Did Sarella know Bran? Were they friends too?

There wasn’t much time to dwell on that. The mate did not need all that long to do his business with the whore. Sweaty and tired looking, he collected them from Sarella, impatient to get back to his ship.

“Thank you.” Arya didn’t know what else to say to the woman. “Thank you, Alleras. I hope your father has good luck with his fox hunting”

Royce clenched his fists. “I hope he kills them all. That he tosses the lot of them in the river so they can sink and rot…”

“Let’s not speak of dread things in that river.” Sarella whispered to Royce, a hand on his shoulder. “Be thankful for how you came out those accursed waters. It could have been worse… so get away from here. Be of use. Help deliver justice to us. If you can’t do that, vengeance will do.”

Arya thought of Theon then. That had been justice for Robb.

Yet as the mate led her and Royce on to the war galley, she looked back to Sarella again. The woman had vanished, disappearing back into the city.

Arya clutched Needle some.

If I can’t have justice… will vengeance do?

Could it?

 

DAENERYS

The wind blowing outside the hall sounded like the howls of a wolf. A long, mournful sound that hardened Dany’s heart against the three new arrivals from King’s Landing.

She sat in the same seat that Rhaegar would whenever he held court at Dragonstone. There were few to gather about her now, but they were a loyal few. Ser Justin Massey had a nervous look upon his comely face while Ser Richard Lonmouth’s expression was harder than his golden teeth. Brienne was closest to her, Dawn’s hilt rising up from the shoulder where the lady had thrown aside her white-cloak.

It made Dany sick to see Mandon Moore garbed in the same manner, for the treasonous knight now stood before her wearing the white armor of the Kingsguard. Her disgust bid her to look to Ser Addam Marbrand. His shoulder length copper hair and handsome features likely delighted maidens across the realm. Yet not Dany, who felt the knight’s loyalties made him as unappealing as Septon Luceon, an old and weasel-faced member of the Most Devout. The septon, son to Lord Walder Frey, had come to preach the same treason that the Marbrand heir had just placed in her hands.

The golden lion of House Lannister stood out proudly on the parchment in combatant with the three-headed Targaryen dragon. It held a list of promises and demands, all in Joffrey’s name, yet penned by Tywin Lannister.

‘Hand to the King,’ he called himself.‘Loyal servant to Joffrey Targaryen, trueborn King of the Seven Kingdoms.’

Reading that once more made her want to tear the whole thing asunder.

"The princess looks truly troubled.” Septon Luceon opened his palms to her, like he meant to embrace her. “Lay down your burdens, my child. Trust in our good and noble king to care for you, as he shall do for the whole of the realm."

"I'm not troubled septon.” She handed the parchment off to Lonmouth. “I just don't know whether to have my dragons send you back to Joffrey in pieces... or as piles of ash.”

The septon’s kindly expression fell away. “"You wouldn’t… we're envoys! Messengers of the king!"

“I see no true envoys here. Only lapdogs to a pretender, committing treason to earn a scrap of favor from Lord Tywin's table. It would be an act of justice to take your heads."

"We were given bread and salt." Ser Mandon said with his flat and lifeless voice.  “Guest right protects us.”

"Guest right means little these days.” Lonmouth spoke awkwardly, the knight’s false teeth clacking with each word.

“Princess, this is not Brightwater Keep.” Ser Addam tried to approach her yet Brienne and her guards moved forward to dissuade him. “No more than I am a diplomat. I am a knight, doing my duty to my lord, who serves the king sitting the Iron Throne. The king bid us to retrieve his sister and escort your grace to the capital, so I have come to do so. The Hand offers you pardons and protections, a place at court... gifts that I beg your grace to accept.”

She wasn’t impressed. “Tell me, ser. If a thief snatches some bread, is he now the baker? If I take your sword, am I now a knight? Joffrey might have stolen the throne, but that does not make him a king.”

“He is the true heir!” Septon Luceon tapped his fingers together. “Anointed by the seven oils and crowned by the High Septon himself. Surely you do not question the voice of the Seven?”

“I question the man pretending to be such.” Dany snapped. “This High Septon accepted gold, like a common fish monger, to strip Jon of his birthright. A right granted by the previous High Septon, before this bought-out puppet took up residence in the Sept of Baelor.”

“Blasphemy! Oh woe to how far Jon Snow has led you from the true path. You poor girl. He has taken your innocence and tainted your heart-”

“Quiet your tongue.” Brienne warned. “Respect the princess or I swear by King Jon, I will carry you from his hall. Septon or not.”

Ser Addam shook his head. “There’s no need for this…”

“That’s the first bit of wisdom I’ve heard.” Dany nearly stood up but caught herself, merely leaning forward in her seat. “I will honor guest right but that’s all you’ll have from me. Scurry back to King's Landing like the rats you are. Tell the Lannisters that I stand with the white dragon, not their gilded pretender. King Jon has my loyalty, my swords, and my dragons. Joffrey earns only my disgust, the vile worm that he is.”

While Luceon trembled in anger and Mandon took her declaration with his dead fish stare, Addam seemed genuinely pained by her words.

“Your grace, this loyalty you show King Jon is admirable... but so is good sense. King- Jon Snow will never reign. He sits besieged and friendless at Riverrun, spare yourself the same fate. If you wish us to go, we will. Though know that I might be tasked to return one day. Alongside Lord Tywin, and his army. The Rains of Castamere is no mere song.”

“Nor is Dragonstone only a name.” She gestured to the murals along the walls, where Balerion put entire armies to flame. “Remind Lord Tywin of that, and what happened to the Gardeners and Harren the Black. Advise him to bend the knee to the true king, lest the dragons turn Casterly Rock into another Harrenhal.”

The audience came to an end then and there, Dany keeping her poise as the Lannister party was led from the hall under heavy guard. None spoke again until the door was firmly shut behind them.

“They’ll speak to no one.” Lonmouth clacked away. “The men guarding them are true, the same as those keeping the crew on their ship.”

“Good.” She nodded. “Tywin Lannister can know nothing of what happens on this isle.”

“None will, your grace.” Brienne said with conviction. “No ship that has landed here has left again, of that we are sure.”

Justin made a noise at that, the knight lacking his constant smile and good humor.

“That’ll reach Tywin’s ear, you can be sure of that. He’ll hear of how we close off the island and wonder why we do so. Any number of answers could lead him to think that Dragonstone is ripe for attack.”

“We’re anything but.” Brienne noted. “The stores are full to bursting and we’ve more than enough men to hold the castle against a siege.”

“A drop in a bucket compared to what the Lannisters could bring against us.” Justin brushed some pale hair from his eyes before looking to her. “Princess, we need to reconsider our strategy before disaster strikes.”

“It already has.” She replied. “More than a moon has passed since Jon was betrayed. That whole time he has been trapped, needing our help. We can delay no longer ser, it is time to act. Riverrun awaits us.”

Dany had hated waiting as long as she could. It had taken time to gather enough ships for the token force they had left to them. The plan was to sail right up the Trident, land at the backs of the Lannisters and Freys, and rescue Jon. No matter Marwyn’s ravings, she had to use the dragons in this. Rhaegal and Barraxes could prove enough of a distraction to turn the tide. Marwyn was not the only one opposed to her plan, and she prepared to hear Justin’s misgivings once more.

“I don’t speak on Riverrun…” The knight lowered his head. “Forgive me, I believe you should take the Lannister offer.”

“Traitor!” Brienne gave voice to the outrage that Justin’s words inspired in all of them.

“The Mage himself said that King Jon is doomed, and us with him if we attempt this rescue. The king wanted Daenerys protected and that’s why I suggest this course.”

“I will not bow down to Joffrey! Do you hear me? Never!”

“Princess, think of the consequences-”

“Think of our king.” Lonmouth put a hand to his sword and glowered at Justin with disgust. “Where is your courage?”

“Likely the same place as your teeth.” Justin shot back. “I see much gold in that mouth of yours, ser, but Lord Tywin has more. Enough to line all of our tombs. Would King Jon want us to risk Daenerys? To risk his child?”

While sitting, none could see the truth she so desperately hid. Tess had been the one to spot the signs, blaming her seasickness on something other than the waves.

“When was your last moon blood?” Tess had asked and Dany could not recall. “Well I think the last time was in the capital. A long time princess, especially for a girl who has grown so… close to the king.”

Not long after their return to Dragonstone, Marwyn confirmed it. She was with child. The old man had raged about her not taking his potions but in truth she had forgotten. When she awoke next to Jon every morning, nothing really seemed to matter besides being able to do so again and again.

Yet those memories paled to the hope she carried for the child in her belly. The arguments between her and Jon would be forgotten. The joy the babe gave her was enough to make her forgive Jon his slights, and she knew he would feel the same when he learned he was to be a father. After losing so many, it would be a gift for them to bring new life into the world.

A truth Dany was forced to keep hidden. She and Jon had not yet wed, and his issues with the Faith meant that this must be handled delicately. None knew the truth beyond the handful of those she trusted.

“Bastard or not, that child is a threat to Joffrey.” Ser Justin continued. “More than any army we can raise, more than the dragons. Lord Tywin would see to it that this child shares the same fate as little Orys Baratheon unless we come to terms-”

“No.” Dany stood then, her hands about her middle. Fear and outrage boiled up within her, the knight backing away some as she closed the gap between them. “That bargain was a poison and I would not endanger my child by swallowing. This child must grow up in a just kingdom, and the realm will be anything but under the Lannisters. So no, Ser Justin, we will not turn our backs on our true king nor this child’s father. Do you accept this?”

Justin, thoroughly browbeaten and suffering under glares from the others, nodded and bowed. He begged his leave of her then and Dany saw no reason to stop him, allowing her sworn shield to flee from her wrath.

“We should put guards on him.” Lonmouth suggested and Brienne agreed.

“His glib tongue could hide a traitor’s heart. Confine him to a cell for such words.”

“Ser Justin means well.” She sighed. “He disagrees with sailing to Riverrun yet vowed to fight all the same. Still, perhaps we can assign him some squires. Loyal men who can mind the knight at all times. Let Justin prove that he still keeps the faith. He cheers Myrcella much with his jests and smiles.”

“It’s what he could offer her other kin that worries me.” Brienne shifted uncomfortably in her armor. “There could be traitors on this isle. Fishermen swore they saw a survivor flee one of the wrecks during the last storm. A possible spy.”

Lonmouth clacked his teeth. “It’s nonsense. We scoured the island and we found no one.”

“A skilled spy then, or a raven tender, like the one Jacqueline used. Your grace, if any learn of the problems with the dragons…”

The rest went unsaid. The dragons were Dany’s greatest weapon against the fears that the Lannisters inspired across the realm. Few of their ravens had garnered reply, and those that did were reluctant to rise in Jon’s defence. The Lannisters and Freys held many captives from loyal families of the Riverlands. The Reach lords still battled the Dornish and feared a return of the reavers. And no help had come from the Vale despite Bronze Yohn’s best efforts, for Lysa Arryn refused to rally her lords.

Those willing to stand with them, like the Velaryon and Crackclaw lords, wished to know when the dragons could be brought to bear. All of them were fearful of their chances against Tywin Lannister without the power of dragon flame.

A power that Dany, to her shame, had failed to harness. Jon had been right, the dragons were becoming too wild. They despised their cages, their rage becoming flames which scorched their chains. On Dragonstone things came to a head. While they were able to secure Barraxes and Rhaegal in caves below the castle, Arturion had rebelled. The black dragon killed two men before breaking free of his bonds, fleeing to the Dragonmont. For weeks Arturion could be spotted flying about the isle, stealing sheep and raising fears.

That was the secret that Dany had worked so hard to protect. That the power she depended on to protect herself and her loved ones had proved too great to control. Even Marwyn, with all his knowledge, had failed to lure Arturion back. The maester had spent weeks in the hills looking for the dragon, returning now and again to hector Dany.

“It would be better to just start anew.” He would rage. “Since you’re hell bent on misusing the dragons that you have, we’ll need more. We must hatch the other eggs.”

She brushed that away as his usual madness, knowing that her control over Arturion could still be salvaged.

Arturion would never hurt me, I am his mother.

And yet he killed those men with such ease. I cannot risk harm to my child on faith alone.

Nor would she give in to her worries about Justin Massey like she had Elara. Fear had cost her one friend, and they had few enough allies already. Her commands were clear. Justin would be given his minders yet still have free rein of the castle.

A freedom Brienne and Dany found Tess enjoying as they journeyed to the Stone Drum. The rain had stopped and the wind died down, yet it was still strange to find her lady out and about in the courtyard. Especially with the companion she walked arm in arm with.

“I was watching the traitors leave the castle and look who I found.” Tess sounded worried as she brought Mya Stone forward. “She was wandering about the gatehouse in a daze.”

“I’m sorry.” Mya apologized in an odd tone. “There’s no need to worry, I’m well.”

Mya didn’t look well. She hadn’t seen the Baratheon bastard in days and Mya was certainly worse for wear. Her heavy cloak and leathers were stained and dusty, the scarf around her neck torn some. In the Vale, Mya tended mules and trekked the most dangerous mountain passes. Marwyn had put those skills to work here on Dragonstone, using Mya to aid him in his hunt for Arturion’s lair. Dany hadn’t liked it then and now disliked it even more, for Mya seemed out of sorts.

The girl usually avoided Dany’s gaze, yet now Mya stared intently back at her. Those deep blue pools appeared somehow more intense than she remembered.

“It’s good to have you back with us, Mya.” She said, breaking their stare to look at Tess. “If Tess says you were looking off, perhaps you need some rest. When did you return?”

“Some hours ago.” Mya touched at her scarf. “Marwyn sent me on to the port for reasons of his own. Trust that I wanted to be in this castle as soon as possible.”

“Marwyn’s here?”

That was strange to her. Usually the archmaester would seek her out, to fill her in on his activities. Stranger still that no guards or watchmen had reported his arrival.

He could have slipped by them unnoticed, the old man knows this castle better than most.

“Well a hot bath will do you well.” Tess tugged on Mya’s arm before looking over her shoulder at Dany. “Now that the Lannister puppets are gone, it would be good if Myrcella had some company. She was quite upset to be locked up in her chambers.”

“It was for her own good.” Dany explained. “If I let Myrcella see those men, they could twist her mind to their way of thinking. That Joffrey is king, Jon a bastard, and-”

“Her a prisoner? If that’s all nonsense, then let us show her so.”

Tess had the right of it. Dany could do nothing for poor Tommen, who the Rykkers had surrendered back to Tywin, but she would keep Myrcella safe. As Jon had asked of her.

After Dany ordered Mya to find her way to the baths, she took Tess by the arm. Together with Brienne, they entered the Stone Drum keep, climbing its dark and winding stairs in search of a lonely princess. Tess made idle chatter but Dany could tell something was on her mind. When she pressed the lady on it, she felt a tremble in her arm.

“Joffrey’s men, did they…” Tess blinked several times and swallowed. “Did they say anything about the prisoners from Riverrun? About my husband?”

“No, they didn’t. They only spoke of my surrender and bending the knee. Take heart in Lord Royce’s letter. The Freys are trying to use Willem to quell Bronze Yohn. Which means we can still free him. Willem, the king, and all the rest.”

“It is hard to hope.” Tess whispered. “I’ve lost my home. My son. Will’s all I have left. He’s a fool, a short, scruffy fool, with no sense… but to lose him too? I couldn't bear it.”

“You won’t.” Dany touched her middle. “Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, neither of us are losing anything else.”

The gods were truly against her, for not more than a few moments later, Dany was proven wrong. When they came to Myrcella’s chambers the princess was gone. They interrupted the two guardsmen meant to be guarding her in the midst of sharing a flagon, both gaping in confusion.

“Where is the princess?” Brienne demanded. “How drunk must you be to let her leave?”

“We aren’t! We didn’t!” The bearded one argued. “Your grace, we thought our watch was at an end!”

The other one nodded profusely. “We only drank of wine after you summoned the princess, I swear!”

“I never summoned Myrcella. I wanted her kept here!”

“Archmaester Marwyn came to fetch her. He told us you wanted her at the hall and he gave us the wine to warm our bones.”

“Damn that man.” Tess cursed. “Why in the seven halls would he want Myrcella?”

A chill crept up Dany’s spine at this, fear taking hold of her mind. A ridiculous fear, one not worthy of her. Yet one she could not shake either.

Marwyn wants to hatch more dragons, that’s why he wanted Viserys brought to him…

She fought against that, trying to find her way to reason. Marwyn was reckless, perhaps a little mad. Yet not a villain.

Then why did you send Elara away from him?

“That’s all you know?” Brienne questioned the men. “Marwyn was taking Myrcella to the hall?”

“Well…” The bearded one looked to his companion. “We’re meant to watch, not listen. Sometimes… sometimes it can’t be helped-”

“We forgive you!” Tess snapped. “Now out with it!”

“It was dragons! When the Archmaester went into the chamber, I heard him say to the princess something about being a mother of dragons. And blood. He talked about blood.”

“No.” Dany froze, terror taking hold. “Gods no.”

To wake the dragons you need fire and blood… kingsblood.

“It’s Jackie!” Dany wheeled about and grabbed at Brienne. “Jackie! Brienne! It’s like with Jackie! He wants to wake the dragons!”

Brienne looked confused for half a moment. Then her face twisted in an expression of horror. She had been there when the eggs hatched. When Jackie and Rhaegar had burned. Brienne also knew where the other four eggs were, a secret known only to a select few.

Dany. Richard Lonmouth. Jon.

And Marwyn.

“The caves.”

The words were barely out of Brienne’s mouth before Dany was running down the corridor as fast as she could. While she was descending the stairs, a commotion rang out behind her, Brienne now following with others and raising the alarm.

By the time they reached the bottom of the keep and the entrance of the caves, Dany was nearly winded and the warriors had taken the lead. No less than ten men now rushed onward with Brienne, though Myrcella’s two guardsmen were staggering horribly. One collapsed against a wall, the other falling well before he reached the great stone archway. It was that one Dany stumbled over, nearly falling herself.

Until arms reached out to grab her. Powerful arms.

“Careful, princess.” Mya said as she steadied Dany, her gaze and hand hovering over Dany’s middle. “You’re far too important to let fall.”

She hadn’t the time to worry on Mya’s odd words or her presence here. The others had left her behind and she had to stop Marwyn.

“Myrcella.” Dany pulled at Mya. “I have to get to her. We can’t let Marwyn hurt her.”

“Then we must go.” Mya did not resist, instead helping Dany on with her incredible strength. “To stop a fool. A dangerous fool.”

Once through the doors, the way to the caves was a winding and treacherous staircase. The steps were carved from the stone walls and poorly lit by torches, which meant if she slipped again it could be her end. Mya refused to allow that, proving herself to be as surefooted as her mules. The woman moved like she had a sense of where the steps would be, even when the shadows hid them. She kept Dany moving swiftly, getting down to the main cave faster than Dany ever could alone.

Not fast enough though, for Brienne and the men were nowhere to be seen in the torchlit cave. They had already disappeared, down the tunnel leading to the four eggs. Dany made to follow when Mya snatched hold of her arm.

“Not that way.” Mya spoke with certainty, staring off at another tunnel. “I heard a voice. A voice and a power, great and terrible.”

“That’s the way to the dragons' cave. We’re not here to see Barraxes and Rhaegal-”

Then she too heard something. The crack of a whip echoing down the cave. The roar of a dragon. Followed closely by a high-pitched cry.

A voice she knew.

“Myrcella!” Dany screamed, running once more with Mya. Away from where Brienne and the others went, heading to the dragons and the cries of a scared girl.

It felt like they ran for an eternity, the sounds growing louder and more terrible. The scene they found in the dragon cave was absolute chaos. Barraxes and Rhaegal had been chained to opposite walls, yet now the two dragons met at the middle in a tumult of beating wings and snapping jaws. Between them was Myrcella, clutching at her bleeding face and screaming in pain.

“Back!” Marwyn bellowed in High Valyrian, snapping a whip at the dragons. “Back! Myrcella! You must command them!”

“What have you done!?” Dany screamed, running headlong at the dragons and Myrcella.

“Daenerys? Good! Help us! The girl failed!” Marwyn snapped the whip again and again, driving Barraxes back enough for Dany to dive between them. When she gathered Myrcella into her arms, she saw the princess’s face had been sliced open, perhaps by a claw.

“Dany… I’m sorry…” Myrcella moaned. “I wanted to help… to fly…”

“Command them!” Marwyn shouted as Barraxes moved against them, Rhaegal snapping his tail above them. “You foolish children! Earn your birthright!”

“Stop!” Dany screamed in her royal tongue. “Barraxes! Rhaegal! STOP!!!”

Neither dragon acted like they heard her at all. Then, all of a sudden, both did as she willed. The white dragon closed his smoking jaws, the green one lowering his tail and his head near to the women. A calm in the storm that Dany used to drag Myrcella away, an effort that Marwyn ignored as he gazed at the dragons.

“They listened. I did not think Barraxes would. Rhaegal perhaps. What changed?”

“You madman!” She spat, pressing her skirts to Myrcella’s wound. “How could you? How could you do this to her?!”

“You blame me?!” Marwyn sounded incredulous, pointing his whip at the dragons. “This is your fault! If you had done as I told you, trained them as I said, they would be ready! The girl was up to the challenge. She wanted to claim her birthright as a dragon rider!”

“They cannot be ridden! They’re too young! Too wild!”

“So are stallions before they’re broken! You have let your mount escape you out of fear. You were willing to risk these two out of love! I had to show you their power. To test the bonds they form by nature! When the white dragon balked at our presence, Rhaegal protected the girl. Just as Barraxes defended Jon in the Dragonpit! The dragons will fight for you if you fight for them. You’re bound by blood. Bound to the fire made flesh.”

“Enough, enough you monster. No more blood.” Dany blamed herself as much as him for letting this come to pass. Marwyn’s need to harness the dragons had become as ugly as Myrcella’s wounds. “We have to get her to a healer. She could die.”

“The girl will live.” Mya’s voice rang out from where Dany had left her, bidding Marwyn to turn about and face his hooded companion.

Yet from the way he jerked to see her, Mya could have been a stranger.

“Who is that?” Marwyn narrowed his eyes and reached down for his staff. “What is this trickery?”

“Do not play the fool.” Mya replied, stepping forward. “You know this trick well.”

Dany couldn’t believe the two of them, spewing nonsense while Myrcella bled and the dragons remained poised for violence. That was when she noticed that both Rhaegal and Barraxes were focused on Mya, their eyes following her with a strange fascination.

“Can it be?” Marwyn tugged at his whiskers, grinning some. “Elara?”

He’s truly lost his mind.

Her friend was long dead but Marwyn seemed convinced that this was truly Elara.

“Elara, my girl, your glamor has improved!” The archmaester laughed over Myrcella’s moans. “You’ve always heeded me better than the rest. These two. Jon. Even Rhaegar. My lessons saved you, didn’t they?”

“Your lessons?” Mya’s voice changed then, the girl taking a step forward. “Stolen wisdom at best. Power you tried to lock away. Against the will of the Lord of Light.”

“You…” Marwyn’s face darkened, the old man backing away and seeking Dany. “What have you done? How could you bring her here?”

“There was no keeping me away.” Mya came on, her voice now sonorous with an exotic accent. “Ghaston Grey is a prison for men. It cannot hold a servant of R’hllor.”

As she drew closer, the air around Mya seemed to ripple. Dany thought the torches were dimming then, or her eyes playing tricks on her. Yet with each step, the air grew hotter and Mya changed before them. Already tall, she grew taller. Her body grew more slender, her bust larger. Suddenly it was no longer Mya she saw, but the heart-shaped face of a stranger. When she threw back her hood, Mya’s short, coal black hair was gone, a long mane of burnished copper tumbling forth in its place.

The stranger then pulled away her scarf to display a bronze necklace bearing a red ruby, one that burned as brightly as her eyes.

“Melisandre, hear me.” Marwyn raised his staff. “Our troubles are at an end. The dragons fly once more. Magic has returned. It is time for our kind to guide the way.”

“It is time for Azor Ahai to rise.” The woman stared intently at Marwyn. “As it was foretold, darkness gathers and soon our savior will be born in the protection of R’hllor. Recall what I told you, Marwyn, before you sought to usurp my role.”

Marwyn lifted his chin defiantly. “That it will all end in flames.”

“You have long coveted the power of R’hllor. Now you may bask in his light.”

The air rippled against between them. A burst of heat Dany feared to be dragon flame wafting over her. Yet the dragons stood at rest, merely watching as she did.

Watching as the red woman’s eyes burned.

And Marwyn the Mage burst into flames.

Notes:

The song Sansa sings is based on The Old Ways, as performed by Loreena McKennit.

Huge, bigger than usual shoutout to Cold Winds. The man came through.

Chapter 27

Summary:

The sacrifices we make. The King from the North. The whispers in the dark.

JAIME

The two men sat propped up against a tree, as close to the road as they could be without being in it. At first glance one could think they were merely sleeping off a stupor. Save that both were battered, bloodied, and dead. Nearly naked as well, for their boots and much of their clothing had been stripped away. Only their tunics remained, each bearing the twin castles of House Frey.

The sigils half blotted out by the white dragons painted over them.

Crudely painted dragons at best. His scouts had reported the markings as snakes or birds before Jaime got a look in person. He had not become so blind to miss the truth in front of him.

There’s still some loyal men out there. Men willing to kill for their king.

Fools to be sure. Better men than you.

“They shouldn’t be here.” Addam Marbrand said, hopping down from his handsome courser. His friend commanded their outriders and now touched at one of the painted dragons, his fingers coming away wet and white. “My riders have failed. Whoever did this managed to slip by them with two bodies and had time to paint them before slinking away again.”

“The Lightning Lord.” He scanned the trees and fields about. “Daven wrote about this. After the Battle of Riverrun, Beric Dondarrion fled with as many as he could. They’ve been harassing the siege ever since. Striking in the name of King Jon.”

Addam grunted. “Winning back the throne, a couple dead scouts at a time. Madness. Your father was right to send you here, Jaime. If the rebels can strike so close to Riverrun with impunity, this siege needs to be set to rights.”

There was little right in any of this. Joffrey sitting the Iron Throne while Jon sat besieged at Riverrun. His father sending a thousand men to end that siege. Jaime being given that command and wearing the white cloak of the Kingsguard as he did so.

The rest of Jaime’s army could be seen coming up the River Road behind them, closing on Riverrun with each step. The castle had been besieged little over a month when the Hand ordered Jaime to take this charge. One he hadn’t wanted, telling his father flat out to send his uncles Gerion or Kevan in his place.

“My brothers are already doing their duty to the throne.” Lord Tywin had brushed aside Jaime’s suggestion as easily as he signed his name to royal decrees. “Gerion is needed here at the capital, he’s to oversee the building of a new royal fleet. We lost too many ships throwing back that girl’s foolish attempt to reach the Trident.”

“Then send Kevan, he’s already in the field with men.”

“Highgarden is distant and Kevan’s work there unfinished.” Father had not looked up from his parchments, his tone that of a lord giving a lesson. “The Tyrells harbor suspicions against us, unwarranted slander of course. Kevan will convince them of that. He brings three thousand men to aid Mace Tyrell in his battles against Dorne and Iron Islands. Also, declarations from our king promising justice for what the Red Viper did at Brightwater, and Joffrey’s heartfelt condolences to Lady Margaery for her ordeal.”

“Ordeal.” Jaime thought that an interesting way to describe the lady losing her brother and betrothed in one night. “The Florents surely didn’t help by keeping Margaery as long as they did.”

“They did so for her own protection. As I’m told, the lady was kept away from the Dornish betrayal, thankfully sparing her becoming a witness to all that bloodshed. Lord Tyrell will hear that, and how I was able to secure her return to Highgarden.”

“And how you were able to take the throne from Aegon’s heir.”

Only then had father looked up, Tywin Lannister’s green eyes cold and unyielding when he searched Jaime’s. His quill tapping against the tabletop in a measured way.

“Joffrey is king, as the Faith has declared.” Father explained. “And I doubt very much Mace Tyrell worries after Jon Snow’s rights. After all, his daughter was set to be made queen. A betrothal Aegon’s true heir may be willing to uphold, depending on the fealty her family shows to King Joffrey.”

“Cersei wants Joff to marry Daenerys.” Jaime had pointed out and caught the twitch of the lord’s eye at the mention of the princess.

“And as I wanted you to be Lord of Casterly Rock, yet I was robbed of my heir by Aerys’s pettiness and your selfish wants. Just as that girl’s foolishness has ruined Cersei’s plans for her. She gives us only wild beasts and a tainted reputation. The Tyrells offer stability and men, as well as plentiful harvests once the realm knows peace. A peace that will come all the sooner once the siege of Riverrun is ended. Jon Snow could inspire defiance elsewhere, a lingering flame that must be dosed.”

The tone of that last statement left no confusion as to how his father wanted Jon dealt with. Moreover, Jaime saw this whole command as a punishment for his refusal to leave the Kingsguard. Father had not taken that well, though Cersei had somehow convinced him to raise Jaime up to Lord-Commander of the Kingsguard afterwards. It was that title his father invoked to order Jaime out of the capital.

“You plead with me as if you were my son.” Tywin had turned his back on Jaime. “Something you are not, not any longer. You chose that white-cloak instead, so act the part, Lord-Commander. A traitor claims the Iron Throne, go forth and deal with him your vows dictate. Do your duty.”

Not a day later, Jaime was forced to lead a thousand Lannister riders through the city. His mood had been as dark as the garb of the Night’s Watch recruiters. A handful of its members would be joining the march. A ploy on his father’s part, an attempt to aid Jaime in the most despicable part of this quest. An order as sinister and twisted as the shoulder of the black brothers’ leader, Yoren.

Some of the highborn came out to watch the High Septon and his followers bless their passing, but most of the city scorned the march. Jon and Daenerys were well-loved by the smallfolk and much of the city eyed the Lannister column with barely contained hatred. It was a look Jaime knew well as the Kingslayer.

A look he was treated to again when they arrived at the siege outside Riverrun.

The castle was besieged by a trio of camps, all sitting upon different shores of the three rivers. The north shore was held a Lannister camp, the east by the Freys, and the one Jaime now rode through was a mixed one. Both Lannister and Frey banners flew here, but he also spotted men wearing the sigils of the Pipers, Vances, and even the Mallisters.

“Our riverlord allies.” Addam remarked. “Those we captured or were won over by Lord Tywin’s diplomacy. They swore fealty to keep their lands.”

“You mean their heads. Or those of their kin we held captive.”

All men who shed blood for a king they are now forced to fight against.

I know the feeling.

Whatever sympathy Jaime held for the plight of the riverlords was not returned in the hate filled gazes of Jon’s defeated vassals. Nor did he expect much as they rode through tents and by the siege towers being raised. Riverrun stood defiant in the distance, water surrounding it on all sides and a white dragon banner flapping from one of its highest towers.

Jon was somewhere inside that castle, as much a prisoner as the pair of men Jaime and Addam now came upon. Both had their heads and hands locked in stocks, the red marks across their bare backs betraying a recent flogging. The larger one’s face was hidden by his coal black beard and hair, which was long and unruly. His shorter companion was equally unkempt, yet when he raised his head Jaime recognized the man.

“Fancy finding the Kingslayer here!” Ser Willem Royce shouted up at him, his grin half a snarl as he shook his bonds. “Care to lend me a hand, ser, I’ve gotten myself in a fine spot. Oh! I forgot you’ve only got the one hand. You’ll likely need that to stab someone in the back.”

“Silence, runt!” A familiar voice shouted and out from a nearby tent came his golden-haired cousin. Daven Lannister was a fine warrior but it was his friendly nature that Jaime appreciated at the moment. “Coz! Ignore that loud-mouthed fool and let your kinsman welcome you proper!”

Jaime dismounted swiftly to meet Daven, who embraced him in a tight hug before taking Addam’s offered hand as well.

“It’s good to see you two, though I still don’t know why you had to come. My father might be off putting down the riverlord holdouts but he left me with enough men to do this siege proper. A month or two more, at most.”

“The Hand dislikes delays.” Jaime said before looking to the scowling Royce knight and his companion, who he saw to be Gendry, the Baratheon bastard that squired for Jon. “I can’t say I care for what I see so far Daven. That’s a knight you have trussed up like a common deserter.”

“Don’t get me started.” Daven’s smile faded away. “I’d have him treated better, the pain in the arse that he is, but he’s not my captive. The Freys didn’t take to his little quips, especially not Ser Aenys-”

“You mean Ser Arsehole!” Willem shouted, earning Daven’s ire.

“That! That right there landed him in the stocks. I managed to save his tongue and that squire’s life. Lad took me down in the battle, a blacksmith of all people! Anyways he spared my life so I put him to work in the forge. How’d he repay me? The traitor sabotaged every bit of armor and steel he could get his hands on.”

“You’re the traitors.” Gendry grumbled, his blue eyes filled with murder. “All of you. As bad as my father ever was! Turncloak!”

“It’s white on either side, actually.” Jaime put a hand to his cloak before waving his golden hand at the pair. “Release them, get them washed and given a tent.”

If Jaime was to command he meant to do it in a manner befitting the Kingsguard. In the month his army to arrive at Riverrun he had kept Edmure Tully, his former jailer, in as much comfort as he could. Partly in hopes Edmure could be of use in ending the siege, the rest to spite the lord’s poor opinion of him.

“We have the power to be just.” Jaime said to Daven as Gendry and Willem were led away. “Just because the rebels name us fiends does not mean we must act the part.”

“Tell that to the Freys.” Daven looked off towards the part of camp nearest the castle’s moat. “Come along, coz, see what I’ve had to put up with.”

Daven’s demeanor did not build confidence in him. Yet even then he wasn’t prepared for what the Freys were up to. A raised scaffolding had been built within sight of the castle and standing upon it, with her hands bound and a noose around her neck, was Catelyn Tully. The lady’s chin held high as she stared ahead at the castle, as if all those below were truly beneath her.

“Bloody fools.” Daven cursed at the Freys guardsmen about the scaffolding. “The Freys get it in their heads to threaten to hang the lady to bring the castle to its knees. Black Walder might’ve done it too if I hadn’t argued against it. Not that they back down any, every day they march her up there, every day we look more foolish than before.”

Jaime wasn’t looking at any fools then. His eyes were on the figure he spotted above Riverrun’s gatehouse. Even at this distance he recognized the dark youth standing silent witness to the travesty Lady Stark was being put through.

I wonder if Jon will recognize me… the knight he locked away.

Might as well give him a reason to take notice.

“Get her down from there.” He looked to Addam. “Take your men and retrieve Lady Stark. I want her brought to my tent and reunited with her brother.”

Daven whistled at that last part but Addam moved swiftly to do as he was told. The Frey guards hesitated to step aside yet were given little choice when the crimson wave hit. Addam had just reached Lady Stark when more Freys appeared, led by Black Walder and Lame Lothar.

When Jaime saw what Black Walder was wearing his jaw dropped. The unsettling man had cloaked his tall and wiry form in a snow-white pelt he knew by sight.

Ghost... I watched that beast take down Robert Baratheon himself.

Now this bastard is wearing the direwolf like it’s a bloody trophy.

Somehow Black Walder found a way to offend him even more. The Frey raced to the top of the scaffolding and the grabbed at Lady Stark’s noose, violently jerking her away from Jaime’s men.

“The woman’s our prisoner!” Black Walder snapped, pulling at the rope as Lady Stark fought against her noose, sputtering and wincing. “We captured her, we decide how she’s treated.”

“No longer. Addam!”

Jaime’s command was heeded without explanation. Addam drew his sword and cut through the taut rope, sending the lady tumbling forward into the arms of his men. Black Walder was reaching for his own sword when he found Addam’s blade pointed at his chest. Twenty Lannister men-at-arms followed suit by unsheathing their steel and pointing their blades at every Frey they could see.

“Ser Jaime!” Lothar raised his hands in protest. “There’s no need for this! We are allies! Your aunt Genna guests in our own pavilion!”

“I fear for her then, to be in the care of your family.” He strode along the ranks of Freys. “Let me make this clear! I have been sent here to take command of this siege by King Joffrey himself. Any that question me, question not only their king, but Tywin Lannister. Defy me and be the first to swim that moat.”

The Freys seethed with anger, none more so than Black Walder. Yet not one of them dared to challenge him with more Lannister men arriving with each passing moment. Still, he was not fool enough to believe it wise antagonize their allies in such a way. So as soon as Lady Stark was led away, Jaime approached both Lothar and Black Walder to tend his father’s allies.

“My apologies. That display was needed.” He whispered conspiratorially, sick to his stomach to even feign an apology. “Part of a strategy for diplomacy I hope to put to work here soon enough. My father knows your worth, Lothar, and has great plans for you, Walder.”

“I understand.” Lothar stroked his beard. “We Freys know the value of a good deception. Don’t we, nephew?”

“This is what I value.” Black Walder patted his direwolf pelt. “A sign of what happens to those who cross House Frey. Lord Tywin’s plans for me best include fulfilling the promises made to us.”

He nodded. “They surely will, but your rewards can only be bestowed after this castle yields. I aim to see that done quickly. I shall call a war council this evening to explain my plans. You two are invited, of course.”

The stroking of their egos made it all the easier when he asked after the state of the rest of their prisoners. Between Daven and the Freys, they held a good amount of valuable hostages. Patrek Mallister, Edmund Blackwood, and Marq Piper were among the most valuable. He wasn’t sure how to feel about Edric Dayne being named a captive, since a part of him felt ashamed to hold Ser Arthur’s nephew in bondage.

A greater shame still awaited him, for Jaime’s attention soon turned to the castle and king he was meant to capture. In short time, his horse was readied and Jaime prepared to ride forth to the moat and attempt to treat with those within Riverrun.

“This is folly, coz’.” Daven warned as Jaime mounted his horse, a flag of peace and parley in his grasp. “After the Freys pulled that noose threat, any man sent to talk has only got arrows in reply.”

“If I’m successful, it’ll stop a great many more arrows from flying.”

And make my father’s treason far less bloody… unlike mine is meant to be.

He tried to keep blood and murder from his mind when he rode to the edge of the moat. Ahead the drawbridge stood raised. Above him, archers stood upon the battlements, their arrows notched and readied. His flag would offer little defense against those arrows, any one of which could mean his end.

“I come to talk peace!” He shouted up at the walls. “On my honor as a knight, no treason will be done!”

The laughter which followed caused angry color to rise to his cheeks. He scanned the battlements for any familiar faces but saw none. Yet he hoped Jon could hear him all the same, so he decided to bait the hook a bit more.

“I seek the King from the North! I seek him with word! Word of Daenerys Targaryen!”

No laughter came this time, silence falling over the camp behind him and the walls ahead. A quiet which continued for a long while, until it was broken by the heavy clanking of chains. Directly ahead of the drawbridge began to lower down towards him. When it settled upon the ground a score of crossbowmen lined up to bar the way into the castle, the Blackfish standing at their center with his own bow at the ready.

“Kingslayer.” The Blackfish snarled, looking down his arrow at him. “I take your word for shit. Nonetheless, my king demands you swear once more to a peaceful parley.”

“I do.” He swore. “On the memory of all the Kingsguard before me, no harm will be done.”

Ser Brynden spat. “You’re not fit to wear the same cloak as Barristan Selmy.”

With that, the ser and several of his him stepped aside and a rider appeared behind them. The king that rode forward was not the prince Jaime had known. Jon wore a crown now, a handsomer sight than the dark circles under his eyes. The solemn expression was gone from his long face, his grey eyes now burning with a cold fury.

Rhaegar, look at what we’ve made your son. Look at what I’ve let happen…

“Ser Jaime.” Jon greeted him coldly when their horses met upon the bridge. “You wear no sword.”

“Nor do you.” He observed. “Both of us respect a banner of peace. May we agree on more, Jon-”

“Your grace.” Jon countered, eyes unwavering from their icy glare. “Or King Jon. Cersei can lie about me being a bastard, or call me the King from the North, but we both know the truth. I am what my father named me. What Aegon held me to be after him. The heir to the Iron Throne. Your rightful king.”

“Few outside this castle hold that to be true. Most who do are in irons or soon to bend the knee to save their necks. Joffrey is king, and it is a king’s peace I bring here this day. A peace to spare any more needless death.”

“Do you think to threaten Lady Catelyn again?” Jon’s voice shook some to speak her name, his hand forming a fist. “Do not bother. I know my aunt, she would give her life to safeguard her children’s. As would I. Now you claimed to have word of Daenerys, speak to that or prove yourself to be the liar all name you to be.”

This was not going well so he made to salvage what he could.

“The princess lives.” He watched the relief flash across Jon’s face. “She lives and declares for you still, rejecting every pardon sent her way. All of which will likely doom her.”

Jon’s anger returned so Jaime made quick work of all that needed to be said. How Daenerys had launched a fleet from Dragonstone a moon ago, an attempt to rescue Jon from the siege. An effort Jaime’s father had anticipated and sent Gerion with the royal fleet to intercept. The two fleets had met off Claw Isle, a battle Gerion swore to be one of the fiercest he ever fought.

“A battle Daenerys lost.” Jaime spoke honestly. “What remained of Daenerys’s fleet limped back to Dragonstone. No dragons were brought to bear. No other lords rose up to join the cause. Daenerys stands alone.”

Jon said nothing to that, closing his eyes and swallowing deeply. An effort to control his rage or something else? Jaime couldn’t be sure. So he chanced his luck further.

“The victory was a costly one, much of the royal fleet was destroyed. Don’t fool yourself, Jon, that was a cost the Lord of Casterly Rock was willing to pay. With both gold and lives. Your allies are broken and scattered, the western armies fresh and ready.”

“All the more reason to bleed you here.” Jon shot back, pointing back at the castle. “Send your army against us. Thousands will fill the rivers and moats and still this castle will hold strong. We’ve months of stores and your father’s men burnt the fields you’d feed yourselves from. I’m willing to sit atop these walls and kill Lannisters and Freys for a year. Are you willing to test me?”

“Are you willing to doom Daenerys?” He prepared himself to speak his father’s words then. “As we speak more ships are being built, a fleet that will be sent against Dragonstone to end Daenerys’s defiance. You might be able to hold out here for as long as you say but by that time, our fleet will be ready. Dragons are not the only ones who can use flame, and my father promises Dragonstone fire and steel to end Daenerys’s defiance-”

“Monsters.” Jon looked from Jaime to the camp. “Murdering, lying monsters. You. Tywin. Your whole family. Threatening my aunt’s life was not enough? You’d threaten Daenerys’s too! I name you a false knight, a traitor, and above all else, a liar! For all I know Daenerys has half the realm rallied to her!”

“I speak the truth-”

“Since when?” Jon spat at him. “I’ve had enough of your Lannister bile. Next time we meet, I shall have a sword in my hand. The gods will decide the rest.”

Before another word could be spoken, Jon turned his horse and rode back towards the gate. Jaime was not given a chance to linger, the Blackfish sending an arrow to land just before his horse’s hooves.

He was barely off the drawbridge before it started to lift up behind him. Making Riverrun every bit the formidable island fortress Jon made it out to be. Sadly, the deposed king was very wrong in thinking Jaime made idle threats regarding Daenerys. Or of there being any way out of this for him.

So Jaime rode on, accepting the only defeat he could allow himself in what was to come. His father would have Jaime do more than his duty as a Kingsguard.

For Tywin Lannister had made himself clear. Whether Jaime took the castle by storm or diplomacy, Jon’s fate was sealed.

Jaime meant to earn his title as a Kingslayer once more.

 

CATELYN  

The rope burns about her neck hurt far worse than those on her wrists. Her throat had already pained Catelyn something terrible before Black Walder decided to yank her about.

After she found a mirror within the Kingslayer’s pavilion, it was little surprise find her neck now marked by an ugly, bloody band.

That’ll scar for sure, she thought, better that than having my throat opened.

Though there’s still time enough for the Lannisters and Freys to do such.

She was rubbing at her hurts when a tent flap was thrown back and Ser Addam Marbrand appeared once more. The knight had treated her kindly so far yet she cared less for him than the lord he led inside the tent. A face she had long yearned to see again.

“Edmure.” Catelyn reached out to her brother, who appeared stunned to see her there. His captivity appeared to have left him relatively unscathed, for Edmure’s clothes were clean, his hair and beard well kept.

Something which clearly shamed him as he came forward to hug her desperately.

“Cat, Cat, gods what have they done to you?” Edmure pulled away to look at her neck, his face clouding in anger as he turned to the Marbrand knight. “What kind of people do you serve, ser? She’s a highborn lady! A daughter of House Tully!”

“Things Ser Jaime reminded the Freys of.” The knight replied. “It was he who told me to allow the two of you to reunite. My lady, shall I fetch a healer to tend your hurts?”

“I’d rather some privacy with my brother.” She kept her tone civil and Ser Addam bowed.

“Should you have need of anything, guards are posted without.”

He means to say if we think to try anything, not to bother.

Does he imagine I’d make to flee the camp? That I’d abandon my children?

Not again. Never again. Nor shall I let the Lannisters have them.

“Edmure, what’s happened?” She asked of her brother as they broke apart, gripping his arm tightly. “Why are you here? Why has the Kingslayer come?”

“To punish us for holding him prisoner, no doubt.” Edmure grimaced, making to a nearby table where a pitcher of water sat. He filled a cup for her and, once it was in her grasp, sighed in sad manner. “Truly, Cat, I’m not sure what to believe. I’ve fouled everything up. I lost King’s Landing without a fight. My army and our home. Just tell me they lied when they said your children are still in Riverrun. Tell me they got away.”

“I cannot.” She felt herself tremble to speak to it. “They are where I left them. Surrounded on all sides by the worst sort. Men with little decency, less honor and no mercy that I can see.”

“Then we must pray the defences can hold. How many men does Jon have?”

Far fewer than he’d arrived with. She still remembered the terror of watching the Frey betrayal unfold from the baggage train. When Lothar Frey pulled a blade on her and let his men run rampant over Jon’s rear, she thought all hope was lost. Yet, by some miracle, Riverrun had escaped the carnage.

Her uncle and a heroic few had carried Jon to safety within the castle. That meant Rickon and Lorra’s fate was now tied to that of the king, and surely the realm would rise up to avenge them all.

For two months now she had awaited rescue. Standing by as the Freys took poor Ghost’s head and skinned the direwolf for a trophy. Watching as more and more of the Tully bannermen were forced to join the siege of her family’s castle. Enduring the Frey’s noose and threats of her imminent death.

Soon she came to look forward to being led to the scaffold. The hours spent with the noose around her neck was the closest Catelyn came to her besieged children. Each day she would stare at the castle, and every day a king would stare right back at her.

On the first day they first threatened to hang her the most fearful moment came when Jon appeared on the walls. A terror took hold of her at the thought the boy she had raised as her own might be driven to recklessness on her behalf.

“No surrender!” Catelyn had screamed at the top of her lungs, as if her children’s lives depended on it. “Jon! Stand strong!”

There was no guarantee Jon heard any of that. Still, it earned her a slap from her captors. In the end though, the castle had not yielded and she still lived for some reason.

A stroke of luck she was determined not to waste.

“Cat?” Edmure pressed. “How many men are in Riverrun?”

“A couple hundred, I’m sure no more than that.” She watched the color fade from Edmure’s face and sought to settle his mind. “Remember what father always said, Riverrun could hold off any army with but a hundred men. No one knows its strengths better than Uncle Brynden and he’s in there with Jon. The Lannisters may have won the battle, but they can still lose this siege.”

“That, Lady Stark, is quite doubtful.”

The new voice belonged to Jaime Lannister, who had entered the pavilion without warning and now stood polishing his golden hand. More than a year had passed and still she could not look upon the knight without thinking of Robb falling from his horse. She was not allowed to dwell on that for long as others soon arrived. More foes like Daven Lannister and Black Walder but potential friends as well.

One she knew by sight, Edric Dayne, the young heir to Starfall, was one of her fellow captives. He regarded the Kingslayer with malice, his harsh expression only fading when the pale-haired youth caught sight of her and he bowed. The other newcomer could not be bothered to do the same. An older and stooped man, he was clearly a member of the Night’s Watch with a demeanor as foul as his coarse and ugly features.

“I take it you already know young Ned here?” The Kingslayer asked as he poured himself a cup of water. “Well, this attractive stranger is Yoren of the Night’s Watch. A fine representative of that noble order.”

“Duty don’t have to be pretty to be worthwhile.” Yoren spoke brusquely, finally offering Catelyn and Edmure a cursory bow. “M’lord, m’lady, if my presence offends, blame the ser here for insisting on it.”

“He is guilty of far worse crimes than that.” She said. “For a time he was imprisoned inside Riverrun for his actions. Had you forgotten how formidable its defenses are, ser? You appear quite put out.”

“King Jon told him off.” Edric declared, crossing his arms. “The whole camp saw it. The white dragon won’t surrender to a mummer’s Kingsguard.”

“Quiet yourself, lad.” Daven made a face at the squire. “You’ve been shown respect, show some in return.”

“Then I take it I am free to insult you men at will?”

Catelyn shot a dark look at Black Walder, who smiled as he stared at her throat. He might have taunted her about his handiwork had the Kingslayer not unhooked his golden hand and angrily slammed it upon a tabletop.

“Lady Stark, what freedom you enjoy is what I grant you. King Joffrey offers more still, if you and your brother will help Jon Snow see reason.”

She stepped forward. “That’s Jon Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, and I hazard a guess that he is being more than reasonable. Jon sits in a castle that is well-manned and better provisioned, and barely assailable to boot. The rightful king need only wait for loyal vassals to appear for your cause to be crushed. Whether it be my sister and the Vale lords, the Tyrells of Highgarden, or Princess Daenerys and her dragons, your treason will be answered.”

The Kingslayer took all this with a bemused expression, raising an eyebrow as he turned to Edmure.

“Will you tell her or shall I?”

“Tell me what?” She grew worried, for Edmure showed none of the confidence she did. Worse still, he looked quite defeated as he ran a hand through his auburn hair.

“Lysa refuses the Vale lords the right to march.” Her brother reached for her hand, his eyes full of hurt. “I saw her letter myself, Cat. Lysa offered her fealty to Joffrey, in exchange for her son remaining Warden of the East and her bannermen being excused from any fighting.”

No, Lysa, how could you do this? To Jon? To our family?

Her mind was still reeling when the Kingslayer dealt her another blow.

“I wouldn’t depend on the Tyrells either. At this moment my uncle Kevan offers to wed King Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell. Mace Tyrell does so want to see his daughter made queen and that’s a marriage we both know Jon would never entertain for himself.”

“He’d marry Princess Daenerys.” Catelyn struggled to regain her footing. “What are lions to the might of dragons?”

“Against full grown dragons? Likely little. Though Daenerys’s beasts are young and the princess just wasted what men and ships she had in a battle against the royal fleet.”

One glance to Edmure made it clear this was not a deception, the Lannisters had thrown back the last dependable ally she could name for Jon. She wracked her mind for any others who could rise to his defense. If only the North was not in the hands of the Lords Declarant she could hope to rally House Stark to Jon’s cause.

The realization hit her like a slap. So much so that she staggered, Edmure and Edric reaching out to steady her.

“This is what you wanted.” Catelyn rasped, hand at her chest as rage poured through her body. “Ned left beyond the Wall. Winterfell ruined. My children dead. This is what your family wanted all along. You knew Ned and our children would always stand with Jon. You murdered my children to steal the crown…”

Viserys Targaryen. How would he ever have gotten so much gold to hire a sellsword company? Why murder her defenseless girls? The men Tywin sent to free Jaime, why didn’t they stop there? Why attempt to kill Rickon?

To wipe out House Stark. To murder all her babes.

As she saw death after death link to Casterly Rock the others gaped at her as if she were a madwoman.

“My lady, you speak falsehoods.” Daven appeared offended yet his tone held pity. “House Lannister is innocent in your losses. The krakens and the Red Viper stole your sons away, and all know the Mad Prince murdered your daughters in cold blood-”

“Murders bought with Lannister gold.” She accused, pointing a finger at the Kingslayer and closing the space between them. “Your father and sister are fond of using fiends for such purposes. The assassins in Riverrun, Cersei’s groomsman. Catspaws hired to murder children.”

Jaime showed little of the confidence his cousin did. His face seemed to have paled and he was now leaning against the table, his eyes locked on his golden hand.

Is he ashamed now that others know the truth? That the mummery has ended?

Or was he left in the dark as well?

When the Kingslayer’s green eyes finally met hers, she saw anger there. Anger and hurt, which was exactly what she wanted to cause him.

“I saved your children. Twice.” The Kingslayer finally spoke before shaking his head. “Though whether I can do so again is far from certain.”

She might have slapped him had Edmure not grabbed at her arms and pulled her back. Yet when she looked at her hands she saw they were balled into fists. Were she free to do so, Catelyn felt ready to pummel the golden knight to death for all his family had done. All he now threatened to do.

“Let me make this plain to the both of you.” The Kingslayer continued. “Riverrun is lost already. By Joffrey’s decree, House Tully is stripped of its titles and you are both named traitors. If we forced to take the castle by storm, the two of you will face the noose.”

“Gladly!” She snapped. “I’ve faced it before and will do so again. I’d die before I’ll ever let your family get their hands on Rickon and Lorra.”

“Edmure, do your family a favor, and silence your sister. There’s a chance of you walking into Riverrun this very night if you do so.”

“What’s that then?” Edmure tightened his grip on her, his eyes narrowing on the Kingslayer. “You think I’d betray my family for my own freedom?”

“No one said a thing about freedom. I will allow you entry into Riverrun, to deliver the terms Jon would not hear from me. You’ll have a day to convince him to bend the knee.”

“You mean surrender himself for execution.” She put in and the Kingslayer shot her a warning look before waving Yoren onwards.

“No, actually. That’s why I brought the Night’s Watch along, to show Jon he has a future other than defeat and death. King Joffrey will allow him to take the black, as can any who will not pledge their loyalty to the throne and the new rulers of Riverrun and the Riverlands.”

“My family.” Black Walder’s smile was all teeth. “Just rewards for our loyal service.”

The Kingslayer gave a derisive laugh. “Even we Lannisters must pay a toll to win the loyalty of House Frey. Joffrey has named Lord Walder his new lord paramount of the Trident and grants Riverrun to the lord’s second son, Emmon Frey.”

“Our people will never serve such filth!” Edmure raged which caused Black Walder to curse and Daven to hold him back.

The Kingslayer merely watched. “If they choose to hold to such lofty standards, the Night’s Watch awaits them. As it would for you, my lord, though my father is more than willing to offer you the comfort of Casterly Rock.”

“As a hostage.”

“A guest, if you’d prefer. Perhaps in time you could prove yourself to the throne and be granted a keep somewhere. The chance to marry. Or to remarry in your sister’s case, if Lady Arryn finds a lord who prefers a wife aged like fine wine.” The knight caught their confusion and tapped his temple with a lone finger. “Ah, yes, as a gesture of good will towards the Lady of the Vale, Lady Stark will be handed over to the loving care of her sister at the Eyrie.”

Catelyn let out a laugh then, one of utter disbelief. The audacity of the lie was such that she had to cover her mouth to hold back another.

“You must think me a fool, ser.” She shook her head and smoothed her skirts. “My children and I would never reach the Vale alive. Ambushed along the way and murdered, no doubt”

“I can assure the lady she will arrive safely in Vale.” The Kingslayer sipped of his water. “Though we’ll spare her children the rigors of ascending to the Eyrie. Your daughter will stay at Riverrun, under the care of Lord Emmon and my aunt Genna. The boy, Rickon, he will be sent on to ward with the Lords Declarant, Roose Bolton will foster the lad himself.”

“No. Never.” Catelyn grabbed at Edmure, desperate to make him see through this. “They’ll use my children to win our vassals over. Then they’ll murder them. Just like the others, you know they will. You can’t let Jon surrender them-”

“Cat, hush.” Edmure tried to calm her, grabbing at her hands with his own, which shook some. “You sound hysterical. Do not worry.”

“She should worry.”

The Kingslayer poured another cup and bid Edric to deliver the water to her. Yet as soon as it was in her hands, Catelyn upended it and tossed the goblet at the Lannister’s feet. The knight did not bother looking down at the insult.

“Let us hope Jon reacts better to Edmure’s visit. For Lady Stark is right to worry. Not on what may become of her children in the distant future, but what will happen to them in the coming days. If the King from the North does not accept my terms by the sunrise, I will storm the castle.”

“And lose thousands-”

“Without a doubt.” The golden knight reached out to pat Edric Dayne on the shoulder, causing the squire to grimace. “Thousands like the young lad here, men who fought for Jon and House Tully. I’ll send the riverlords and men who bent the knee in the first wave. Let them take the arrows meant for my men, let their dead fill the moat and bridge our way across.”

“That’s vile.” Edmure spoke in muted fury.

“That’s not end. For after your friends have died and allowed me to breach the walls of Riverrun, there will be no talk of surrender. No mercy shown. Every last man, woman and child we find within will be put to the sword. Your children included, Lady Stark.”

None spoke. Daven and Addam standing expressionless, unable to meet her gaze. Black Walder smirking while Edric looked to her tearfully. She heard no hint of a lie in the Kingslayer’s words. The man’s handsome face hiding a monster within, one that could surely do all he threatened.

Once it had been this knight at her mercy and she cursed herself for not ending his treason then and there. Edmure was likely thinking the same, for he was glaring at the Lannister with murder in his eyes.

“Edmure, we cannot trust anything they say.” She stole his attention back to her, fearing he had been swayed. “You and I know that more than most. Look at everything thing they’ve done. Jon cannot give the children over. He cannot.”

“Riverrun won’t hold forever.” Edmure closed his eyes tightly. “I want to fight. I’d die in their place but, Cat, think of all who’ll die if this fight comes to pass.”

She grabbed at his face, like she had when he was a little boy afraid to face the training yard. In her brother she suddenly saw Robb whimpering with a skinned knee. Sansa and Arya weeping over a torn doll. Bran scared awake by a nightmare. Rickon begging her to stay at Riverrun. Lorra crying in the arms of another.

“You have to be strong.” Catelyn pleaded with Edmure. “If the castle holds, there’s hope. Hope for us. Hope for the children.”

“I’ve given you the only hope for that there is.” The Kingslayer now stood before them, a parchment bearing the royal seal in his hands. “Deliver the terms, my lord. Tell Jon all I’ve said. Convince him to surrender and I will allow Lady Stark a short reunion with the children.”

“If it comes to battle, I promise the same. I swear she will live long enough to have her children delivered back to her.”

“With a bloody trebuchet.”

 

JON  

The babe smiled up at him as she tugged at his hair.

Jon let his cousin do so, the pain Lorra caused him was little compared to the joy it gave the child. He held Lorra before him, staring into her blue Tully eyes as she giggled to play with hair so much like her own. Before this she had been enamored with the flowers that grew near the stream they sat beside.

The godswood was a regular destination for Lorra and her nursemaid, who swore the child was only truly happy in this place. It was a rare thing for Jon to see the proof of that himself.

My days were spent keeping vigil over her mother, letting Aunt Catelyn know I’d not abandoned her totally.

Thankfully today had been different and his aunt had not appeared outside the castle with a noose about her neck. A curious development considering the Lannisters threatened to hang his aunt on the morrow. Perhaps it was some ploy, a way to manipulate Jon into thinking the lady could escape that fate. That Jon could save her if he was willing to pay the price

A cost that would not be born by him alone. One shared by Lady Catelyn’s children.

“Jon!” Rickon’s shout caused him to look to where the young lord now ran about the trees, a wooden sword in his hand and Shaggydog on his heels. “You’re not watching! You asked me to show you!”

“I am watching, Rickon. I swear.”

Rickon pouted all the same, like the boy he was. Jon could still not believe how much Rickon had grown since he last came to Riverrun, the boy now a head taller. He had missed so much, yet somehow caught how Rickon’s change of mood caused Shaggydog to tense some.

“Shaggy does seem better trained.” He noted, settling Lorra down on his lap and bouncing her some. “He chased you without trying to pull you down. If Shaggydog runs off, does he always come back when you call?”

“I don’t have to say anything.” Rickon replied. “Shaggy just does what I want, he just knows! We’ve been practicing. Here, watch.”

Rickon scrunched his face some some, his eyes blinking in an odd manner. A moment later Shaggydog left his side, ambling Jon’s way. Then the black direwolf sat before him, licking at Lorra outstretched hands and earning a squeal of glee from the babe. Yet when Shaggydog did the same to him, all Jon felt was a deep, empty loneliness.

The wolf’s affections were simply not the same as those of his lost friend. It felt strange to call Ghost a friend, the word did not do the murdered direwolf justice. Truly, losing Ghost was like losing a part of himself.

Sometimes Jon caught himself looking behind him and expecting to see Ghost following. A cruel trick, since the wolf was never there. Ghost was even gone from his dreams, which Jon could scarcely remember anymore. Once he had spent his nights running as a wolf, hunting as Ghost would or merely enjoying the wild in their silent way.

Now he awoke each morning knowing those days were long gone. The closest he would ever come to them was watching Rickon train with Shaggydog.

Lessons Jon had to admit, he was impressed by.

“See, he went where I wanted.” Rickon joined them, hugging Shaggydog before leaning forward to kiss Lorra’s head. “I started practicing because they wouldn’t let me sleep in Lorra’s room anymore. I made Shaggydog stay instead. He keeps the monsters away.”

“That he does.”

He prayed that was true, though knew the wolf could not possibly hold back the thousands poised to strike at this castle. It fell to Jon to truly keep the Lannisters and Freys at bay, to see to the duty his uncle and aunt would expect of him. He did so now as he patted Rickon’s head.

“Remember what we said about Shaggydog.” He said. “We don’t talk about how you can make him do things like you do. That’s our secret. Let everyone think Rickon the Blackwolf is just the best direwolf trainer that ever was.”

“I won’t tell, I promise.” Rickon’s face darkened some. “I keep my promises… not like mother and father…”

“Your parents love you very much. Trust me, Rickon. Your mother would be here right now but bad men won’t her come.”

“I know.” Rickon looked to Lorra, letting her grab at his hands with her tiny fingers. “She’s really close… Shaggy smells her sometimes. Her and the bad men. We could find her, Shaggy and me.”

“Rickon…”

“I mean it. We’ve been playing hide and seek. Shaggy finds whoever I send him after and I’m really good with my sword now. Let me go get mother and then Lorra won’t cry so much. She won’t be so sad all the time… she misses her.”

While Lorra was too busy playing with Shaggydog to notice much of anything, Jon saw the tears escaping Rickon’s eyes. He pulled the boy in for a hug, pressing Rickon’s face against his shoulder.

“It’ll be alright.” He soothed the crying boy. “You’ll see your mother again one day. I won’t let anything happen to her. Or to you and Lorra.”

He willed that to be true yet in his heart he feared it to be a lie. Shaggydog whined then and Rickon cried all the harder, clutching onto Jon for dear life. All this set Lorra off, who stuck out her lip and began to wail as well. The whining, the crying, it took him to a dark place. Where men came at them with swords and torches. Showing as little mercy to the children as they had to Ghost.

That’s the fate that awaits them if I try and hold out, their mother too.

What of Daenerys? If I win a battle or two here, the Lannisters will fall upon her instead.

Edmure’s return to the castle had not been the most pleasant of reunions. While the Blackfish and Jon were heartened to see him well, the lord offered little hope of things staying that way. Worse, Edmure confirmed nearly all of what Ser Jaime had told him of Daenerys and Dragonstone.

“She’s lost her fleet, Jon.” Edmure had looked pained to say so. “The news was all over the capital. Daenerys may have dragons but she’s quite alone otherwise. Our friends are beaten or too fearful to rise.”

All this time Jon had thought someone might come to their aid. Even just a few who saw him as their rightful king. Instead he was dealt a harsh reminder of his childhood.

Much of the realm saw him as Cersei and Rhaenys always had. A bastard. Not fit for court or the throne. Unworthy of rallying around. A mistake they’d rather see done away with.

All save for Daenerys. Or these children that clung to him and wept.

He couldn’t abandon any of them, though to save one meant dooming the other.

Jon was saved from Rickon and Lorra’s misery by the arrival of Brigid, the babe’s nursemaid. All the noise had brought her to them, collecting Lorra up into her kindly arms and taking Rickon by the hand.

“Don’t worry on them, your grace.” Brigid attempted to sooth his mind as she did Rickon and Lorra. “The young lord can help me put the little lady down to nap. My girl I about ready for hers too and they sleep better together. As peaceful as this wood.”

Will it stay so peaceful? He wondered. When the enemy climbs the walls, the fighting will come here.

All of this will be burned, charred as black as the cloak the Lannisters offer me.

After they left, Jon walked about the godswood, pondering how he could ever live with himself if he joined the Night’s Watch. His uncle always said there was honor to be found in taking the black. The idea of freezing upon the Wall itself did not bother him, he just couldn’t imagine living with himself if he handed his kin over to the Boltons and Freys.

His time for quiet reflection was cut short by the coming of his most trusted allies, who found Jon as he stood before the heart tree. The slender weirwood made Brynden Tully look young by comparison, while Edmure’s eyes were as red as the leaves of the tree itself.

“I’d ask you both to seek the sept.” He said as he gazed up at the weirwood. “Together our prayers might convince the old gods and the new to guide me to the proper decision here.”

“I’ll put my faith in this.” The Blackfish touched his sword. “If the Lannisters come, let them meet steel. There’s more honor in that death than handing this castle over to such filth.”

“Is that what you’ll say to Catelyn when you meet her in the afterlife?” Edmure asked dejectedly. “Her children will be there too. Them and our friends. We’ll bleed the Lannisters but they’ll see us all dead for it. Our king as well.”

“Nephew, defeat is not certain. King Jon and I faced worse odds at King’s Landing and he led us to victory.”

“I didn’t.” Jon would not let that lie stand. “Were it not for Edmure and the Tyrells arriving, ser, you and I would likely be dead right now.”

Edmure nodded. “And this time no help is coming. Not from Highgarden. The Riverlands. Dragonstone.”

“Princess Daenerys is a fierce sort.” The Blackfish countered. “One defeat will not crush her spirit. She’s likely building a new fleet right now to come here, raising an army to rescue us as we once did her.”

“It won’t come in time.” He looked to Edmure and the lord nodded. “The Lannisters have the timber and gold to build a new fleet far faster than Dany can. You’re right, Brynden, we might be able to hold out. But what of Dragonstone?”

The Blackfish strode forward, spinning Jon about and gripping his shoulders tightly. The old knight’s weathered features set in grim determination.

“You’re the king.” Brynden rasped. “The king Barristan died for. I’m willing to give my life for you. As is Cat, you heard her out there with the noose around her neck. Daenerys knows her duty. Defend the king. Stand with the king. Die for the king if need be.”

“No.” He pushed away from the man, putting his hand on Blackfyre. “No, I am done having people die for me. If what Edmure told us of Aunt Catelyn’s suspicions are true, too many of the people I love have paid for that with their lives.”

“Then you should flee.” Edmure spoke up, hand to his chin and eyes alive. “You and the children. Slip out through the Water Gate, swim away and downriver. The Lannisters can have the castle and still be denied capturing you.”

Edmure meant well yet Jon needed only a moment to find the fatal flaw in his plan.

“If the enemy enters the castle and finds me missing, there’ll be reap havoc of the worst kind. They’ll slaughter all left behind, from you down to Brigid’s daughter, Aunt Catelyn as well. It’s the King from the North they want. Jon Snow.”

Jon was willing to give the Lannisters what they wanted. To hand himself over if only to help save the others from any further pain. Yet Lady Catelyn was sure if he surrendered the castle her remaining children would die like the rest. He hadn’t been able to help any of them. Not Robb or Bran. Arya or Sansa.

Least of all Ghost.

Gods just show me a way out of this, he prayed up at the weirwood, don’t let all of this be vain.

Ghost died for me… I have to be able to do some good…

He froze then, his eyes locked on the weirwood’s carved face. Its dark eyes weeping tears of sap, as red as blood. Like Ghost’s eyes had been before the end.

“The Lannisters want me.” He repeated, turning to the Tullys and putting a hand to his heart. “They have risked so much to unseat me. Done great evil to see me trapped here. I’m the prize they want, not Rickon and Lorra.”

Edmure accepted that easily enough but not the Blackfish, who spat and cursed at him.

“Don’t.” The old knight warned. “Don’t you fucking dare. I won’t let you. That’s not what Cat wants of you.”

“It’s what I want.” He replied, not seeking to numb himself any longer, letting his heart guide this decision for him. “The children can escape if I pledge to hand myself over. Ser Brynden, you have the wisdom and strength to get them away from here. We’ll ask for an extra day or two to prepare myself and the castlefolk.”

“The Kingslayer will grant it.” Edmure appeared ready to retch. “If it means they get you and the castle, he’ll give us that time.”

“They’ll murder him!” The Blackfish shouted, taking hold of Edmure’s tunic and yanking him about. “This is our home, Edmire! That’s our king! Good men have died to see him make it this far! Now you’d have us just hand him away?!”

It was Jon’s turn to lay hands on the Blackfish, bidding the knight to leave his nephew be and face him. In his hands he held the crown Gendry had fashioned for him. The simple golden thing so many had died for.

“Let me do honor by those men.” He said, running his fingers over the crown. “I wanted to be a good king, a just king. To see justice done for those I cared about. I failed in that, so now I’ll stand for those I should’ve protected. I’ll give the Starks a chance. Daenerys too. There’s honor in that.”

The Blackfish scowled. “More honor than sense. It’s all for naught, Jon. Whatever faith you have in my skills, this plan will not work. Even if I can get Lorra beneath that gate and onto shore without her drowning or freezing to death, how do I elude capture with an infant to care for? Rickon perhaps, but not Lorra.”

He was right. Lorra still needed the breast and he couldn’t imagine Brigid making the escape too. That would mean Brigid bringing along her daughter as well and there was little chance of the Blackfish leading such a band to safety. Nor could he abide the thought of sending Rickon on to safety while handing Lorra over to the Lannisters.

The three of them tried to think of a way to sneak the babe out of the castle but they couldn’t. Any plan they came up with needed to account for Brigid as well, else the child could starve. Every option they came up with seemed just as dangerous as leaving the girl in her cradle for the Lannisters to come upon.

He pictured Lorra there now, curled up in slumber besides Brigid’s girl. Both babes ignorant of the danger they were all in. Though the lowborn girl was arguably the safer of the two since the Lannisters did not care about her at all.

And then Jon saw what the Lannisters surely wouldn’t.

A way to save all he cared about. To surrender himself and spare the children.

A way to earn the fate that surely awaited him. For he was about to act a Lannister.

 

 

JAIME

Victory had never tasted so sour.

The foulness lingered in his mouth as he beheld the scene before Riverrun. What appeared to be every person in the camp gathered in anticipation of the castle’s surrender.

To witness Jon’s surrender.

Genna Lannister, Jaime’s aunt, was there. The lady could be seen fanning her large, broad body as she waited under the morning sun alongside her weasel of a husband, who made quite the spectacle himself. Emmon Frey, a small, thin man, held the parchment declaring himself the new Lord of Riverrun as lovingly as a newborn babe. Others Freys were on hand to celebrate as well.  Aenys and Hosteen both stood in well-polished suits of armor while Lame Lothar wore fine silks. The crippled schemer was whispering in the ear of Edwyn Frey, Ryman’s son and the heir to the Twins.

“We shall finally have justice for my father.” Edwyn spoke loudly. “Today is a grand day for House Frey.”

“I’m sorry your brother had to miss it.” Lothar added to Edwyn’s disdain. “I’ve never known Black Walder not to linger about and bask in the spoils of victory.”

“He’s off on the king’s business.” Edwyn shot an annoyed look Jaime’s way. “Boasting about how Lord Tywin chose him over all other Freys to represent him in some matter.”

Jaime ignored Edwyn’s jealousy, as did most of his kinsmen. While most of the Freys acted jubilant, the other riverlords were as morose as men attending a funeral. Jason Mallister kept stealing glances to where his son Patrek was kept under guard near Marq Piper. Ser Karyl Vance comforted young Lord Lyman Darry, who scorned standing with his wife Amerei and the rest of the Freys. Not a man among them seemed thankful their lives were being saved by the submission of Riverrun.

They’ve had three days to prepare themselves for this. Three more days of freedom, that’s all Jon asked for.

Time you were happy to give him.

Happy was too strong a word. These last few days had tormented him more than he cared to admit. While Daven and Addam found ways to explain away Catelyn Stark’s ravings, Jaime couldn’t. He knew his father wanted Joffrey on the throne, a truth which made him fearful of how far the lord had gone to fulfill that ambition.

Viserys and the sellswords. Theon Greyjoy using westerman during his reaving. Did he see his father’s guiding hand at play there?

What about the Bloodwater? Suspicion surrounded the Florent account of that massacre. His father himself talked of whispers regarding a Lannister role in the deaths of Aegon and Rhaenys. A pair Jaime had once saved by killing a king.

The more he thought on all this, the harder it was to escape the nagging doubt in the back of his mind. If Lord Tywin Lannister had arranged the downfall of not only the Starks, but Aegon and Jon as well, what else was he guilty of?

Lady Stark spoke of using catspaws. If father used sellswords to raise Viserys up, did he use others to bring Rhaegar low?

Was Robert Baratheon a pawn in all this as well? A tool to do father’s dirty work for him?

Just like me.

All of this had kept Jaime up at night. Reflecting on the loyalty he held to his family. The vows he had sworn as a Kingsguard. How Rhaegar had raised him up only for Jaime to now bring Jon low. Had he been there at the Red Storm, he would gladly have died to save Rhaegar’s life.

Now Jaime stood tasked with ending his son’s.

A duty which made the white cloak hang heavy upon his shoulders. The path it led him on was a dark one. Yet once he saw the way forward, there was no changing his mind. The plan was set now. One worthy of Tywin Lannister himself.

No… worthy of the Kingslayer.

Jaime was resolving himself to what lay ahead when he caught sight of someone who had refused to do the same. Lady Stark was coming his way, escorted by both Addam and Daven. The two knights were struggling to keep pace with her, for the lady appeared intent on reaching him as quickly as possible.

“Ser, I beg leave to speak to my nephew.” Lady Stark said, her eyes flicking between him and the raised drawbridge of the castle. “I must speak with the king.”

“So you can convince him to keep that drawbridge up?” Jaime asked, seeing the truth if she would not speak to it. “It is too late, my lady. Jon knew your mind on this, yet the surrender was agreed upon all the same. Take heart, as soon as the castle is ours you shall see your children again.”

“Only to lose them.” She reached for him, only for Daven to grab her wrist and shake his head. The lady wrenched free of his hold, assaulting Jaime with her sorrowful gaze. “Please, ser. Once I held you captive and I accept whatever ill will you bear me. My children are innocents. I beg you to be merciful. To let me stand for whatever uses your family has, just let Rickon and Lorra be.”

Her words softened at the end yet Jaime found himself struck by devotion in her voice. The love she bore her children was plainly the lady’s greatest weakness yet also the source of a remarkable strength. Were she a man, he might have named her brave.

Yet he could do little else for her.

“As long as they are in my care, your children will be as safe as I can make them.”

The words rang as hollow as they felt and Lady Stark’s face fell. Neither of them had any power in what was to become of her children, a reality the lady needed to accept. One which became all the more apparent when a trumpet sounded from the direction of the castle. Following that, the drawbridge across the moat began to lower.

“No.” Lady Stark made to run towards it but Addam held her firm. “No… Jon, don’t do this…”

Her pleas were for naught, drowned out in the heavy clanking of the chains as the end drew near. When the drawbridge finally settled, all watched as a lone figure strode across it, towards the army that awaited him.

Despite the thousands of enemy forces awaiting him, Jon’s face was hard and expressionless. He had donned his dark armor for the occasion, grasping a sheathed sword in one hand, his crown in the other.

The young man paused at the middle of the bridge, waiting as Jaime had done for him during their last parley. As it was before, Jaime went on alone to meet Jon there, each of his footfall’s sounding like a hammer strike upon the wood. Pounding as loudly as his heart.

“I told you this is how it would be.” Jon said when Jaime stood across from him, lifting his sheathed sword. “That the next time we’d meet, I’d have a sword in my hand.”

“That you did.” He said, noting that this sword was not Blackfyre. “I ask you not to do anything foolish though. Surrender the castle, Jon. Let us end this.”

“Swear if I do no harm will come to Lady Catelyn and all within.”

“I’ve sworn half a hundred times, but let me do so again. No harm will come to them.”

“Then Riverrun is yours, ser. As am I.” Jon’s voice lacked either anger or fear. Thus Jaime had little warning when the youth tossed his crown and sword away and down into the moat, both disappearing beneath the murky waters. “None shall boast of taking my crown, nor disarming me. I see none worthy of claiming that honor. I’ll be the only prize you deliver to Joffrey.”

“As you wish.”

Jaime then stepped a side so Jon could follow him onward to where the spectators awaited. Once they were safely to the other side, he gave the signal and Addam led a column of men over the bridge to take control of Riverrun. Once things were in hand Jaime would be true to his word, and Lady Stark could go within to see her children.

It was the sight of the lady that brought Jon to a halt. Perhaps it was the dark marks about the lady’s neck or the heartbroken expression she bore which gave him pause. Whatever the cause, Jon appeared frozen in his place, forcing Lady Stark to come to him.

“My lady…” Jon’s hands went up, perhaps to comfort her. “Aunt Catelyn, I’m sorry-”

The slap was fast and hard. Neither Jaime or Daven were able to stop the lady’s strike. Jon hadn’t even tried, his cheek reddening as Lady Stark glared tearfully into his eyes.

“I trusted you.” She choked out, her hand shaking before her. “I loved you… as my own son. Now you’ve doomed the only children left to me. Shame on you. Shame.”

The last word was Catelyn’s breaking point and she stepped back, turning away from Jon and refusing to look his way again. Jon accepted the treatment in silent defeat, his shoulders slumping and eyes lowering.

“Take him away from here.” Jaime commanded of some men-at-arms and Jon went willing with them.

He was only just passing the Freys, who all beamed in malevolence, when the jeering started.

“Here comes the King from the North!” Aenys bellowed and hundreds shared a laugh as Jon was led between the throngs of Lannister and Frey soldiers.

“The bastard pretender!”

“All hail Jon Snow!”

“Traitor!”

“Coward!”

“Bastard!”

Jaime did not wish to witness this, turning instead to watch the stream of crimson westermen pouring into Riverrun. Until a cry brought his attention back to Jon. The victors were not content with merely hurling derision at the deposed king, they had taken to throwing stones. One had struck Jon to the side of his head. He reached into his hair and was just pulling his bloodied fingers away when a lump of horse shit struck him in the chest.

“Daven!” Jaime snapped at his cousin. “Get them in line! We promised him safe conduct.”

“That we did, I’ll sort the buggers out.” Daven leapt into action, bring more men to threaten the crowd. “The next man who throws a rock or a turd joins Jon Snow at the Wall!”

Although Daven’s threat restored some order Jaime cursed his cousin’s choice of words. Considering how prominently Yoren had featured in his talks to end the siege, he feared how the absence of the Night’s Watch now could be taken. The last thing he needed was for a riverlord or Catelyn Stark to take notice and catch a hint of treachery.

That made him decide to speed up Lady Stark’s entry into Riverrun. Thus Jaime had the lady join him and an excited Emmon in journeying onward to the castle. Within they found the Riverrun’s defenders and household being gathered into a courtyard. Edmure Tully watched all this nervously, that was until he caught sight of his sister and the lord rushed forward to embrace her.

“Edmure, I told you-”

Lady Stark was cut off from her admonishment when Edmure enfolding her into a tight hug. His mouth pressed close to her ear for what Jaime thought to be a whispered apology. Whatever passed between them caused the lady to stiffen in her brother’s arms. Her eyes were wide when Edmure released her to seek Jaime out.

“Alright, Lannister, I just lost my family’s home, must I beg to take my sister to see her infant daughter?”

“Go ahead and take her.” He said before addressing his men. “See that they get up to no foolishness. I want the young Starks kept under heavy guard. Be wary of that black wolf though, it’s a right terror.”

Even as Jaime let them go he realized how strange it was he couldn’t hear that dread beast. His time at Riverrun had been marked by its growls and snarls echoing up the walls, its howls rising up at any perceived threat.

Now the castle teems with my men and Smellywolf suddenly becomes as silent as Ghost?

Perhaps they finally muzzled the beast.

He wanted to do the same to Emmon when the fool took to unfurling the royal proclamation and haranguing the castlefolk on their newfound duties to him. There was a better time for such yet, as Jaime leaned against the archway and watched, he found himself wishing some trouble would arise. Something that would demand his attention.

Anything to keep him busy. To delay what he had to do come nightfall.

Black Walder better be where I told him to wait. Father demands proof of the deed.

Joffrey wants worse still… I’ll let the Freys handle that foulness.

He frowned at that thought. Lady Stark was right, his family did prefer to use catspaws. Jaime was thinking on both the lady and the deception to come when a commotion arose from across the yard. Addam appearing with a company of men, shouting and pushing at the Tully defenders.

“Where are they?” Addam demanded of Ser Robin Ryger. He was pressing the Tully captain of the guards up against a wall by the time Jaime arrived. “I’ve searched the entire castle! Where are they hiding?!”

“Addam?” He asked. “What’s this about? Who is hiding?”

“We’ve looked everywhere.” His friend replied. “None will speak of them. Or the wolf. Jaime, we’ve been deceived.”

 

JON

The manacles dug into his wrists some. It didn’t matter how much he fidgeted with them, he felt their bite still.

Truly the chains were the worst part about his captivity. He sat alone in a modest tent with a fire warm enough to throw back the chill of night. His shackles were an indignity he could bear, as was the ache from where the rock had struck his head.

It was the slap that haunted him. Lady Catelyn had every reason to strike him for what he’d done. The guilt was what he carried still, that and the memory of how his aunt’s slap had somehow pained him. A strange thing, since it had landed upon the side of his face left numb by Robert Baratheon.

Somehow the lady had caused him to feel the hurt she had so obviously felt herself. He raised his manacled hands to trace a finger over that spot, wondering if the feeling would ever truly return.

Or if he would get the chance to see his aunt again.

Not likely… the Lannisters granted me one boon already.

And I made them regret it.

They had been hammering his chains into place when Ser Jaime had discovered that the Blackfish and Rickon were missing. That the knight had slipped away with the boy days past.

“Where did the Blackfish go?” The golden knight had demanded, face flushed with anger. “Where did he take the boy and that wolf?”

“I hope far from the reach of you and the rest of your kin.” Jon had replied, content to admit his part in the deception. “Whatever hospitality you offered me, I doubted the Boltons would do the same for Rickon. Lord Edmure had no say in the matter, as I gave Ser Brynden a command as his king to see the boy away.”

“The last command you’ll ever give.” Hosteen Frey had threatened, touching at his blade in a rage. “When we find them, the Blackfish will suffer for this foolishness.”

“It’s you who sounds the fool.” He countered. “Brynden Tully knows these lands and has had days to lose himself in them. You will not find him. If you are truly set on finding a Stark heir, I suggest you ask Roose Bolton about Lady Roslin and her child. What news has he given you of your kin, Frey?”

The jab was meant to sew some conflict between Joffrey’s new vassals, yet a part of him hoped someone would correct him and he could glean some news of Roslin’s fate. If Ser Jaime or his Frey lapdogs had any knowledge of her, they did not share it with him.

“Do not act so pleased with yourself.” Jaime had sounded genuinely disappointed. “You have no idea what harm you risked with your little ploy. I’d be within my rights to hang Edmure Tully and Catelyn Stark right now. To send the girl child off to the Boltons in Rickon’s stead.”

“You wouldn’t. Ser, none played a role in this. Let the punishment be mine alone…”

“It won’t be. I imagine I’ll suffer some for allowing this to happen but the lord and lady’s necks are safe for now. As it stands the newly made Lord of Riverrun demands a Tully hostage to keep his smallfolk in line so young Lady Lorra is it. The seven help us if that child had escaped as well.”

Jon had done his best to act bereaved. To hide his joy that the mummery he arranged in Riverrun was working.

For Lothar was wrong. Jon’s last act as king had not been to order the Blackfish to flee. His final demand had been of a poor mother and child. One he had no right to make yet Brigid has acceded to in the name of her king.

A king who stole away Brigid’s daughter to help save Lady Catelyn’s.

The babe was named Tasia, and that was who the Lannisters found sleeping in Lorra’s crib. Both babes shared dark hair though young Tasia’s eyes were brown rather than blue. None among their enemy knew what to look for. Thus when they looked at Tasia they saw Lorra, passing right by the true daughter of House Stark which Brigid kept safely at her breast.

If Edmure played his part as well, Lady Catelyn would know to insist on having a household to take with her to the Vale. Brigid and her mummer’s daughter among them.

I saved my family… but at what cost?

Brigid showed me a fealty I’m unworthy of. May the gods look after her daughter. May I be forgiven for what I had to do.

He also prayed that, unlike Brigid, Daenerys would not prove so loyal to his memory. It was a foul thing to hope for, but Jon willed Daenerys to either bend the knee or flee Westeros altogether. Whatever dishonor he had done her, Jon loved Dany still, and wanted her to find happiness. If it had not been for his heart, he might have chanced sending the Blackfish away with the children and braving the siege.

Jon simply did not have the courage to lose Daenerys too.

I’m sorry, Dany… this isn’t what I wanted for us but it’s the best I can do.

Father, Aegon, forgive me. I handed off your throne to the worst of sorts.

Help me for what’s to come… give me strength…

He struggled to find any at all when he heard footsteps nearing his tent. What little he rallied was tested when Ser Jaime threw aside the flap and stepped within. The first thing Jon noticed was how upset the knight appeared, his brow creased with worry and lips pressed tight. That the knight wore a dark cloak instead of his Kingsguard white seemed right somehow, yet unsettling all the same.

“Get on your feet.” Jaime commanded, tossing a similar dark cloak at Jon’s feet. “It’s time to deliver you to the Night’s Watch.”

Something wasn’t right. It was the middle of the night and none had spoken of the Night’s Watch since before his surrender.

“I thought to speak some farewells.” He rose with the cloak in hand. “If I’m to live the rest of my days at the Wall, let me have that.”

“Those who hold you dear await.” Jaime spoke curtly. “Put on the cloak, now.”

If Ghost were still alive Jon imagined the wolf would be baring his death at the knight. Even he could sense something was amiss as he donned the cloak and Ser Jaime stepped forward to draw the hood over his head. The knight then did the same with his own hood before leading Jon out of the tent.

Without the sounds of merriment and celebration could be heard. The Lannister army was reveling in their victory, though Jon saw little sign of it and fewer men. The only guards standing without the tent were cloaked and hooded like Ser Jaime, though differing greatly in size from each other. One short, the other tall, but even with the full moon shining bright above them, he saw nothing of their faces. He had little time to think on that before he was urged onward through the camp.

Whenever anyone challenged their passing Ser Jaime pulled rank, never once naming Jon among their number. There was something in the air he didn’t care for, and it wasn’t the smell of the latrines the trio led him by. They were taking him away from the heart of the camp. Towards the sparse forest which rose up along the banks of the Tumblestone.

“Is there a ship waiting?” He asked as they left the outer watches, passing between the trees. “There’s no torches to guide the way.”

“We’ve no need for light.” Jaime replied, his hand shooting out to take hold of Jon’s arm as the sound of rushing water became louder. “Just stay quiet, all will be well.”

“Then why must I be quiet?” He challenged, trying to stand firm. “All know I’m to take that black, there’s no need for me to skulk off in the middle of the night.”

“Well there it is.” A new voice arose from behind the trunk of an elm. “I told you he wasn’t so stupid as to believe this mummery.”

Black Walder emerged into the moonlight, Ghost’s pelt hanging about his shoulders. Jon tried to lunge at him but was held back by the others. The Frey smiled at the display, drawing his blade, which gleamed despite the darkness.

“No more talk, Jon Snow. If you must busy yourself, think on what you did to my father.”

Now it was four men pushing him on towards the riverbank. Rather than think of Ryman Frey, Jon instead pieced together what was about to happen to him. They had brought him far from the sight of the camp. Away from all prying eyes. From any sort of witness.

When they stopped at the river’s edge, he saw no ship. No men of the Night’s Watch. Nothing to stop his mind from heading to dark places.

“You said I could take the black.” Jon put to Jaime. “Those were your terms, ser.”

“Terms you’ve broken.” Black Walder chucked, thumbing at the edge of his blade. “Why, we just caught you in the midst of an escape. Coward that you are.”

“This is the king’s justice we see to.” Jaime added in a hollow tone. “Neither Joffrey nor my father can allow you to live, Jon. They sent me here with this in mind.  There was no way out for you.”

Deep down, Jon had known that all along. Still, it felt like a punch to his gut that his life would end in one last betrayal. With his hands chained as they were, there was little he could do. He watched numbly as the Lannister guards fanned out to either side of him. Four against one, and Jon lacked his sword.

Which made him laugh despite his fear.

“I’m glad I gave Blackfyre away.” He shook his head, looking up to the stars above. “I’d rather Ser Brynden wield it in defense of Rickon than having it end up with the likes of Joffrey. He doesn’t deserve to hold it, not like Aegon did… neither of us ever even sat the throne as king…”

“Enough of this.” Black Walder kicked at the back of his leg, driving Jon down onto his knees. One of the guards hissed yet Jaime waved him back as the Frey raised his sword. “We’re agreed? I take his head, the Lannisters help me dispose of my brother in the months ahead?”

“No.” Jaime shook his head. “No, you are meant only to act a witness. My father was clear in what duty I was to perform here.”

With that Jaime drew his own sword. A golden one. A blade so sharp Jon had to look away.

He tried to focus on anything else. How damp the earth felt beneath his knees. The sounds of the river as its currents lapped against the banks. The moon shining above and how it cast a pale glare across the water before him. The mud at the river edge. He thought of his father then. Of his face sinking beneath the mud. Of his last words.

‘Lyanna hoped…’

“Hope.” Jon rasped, staring out at the water yet refusing to bow his head. “Ser Jaime. Whatever happens here, let me die knowing there’s hope for my loved ones. Leave Lady Catelyn and her children be. Grant Benjen his freedom…”

“Enough Jon-”

“No, please. Tell Daenerys… tell her that I never would have married her. That she was better off. Don’t let her grieve me. Spare her any more grief.”

Those weren’t the words he wanted to say. He wanted to speak to the love he felt for Dany. To the fear and hurt he felt in his heart that they’d never meet again. He wished he was braver, for Jon had to fight against crying out when Black Walder stretched out his neck.

You’ll find the others. They’ll be waiting for you.

Jaime readied his blade. The sword raised out of his sight.

All of them. Father. Robb. Aegon and Bran.

He heard the knight take a deep break and tried to focus on the glimmer of the moonlight in the water.

Arya and Sansa…

The water was so pale it almost looked white.

Then the sword slashed and blood filled the air.

 

CATELYN

She couldn’t let things end this way.

Catelyn’s skirts were filthy and pace hurried in her search for Jon. The morning after the surrender had brought a flurry of activity to the Lannister camp. Tents were being taken down, lords and their men already marching off to their homes or elsewhere.

Soon Catelyn would be leaving as well, or so the knight walking beside her had told her. Ser Addam Marbrand was her guide through the rapidly disappearing camp, his sluggish pace drawing her ire. The knight was to command the party that would deliver Catelyn to the Vale. Before she could allow that to happen, she had to find her king.

For Jon was the reason Lorra would be free of their enemy’s clutches. When she left for the Vale, Brigid would be coming along as a handmaiden with Lorra acting as young Tasia the whole while. That Catelyn could not embrace her daughter as her own seemed a small price to pay to keep her near.

Jon had paid a worse one to ensure such could come to pass. Despite her worst fears, her king had proven himself every bit the man she thought he was.

He allowed Rickon time to escape with Brynden and has returned Lorra to me as best he could.

I doubted him… I doubted him even as he marched headlong into the lion’s jaws.

“My lady, do slow up.” Ser Addam warned, trying to hinder her pace. “There’s no need to rush, it’s the riverlords departing with haste. Not us westermen. Nor the Freys.”

Addam spoke the name Frey with disgust, for even their allies shared some of Catelyn’s sentiments towards that treacherous family. For some reason more Freys than ever were roaming the camp, pressed together as if in expectation of something. As worrisome as they were, her thoughts stayed on Jon.

“What of the plans of the Night’s Watch?” She asked of the knight. “Those in Riverrun who refuse to bow down to Joffrey or the Freys have already been collected by some black brothers. What if Jon is carried off with such swiftness?”

“He won’t be. Jaime tasked that Yoren fellow with delivering Jon to the Wall himself and I believe he was off gathering some recruits from a nearby keep. Your nephew will have to wait a time longer before he takes the black.”

The Wall… oh Jon, you could have escaped… you stayed for our sake.

Gods just let me hold him like I never got to hold Robb or the others.

Let me find that boy I raised and tell him he’s all Ned and I hoped he would be.

“There!” Addam exclaimed, pointing to where she now saw Jaime and Daven Lannister speaking to a crowd of Freys. “See, no need to make such a fuss. The ser will see to it you see Jon before we leave.”

Despite his calming words, Catelyn quickened her steps, moving briskly through the churned up earth of the camp. When they took notice of her, Aenys and Lothar Frey grinned at her in an unsettling manner. There no smiles to be found from Jaime Lannister though, the knight appearing quite tired and out of sorts. His handsome features were etched by worry and fatigue when they came upon him.

“A good morning to you, Jaime.” Addam greeted, sliding in front of Catelyn at the last moment. “Let me announce the arrival of the Lady Catelyn Stark, who has come to bid Jon Snow farewell before his travels.”

“She can’t shout loud enough for him to hear.” Lothar quipped, sending the other Freys into a chorus of laughter. Edwyn got in on the fun, shouting about the din.

“I thought the bastard had ears were as sharp as a wolf’s!”

Now the Freys were positively howling with laughter, clearly irritating the Kingslayer as much as did her. Though as their cheer died away the knight’s mood remained foul. He seemed intent on avoiding her gaze.

“What the lady wants is not going to happen.” The Kingslayer fiddled with his golden hand, which appeared damaged somehow.

“It is only a farewell.” She pressed. “I know you are wroth but I beg you, don’t punish Jon for my uncle and son’s escape-”

“The only escape that mattered has already been punished.” Lothar said with a sneer, the Frey turning away from her to face the other side of the camp. “A punishment I believe you’ll find quite fitting, Lady Stark.”

She ignored his nonsense, preferring to focus on the Kingslayer.

“Let me give Jon some warm words to see him through his time at the Wall-”

“Gods, haven’t I done enough?” The Kingslayer lashed out at her, his actions so wild Ser Addam pushed her back. “Get away from here, I’ll do you that favor. Begone or you’ll wish you had.”

“No, let her stay.” Aenys narrowed his cruel, watery eyes at her. “See what happens to those who wish to escape the consequences of crossing House Frey.”

There was something sinister at work here, some dark deed the Kingslayer and the Freys would not speak to. Yet when her gaze fell upon Daven, she caught him cringing in disgust.

“Lady Stark, I’m sorry to say Jon Snow broke his vow to us.” Daven put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder only for the white-cloaked knight to shake free. “He attempted escape last night and was captured. Be proud, I hear he fought hard rather than be taken again.”

Catelyn did not feel any pride. She felt confusion. Fear. Jon was no son of hers yet she found herself grasping at her middle as she backed away from Daven.

“I don’t follow.” She said, reaching for the Kingslayer as a commotion arose nearby. “Just let me see him. Let me say farewell.”

The man reacted to her touch with a glare, his greens eyes now red and bloodshot. They held a murderous rage that caused Catelyn to recoil. Only for Hosteen Frey to grab at her arm.

“You wanted to see the bastard? Well here’s your chance!”

She tried to free herself from the foul knight’s grasp yet he held firm, turning her to face in the same direction as the rest. A procession of sorts was moving through the camp, coming their way. Men were raising their swords and waving burning banners for all the see. Jon’s banners, the white dragons upon them all burning to black as the flames spread. The smoke coming from the banners blurred whatever followed behind yet the chanting rang through clear enough.

‘Here comes the King from the North!’

‘The King from the North!’

‘The King from the North!’

Suddenly they were close enough for Catelyn to peer through the smoke. A horse rode behind the men, a tall rider sitting upon the steed. A body strapped to the saddle with rope and chain. Then she saw his dark armor and knew it was Jon coming her way.

Yet when she sought Jon’s what she found instead caused a scream to rise from her throat.

This wasn’t the Jon she knew. He was gone. His head hacked away.

In its place sat the pale, rotted head of Ghost. His jaws open as if crying out. The wolf’s eyes nothing more than black, empty holes.

Peering out at Catelyn as Jon’s murderers drew his body onward. She closed her eyes to escape the horror but she could not escape the truth.

‘Here comes the King from the North!’

‘The King from the North!’

‘The King from the North!’

A lie. A vicious lie.

For her king was gone. Dead and gone.

   

PRESTON  

A storm was brewing.

To glance up at the sky was to find a blanket of darkening clouds. A clear enough sign, though Preston had long suspected a turn in the weather from watching his horse. A fine example of horseflesh, the chestnut palfrey was a worthy mount for a knight of the Kingsguard, only slightly less magnificent than Preston’s pure white-cloak and freshly polished armor. Yet while he rode confidently through the orchard, the horse had taken to snorting and acting skittish.

“A knight must trust in his steed.” Preston’s father had always said. “Whether it be a storm sneaking up behind you or a foe doing the same, a good horse will let you know.”

The cause of the horse’s unease was undoubtedly the storm, yet Preston still chanced a look about him. He rode at the head of eight riders, a mix of Florent men others loyal to the Mountain. They were travelling through a tranquil orchard not far from the Rose Road, and he saw no sign of any foe lurking behind the apple trees.

Which disappointed Preston some.

I do hope the Red Viper tries something foolish, he thought, great esteem awaits the man who cuts Oberyn Martell down.

I would ride into the capital with Oberyn’s head in one hand, the Conqueror’s crown in the other.

That hope was the only reason Preston had allowed the Mountain to carry Aegon’s crown for the time being. It was Gregor Clegane and fifty of his men that now guarded the crown as it made its way up the Rose Road on the way to the capital., His own party was to act a screen to the left of the Mountain’s, to guard against any attack on the precious cargo. Such was the will of Lord Tywin, who wanted Joffrey to wear the crown of the first Targaryen king and refused to allow Alester Florent’s cowardice to delay that any longer.

The Florents were terrified of taking the road, out of fear of the Red Viper and his motley raiders. They had lost scores of men to the viper’s strikes while failing at every turn to capture the rogue prince, whose men would slither away after each engagement. To hear Axell or Selyse talk, Oberyn was the next Simon Toyne or Smiling Knight. Always a step ahead, attacking when the Florents were least prepared, the Red Viper’s successes had some whispering of dark magics at work.

A pile of rubbish, Preston though, like the others crimes we’ve pinned on Oberyn.

The Red Viper is but a man, a vicious one to be sure, but a man all the same.

Preston had seen the truth of that himself. After a failed foray by Ser Colin Florent against the vipers ended with the knight being captured, it was Amory Lorch and Preston who were sent to find the Florent. Which they had done, shocked to discover Colin still alive, though that was no mercy. The Florent man had been bound to a tree with his hands and feet lopped off, his eyes pecked away by the crows. The vipers allowed Colin to keep his tongue, which left the knight to moan in agony and madness. Preston himself heard the knight rave about whispers in the dark and Children of the Forest.

None raised any argument when Lorch slit Colin’s throat, for it spared him any more suffering and them from his nonsense. After that the Mountain told Lord Axell to use the captive Sand Snakes to bring their father to heel.

“Hang the older one.” Ser Gregor had remarked of Nymeria Sand. “Then give me the little one, Tyene. Her screams will draw the Viper out to be crushed.”

Axell rejected the option out of hand. “Those bastards are beloved by Princess Arianne and I already plan to threaten their lives to force her into marriage. The Tyrells may have stolen Highgarden from us, but Dorne will be mine. As Lord Tywin assured.”

Preston laughed at the memory.

Axell can barely handle a handful of angry Dornishmen, how does he expect to rule over that snake pit?

He was still laughing when the man-at-arms all called Raff the Sweetling hailed him.

“Something amuses the ser?” Raff asked, half his face hidden beneath a mop of sandy hair. “Do share, I could use a proper laugh.”

“I was just thinking on how good it will be to return the capital.” He replied. “It’s been nearly two years since I was there last and, truthfully, I was growing tired of our Florent hosts.”

“I won’t miss that Lady Selyse.” Raff snorted. “Imagine, her trying to order around Ser Gregor. The ser fights hard, so what if he roughed up a serving wench or two? Mayhaps she was jealous, her moustache scaring off suitors and all. Not like that Lady Delena.”

Preston shifted in his saddle at that. With Margaery Tyrell back at Highgarden and the Martell women locked away, Delena Florent was surely the fairest of the foxes left at Brightwater Keep. The thought of her tormented Preston, he had been without a good fuck since leaving King’s Landing and that sweet little draper’s wife he used to visit while her husband was away. His stay at Casterly Rock had offered him little in cunny. Lord Tywin had been strict in his care of King Joffrey, charging Preston with watching over the excitable royal at nearly all hours.

Joffrey hadn’t taken well to any of that, yet his protests were feeble and Lord Tywin’s rule over him absolute. Any rebellions by the future king were swiftly put down, and Preston believed Joffrey grew to regret that foolishness with Elara Dayne. Just as he did.

It would have been nice to slip it to the wench but it wasn’t worth months without a proper fuck.

The Stark lad was to blame, he mused, little weeping wretch earned that toss from the keep.

And for all the trouble she caused, Elara deserved getting her throat slit.

All that brought Preston back to Delena, as is it was the lady who had killed the bastard girl. In his efforts to bed her, he’d made to thank the lady for that deed.

“That bastard was a vile menace.” He’d said. “A temptress too. Why, when his grace tried to correct her behavior, as was his right, she pulled a blade on his royal person. Me as well!”

“How horrible that must have been.” Delena had shrugged away his words, her fingers sliding over the bronze necklace she’d taken from Elara. The one with the bright red ruby. “I like to think that all wrongs can be righted if one is willing to sacrifice enough.”

Preston had cared less for Delena’s words than her bosom, which he would stare wantonly at in the guise of admiring the necklace. That was the most he ever got from the lady though. Delena would prattle on with every man of substance in Brightwater, yet none were ever invited back to her bed chamber.

A queer rumor held that if any were to join Delena in her bed, they’d find King Aegon’s bloody cloak. After Aegon’s death, it was said Delena snatched up the blood soaked thing for her own. A keepsake from the king who’d helped sully her name across the realm.

Preston’s father never put stock in gossip, such was the domain of lackwits and women, not a knight. Yet it was a simple truth that other reminders of the Fox’s Feast still lingered at the castle. Elara Dayne’s white raven being one. Winter it was called and, unlike its master, that bloody bird had not only escaped the killing but continued to torment Brightwater Keep.

Flying to and fro, avoiding archers and trappers both, the bird was a menace. Though it might disappear for days on end, it always returned. Often to deliver loads of shit upon its betters.

“Disgusting creature.” Preston grumbled as he looked to his cloak, making sure the washerwomen had cleaned it proper after the bird’s last assault.

He was inspecting their work when his horse suddenly took to bucking and he had to battle to stay in his saddle. Snorting and pawing at the ground with its hooves, the mount’s eyes were now wide with terror.

“Whoa!” He tried to calm the steed. “Easy! Easy!”

“Hey!” Raff cried out as well, for his horse was panicking too, as were most of the others.

No storm could cause them to act so. Something is amiss.

Once more Preston turned his gaze to the orchard around them. The apple trees stood there still, yet he froze when he caught sight of a blur moving between them. A grey shadow darting here and there, a creature Preston had seen before.

“That’s the Stark beast!” He put a hand to his sword. “The direwolf! The one that maimed the king!”

The stupid beast clearly didn’t know it was such a valuable prize. It continued to circle the party, riling the horses and men alike. Yet Preston felt no fear, instead he watched after the direwolf with a sort of hunger. He was thinking of trying to drive it on to the road when the wolf stopped amid a row of trees. The dim-witted creature stood boldly just to his left, as plain as could be.

Its fangs were bared, its yellow eyes staring at the party of men. Though Preston thought perhaps the wolf had locked its gaze upon him.

Whether it had or not, he resolved to make the direwolf suffer for the trouble it was causing.

“Hand me a spear!” Preston demanded, collecting one from Raff before pointing to the pair of men wielding crossbows. “This beast attacked King Joffrey! Imagine the honor of presenting its corpse before the Iron Throne!”

“Fuck honor!” Raff laughed, pulling a blade. “Think of the reward!”

“To me!” He bellowed, kicking at the palfrey’s sides and driving the horse towards the direwolf.

The others followed suit and soon ten mounted men with spears at the ready were charging ahead. The direwolf did not dare meet them, turning its tail and bolting away. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance and his heart pounded along with the thudding of the hooves. He loved hunts such as these, though this was no stag or boar.

The speed at which the wolf ran through the orchard was impressive. Especially when it became clear Preston’s horse could not close the gap between them.

He was heartened that the wolf did not pull away either. If he had to wager between the staying power of their mounts or this beast, Preston liked their odds. Even when the wolf broke out of the orchard and led them into a forest, he remained confident. This was no Kingswood, the tree cover was sparse for now and his horse galloped with through them with ease.

Others had a harder time.

One of the Florent riders fell hard after his mount lost its footing. Then the same happened to another man, though Preston swore that rather than tripping, the horse threw itself sideways. Two more riders were lost when their mounts carried their riders straight into the low hanging branches of an elm tree.

Something was very wrong with all this, he knew that, but before Preston could pull up on his reins a black shape dove down from the trees to attack Dunsen. A raven of all things. A fierce one at that, for the bid cut Dunsen’s cheek with its beak, causing the burly man to roar before swatting it away.

Only for more to take its place. Suddenly the trees above Preston surged with life, an entire flock of crows darting downwards at the riders. Scores of the black-winged demons enveloped Raff and the others in a tumult of stabbing beaks and shrill cawing. The sight was so shocking Preston could scarcely believe his eyes.

Nor his ears when the ravens began to speak.

‘Fly!’ The foul things bellowed again and again. ‘Fly! Fly! Fly!’

Despite his terror Preston pulled hard on his reins, meaning to turn back and help the others. Yet his horse ignored those efforts.

“Stop!” Preston yelled at his mount as it galloped onwards, following after the direwolf as it led them to a thicker part of the wood. “Stop! I command it! STOP!!!”

No matter how hard he pulled on the reins the horse pressed on. Beating it with his fists did nothing. Digging his spurs into its sides only bloodied the horse and his boots.

They only slowed once they came upon a particularly dark part of the forest. Where the trees stood tall and ancient looking, their trunks covered in green moss, their grasping branches ensnarled by creeping vines. The canopy in some parts was so thick the shadowed areas were as black as night.

It was here the direwolf stopped, whipping about and snarling towards Preston in challenge.

“Come then!” He raised his spear. “I’ll take you myself!”

The direwolf did not so much as blink. The beast standing firm when Preston’s horse reacted in a far worse fashion.

Before Preston could prepare himself the horse reared, bucking him out of the saddle and sending him flying. When he hit the ground, it was hard and cold.

He sprawled out there, fighting through the pain the tumble had caused him. As he regained his senses, he found the spear was gone, lost in the fall.

 You still have your sword, he recalled, the dagger on your belt…

Quickly now, before the wolf is on you…

That’s when he heard the laughter. Someone was laughing at Preston as he struggled to his knees. At first he was in such a daze he couldn’t find the source. He saw no one near. Only his horse which now wandered away from him and the wolf, who eyed him hungrily.

Then his eyes chanced to look beyond the direwolf, to where branches and vines hung so low he nearly missed the pale white stump of a weirwood. Only the smallest part of it escaped the shadows, and it was there the white raven perched.

The large bird staring at him with eyes he knew.

Winter… no… no that cannot be…

“Our feathered friend bids you welcome, Greenfield.” A mocking voice rang out from the darkness. “Careful of the dirt, you wouldn’t want to sully that white cloak.”

Two men emerged from the darkness. They needed no introduction, as Preston named them two of the most dangerous men in the realm.

Richard Horpe and Oberyn Martell.

Since last he’d seen Ser Richard the Kingsguard knight had lost his white armor. Horpe now wore dark leathers, his white cloak missing save for what looked to be a strip of it tied about the handle of his sword. The knight’s pock-marked face was set in a grim expression, his hard-eyes narrowing in hatred at his former sworn brother.

Quite unlike the Red Viper, who bore a wide smile as he laughed again at Preston’s expense. He was leaning against his spear, taking in the scene before him with a terrifying sort of joy. One made all the more troubling since Oberyn’s smile did not reach his black eyes. His viper eyes.

“We missed you at Brightwater, ser.” Oberyn ran a hand down his spear as a raven landed in a branch above him. “Ser Richard here has a special hatred for turncloak knights. He seeks redress from you.”

Horpe put a hand to his sword. “It is time you answer for your treason, Preston. We will see justice done for King Aegon and Princess Rhaenys.”

“I prefer vengeance.” Oberyn twirled his spear through the air. “Vengeance for my beloved Obara. My nephew, the king. My dear niece and her innocent babe. So much loss, so much blood, all that needs to be answered for.”

“Don’t be fools.” Preston eyed them and the wolf as he stood and drew his blade. “My men are right behind me. They’ll be on us any moment now and there’ll be no mercy for you.”

‘Dead!’ The raven above Oberyn cawed, other newly arrived birds taking up the cry. ‘Dead! Dead! Dead!’

“They speak the truth.” A new arrival spoke up from behind Preston. The voice belong to Ser Gerold Dayne, who was riding into the wood upon Raff’s mount. Both the horse and Darkstar both were spattered with blood, as were the other score or so raiders that followed behind. “Your men are cut to pieces, just as you shall be unless you drop the blades. It will make for an ugly death, I assure you.”

Preston was Kingsguard. It was for the king to command him to lower or sheath his blade. Yet Preston knew Horpe alone was likely his match. The same for the Red Viper. He stood no chance against so many and the thought of becoming a hacked up ruin like Oswell Whent disgusted him.

Thus Preston swallowed his pride and threw down his sword. Then his dagger.

As soon as he stood defenseless, one of the raiders dismounted. A bald Dornishman near six-and-a-half-feet tall, broad of shoulder with a huge belly and legs the size of tree trunks. When the stranger came closer Preston readied himself for a fight, one he was denied as the man passed right by him.

“Where is he?” The stranger asked as he closed on Oberyn.

“Right where he wished, Archibald. Go and tend him.” The viper’s words bid the man to venture into the shadows where the weirwood stump sat. “Forgive the curtness of our Yronwood knight. This trap was taxing for some. Speaking of, your men were the Mountain’s only screen on the left, correct?”

“No.” He lied. “There’s thirty more spread near enough.”

The direwolf lunged forward at that, snapping its jaws and growling in threat. In the trees above, the growing flock of ravens stirred, blood dripping from their beaks.

‘Lies!’ They cawed. ‘Lies! Lies! Lies!’

“Excellent, it appears we’ll get to do this the hard way.” Oberyn pointed his spear at Preston as Horpe pulled a blade as well. “There’s things we’d like to know about our enemy. More than what can be fit on the letters Winter carries to us. Our mysterious friend at Brightwater cannot be asked to do all the work. ”

“I will not betray my king.”

“You already have.” Horpe snarled. “Whether you talk or scream, it makes no matter to me. Blood for blood, traitor.”

“Stop!” He warned. “They’ll ransom me! You know they will! I was just doing my duty-”

They were closing in on him when the direwolf leapt to his defense. The massive beast putting itself between Preston and the viper’s men. Yet it did not growl or snap, instead a far different sound reached his ears.

Above the breeze set the tree branches to shaking and leaves to rattling. A whisper being carried on that wind. Whispers so soft Preston could not make out what they said. Spoken by a voice far too gentle to belong to any of these men.

All of the raiders knew where to seek out the source. To a man each and every one of them looked to the weirwood stump. To the darkness Archibald Yronwood had been swallowed by.

The shadows the large man now returned from, and he did not do so alone. As Archibald stepped out into the light, Preston saw a small cloaked figure cradled in his arms. In the giant’s grasp, any would look tiny, yet it was clearly a child Yronwood carried.

Everything became deathly silent then. The wind had stopped. Neither man nor beast made a sound. The ravens, the horses, the direwolf, all were queerly still as they stared at the mysterious child.

“What is this?” Preston dared to ask as his flesh began to crawl. “Is this child to put me to the question?”

“This is the one who fell but rose again.” Archibald declared, bringing the body forth in a gingerly way. “He who sleeps without rest. Who sees with a thousand eyes and whispers in the dark. Sent back to us to guide the way.”

‘Pain! Pain! Pain!’ The ravens cawed. ‘Eye! Eye! Eye!’

“Enough of this!” He backed away a step, his fear of the child turning to anger. “Keep that thing away from me!”

“We dare not.” Horpe sheathed his sword. “You lot sinned against the gods themselves. This is their wrath made flesh.”

A whisper broke free from the child, a pleading sound muffled some by his hood. Yet there was something familiar to in that voice. Something which could not be.

Oberyn nodded then, stepping aside for Archibald and his creature.

“He doesn’t speak so much. You bloody traitors ruined him for that. But he remembers.”

Remembers what? What does it remember?

The thing’s arm raised up, a pale finger pointing out at Preston. He tried to step away once more yet found he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t listen. No matter how loudly his mind fought to move, something was holding him there.

Something that was inside his head. A power taking hold of his thoughts and fears. A stranger that did not belong.

One whose hate and anger forced Preston onto his knees. A terrible sadness. His own terror caused tears to break free from his eyes. Preston was screaming from the prison of his mind as his hand reached across the ground to take hold of the dagger he’d dropped there. He saw all this from the corner of his vision, for the power forced his eyes to look up at the child.

The hood had fallen away. Long, tangled auburn hair hung about a pale face. A boy’s face. One he knew.

His mind reeled from the terror. Preston screamed silently from his prison but not because the power forced the knight’s hand to lift the dagger towards his face. Nor in fear of his role making the dark, empty hole which sat where the boy’s eye should be.

Preston screamed because of the eye that remained, the one that stared off at nothing. An eye of lively blue that shone with a terrible power. The whispers found their way into his mind then.

I see so much, a boy’s voice echoed in his head, I run so far… I fly away…

No coming back… it hurts… the pain… too much…

A cold fury rippled through those last words. A tear slipping away from the boy’s eye.

You hurt them… you hurt me…

Pain… pain… pain…

Only now did the power let Preston truly scream. His voice mingling with the caws of the ravens and howl of the wolf.

All crying out as Preston drove the dagger into his eye.

Notes:

This marks the last chapter before a bit of a time jump.

Then lions, dragons and wolves, oh my.

Chapter 28

Summary:

The defiant ones and the days gone by.

DAENERYS

The pearl eyes of the Crone were lifeless and cold.

They followed Dany as she went about the sept, now lighting candles at the altar of the Father. His gilded beard glimmered in the firelight, regal and powerful next to the gentle Mother in solemn prayer.

None of them were like the Stranger, shadows playing across its fearsome features, making it more animal than human. His was the only altar that Dany left dark and untouched.

The Stranger will have nothing more from me. He has taken too much already.

Dany’s hands went to her swollen belly, straining at the cloth of her gown. The babe was calm now, his kicking ceasing for the time. Tess and the healers believed she was nearing her final month. Soon her child would be born into a world that had stolen away his father.  

Do not let that pain in, Dany urged herself, not again, you cannot let it drag you down.

I have to be strong. Giving in, surrendering… only death follows that.

She focused on the gods, if only to keep Jon’s face from returning. If she wasn’t careful, he would come back to her all at once. His firm but hesitant touch, those pale grey eyes, the sweetness of his lips upon hers. How it would feel when he smiled in the midst of a kiss.

Almost half a year and the wound from Jon’s murder still left an empty hole where her heart should be. They’d stolen it like they had Jon’s severed head, which now sat tarred and impaled on an iron spike at the Twins. His body mutilated with the head of Ghost sewn atop of it. Somewhere the pair were rotting together in a shallow grave.

In her dreams, she and her babe shared a grave too. Murdered like Rhaenys and Orys.

“That will never happen.” She spoke softly to her middle. “I won’t let the Lannisters lure me into their grasp. They shall never touch you, my son.”

She knew she gave offense to the Seven then. The person who predicted her child to be a boy also named the Seven as false gods. No matter how much she yearned for the heretic’s prediction to be true, Dany still clung to her faith. That’s why she sought the sept this night, to pray for the sake of those who shed blood for her at this very moment.

One of whom now stepped within the sept, a knight who smelled of smoke and wore  armor tainted by filth and blood.

“Princess, the village is lost.” Richard Lonmouth declared, in the same manner as he had months ago after their rescue of Rivverrun had been thwarted. “Your men are in retreat.”

“Did they burn it first?” She asked.

“The whole village is ablaze. If the Warrior hears our prayers, the fire took a few Lannisters with it.”

“As long as it robs them of shelter and a port, I am content. What of my garrison? Have they returned?”

“The lady sent a rider.” Richard jerked his head toward the entrance. “She and the rest are following after. With a fight like this… they took losses.”

“I would see the cost myself. I owe these men that much.”

The damp evening air braced her as she went outside, yet she saw few stars in the sky. Most were obscured by what looked to be clouds but the truth assaulted her nose. The acrid scent of smoke mingled in with the permanent hint of sulfur and brimstone found on this isle.

The horrors of the seven hells had come to Dragonstone this night. That much was evident in what she could see of her garrison. Most were painted with mud, blood, or soot. It took her a moment to recognize Brienne when the lady came forward, her white cloak torn to shreds and stained black. Dawn was bloodied while the lady’s face was masked by ash and creased with exhaustion.

“Princess, we held out as long as we could.” Brienne hugged at her side with a wince. “We pushed the first wave back and took prisoners as you commanded. Then they came again. First in hundreds, then thousands...” Her bright eyes darkened then as she lowered her head. “When the retreat sounded, I waited as long as I dared to put the village to the torch. But the enemy came on so quickly I-I cannot say how many good men burned because of me-”

“You did my bidding, Brienne.” Dany touched at her friend’s cheek, bidding Brienne to look upon the hundreds filling the yard. “Your courage protected many this night. House Lannister is to blame for those we’ve lost, not my Lady of the Kingsguard. The Mistress of Dawn proved herself a hero once more.”

“Not I.” Brienne turned to point back at a pair of mounted men only just arrived within the castle. “The sers led the rearguard back. They faced both lions and flames to see our garrison safely returned.”

Those words added to the esteem Dany felt for Harry Rivers and Brynden Blackwood. Harry was hurt, favoring his right leg, so Brynden threw an arm around the knight to guide him across the yard. The pair had arrived at Dragonstone in a similar manner only two moons ago. Dany had remembered the young knights being rivals back in Jon’s army, yet the bad blood between Blackwood and Bracken was lost somewhere in their travels.

The quest that Harry and Brynden undertook to reach Dragonstone was one of great peril and numerous trials. They were hunted by Freys and Lannisters, escaping death several times in search of a port. Nearly all had fallen into Lannister hands, save the Saltpans, and it was there that Harry and Brynden took ship, fighting through a party of Freys to do so.

All so a tiny cog could carry them to Dragonstone, where defeat and woe had hung thick around the isle like a fog.

Everything was lost. Our friends, the fleet, my king… there was no reason to stay.

Until Jon reached out from beyond the grave to remind me of who I am.

Had Brynden and Harry not delivered Jon’s will to her, Dany would most likely be across the Narrow Sea right now, hiding out in Braavos or Pentos like some coward, her home in the hands of murderers, her dragons stolen away.

None of that will come to pass. I will not allow it.

Brienne and Lonmouth joined her atop the battlements, so Dany could see how the rightful king’s fight against Joffrey continued here on Dragonstone.

The fishing village was a sea of flames, its docks and timber hovels burning bright. The embers and smoke rising up from the fires obscured the ships in the dark waters beyond. Atop their masts, banners displaying the golden lion of the Lannisters and Joffrey’s gilded dragon on black fluttered in the wind. Yet nothing disgusted her like the sight of the red, three-headed dragon of House Targaryen among the banners.

“They fly the Targaryen colors.” She narrowed her gaze and rubbed at her middle. “Joffrey stole the throne and murdered Jon, now he snatches at our heritage. Brienne, please say my monster of a nephew has come to face me himself.”

“I’m afraid not.” Brienne said, watching the rowboats full of troops, landing wherever they could find safe purchase along the rocky shores. “Nor Lord Tywin. The prisoners we took named Gerion and Tyrion Lannister as their leaders.”

“More lion pelts to send back to King’s Landing.” Lonmouth’s teeth clicked away. “Well, a pelt and half.”

“Ser, you know better.” Dany chided Rhaegar’s friend. “Tyrion’s actions during Robert’s siege marked him as brave and clever. He made a valuable ally then… we should not underestimate him as an enemy. Tyrion is no Stafford Lannister.”

When Tywin and his ilk were busy spreading their lies of Jon dying as a coward and an oathbreaker, the lord still found time to threaten Dany. The false Hand swore that an army would lay waste to Dragonstone lest she surrender. The Kingslayer went so far as to claim that Jon never intended on marrying her to try and coax her submission.

“Fleeing would be better.” Justin Massey had advised her. “King Jon’s murder proves that Lannister pledges are for naught. As soon as we surrender, they’ll squirrel us away in some dungeon under the Red Keep and lop off our heads, you included princess. Now, we have six galleys left and enough men and wealth for you to establish yourself in the Free Cities, we should use them now while we can.”

“He’s not wrong.” Rich had agreed grimly. “The fleet being built at King’s Landing will overwhelm us with ease. The men’s morale is low and our number lower. With things as they are… we cannot hold Dragonstone.”

“I pledge my life and sword to do so.” Harry Rivers had knelt before her, Brynden Blackwood following after.

“Our knees will bend to none but those who King Jon bid us to. My blade is yours.”

“Two knights are not enough.” Justin insisted. “Daenerys, I know the coming of these two heartened you but it changes little. We need to flee for your sake. To get away before the garrison seeks to betray us. We need-”

“A victory.” Dany had interrupted. “Something to inspire the men, a sign to the realm that the Lannisters can be beaten. That the dragons do not fear the lions.”

Neither Justin nor Richard welcomed those words, even Brienne acted worried.

“Princess, I’m sure we all want that and I’d gladly risk my life for such. Just not yours. How do we snatch a victory from the lion’s jaws?”

“By doing precisely what my knights counsel. We flee.”

Dany had made sure that word reached King’s Landing of her fleeing to Pentos with her men and the dragons. A letter from Ser Hubard Rambton swore that he held the castle in anticipation of handing it over to King Joffrey.

Lies of course, since poor Ser Hubard and his three sons had been slain when the fleet she sent to rescue Jon was ambushed on the Narrow Sea. Similar tales travelled from Crab Isle and Driftmark, all planted by her, all claiming she had fled.

So instead of sending an invasion fleet to Dragonstone, a smaller force came to take the Targaryen isle. Stafford Lannister had arrived with fewer than ten ships and less than a thousand men. The port was occupied only by fisherfolk and their simple vessels, the gates of the castle open.

Ser Stafford likely felt quite confident when he rode up to Dragonstone. That was until the portcullis came crashing down behind him. Archers rose from the battlements to rain arrows down on Lannisters within and without the walls. Men-at-arms spilled out of towers and stables in the castle and from huts and shops at the village, cutting into their foes with vengeance. Then Dany’s remaining ships emerged from their hiding places among the coves to ambush the poorly manned Lannister ships.

Richard would run Ser Stafford through himself, later waving the Lannister’s bloody tunic as he stood upon the walls.

“For King Jon!” The victorious cry had risen. “For Daenerys!”

That was how Dany announced to Joffrey and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms that she would not flee. Their ravens flew far to declare her defiance, to inspire those who had knelt, to reach out to those who had yet to do so.

Little word of the realm reached Dragonstone but they knew others defied Joffrey. The Iron Islands were in open rebellion. Dorne simmered while the Red Viper bled the Florents in the Reach. Beric Dondarrion did the same to the Freys in the Riverlands. There was talk of some in the Vale not giving their fealty to the lions, more in the North and the Stormlands.

Deep down they know who their king was meant to be, and it’s not Joffrey.

My son need only be born and then they will rally to us. Once they learn of you, they’ll clamor to join the fight I already wage on your behalf.

Dany had thought of letting the realm know of her child, yet heeded the others in their counsel not to. Whatever vengeance Tywin Lannister might seek against her would only be worsened if he learned that Jon’s child was soon to be born.

“I tried to count the ships during the fight.” Brienne wiped at her face. “It was madness out there but I counted perhaps thirty in all. Dromonds too.”

“Less than I thought.” She tried to sound unworried. “A raven from Driftmark wrote of three thousand attacking High Tide. Do you think we face the same?”

“I wager these are the same lot.” Richard rubbed at his jaw. “They outnumber us ten to one, not horrible odds to hold the castle. We’ve got the stores to last the year if need be. We’ll be getting sick of salt cod by the end though.”

Dany winced at that, for her son disdained salt cod and her stomach rolled to think of it. “I doubt it will come to that.” She swallowed back the bile to face her faithful protectors. “They will not risk such a lengthy siege, not with Myrcella here with us.”

“Likely not.” Richard seemed much older all of a sudden. “I remember Rhaegar speaking to the Imp about this place once. The dwarf called the caves down below a weakness, one that could be mined by a foe if they were so inclined.”

“Let them dig.” Brienne scratched at her head before a grin pulled at her lips. “I hope they dig their way right into the dragons’ den. Let Barraxes and Rhaegal melt their pickaxes for the effort.”

“It would be good if they did their part.” Dany sighed. “Of all the times for Arturion to be away from island. If he’d caught wind of the battle just now the Lannister fleet would be scorched wreckage.”

During the ambush of Stafford’s men, the black dragon had been drawn down from his secret lair in the Dragonmont by the noise and blood. While flying above the battling ships, two of the Lannister galleys loosed scorpion bolts at Arturion yet missed. Arturion’s hadn’t. With a single diving pass, black flames lashed across the two vessels, burning both wood and men with a heat that could be felt on shore.

That was the extent of Arturion’s involvement in her defiance. After snatching up some charred corpses from the water, the dragon flew off once more.

If the dragons would just do her bidding, she wouldn’t have need of Justin Massey across the Narrow Sea. The knight had left two weeks past, gone to find as many sellswords as he could with her meager wealth and their three captured Lannister galleys. So far they had no word of Justin one way or the other.

A worry that Dany would save for later.

“The men fought well.” Dany said before squeezing Brienne’s arm. “Now that you are all safe behind the castle walls, I promised a certain princess that she could thank the heroes of this battle herself.”

“I will gather them at once…” Brienne looked deep in thought before she caught on to Dany’s meaning. “Oh. Daenerys I did nothing of note.”

“Your modesty has no place here, Brienne.” Dany said gently.

As tired as Brienne must have been, she found the strength to protest awhile longer. It did her little good. In the end, Brienne was among the small group of warriors who Dany deemed worthy of such honor. Harry and Brynden joined the ladies in climbing the Stone Drum to reach the chamber of the Painted Table, where Tess had kept Myrcella since the battle began. The lady sat doing needlework while the veiled princess wandered about staring at the miniature Westeros. Myrcella rarely left her rooms without her veil and few outside of Tess and Dany were permitted to see what lay beneath.

Brienne was one such person, and Myrcella’s eyes lit up to catch sight of the lady.

“You made it!” Myrcella clapped happily before grabbing at Tess. “I told her you would be back. Didn’t I, my lady?”

“So much that my ears are still ringing.” Tess rose to curtsy before them. “Somehow I still heard tell of a stubborn defense being fought this night.”

“We saw the fires.” Myrcella looked to Dany. “Did Arturion return?”

“No, he’s still off stealing sheep from other islands.” She moved forward to kiss Myrcella’s cheeks, guiding the princess’s hand down to her middle. “We have no need of a dragon, not with these brave souls fighting for us. Since my babe cannot thank them yet, I hoped you would do so on his behalf.” 

“Me?” Myrcella became sheepish then, pulling up at her veil as if noticing Brynden and Harry were there for the first time “Dany, they were fighting my… they won’t want me thanking them. Not after Jon.”

Dany ignored her anger and grief to squeeze Myrcella’s hand. To look into her green eyes or at her golden hair was to think of Cersei and the others who had doomed Jon. Yet any could see the hurt in Myrcella’s eyes now. Those same green eyes had wept until they were red and aching upon hearing how Jon died.

“Ser Harry and Ser Brynden served Jon.” Dany kept her voice from wavering. “And he made it very clear that he loved his sister dearly and wished her to be happy. Whatever Joffrey and others have done, you are an innocent. Now be brave as well.”

“Yes, Daenerys.” The girl blinked her glistening eyes to look up at the trio of warriors. “Brienne, I give my thanks for your bravery. Ser Brynden, Ser Harry, my brother the king- King Jon I mean, he would be proud to see the honor you’ve done by House Targaryen.”

The two knights shared a look of uncertainty before Brienne subtlety nudged Brynden forward. The Blackwood, freed of his trance, knelt before Myrcella, yanking at Harry who quickly followed suit.

“You’re too kind, princess.” Brynden brushed aside his long, black hair. “It was an easy thing to fight, knowing you depended on us.”

Hearing this Harry refused to be outdone. “Men fight all the harder when fair maidens are in need. No ladies in the realm are more worthy of my blade.”

“This lady agrees.” Brienne knelt as well, nodding up at Myrcella. “Our departed king surely gave our blades strength to aid in your defense.”

“Then let me aid in your rising.” Myrcella acted with grace, reaching out to aid Brienne and the others in standing. “Were there many to fight? Our guards said there were tens of thousands.”

“Not quite.” Harry offered a comely smile, earning an elbow to the ribs from Brynden.

“Maybe ten thousand or so.” The Blackwood knight falsely corrected, which set Brienne to frowning.

Myrcella missed that, so intent on hearing tales of the battle from its heroes. As she forced the limping Harry into a seat Tess and Dany retreated some.

“She’s getting better with people.” Dany whispered.

“It’s easier for her when you and Brienne are near.” Tess replied, her eyes locked on Brienne’s scarred face. “Seeing the Lady Kingsguard walk about with her own scars inspires Myrcella to have such courage. She gets strength from you.”

“She should look to Brienne for both.”

“Nonsense.” The lady’s gaze fell to Dany’s middle. “Think on all that Myrcella has lost. To her, you’ve suffered worse and stand to lose even more. She hasn’t forgotten who saved her from the dragons.”

“I just pray to the Seven that I can get her out of this mess unscathed.” She shifted her stance, her ankles aching. Tess made a sympathetic sound but Dany waved it off. “I owe you the same, Tess. You shouldn’t be here. If I was any sort of friend, I would have ordered you on a boat and back to the Vale long ago.”

“That would have been a cruel thing.” The lady grew solemn. “Imagine me, sitting in a ruined tower, mourning my dead son and cursing the husband whose either dead or abandoned me.”

“Ser Willem might live.” Dany said for the thousandth time. Somehow the knight had escaped from Riverrun yet in nearly five months, none had any word of him.

“Perhaps he fights with the Lightning Lord or tries to reach you like Harry and Brynden did.”

“Then my husband shall find me keeping my promise to him.” Tess rested rubbed at her back. “Bringing a new babe into this world. Of course, we were hoping for a daughter of our own. It’s quite another thing to help you birth our next king.”

Tess’s ministrations were barely felt as Dany thought of the last person who spoke similar words. She felt so tired, her body uncomfortable and needing rest, yet she did as Myrcella expected of her. She stayed strong.

After Myrcella was abed, she and Tess sought out their prisoner.

The dungeons were guarded by men who Dany had long since won the silence of. Built deep into the island, the dungeons were dank yet warm. Most of the passages and empty cells were as black as night, yet not here. The light that came from this cell was so bright that it hurt her eyes. The cell was filled with enough candles to fill two septs and one large brazier whose flames licked the air. Sitting behind that fire, clad all in red and eyeing the flames, was Melisandre.

“R’hllor granted you favor this night.” The woman raised her gaze to them. “A disaster was avoided because you sought his power, the power of fire and light.”

“My men burned the village to cover their retreat.” Dany countered, unnerved that the woman knew of the battle.

Someone told her already… a guard perhaps.

Should I want her to have such knowledge?

“Lives were given to the flames all the same.  With such gifts, the Lord of Light will surely smile upon Azor Ahai and his blessed mother.”

Her flesh crawled some at that. Had Dany not seen the woman’s power first hand, she likely would have had the red priestess put to death after Marwyn’s murder. Not that Marwyn hadn’t earned his fate, Myrcella had nearly died and Dany often wondered how harsh a punishment she might have delivered to him herself.

That worked in Melisandre’s favor. As had her influence over the dragons and the pledge of fealty the red woman offered her. Along with her words of fealty came words of prophecy, many of which that seemed to come true.

“The ships which launch from the nest of dragons will flounder in a crimson tide.” Melisandre had declared the night they arrested her. “I see a king of snow and a sword of red, all washed away. A mummer ascendant on a throne of blades. You will bear the next king. Azor Ahai is within you.”

Dany had seen fit to lock her away after that, yet with the loss of her fleet and Jon’s murder, she found herself seeking Melisandre again. And again.

Just as she did this night.

“You were wrong.” She leaned against the iron bars. “You said the mightiest of the lions would come to us, but Tywin Lannister is nowhere to be found.”

Melisandre did not act the least bit upset. “I speak only to what the flames show me. What I told you came from the same vision which won you your precious victory.”

“False words and false flight will draw a lion into your grasp.” She repeated the words from memory. “I heeded what you said but still no sign of Tywin. This makes me doubt you, Melisandre.”

“That old mad man Marwyn got the best of you once.” Tess added. “Where was your R’hllor then?”

“Marwyn was a trickster and a fool.” Melisandre’s demeanor sharpened some. “I must have angered R’hllor in some way. He left me blind to Marwyn’s lies. I shared my order’s rite too freely with the mage, all so he could grant me sway with the king. So I could reach the queen who would raise the dragons here on Dragonstone.” The red woman paused then, a pained expression crossing her face. “The Lord of Light brought me low for such foolishness. Two years on Ghaston Grey… years I spent repenting, so I might be worthy to do his bidding again.”

“Did your red god ask you to burn Marwyn?” Tess pressed.

“No, his choices sealed his fate.” Melisandre said without batting an eye. “I gave him a death far better than he deserved.”

“It was not for you to decide.” Dany snapped. “Jon’s will was clear on that, I rule here on Dragonstone.”

Melisandre nodded. “Your rule will extend farther still. I accept my penance for Marwyn, if only to prove myself. R’hllor wishes me to serve you and the child you carry. The future king of these lands. Azor Ahai.”

Tess scoffed. “Sounds like someone sneezing. Daenerys, if it’s a boy you cannot name him that.”

“I wouldn’t.” Dany cradled her stomach. “Our king deserves a proper name.”

To some it would be scandalous that Dany dared to refer to her unborn child as the heir to the throne. With Jon dead and the two of them unwed, her babe seemed destined to be a bastard. But the will changed all of that. Jon’s wording laid it out clearly. Joffrey was never meant to be king and Tommen could only take the crown under certain circumstances.

‘With no child of my blood…’

‘If I should fall with no son of my own…’

That’s what kept Dany from fleeing across the Narrow Sea. She couldn’t leave Westeros knowing that she might carry the heir that Jon’s will demanded take the Iron Throne.

The Lannisters had stolen Jon from her. She wouldn’t let them take her son’s crown. Surrendering would mean their deaths. This was her home. This is where her son would be born. This is where the next king would rise. She needed to believe that. That’s why she’d had Tess sew a white dragon blanket, so Jon’s son could become what his father was meant to be.

“Tell me what your flames have shown you.” Dany demanded of Melisandre. “Tell me of my child. Speak of the dragons again.”

The red woman stood up then, her satin skirts not making a sound as she crossed the cell to stand before her. Tess tried to pull Dany back yet she held firm. Only the bars separated her from Melisandre, who looked down at her with a sort of wonder.

“The sea will swallow your foes in a time of need.” Melisandre spoke with powerful certainty. “A white dragon shall rise, the pretenders laid low before him.”

“My son, he’ll avenge us.” Dany whispered as Melisandre reached for her middle.

“Don’t you dare!” Tess bellowed, grabbing at Melisandre’s arms yet her grasp would not be shaken.

“I see a great pyre burning and a kingdom begging for the coming of dragons. A wounded wolf howling and gathering his pack. A broken child, lost in the dark, screaming for his mother.”

Melisandre’s grip tightened then, almost painfully so, yet Dany could not break away from those copper eyes.

“I see you, mother of dragons, with none to match your power.”

“The black dragon is yours. The black dread reborn.”

“His blessed flames at your bidding.”

 

EDDARD

Castle Black was painted white. The Shieldhall roof, the top of the Commander’s Keep, the surrounding lands, all covered in snow. More drifted down from on high, dusting Ned’s hair and shoulders with light white flakes.

This was no storm yet Ned desperately wanted to think the snowfall reached across vast distances. That snow also fell on the blackened ruin of Winterfell. Upon stone statues which bore the faces of his murdered children. The grey stone smothered the sweetness of Arya and Sansa, Bran’s warmth lost to the cold. Then came Robb and Jon whose statues lacked any heads, their memory mutilated as well.

Cat… they took the children, our loves. I left you all and shadows rose to tear our babes away.

He exhaled his grief into the air, the frosty mist disappearing while his woes remained. Ahead of him a hundred or so Unsullied spearmen gathered in the yard. A large audience had gathered to witness these men form ranks of strict, orderly lines. Though strangers to the Seven Kingdoms, each now wore the black cloak of the Night’s Watch.

Something Stannis was adamant in showing off to the wildings. An act of intimidation which failed to impress at least one of them.

“What I say?” Tormund nudged Soren. “I told you it was true, didn’t I? Always knew a man would have to lose his cock to become a crow. How else could you swear off women?”

“Our cocks are no business of yours, Tall Talker.” Qhorin replied, the First Ranger not halting his inspection of the Unsullied. “And I’d watch your mouth. From what I’ve seen of these men, they could spear your wagging tongue at twenty paces.”

“My arse, Halfhand! One wag of my manhood would knock the lot them down! Har!”

The jest earned a good laugh from the collected wildlings and a reluctant chuckle from Kyle Condon and Dacey Mormont. Most of the Night’s Watch remained as silent and grim as Stannis, yet Ned noted a few who grumbled and glared at their new allies.

Old enemies is more like it, he thought, a hatred they must learn to swallow for the sake of the Wall.

Winter is coming and so are its demons.

More wildlings would come before that. Thousands more. Hence this little demonstration by Stannis. Soren and Tormund were used to such, having been among the first to arrive here with him weeks past. All this was for newcomers like Sigorn of Thenn and Harle the Huntsman, so they could see who held power here at Castle Black.

A lesson Ned suspected Stannis wished him to remember too.

“These are men of the Watch.” Stannis declared, his voice loud and stern. “They have sworn vows to defend the realm with their lives. To stand guard against all threats, north or south of the Wall.” The hard-eyed man looked to the wildlings. “I hold them to their oaths, as I hold you to your promises. Keep to them, heed my commands, else these spears shall be pointed in your direction.”

“They hear you, my lord.” Ned shot a sharp look at Tormund, stifling a jest before it could be uttered. “Just as the Starks have always stood with the Night’s Watch, these free folk shall be for us.”

Stannis ground his teeth. “Words are cheap, Lord Stark. True worth is proved by actions.” He glowered before addressing the Unsullied. “Stalwart Shield, you and your men are dismissed.”

An Unsullied slammed his spearbutt down, turning sharply and leading the rest of the former slaves to doing the same. They filed away, showing a precision Ned had never witnessed before. Stannis now had hundreds of their like at his disposal, numbers the Wall desperately needed. The Others had killed hundreds of the brothers beyond the Wall, men like Jeor Mormont. All likely risen as wights, their strength now a part of an undead army.

The fear of that evil was the only reason he got out of Hardhome alive. The wildlings there had howled for his blood like the wind through the caves of that forsaken place. He owed his life to Tormund and those of his like, leaders driven in their need to escape the Others. With their protection, he was able to win over leader after leader, his own pride forgotten to avoid fighting these people as corpses. By the time Stannis’s ships came, one in three of the wildling chieftains had agreed to offer up fealty and hostages.

So far four thousand had sailed to Eastwatch, and six thousand more were expected in the weeks to come. He prayed that number would grow as more changed their minds. The attacks by wights had become frequent and he feared for how many at Hardhome could be lost by then. However hard it would be, the free folk needed to be bound to the North. To save his people, to save them all.

I have lost so much already, I cannot fail the North itself.

I need a home for what’s left of my family.

He had just sent Tormund off to show the newcomers around their temporary home when he caught sight of a pair who symbolized all he hoped to build here. Jorah Mormont was leading on a honey-haired beauty Ned still struggled to think of as the Lady of Bear Island.

“Lord Stark.” Val greeted him, her gaze full of challenge, her belly heavy with child. “There’s words we must be having about Dalla’s boy.”

“A matter already discussed at length.” He replied, noting how Kyle and Dacey drew in around him. “What more needs be said of Mance Rayder’s child, my lady?”

The marriage of Jorah and Val had followed the Bolton betrayal here at Castle Black. True to his word, Jorah had sheltered Val at Bear Island, yet went further still in wedding and bedding her. Ned felt it an abuse of the lord’s position as her protector yet Val insisted Jorah had fulfilled some wildling rites in doing so. The lord certainly acted a husband by pressing the issue of the wildling prince on his wife’s behalf.

“The boy deserves a proper home.” Jorah said. “Stannis Baratheon is a fine battlefield commander but not one to entrust the care of a child to. On Bear Island the boy would be in the arms of family, at Mormont Hall he would live well.”

“Safer than here.” Val added. “All the head crow’s cawing of strength and he couldn’t stop your lot from killing Mance.”

“Our lot?” Dacey scoffed. “Karstark killed Mance, not us. We were fighting for our lives against the Others when the oathbreaker lost his head.”

“He wasn’t the only one.” Kyle added. “Stannis lost good men in that betrayal. Men who survived the battle with the wildlings only to die defending one.”

“It was you kneelers who did the killing.” Val shot back and Dacey stepped forward in challenge to her aunt.

“And I was raised to fear the wildlings that raided Bear Island. Should I lump you in with the Weeper and Rattleshirt, dear aunt?”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Ned had Jorah and Kyle keep two ladies apart. “Roose Bolton and Rickard Karstark will answer for the murder of Mance Rayder. For that crime and more.” Punishments he deal out with Ice and his own two hands if things went as he hoped. “Know that I understand your concerns. Mance’s boy is an innocent but he must stay here. There is little trust between the watch and wildlings, hostages like your nephew are the foundation of this new peace.”

Val was not comforted. “So it shall be like it’s always been. The kneelers take from the free folk and wish us to lick your boots. Slaves to the crows.”

“Are you a slave to your husband?” He asked, earning a glare of cold fury.

“Never. The bear here might have stolen me during the battle but he never shared my furs until I beckoned.”

“I did right by her.” Jorah added, his grizzled manner softening to touch at the bulge of her stomach. “And she’s made a fine wife, my lord. The gods have smiled upon me.”

“A marriage of love. You are fortunate indeed, few start out so.” He thought of Cat and what had grown between them. “Think of this alliance between our peoples as a marriage of convenience. A bitter one, since what we know of each other, we dislike. Yet here we all are, praying for the Wall to stand and these lands to stay free of the Others. Your people have lost much-”

“Like their freedom.”

“An overstatement, yet a price they were willing to pay for their very survival. You are part of the Seven Kingdoms now. Stannis and I are bound by oath and honor to protect you. As long as the free folk keep the faith, your nephew will be safe.”

“So you say.” Val then gestured to the far side of the yard, where wagons and horse were being readied. “Things might change when you’re gone. The head crow is no friend to us.”

“Then make him one.” Ned locked eyes with her husband. “That’s a task I leave to you, Jorah. After I depart, you shall act as the North’s envoy here at Castle Black.”

Dismay clouded Jorah’s face. “Lord Stark, I protest. There are ghosts of great wrongs haunting this land, on Bear Island my people fear for our future. My place is in the fight against the Boltons.”

“I need you here more than in those battles.” He explained. “Stannis trusted your late father and northmen respect House Mormont.” His attention went to Val. “Your bride binds you to the free folk. There is none better than you to keep the peace here at the Wall, ser.”

That wasn’t entirely true. The Greatjon was an option, the lord having taken the eldest of Gerrick Kingblood’s daughters as a wife. Jorah’s temperament was preferable though, especially when it came to dealing with the likes of Tormund. Truly none were better than Val, though he kept his tongue on that.

“The Stark speaks sense.” Val declared, hands going to her hips. “This keeps us near Dalla’s boy and there is no chance I was going back to that isle without you. ”

Jorah was appalled. “You thought I’d let you stay at Castle Black?!”

“Better here than listening to the snarling of the she-bears.”

“Hey.” Dacey stuck out her chin. “My mother and sisters do not snarl. They growl.”

The couple’s argument was uncomfortable to witness. Beneath the exasperation Jorah and Val displayed, their love was plain to see. He had no way of knowing if, far away at the Eyrie, Cat clung to such feelings for him. His failings as a husband and father were laid bare when Jorah bent to the task for the sake of his family. The lord accepted his role at Castle Black only after exacting terms which kept his pregnant wife near and allotted men to protect her.

Something Ned would have insisted on anyways. Half the Mormont men were to stay at Castle Black, the rest to follow Maege and her daughters when they departed with him south. At the moment those loyal to him were scattered. The Greatjon, having delivered his new wife to the Last Hearth, was rallying support there. Despite being livid at the presence of wildlings in the North, the mountain clans had answered his call for aid. Nearly three thousand gathered just south at Queenscrown since it was not worth the risk to mix them with the free folk here at Castle Black.

While the wildlings’ numbers made it tempting to bring them south, here is where they would stay. Making use of them would risk losing what support he had among his bannermen.

How many of them are mine still? The Mormonts, Forresters, Glovers, they all stay true.

Unlike the traitors gathered about Roose Bolton.

In his absence, the traitorous Lords Declarant and their false king had stolen the North from his family. Edicts put forward by Joffrey had stripped Winterfell from the Starks and named Roose Bolton as Warden of the North. An act few were left to stand against. Backed by the Karstarks, Ryswells and Dustins, Roose outmatched Ned in men and resources. Any Stark loyalist who spoke out found themselves terrorized by the Boltons, tactics which forced many allies and friends into the enemy ranks. The Manderlys were the latest to submit, with Lord Wyman abandoning his duty to House Stark to escape the wrath of the Dreadfort and Iron Throne.

The thought filled his mouth with the taste of spoiled meat. Wyman and those like him spared themselves at the cost of their honor. A price others refused to pay despite the loss of kin and castle.

Donella Hornwood was one such person. A week past Donella was found travelling the New Gift by Dacey’s patrol. The lady’s nag had been haggard, her cloak torn and body failing after being driven from her home.

Today Ned wanted her to see another worse off.

After Jorah and Val set off to tend the fledgling alliance, Ned led Stannis and the others on to the base of the Wall itself. There they found the widowed lady waiting without the ice cells, the sight of Dacey bringing a smile to Donella’s face.

“Dacey, dear girl.” Donella embraced Dacey and kissed her cheek. “I mean to have a long talk with your mother.” The lady glaring towards Stannis. “No daughter of mine would keep such harsh company.”

“Don’t worry after me, my lady.” Dacey replied, tapping her mace. “He’s more stubborn than harsh. A different sort than the one we have locked up.”

“I wanted you here for this.” Ned added. “Hopefully the days in this cell have loosened his tongue to an apology.”

Stannis grunted. “It’s more likely frozen by now.” He then gestured to his men. “Bring the prisoner out.”

A moment later the cell opened. Carved into the Wall itself, these spaces usually acted as icy storerooms for food and meat. Though of late, they’d been put to use housing prisoners. Too narrow to stretch out, too low to stand, the rigors of the cell had their prisoner bent awkwardly and hobbling when Grenn and Wick Wittlestick dragged him out.

He was swaddled in so many furs it was hard to mark him man or beast. A faint fecal odor clung to him like the frost did his hair and beard. His shivering was constant, the man as cold as the glare he shot Ned’s way.

“You’re a fool, Stark.” Cregan Karstark rasped before turning his ire to the others. “All of you. Stupid and soon to be dead for it. When my family learns of this-”

“They will know what awaits traitors and fiends.” He said, taming his anger to address Donella. “Lady Hornwood do you maintain your grievance towards this man?”

“Him and many more.” Donella looked down her nose at Cregan. “First the Boltons made me a prisoner in mine own home. Next thing I hear, they planned to steal Hornwood away by forcing me to marry this filth.”

“By the only law of this land we are to wed.” Cregan snarled. “I was doing you a service, an old and grey lady is not like to get a suitor of my quality.”

“Tell that to the last two wives you buried. My men wouldn’t let me be the third.”

With their lord and heir dead and much of the Hornwood garrison gone, what household remained to Donella had conspired to free the lady from her tower prison. A task made easier when most of the Bolton guards left to join a search Donella assumed to be for the missing Domeric Bolton. The Hornwood folk treated Donella’s captors to a ruse, most remaining behind to maintain the mummery that their lady remained imprisoned while she fled.

An act of loyalty Cregan scoffed at.

“You had men?” The man growled. “All I found at Hornwood were greybeards, boys, and washerwomen. Domeric Bolton was a fool to leave that rabble at all. Not a one of them worth the traitor’s grave they share now. That’s what crossing the Lords Declarant earns you.”

A tremble was the only warning Donella gave before she stepped forward and slapped Cregan.

“Those were good people!” Donella said, her raised hand red and shaking. “Like Halys! My boy, Daryn! Decent souls who died doing the right thing. I made it to Lord Stark because of them. So I could say Hornwood is for the Starks! I spit on the Mummers Declarant!”

“The Boltons will feed you your innards woman.” Cregan snapped back before being shoved back violently by Dacey.

“They’ll have to get by me. You tried that before, cost you two men and dirtied my mace up something awful. That you still live is because of Lord Stark’s charity.”

“Charity? Fear more like.” Cregan spat at Ned’s feet. “Took years for true northmen to see it but now it’s plain to any. The best of House Stark died with your father and brother.”

Kyle and Dacey were ready to strike Cregan for that but Ned stopped them. “We are not here to bandy about insults, Cregan. It is time you tell us-”

“It’s over, Stark. You hear me? House Stark is finished here in the North and that’s on you. Northmen deserve better. Treating with the wildlings, cowing down to the Targaryens whenever you could. They kill your kin. Forgiven. Dishonor your sister. Forgiven. Cripple your son. Forgiven. The North is for hard men and you’re as soft a flower. When King Joffrey learns of this, Benjen’s a dead man. Free me and bend the knee, don’t play at being a braver man than you are.”

“A gag.” Stannis ground his teeth. “I remember distinctly speaking of a gag for his mouth.”

“We need Cregan to talk.” He replied, limping forward to stand face to face with his prisoner. The pain in his leg drowned out by the fury pounding against his skull. “And he is right. I am afraid.” Cregan sneered at this admission yet it soon fell away as Ned browbeat him. “I fear that after I throw you back in this ice cell, the next time we open it I might find a corpse. We know the Others can raise the dead beyond the Wall, but what of those who die within it?”

“We can never learn too much about our foe.” Stannis crossed his arms, beating Cregan down further with a glare of his own. “Since this fool won’t help bring the guilty to justice, he can better serve us by freezing to death.”

Cregan shivered at that. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” Ned grabbed hold of him, jerking the traitor about. “I’d call it justice for the murdered at Hornwood. The rest of your men suffer as you have, perhaps one of them would speak if I gave them your furs…”

With a nod from Stannis, Grenn began to tear away Cregan’s furs only for the Karstark to howl and claw them back to his person.

“Don’t! Don’t! My father will ransom me, just don’t put me back in there.”

The terror the ice cell inspired in Cregan won out over his loyalty to the Lords Declarant. According to him, Rickard Karstark and Roose Bolton had been busy building a new North. Whatever falling out had occurred between Domeric and Roose, Cregan said the lord had petitioned for Ramsay Snow to be legitimized. A necessary act for Wyman Manderly to even consider wedding Wylla to the fiend. The Karstarks sought matches too, Harrion Karstark was to wed Eddara Tallhart while his sister Alys had been promised to Roderick Dustin.

Though Cregan did his best to make this all sound ominous, Ned sensed urgency in his enemies’ actions. His return had them shoring up their own alliances and acting cautiously. With the Freys making noise over Roslin’s whereabouts and uncertainty regarding the ironmen, Roose had made it clear there would be no march on Castle Black. Instead the call had gone out for the Lords Declarant to gather their strength in one place and await Ned’s coming. A choice which set him on edge.

“Winterfell.” Stannis repeated when the pair convened in his quarters. A plate of untouched food growing cold between them as they digested Cregan’s words. “He baits you. A trap, obviously.”

“That it is.” He agreed, rubbing at his aching leg. “Winterfell is formidable but Roose chose my home to make me reckless. Perhaps he thinks I’d bring the wildlings, to level another charge against me. I will not give him the satisfaction.”

“Yet you intend to march on Winterfell all the same.” Stannis put simply, grinding his teeth at the nod it earned. “A long journey. An army can fall apart over vast distances, an end by a thousand cuts. Bolton claims his blades are sharp but he will be content to watch you carve your own strength away.”

“It goes both ways, Stannis. Every step I make in the direction of my home I show my people I am far from beaten and go forth to avenge the wrongs done my family. If northmen are to join me, they must see all Cregan said about me is false. I know my bannermen and if I fight for my family and home, they will not let me do so alone.”

Stannis studied him for a moment after that, finally rising to go and stand by his curtained window. His quarters were sparsely furnished yet well-ordered, the drab cloth matching the large man’s demeanor. Stannis made a sound then, which from any other person Ned might have taken as a sigh.

“Perhaps. Loyalty is a rare thing in this realm, Stark. Those deserving of it are often shunned while others earn a following unbecoming of their character.”

“You speak of Roose Bolton?”

“No, of Robert.”

It was strange to hear that name. Robert was dead, his beloved friend leaving the world as a traitor and sellsword. As a lord, Ned knew Robert’s had earned his fate, yet mourned his friend still. More than he could for Rhaegar. Ned remembered their argument on top of the Wall, how he took the king to task as a father to Jon. Now he sat grieving the man who’d stolen Jon’s father away.

“I’d prefer not to speak on your brother.” He said, earning a sharp look from Stannis.

“Why not? His name will be spoken with infamy long after we are dead.” Stannis gestured out the window then. “When Robert landed, he sent a raven to me. Brother, he wrote, as if he ever treated me as one, rise up and use the Night’s Watch to avenge the Baratheon name.” A grunt followed that. “This from a man who abandoned not only his family, but his duty. It was I who took the punishment Robert fled. He left us at the mercy of his enemies but I saved our family. When I left Storm’s End, it was only when the fate of House Baratheon was assured.”

“You did the honorable thing.”

“And this is my reward.” Stannis grabbed at his cloak, holding it up in mock display. “I took the vows, did my duty. When the watch needed men, I swallowed my pride and wrote to Stormlords who knew me well. Those that replied sent excuses, the best gave over dungeon scrapings and simpletons. Yet when Robert returned, those same lords rose up. Thousands strong, for a man who turned his back on them. That’s the world we live in.”

A few steps brought Stannis across the room, to a stack of parchments he slammed down before Ned. He caught the seals of the Boltons, Lannisters, and what he guessed to be Joffrey’s.

“Perhaps you can still inspire loyalty in your bannermen. Though most are likely beset with the same messages I have been. I suspect that is why my Onion Knight never returned from White Harbor. The Iron Throne is against you, Lord Stark. This boy king commands me to clamp you in irons. Tywin Lannisters lectures on how the Night’s Watch takes no part and promises men and swords if I remember that.”

He was not surprised to hear this, only that Stannis had not shared it until this moment. Suddenly he realized how alone they were in this room. Should Stannis try something, Ned lacked guards and a good leg to hold the Baratheon at bay.

“What reply did you give?”

“Silence.” Stannis replied, his brow furrowing. “Just as they gave me when I protested their pardon of Bolton and Karstark. The same as I gave Robert. Not a one of them was worth the effort. The Lannisters and their boy king try to haggle with me like fishmongers. Not like King Jon. I asked for men, he sent me the most disciplined warriors I’ve ever seen. Like me, the king did his duty. Had he lived and Yoren returned like he was meant to, the fallen king could have done well here.”

He swallowed deeply. “We taught Jon to respect the Night’s Watch. I’m glad- it is good to know his legacy reflects that.”

“It will do more than that.” Stannis straightened so that he towered over him. “When you depart, a hundred of my men will go with you.”

“What?” He jerked some. “You need your men to hold the Wall. To garrison the abandoned castles and keep the free folk in check.”

“Do not lecture me on what must be done. If Roose Bolton rules the North all those efforts will be for naught. He attacked the Night’s Watch, if such can happen with impunity, my men lose faith, the wildlings fear us not, and chaos reigns.”

He would be lying if he didn’t see the value in this. If the Night’s Watch marched south with the Starks it condemned the Lords Declarant all the more in his mind.

“This could help.” Ned admitted. “The watch has only ever given battle south of the Gift to crush a King-beyond-the-Wall. A threat to the North as a whole. By doing this, you painted Roose Bolton with the same brush.” He rose then, offering his hand and doing something he never thought to. “I thank you, Stannis.”

His outstretched hand stayed empty, the Lord-Commander unmoved by the sentiment.

“I do not seek thanks. My men go to bring Bolton and Karstark to an end. To ensure you do not balk at that task.”

That caught him off guard. “You doubt my desire to see Roose brought low?”

“I fear you could bend to the traitor’s will.” Stannis did not so much as flinch to say so. “For the reasons you just stated. Your family. Joffrey holds your brother, your wife and child are hostages. If they are threatened-”

“They are already threatened!” He slammed a fist down on the table top, shaking the food tray and causing a goblet of wine to tip over. “What I do now, I do for them! Any promises of their safety cannot be trusted. Riverrun proved that. Their only hope rests in me winning back the North. To save my family, I must do my duty as Lord of Winterfell. If you can believe anything, believe that I speak the truth in that.”

The two men stood in silence, Ned struggling to remind himself why he valued Stannis at all. The man was cold and inflexible, as unlike Robert as one could be yet that was likely was a good thing in these times.

Winter is coming and there’s little glory in facing it. That’s what Robert always fancied.

Stannis will hold the Wall when the cold winds blow. Breaking before he bends.

“I put little faith in words.” Stannis repeated, his jaw working in an odd way. “Rare are the times I can recall doing so. The realm is full of false men... and King Jon was not one of them. Not by my estimation. Nor in the eyes of the Night’s Watch.” His own eyes moved over Ned before he nodded in a stern fashion. “The brothers hope the same of you. Now if you’d excuse me…”

That was all the good will Stannis could muster before turning his back and sorting through the parchments dampened by the spilled wine. Ned was content to leave him to such and nearly departed when something caught his eye. Among the piles Stannis was making of his letters, a one stood out. More specifically, a name.

“Who is that letter from?” He put in, pointing at the parchment and earning Stannis’s ire.

“These ravens might arrive for you but Castle Black is my command. I will pass none on until I’ve read them. My instructions to Tarly were to sort them by martial matters and then into piles of middling import-”

“Read it then.” There was an edge to his voice but it was earned.

Stannis didn’t like that but set to reading anyways. “It’s from a Lady Elissa Forrester at Ironrath, one of your allies I believe. Nothing of import save that her son is still kept captive at Barrowton. Some talk of a girl and her story telling.”

“What girl?” Ned limped forward to snatch the parchment away from the man.

His eyes swept over it. The name which drew his attention was etched on the parchment plain as day.

‘Jeyne Poole remains our valued guest,’ read the letter, ‘Her tales of are great comfort in these dark days.’

‘Especially those of a little wolf all had forgotten…’

 

SANSA

She was home again.

Not at Winterfell, which was far and broken. She was back at the seaside village, which had sheltered her and the others in their time of need. The first place she had felt safe in a long time,

A different pack moved between the huts and hovels now. The small cousins were sniffing at the empty racks where Meera had hung fish to dry. They whined to find the tiny stable Hodor had tended, still stinking of goat. The wolves pawed at the same rocky garden she and Nan had pulled wild potatoes from, marking the berry bushes Jojen had picked clean.

The wild sister acted the boldest, pushing right into the cottage. It was strange to find no fire burning in the hearth. A pot should be bubbling over the fire, filling the cabin with a savory scent. Bunches of wildflowers adding their aroma to the air.

All of that was gone, the blankets missing from where people once slept. Not the cradle though. The simple thing was made of a coarse pine, roughly carved yet within she found the wood smooth against her snout. The scent of the little one lingered still.

She cried out, summoning her brother. He needed to learn this scent.

Yet he did not appear. Not even when the wild sister yipped for him. So they sought him out, leaving the cabin and village behind, climbing to a patch of land overlooking the sea. There they found the swift brother.

He lay sprawled on a raised patch of earth. The grass covering it was still young, the picked wildflowers strewn about were long since wilted and dead. As dead as the woman buried below the earth.

Roslin. This was where they'd buried Roslin.

An anguished whine came from her brother. An endless, desperate sound. His head sat upon his paws, his yellow eyes staring down at the grave. With the pines looming large over both wolf and grave, a memory came to her. That of a comely young couple, standing before a weirwood, their faces filled with joy and life.

They were gone now. All that remained of Robb was in the wolf. And what remained of Roslin was left here… leaving a trail they had to follow.

Where a cub needed them.  

Sansa awoke to the sounds of a child’s wailing. The light of morning stung at her eyes, though more welcome than the chill in the air. The makeshift tent she bedded down in was so small, she only had to roll over to find the source of the cries.

“What is it, sweetling?” She asked worriedly, lifting the tiny boy free from his furs. Her dream was so troubling that she pawed at him in fear. A touch to the babe’s forehead found it perfectly warm, another to his bottom found his small clothes dry.

“Healthy and hardy as ever.” Sansa pressed his crying face against her cheek in relief. “You’re only hungry, that’s all it is.”

When Sansa was a child, she had often played at being a mother, with dolls acting as her beautiful babes. But those dolls had never looked back at her with such bright blue eyes. Many times she thanked the gods that Roslin had only gifted her son with her brown hair. It would be too much to see Roslin staring back at her in those eyes.

Her mind swam with thoughts of Roslin and wolves. The dream was weeks old, returning now and again to fill her with longing for places and people lost to her.

Better that than the other dream, Sansa thought as she bundled the babe, the nightmare about the wolves and the flayed man…

Domeric sent me away yet he steals into my dreams.

She pushed free of the tent’s animal hides to the sounds of the White Knife. They camped in a wooded glen along the river, hidden by brush and trees. Unsurprisingly, her nephew managed to draw some attention with his wails.

“Hungry is he?” Old Nan asked from near a small cook fire. “Walder, dear boy! Milk Wetty for the young lord’s breakfast!”

“Hodor.”

The stableboy snatched up a bucket with glee, hurrying off to the goat they used as a wetnurse for the babe. Hodor had found Wetty in his search for a midwife, some greedy soul only parting with the goat for all the coin they had. Not that she could fault Hodor. Without Wetty’s milk her nephew might not have lived. Hodor had saved them all in truth, for Sansa could not imagine how they would have fared without the Reeds.

One of the siblings was leaning against a fallen log, cleaning a fish. Meera Reed was shorter than most girls her age and as slim as her frogging spear. Where Sansa wore a common roughspun gown, Meera scorned such attire for leather breaches and scaled hunting vests. Though no great beauty, Meera’s long brown hair and queer green eyes gave her a strange sort charm.

Such must come hand in hand with crannogmen, for Meera’s brother was a mystery as well. Jojen Reed sat near to his sister, staring off at the endless lands beyond. A young man still, Jojen Reed had a wizened air beyond his years. He saw more than what he should, a power he called the greensight.

“A good morning to you, Sansa.” Meera smiled up at her and the squalling babe. “I owe that little wolf some thanks. He waited until the morning to howl. Not like the wolves that kept me up half the night.”

“There were wolves nearby?”

“Not so near.” Meera stood and grabbed at her spear. “Close enough for me to keep this at the ready. It sounded like a hundred of them, you truly didn’t hear?”

“No, I slept soundly.” She hid the lie behind some truth.

The only wolves I heard were the ones in my dreams and they weren’t near at all.

“How did you sleep, Jojen?” Sansa asked quickly. “Did you have any more of your green dreams?”

“Only ones I’ve seen before.” Jojen answered, continuing to search the rolling hills and barrens around them. “I heard the wolves though. They were calling to us. Calling to you, Sansa. Are you sure they didn’t reach you?” 

“Nothing came near the camp.” Meera tapped her spear while Sansa tightened her hold on the babe. “I’ll swear to that. Father didn’t send us all this way just so I could let some wolves get the drop on us” The girl then leaned forward to tickle at the bundle. “Not with Lord Stark out there still needing to meet little Roban here.”

Her nephew quieted some, Meera’s touch and words calming him. To him, the Reeds were like family, having been around every day of his short life. Unlike his parents, who he would never know. In honor of his mother, Sansa had named her nephew after his father. Roban Stark, trueborn heir to Winterfell. Not that any beyond their small group knew the name, the name remained a dangerous place for the Starks. A truth Sansa thought on when Old Nan appeared with a skin of warm milk for Roban, one he suckled on in contented peace.

There’d be no peace if the Boltons knew of him. The traitors would chase us down.

They’d kill my nephew, just like they did all the others.

With the coming of the Reeds, she had learned that Roslin was not the only family she’d lost. When they buried her goodsister, Sansa felt like she was burying Bran too. Nor was he the last. Few travelers ever came to their hideaway, save for the odd Locke levy collector out of Oldcastle. Somehow even those rare visits brought her more pain.

“King Jon’s dead.” Orrhen had told her as if discussing the weather. “Killed by the Lannisters at Riverrun, I wager no one had the chance to mint any coins of him.” He’d guffawed. “Joffrey’s face will be on them now. Another new king.”

Sansa hadn’t fully come around to the idea of Jon being king. Him, their betrothal, being a princess, it all felt like someone else's life. To think that one day they would meet again, let alone that she could be the queen... it was too much.

Especially since the gods weren’t done punishing her for Winterfell. Jon was dead, Rickon and Arya were missing, and the sister she’d never met was stolen away from mother. She’d wept overtop Roslin’s grave until the tears wouldn’t come anymore, staying there until well past nightfall. She would have gladly died right there.

Until Jojen came to her out of the darkness.

“You must have known.” She’d accused the young crannogman. “Your foolish dreams. They helped you find us… find me. Why? Why come for me if you could see all this happening to my family? To Jon?”

“I didn’t know.” Jojen had crouched beside her, speaking like every word was a heavy burden. “At least I’m not sure I did. The green dreams, they don’t always make sense. I saw you freed of chains, hiding near two crossed keys. Skinless men clawing at the merman’s walls. Wolves rising out of the ashes of Winterfell. A three-eyed crow-”

“Nonsense, all of it!” Sansa remembered snapping at him. “You’ve never been to Winterfell, so how can you know it? I name you a liar, Jojen Reed.” The tears flowed freely. “Lies about wolves and crows. Lies about the world ever getting better. Stop torturing me… please… leave me be…”

In that moment Jojen was some creature come to tear at her heart despite all his pledges. The weeks they’d lived together were forgotten. How Meera and Jojen had toiled endlessly to feed and clothe them. Or stood endless watches for any threats on the horizon. How Jojen’s dreams had given her some hope, like the songs she used to sing.

The songs were lies, she'd screamed such over and over again at Jojen. The short youth accepted her fury and tears quietly, waiting until her last rasp to speak.

“Sansa, we didn’t leave the Neck so I could lie to you.” Jojen laid a knife between them on the grave. “If you don’t trust me, take the knife. Treat me as a foe. My father named yours his greatest friend. That’s why he let us come to you. For the loyalty we owe the Starks, for the love he holds for Lord Eddard. He believed me when I told him that the three-eyed crow-”

“We should go south.” She’d argued. “To the Vale.”

“To go south, we must go north. Your father lives, Sansa. Lord Stark lives and shall soon return. You, more than anyone, need to believe that. It’s the she-wolf he’s meant to find.”

His words drove her forward. She left Jojen and his knife by the grave, unwilling to cast him off fully, yet too cautious to swallow his claims. There were little options for them one way or the other. Even if she trusted the Manderlys, the Boltons had camped men outside White Harbor which meant no sailing south.

Thus life at the cottage went on. Until the levy collector returned again, speaking of how the Boltons had moved off. How Wyman Manderly might have given in. There were rumors floating about, convincing enough for Sansa and the rest to leave the village behind. To strike out for weeks of travel. Hard, tortuous days which left her feet screaming and her spirit weak. Only the rumor from the Wall kept her going.

Word of the missing Lord of Winterfell returning to the North.

Father is alive, it felt so good to think let alone hear, he’s back and I have to find him.

I can make amends for all that’s happened... I must…

Not long after the babe finished his meal, they were traveling again. Following the river and heading north, always north. Meera out in front, Hodor pulling the sleigh and leading Wetty along. Old Nan cared for Roban as she often did yet Sansa could not help but notice Jojen walking further back than usual.

“I think Jojen must have had a dream.” Sansa whispered to Meera. “Something foul about my father or else he’d tell me.”

“My brother’s many things, but he's no liar.” Meera reached out to guide Sansa around a mossy rock she might have tripped over. “It’s our father that troubles him. Before we left Greywater Watch, he promised to help when Lord Stark returned. Jojen thought his men would be waiting here on the river.”

“A white knife to plunge into the pale-eyed lord’s back.” Sansa repeated Jojen’s words again, ones she’d dismissed out of fear. There was no doubt who that lord was and she had no desire to go anywhere near Roose Bolton. That’s why their journey had taken such a meandering route, on her command.

“Meera, what if we missed them? Your father’s men? I’m sorry. I didn’t know… I made us take the long way around White Harbor. We would have been on the White Knife weeks back if not for me.”

“You were right to make us.” Meera broke through those dark thoughts by patting her back. “Everything we hear says that the Manderlys serve the Boltons now. No one could help us if we strolled right into the hands of Roose Bolton. We heeded your words because they made sense. Better to be careful than captured or killed.”

Sansa blanched at that. An old wolf dream clawing at her mind. The sounds of hounds. A man screaming. Flayed skin. An ugly mercy.

It was only a nightmare. Think of the cottage instead. Anything else.

Suddenly Meera pulled away from her. “Gods, Sansa, I’m a fool. I didn’t mean your family wasn’t careful. That was a horrible thing to say.”

“Not really.” She said, knowing full well the costs of her own mistakes. “I used to think they were so reckless. Arya, my brothers, even Jon at times. Never myself though, not until it was too late. To think of all those times I told Arya she’d ruin our good name or that Bran would break his neck climbing the tower...”

“So you weren’t jesting about your brother climbing towers?”

“Oh he did it all the time. He scared mother out of her wits. Sweet as he was, Bran never really got in trouble for it. Everyone liked him.”

“I wish I had met him.” Meera smiled as the wind blew down the hills. “It would be a fine thing to name another Stark as a friend. We are friends, aren’t we Sansa?”

She wrung her hands. They were so different, her and Meera. Sansa had learned finer things, like needlework and poetry, where Meera had been taught to hunt and fish. Deep down she knew Arya or Bran would make better companions for Meera yet Sansa had grown fond of her. Whenever Meera tore her clothes on a hunt, Sansa did her stitching. If the lady cleaned a catch, she would beg a song as she worked. That turned to them singing together, Sansa learning different songs and tales of the Neck. They bedded down together, traveled side by side, felt the same fears.

After Roslin, she feared never having such a companion again.

“We are friends, Lady Meera.” Sansa halted their walk by gripping Meera's shoulder. “Whatever comes of your brother’s green dreams, let our friendship stay true.”

“Stop it, I’ll cry.” Meera dabbed playfully at her eyes. “Stark and Reed, it’s meant to be. If only our fathers could see us now.”

“They would say you should help an old woman.” Old Nan wheezed as she carried Roban towards them, her face pained. “It’s good the heir is healthy and heavy but my bones are old and stiff.”

“I can take him.” Sansa said. “Go and rest yourself in the sleigh.”

“Wait.” Meera waved to catch Jojen’s attention. “If Hodor can drag Nan about, put my brother to work. Let him carry the little wolf.”

Nan laughed at that. “Might cheer the little grandfather up some. His mood’s as grey as the sky.”

Hodor beamed to lift Nan onto the sleigh and add to the burdens he carried, yet Jojen balked to carry Roban. He seemed distracted by something in the distance.

“Hey, we’re keeping watch.” Meera hefted up her spear and jerked her head Sansa’s way. “So just hold the babe for awhile. It’s not like he’s a lizard lion or anything.”

“He should stay with Sansa.” Jojen glanced at her for the smallest of moments. “The cub belongs with the Starks. Nothing will hurt him if he’s with her.”

“Why say such a thing?” She asked, unease rising up in.

“The air doesn’t feel right. Not since I woke up, and it’s only been getting worse.”

“You speak of a storm.” Sansa suggested, noting how the sky was a tad darker than usual. The winds blowing from the north were cold and biting, making her grip Roban tighter.

Jojen looked disappointed. “Not a storm. Sansa, you spoke of wolves in your dreams-”

“We’re not talking about my dreams.” She rasped, heart pounding and the babe beginning to fuss. “This is all about yours. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Jojen, answer her.” Meera stepped towards her brother. “If the sight showed you something off-”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Jojen shook his head slowly. “I had the old dreams. Nothing new, I swear. The only thing different was the wolves. Their howling was so loud.”

Meera shook her head. “The wolves never came so close for that. If they were close I would’ve woken everyone.”

“I heard them.” The young man insisted, staring hard at Sansa and touching at his dagger. “You know, Sansa. You heard them too.”

“Everyone did.” Meera protested but Jojen didn't waiver, causing Sansa to recoil.

This talk of wolves. Jojen’s gaze. The babe squirming and helpless. A voice pleading with her desperately. Like Roslin had before the end. Full of pain and fear. Yet the voice from the nightmare hadn’t been her friend’s.

“Mercy.” The bleeding man begged as the wolves circled, sniffing at his flayed skin and bloody wounds. “Mercy… you have to…”

“We have to go!” Sansa shouted, causing her nephew to start and the Reeds to jump. “Now! Away from here! North!”

She could taste the blood again, feel tears springing to her eyes. It was the nightmare that filled her with this terror. Why would it not leave her be? A blood-soaked spell which forced her to recall the Dreadfort. The Boltons.

That’s all behind me. We have to go north. Things will get better then.

She kept repeating that to herself as she trudged onward, ignoring Meera's shouts and the cries of Hodor. Roban’s fussing helped keep her focused. Every step forward was for his good, a step away from the bad times. Away from what she’d done to his mother. Away from all the blood.

I told Domeric I would never be a monster but that was a lie.

Sansa Stark went into the Dreadfort and a monster came out.

She tried to hum a tune then. A welcome one to calm the babe and herself. Yet she had just chosen when a familiar sound reached her ears. Not that of a song.

The howl of a wolf. Not imagined, nor far off.

A howl which drew Meera and the rest to look behind them, back towards a distant hill where nothing but rocks and shrubbery could be seen. Yet when the howl rose again, it clearly came from behind that hill.

“Sansa!” Meera called to her as she grabbed at Jojen. “Sansa! We’ll hide at the river! Put our backs to the water!” She pointed her spear towards the White Knife. “Hodor, go!”

“Hodor!” Hodor replied, digging in his feet to pull the sleigh in the direction Meera pointed. So forceful were his efforts that Old Nan nearly rolled off the blankets and Wetty bleated in anger. Her nephew’s cries were fearful as she carried to the river. She kept an eye on the hill as she ran. It stayed blessedly empty of threat for what felt like an eternity.

Until the riders appeared.

Four men on horseback, dressed in leathers, armed with spears and swords, they didn't so much as pause on the hilltop. The party launched themselves over the other side, each kicking and beating at their mounts. Her heart stopped when their livery became clear, the flayed man of the Boltons. Had the fear overwhelmed her, Sansa might have missed the terror on the riders’ faces. She realized then that this was no charge. These men were not coming to ride them down. They were in a panicked flight.

It was Jojen who spotted them first. He gave a bellow worthy of a larger man.

“Wolves!”

Sansa had to blink to believe her eyes. Sprinting over the hill came a staggeringly large pack. More than a pack, the sheer number of the beasts was beyond comprehension. Twenty. Thirty. There could not be fifty…

She abandoned her count to run in a panic towards the river. The shore was a rocky ledge that dipped down towards rushing waters. The gap between the riders and the wolves closed by the moment. She could feel the pounding of the hooves in her bones. Hear the snarls growing louder.

Then a horse’s scream echoed out. A Bolton and his mount were on the ground, at the mercy of the wolves while their attacker continued his pursuit. A massive beast, the size of a gelding, moving at such a speed that the fleeing horses could not pull away.

By the gods… Grey Wind.

A second direwolf was closing in on another rider. Smaller than her brother yet larger than a wolf had any right to be. The rider threw himself forward against his mount’s neck, cursing as the wolf tore flesh from his exposed leg.

Nymeria…

As the horse faltered under the shifting weight, a scarred wolf made a leap of impossible height at the rider. The direwolf lifted him up and out of his saddle and the man hit the ground. So quickly did the she-wolf strike that he couldn’t make a sound before his throat was torn away. The wolf looked to Sansa then, with wild eyes that had once been so gentle. Her fangs dripping blood.

Lady, she held the babe with one hand, covering her mouth with the other, Oh Lady, did they make you a monster too?

“Sansa! Run!”

Meera’s cry forced her to look away from Lady and Nymeria. As terrible as the sight of their killing was, those were not the wolves she needed to fear. A large number now scorned Grey Wind’s attack on the riders, breaking toward them. Moving so quickly they were on the Reeds in moments.

“Get to the river!” Jojen now held Meera’s wicker shield and his dagger, standing back to back with his sister who readied her spear.

“Don’t worry about us!” Meera jabbed at a wolf that drew too close, three now circling the siblings. “We’ll come for you! Just go!”

Sansa wanted to help but she couldn’t, not with Roban to care for. Hodor and Old Nan were set upon too. Having untied Wetty to allow the goat to flee on to the river, Hodor now fought off two wolves while holding Old Nan high above their snatching jaws.

“Throw me down boy!” Old Nan screeched, beating at his shoulders and weeping to see the wolves tearing at flesh. “Right now! You run! Walder, no!” 

“Hodor!” The poor stableboy cried as the wolves snapped at him, his kicking and flailing barely holding them off. “Hodor! Hodor!”

Three more wolves forced her to turn away and stumble down the riverbank. It was steep and rocky, her balance hard to keep while holding the babe and moving so quickly. Somehow she kept from falling, tearing her hand and skirts as she slid down the embankment. The wolves were having the same difficulties, giving her precious time to seek an escape.

The current was too strong to swim. What wood and brush was gathered along the water’s edge was too little to use to float away. The only thing she saw was collection of boulders, most taller than her. It was there she ran, finding the sides of the boulders smooth with few handholds. She might be able to reach the top if she strained.

Roban was in the midst of squirming terribly when she began to lift him up.

“Quiet now, sweetling.” Sansa trembled, trying to get the boy over the top. “Be brave, be brave for aunt Sansa. This is just an adventure. We’ll have so many together” She lied. “So be brave like your parents were-”

The growl cut her off. Above she could still hear the shouts of the others and the sounds of the wolves. Yet this growl came from right behind her. Turning around, she now faced the wolves, all three with their lips pulled back, mouths snapping in the air.

“You can’t have him!” She screamed, pressing the babe to her breast and grabbing a stone to threaten them with. “I’m not letting you! I won’t!” Her foot lashed out as the beasts closed. “Stay away! I’m a Stark of Winterfell Leave us be! By the gods leave us be!”

Then the gods struck down with a fury. A shadow flew down between them and onto the closest of the wolves. A blur of grey fur and snapping teeth which tore up the damp earth before them, giving the other two wolves pause before they too were set upon. Grey Wind landed amidst them just as Lady sent her defeated opponent off limping and yelping. The others did the same after a furious assault by Grey Wind left both bleeding.

She hugged Roban close, not sure how much safer they were at the mercy of the two feral direwolves. Neither wolf moved, save to watch her carefully. Grey Wind’s eyes locked on the babe while Lady focused on her.

“Sansa!” A hoarse voice called down to her, Meera wincing to lean over the edge of the embankment. “Sansa!? Are you alright?”

“I’m not sure.” She replied nervously. “Say everyone else is okay.”

“We’re alive, not that I really believe it. We were done for until you went over the side and the giant beasts went mad. There’s a big one up here that’s still chasing the others off.”

“Nymeria. Her name is Nymeria.” Sansa met Lady’s gaze. “And this… I hope this is my Lady.”

Her heart still pounded in fear, yet she found the courage to hold out the palm of her hand towards the she-wolf. A test, to see if the wolf she’d known was too far gone. If there was any hope for her still.

A whine broke free from the scarred wolf then, Lady lowering her head and taking a tentative step forward. With that simple gesture, the time and foulness that drove them apart melted away. When Lady licked at her hand, the blood that stained her mouth mattered less than the hurts she eased.

Lady wasn’t a savage beast. Sansa wasn’t a monster.

They were dear friends, a girl and her wolf.

Together again.

 

ARSTAN

The blow came on hard and fast, a powerful fist crashing right into his eye.

His vision exploded in a flash of white, like the injured eye had caught a strike of lightning. The thundering pain which followed robbed him of balance, sending him staggering into a pine, one of many dotting the northern landscape.

A respite cut short when a second attacker took hold of him. This one grabbing at his long, filthy hair. Then landing another strike right across his jaw. The tender flesh of his mouth tore against the teeth within, the taste of blood following after. When he spat it out most of the red dribbled down into his unkempt beard.

A sight which gave his tormentor pause.

“Enough?” The man sounded pained himself.  “Arstan, hear me, pray enough.”

He wanted it to be enough. His face had already endured more blows than he could count. To blink at this point was agony. It could end if he merely asked it to.

Do so and run the risk of worse, he thought, people are depending on you, people you’ve wronged and suffer still.

This is my way forward, this pain all part of it.

So he touched his mouth, and held his tongue.

The meaning clear to his assailant. The shorter man cursed softly, wrenching back a fist to drive straight into his forehead. A welt was already rising from that spot and the second blow tore a grunt from him. His head pounded with a dull, thudding drumbeat. Still he held his ground.

There would be no surrender this time. No turning back. No giving in.

The battle before him now was to stay upright under this assault. A struggle cut short when a shout of alarm reached his ears.

“Hey! Stop there!” A helmed man cried out as he led five others through the trees to come between the trio. “Break this up! You’ll kill the man!”

A false charge at best. They’re saving my life.

That usually means threatening it a bit.

If not for the pain, he might have laughed at his own jest. No else seemed in the mood for laughter as the Dustin men-at-arms drove him away from the two attackers. Like him, the pair were dressed in shabby clothing and looked the worst sort. The taller of the two was muscled like a brute, much of his face hidden by thick black hair and beard. The shorter man was older, one hand scratching at his lice ridden head, the other hovering protectively over his sheathed sword.

To the strangers among them, these were Bull and Roy, two lowborn vagabonds meant for the Wall. Months now and it was still hard to think of them as such. To him, they would always be Gendry and Willem, two knights he knew to be among the truest in the realm.

Friends who still held him to be their king. One of a handful to know Jon still lived.

A ruse the Dustin men were not a part of. They were only days in the North when this patrol had come upon them. Thankfully, none of these Barrowton men seemed to know who they had found. He was taking no chances though and kept his eyes low when a Dustin sergeant sorted out the scuffle.

“Bloody brawlers.” Osric pulled at his braided beard in distaste. “If this is all the Night’s Watch gets nowadays no wonder they’ve fallen so low.” He shoved a finger right into Gendry’s chest. “Bull, is it? The south be damned, here in the North a man is held to account. You just broke peace on Dustin lands, so explain yourself.”

“It was a fight.” Gendry lied, rubbing at his bruised knuckles with a tad too much shame.

“Aye, that’s plain. Why was it a fight?”

“Well, I… he…” Gendry fumbled some so Willem stepped forward to take up the lie.

“A boring tale.” Willem gestured to his sword. “If this was a proper fight, I’d have used this.” He then spit in Jon’s direction. “That one insulted Bull’s family. Called his a father a killer and a whoremonger. Didn’t say much about Bull’s mother mind you, she’s a mystery of sorts-”

“Slighting kin, you say?” Osric stroked his beard. “How’d you get to be involved then? I saw you throw a punch or two with mine own eyes.”

“Oh, you know.” Willem looked to Jon, wincing some at whatever he saw. “Just helping out a friend.”

“He speaks the truth.” Jon wiped blood from his nose and lips. “It’s my fault. All of it.”

“He’s nothing but trouble!” Another weighed in. Stooped and sinister, Yoren of the Night’s Watch could scowl like no other. He was using that talent well as he joined the group. “Arstan Darkbeard, trouble finds him wherever he goes. Trust that this scuffle isn’t the worst folly he’s been saved from. Here’s hoping one day he might be of better use.”

“I highly doubt it.” Osric crossed his arms. “Though from what I’ve seen of your recruits, I’m sad to say these foul characters are the ablest of the lot. Won’t stop me from placing them in stocks if they get out of line at Barrowton. Their conduct will be held against you too, old man.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.” Yoren grumbled. “Might be we should conduct ourselves on our merry way. I had no plans to stop at Barrowton before you lot came around. The Wall awaits us.”

“It can wait a time longer. All men of the Night’s Watch will find a meal and roof at Barrow Hall, as it was in Lord William’s time. Besides, Lady Barbrey has made it clear, strange parties of men cannot travel her lands freely. She won’t have House Dustin suffer as the Starks have. The North remembers.”

I pray it does. Let its lords remember where their true loyalties lay.

To Winterfell and my uncle. To their rightful king.

He was ashamed at how easily the crown had been stolen from him. The Lannisters, the Freys, the Boltons, all played a hand in his fall. That he still lived was because of a man at the heart of that cabal.

Jaime Lannister stole into his mind then. As Jon cleaned the blood from his face, he remembered that night along the river. The night a sword was swung and blood spilled.

Blood which had landed hot and wet across Jon’s face. In the moment, he had thought his own until he realized he still drew breath. When he looked up it was Black Walder whose throat was opened. Ser Jaime’s blade was red, the Frey gargling in shock when he struck out wildly with own sword, catching the Lannister’s golden hand. The pair of cloaked Lannister guards then fell upon Black Walder. The larger holding the Frey down, the shorter covering his mouth and quieting those last gasps.

“Fuck me, it worked.” Willem would say, throwing back his hood as Gendry did the same, both coming to his aid.

“We’re sorry, Jon. I wanted to tell you but the Kingslayer made us swear to keep our mouths shut.”

“A task you’re failing at.” Jaime had chided them while inspecting his damaged hand. “There’ll be time enough to explain things to him once you’re away. Yoren awaits, heed him and we might all get through this with our heads.”

“You’re freeing me?” He’d asked, incredulous and grateful to be saying so. “Why?”

The Kingsguard shrugged. “Killed a king once and don’t much care for the name it earned me. I figure saving a king ought to even things out. Black Walder will act your corpse and I’ll play my part. You just have to run, Jon, and run far. All the way to the Wall.”

Confusion abound, relief and disbelief coursed through him like the river which flowed by. Waters that passed by Riverrun, a castle he had just surrendered out of fear and desperation. His kingdom and crown along with it.

“I will leave but I am not taking the black.” He remembered pulling at his chains to say so, staring Jaime right in the eye. “The pact we sealed was not made in good faith. Joffrey and your father wished me dead from the start. To them, I owe nothing. My debt is to the realm, which deserves a better king.” His words had fallen away at that, the worry creasing Jaime’s face distracting. “And I intend to be that king, ser. For your service this night, I warn you. One day, I cannot say when, the Seven Kingdoms will know I live. Your family will learn-”

“My family is my concern. Seek the Wall or the throne, seven hells, fly off with Daenerys on the dragons. However this goes, I made my choice. The white cloak will sit easier on my shoulders for it. Farewell, Jon Targaryen.”

Sadly, they had not fared well. Their group was small at first, their goal simple. Reach a port and escape to a safe haven. Yoren argued for sailing to Eastwatch, Jon sought Dragonstone and Dany.

They were both disappointed. Maidenpool and the Saltpans were held by the enemy. The Vale denied them after Lysa Arryn closed the High Road due to raiding by the mountain clans. A lengthy journey up the Kingsroad also met in failure, for the Freys were refusing to allow any travellers or trade through into the North.

Days stretched into weeks. Weeks into months. They rarely stopped at villages and holdfasts, sleeping instead under tree and hedges, like the one he knighted Gendry beneath in a secret ceremony. Though his friend had swelled with pride, their clothes would rot with the rains. He lost his boots to the endless trudging, forgot what it was to feel full as their meals becoming few and meager. Yet still they added to their number, doing all they could to seem an actual party of the Night’s Watch. By the time they reached Seagard, Yoren had assembled twenty men and boys to take the black.

More people to hide his true feelings from when he learned about Dany. After months of worrying, it was the captain of the Myraham who shared word of her fate.

“The dragon princess is long gone.” The captain recounted to Yoren when they booked passage on his cog. “It was the talk of Lannisport, how the golden dragon ran off the real ones. She took her beasts and sailed to the Free Cities. Can’t rightly blame the girl after they murdered King Jon.”

Blaming Dany never once entered his mind. Having her far across the Narrow Sea meant she was save from the Lannister’s grasp. A belief he clung to, if only to hold back the hurt and strengthen his resolve.

He told himself they would be together again one day. After Jon proved himself worthy and the realm was his. The Mallisters were held captive at Seagard but the Myraham was his chance of finding other allies. The cogwas bound for the North and their meager coin convinced the captain to take them as far the Barrowlands.

The threat of the Lords Declarant aside, his uncle’s lessons on northern honor caused Jon to hope there were Stark bannermen who might rise up for him. Either out of respect for his claim or loyalty to the Stark blood which flowed through his veins.

Until the captain’s gossip reached his ears and he learned the North had a better sort to rally around. The endless parade of loss had ended, his uncle was alive. Eddard Stark had returned to the North. Though not all were enraptured by Ned Stark’s return. Under Lady Barbrey, the Dustins remained part of the Lords Declarant, an ally to Roose Bolton and enemy to the Starks and himself.

Hence the punishment Gendry and Willem had given his face. The three had snuck away from the caravan to do so, a trail they now retraced through pine trees and brambles. He did his best to avoid low hanging branches, the frail things making his ailing face scream in agony. Even wincing hurt some, though he could not help doing so.  

“I’m sorry it went so far.” Gendry drew close so the Dustin guards wouldn’t hear. “Ser Barristan would be ashamed of me. We should have gone easier on you.”

“The Boltons will do worse if anyone at Barrowton recognizes me.” Jon eased his friend’s mind, putting a hand on his shoulder. To comfort Gendry, and to use his strength to carry on. “With each blow and bruise that comes from it, I’m a different person. It’s not quite time to reveal my true self.”

“You’re daft, y’know?” Yoren put in, Willem and him rejoining their conspiracy. “First because I told you not to be seen leaving camp. Next for thinking to name yourself at all before we reach the Wall. The Kingslayer was right, it’s the best place for you. The Lord-Commander will accept a fallen king better than my excuses for all this. The Starks was good to us, and the Watch can be good to you. There you can find honor and a code. Brothers to stand with.”

“He has brothers.” Willem patted Jon’s back. “Knights, servants, fools, whatever Arstan wishes to call us, we’re with him.”

“To the end.” Gendry added. “Ours before his.”

“Damn straight. So listen here, Yoren, you’re a decent man and a better drinker but I’m not about to lose these two to the black cloak. I didn’t leave my Tess behind to have the story end like that. As it stands she’ll tan me raw…”

“She’s a fine woman.” Jon sighed. “I’m sorry what this has cost you, Roy. A husband should be with his wife.”

“Damn right I should be.” Willem’s voice grew hoarse. “We were trying for a babe before I left. My wife could be fit to bursting and here I am, walking about the Seven Kingdoms with you idiots.” He flexed a fist. “All this, it cost me my family. Couldn’t bring myself to hit you without thinking on that. On what my boy deserves.”

“He’ll find a way.” Gendry looked to Jon without a hint of doubt. “In the worst moments against my father, Barristan never lost faith. He knew the sort of man we served. I didn’t, not until what you did for my brothers. You gave them justice. Justice from the one true king.”

He bore Gendry’s devotion in silence. If only to stop himself from correcting his knights. Truthfully, it was not justice Jon thought on when he lay his head upon the hard ground each night.

Only fire and blood.

That’s what the Iron Islands have earned. I’ll bring it to the Twins. Then to Casterly Rock itself.

Let justice be found among the ashes.

Those dark wants had grown stronger here in the North. Years before, a pampered princeling had come to these lands, naïve to the world and full of dreams of what awaited him at Winterfell. Now he strode about in rags, a fugitive whose feet had been toughened by travel, his heart by worse.

Back at the caravan, he fit in well with the rest of the Night’s Watch recruits.

A ragtag group of men collected about a few wagons and the Dustin horse. The last time Jon visited Barrowton he had done so in the company of a Kingsguard and the Lord of Winterfell. This time his companions were mostly orphans or criminals. Although they outnumbered the Barrowton patrol nearly three to one, the recruits were either too young or too unsavory to be depended on in a fight.

Not that Jon would be of much use, he only carried a rusty dirk. Gendry wielded a club, Willem the sword he’d never had the chance to give his son. Osric’s men were well-armed and mounted, leaving Jon little option but to be herded along by the patrol. It took more than half the day to reach Barrowton, time which passed far too quickly for his liking. When the walls and towers of the town appeared ahead, Jon willed his face to swell all the quicker.

Yet it was Osric who fell to cursing as they drew nearer. His ire stoked by another party of riders gathered outside the town gates. Men wearing strange armor and flying a banner bearing a broken sword.

Gendry grabbed at Jon’s arm then. “I know that banner. It’s the Second Sons. The Golden Company fought them in the Free Cities. My father sometimes drank with them.”

“The scum Viserys used to take Winterfell.” He clenched his teeth, counting thirty riders among the sellswords and wishing them all to share in a shallow grave.

The guards manning the gate shared his ill will towards the Second Sons. A Dustin steward was trading barbs with an aging brown-skinned rider, the leader of the sellswords he thought.

“Think carefully, fool.” The sellsword barked, gesturing to his men. “Our ride was long, our numbers fewer than they were. Arms and men, that’s what Barrowton is to give us. That and hospitality, as commanded by Ramsay Bolton himself.”

“Ramsay Snow has no hold over House Dustin.” The steward sent back, spearmen and archers adding weight to his words. “My lady will suffer none of your filth in our town, Ben Plumm. Be away from here, lest we send you back to Lord Snow in pieces.”

Before the sellsword could reply, the others alerted him to their approach. Gendry and Willem pushed in close around Jon as they passed by the Second Sons. The recruits tensed, the Dustin riders glaring openly or spitting in disgust. Ben Plumm cared not, his eyes moving from Yoren to Jon and his friends.

“Move aside.” Osric commanded. “These are guests of House Dustin and have leave to enter the town.”

“What’s this?” Plumm smiled in a way which did not touch his eyes. “I spot black cloaks here. My Second Sons are in the employ of Lord Bolton, how is it that agents of Stannis Baratheon are given safe conduct and we are ordered away.”

“They have good taste?” Yoren scratched at his lice-ridden head, earning a glare from Plumm that was broken when Osric rode between them.

“The men of the Night’s Watch have always been welcome at Barrow Hall. You lot are welcome to kiss my hairy arse.”

“I like him.” Willem whispered and Gendry grinned.

“Didn’t know you had a thing for hairy arses.”

A grunt from Jon silenced the both of them. He didn’t care at all for how Plumm continued to watch after them. A stare which ended only when they passed through the gate until the sellswords were lost to sight. Osric led them on towards Barrow Hall, a castle of wooden walls and square towers sitting on the Great Barrow Hill.

Most of their party was sent on to a servants’ hall while Osric impressed Jon and his friends into joining Yoren for an audience in the Great Hall. It made him uneasy how familiar the long, open room felt. A memory came to mind of Robb sitting at one of the empty tables, laughing away at some jest. Then one of a young Sansa dancing with Lord Willam, graceful beyond her years.

All that brought on a worse hurt than his face, wounds he was thankful for considering who awaited them at the head table. He prayed Barbrey Dustin did not recognize him with the same ease.

The lady sat in a place of esteem, right beside the seat of the castle lord. Though the hall itself was deserted, that empty chair cast a greater pall over things. Gone were Willam Dustin’s laughter and jests, lost along with the smiles of his wife. Never the warmest lady, Barbrey had become a harsher widow. Worry lines creased her face, her gaze hard and unflinching. The steward from the gates was there, whispering to Barbrey and the lady’s only companion, her brother, Roger Ryswell. Whatever the steward said brought no joy to Barbrey, only a pinched look of disapproval.

“A good day to you, my lady.” Osric bowed, urging them to do the same. “I bring Yoren of the Night’s Watch and his men. They have travelled a long ways-”

“Too far from Wall in my mind.” Barbrey narrowed her gaze on Yoren. “You’re familiar. I recognize your hunched back.” Her waved dismissively towards Jon and the others. “And the foul company which follows you about.”

“I was here three years back, m’lady.” Yoren replied. “House Dustin has always been good to the Watch. Lord Willam welcomed us with ale and warm bread.”

“My husband is dead. That esteem he held for the Night’s Watch, for the Starks, all it gave him was a cold grave. Fighting for others when we needed... when Barrowton needed its lord. Clearly taking Willam wasn’t enough. Are you here to join the clamoring for my strength? Ned Stark and Stannis Baratheon must be desperate indeed to send such shabby envoys.”

“Can’t speak to that.” Yoren shrugged. “Wasn’t my choice to come here. We’re just trying to get back to the Wall so these recruits can take the black.”

“A death march then.” Roger grumbled into his goblet. “Gods, Barbrey, it rankles me. Give the poor bastards a stable to bed in and some bread.”

An argument Barbrey met with derision. “After turning away that sellsword scum? They saw the Night’s Watch here. To give these men shelter is to give Roose more reason to doubt us. He’s distrustful by nature, Lord Stark’s return has only made that worse. We cannot go to Winterfell under such suspicion and expect good to come of it.”

As Roger chewed on that Jon paid heed to the hints of distaste in how Barbrey spoke Roose Bolton’s name. A hopeful sign if not for how his uncle’s name was uttered in the same manner. He was thinking on her words on Winterfell when the lady turned her attention back to them.

“As the Night’s Watch has taken up arms against the appointed Lord Paramount of the North, I must refuse you stay within our walls. Take heart that I do not clamp you in irons. Seek Goldgrass, it is not far and Harwood Stout will offer what House Dustin cannot give.”

“But we must!” A shout came from the hall entrance, where a young man was now striding forward.

The first thing Jon noticed was how much taller Roddy Dustin had grown in the two years since Winterfell. Then how the young man was missing his left arm. Viserys had maimed the young heir so and his stomach rolled to think on it.

“Mother, you know better.” Roddy said with conviction. “Father always helped the Night’s Watch Tell her, Osric! Uncle Roger! It’s the honorable thing to do.” The lad looked Jon’s way then. “We’ll find you beds, food…”

Roddy’s words trailed off, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Jon hid his face away quickly, thankful Barbrey came to rein her son in.

“Roderick, we talked about this.” Barbrey was out of her seat and clutching at Roddy’s shoulders, pulling the confused lordling’s attention to her. “By your next nameday, you shall be Lord of Barrowton. A day neither of us will ever see if we act rashly. The gilded pretender on the throne backs Roose Bolton and he’s decreed the Night’s Watch as enemies-”

“I don’t care what the Boltons say. Lord Stark is back. It’s him we should help. The Starks and the Night’s Watch.”

“Like they did for us?” Barbrey’s hand shot to where Roddy’s sleeve was sown over his stump, pulling at it. “You gave the Starks an arm. Your father gave his life. The Boltons will take more if we are not smart.”

“It’s not right.”

“Neither was the price I had to pay to get you back from the sellswords.” She sounded pained to say so. “But I’d do it again, just as you’ll stomach this. You will not end up like Robb Stark. Or Jon Targaryen. So we shall order the Night’s Watch away…”

The mention of his name bid Jon to glance up, only to find Roddy looking his way once more. The heir’s jaw had dropped and his face was paling. Jon thought to hide again when Yoren suddenly cuffed him across the face.

“Damn you, Arstan!” Yoren’s curse rose over the shock of the rest. “Apologies, m’lady. Caught this one giving the lord his evil eye. I’ll be getting him away, Goldgrass, you said? That’s where we’ll go.”

“Wait.” Roddy ordered, going against Jon’s prayers and coming straight to him. Their eyes met and there was no hiding anymore. The lad saw through his wild hair and raised welts.

“How? I don’t understand…”

“A thousand apologies.” Jon made his voice as gravelly as he could. “Meant no insult, m’lord. I beg your leave, to be on my way. That be for the best.” He swallowed deeply. “I’d thank m’lord for that.”

Roddy’s confusion deepened yet the lad made no move to scream out Jon’s name. Then Barbrey was there, pulling her son away as Yoren shoved Jon back behind Willem.

“To let them stay is to court trouble.” Barbrey waved Osric over. “You brought the black cloaks in, you can see them to the Stouts. Move swiftly and you need not spend the night outdoors.”

“Fine by me.” Willem mumbled, yanking Jon onward. Each step away from the Dustins was a step to freedom. An escape brought to a halt when Roddy gave a cry.

“Hold there.” The lordling commanded, coming to Yoren first and extending his hand. “I’m sorry this is all I can do. I wish you safe travels. Better days.”

Yoren nodded and shook Roddy’s hand. Actions the heir repeated with each of them, though when Roddy came to Jon he leaned in a tad closer.

“I wish I could do more.” Roddy whispered, gripping Jon’s hand tightly. “The North Remembers, King Jon.”

“As do I.” He replied, squeezing the heir’s hand right back. “Thank you, my lord.”

They did not linger after that, Jon fearful of Barbrey witnessing all this. Gendry swore the lady had taken to eyeing Jon with interest. That only spurned them to make greater haste from Barrowton and towards Goldgrass. When they left the town they saw no sign of the Second Sons. Though the Stout keep was only a mile away, darkness fell quicker than they moved. Jon spent much of that time looking behind them, half expecting to find a Dustin army chasing after him.

None appeared, the only torches to be seen belonging to them and the handful of riders under Osric. The Dustin sergeant paid him little mind, preferring to shout at Jon O’Nutten and Qyle during their efforts to free the wheel of a stuck wagon. A distraction Yoren used to gather the trio together.

“The boy recognized you.” Yoren frowned. “Might be his mother will too if she thinks on it.”

“Her or Roger.” Jon admitted. “He saw me last at the Tourney of Winterfell. I can’t say where his eyes were in the hall though.”

Willem spat. “On you. The way Lord One Arm was acting drew a lot of attention.”

“Roddy kept his tongue in the hall.” He couldn’t deny how good it felt to already have on northern lord on his side. Even if it was a boy. “He stayed true.”

“Willing to bet your life on that lasting?” Willem asked. “That Dustin woman is a cunning one. If she gets it into her head you’re more than you seem…”

Gendry pointed to the rest. “The Lady wouldn’t even risk feeding our sorry group out of fear of the Boltons.”

“Imagine how quickly she’d sell out a king.” He took their point and Willem spoke the option Jon now toyed with.

“Might be time we break off from this lot.”

“I name that mad.” Yoren folded his arms across his chest before sighing. “No madder than sticking with us though. If word gets out about you three there won’t be much chance of any of us reaching the Wall.”

“A risk I’d not take.” His decision made, Jon clapped a hand down on Yoren’s good shoulder. “I thank you for everything, Yoren, but tomorrow we part ways. I can’t tell you where we’ll go-”

“Wouldn’t go well if you did.” Yoren twisted his mouth in what could have been a wry smile. “Alright then. Let’s make haste to this keep then. If there’s only the one night left, I’d rather spent it drinking with a king than stumbling around in the dark.”

That sounded like a plan, save that the wagon still remained stuck. So, while Gendry added his strength to the efforts, Jon and Willem sought a thick branch to use as a pry. They were nearing a darkened patch of trees when Willem stopped abruptly.

“You hear that?” The knight asked, his eyes peering away from the trees, hand sliding to his swordbelt.

“I hear plenty. Osric cursing. Yoren cursing back. My stomach-”

Then he did hear it, or rather he felt it. A rumbling of sorts. One he knew well from battle. The sound of a great many horse galloping across open ground. A rumble coming their way.

“There!” Willem pointed into the wood. Between the trees, glowing like fireflies in the night, moved a mass of burning lights. A long line of torches, arching around the edge of the tree cover.

“Hey!” Urreg shouted from the fore of their column, Koss and him pointing their torches ahead into the night. “Who’s that then?”

“More of them Dustin riders.” Koss suggested but Jon didn’t think so. Nor did Osric, who rose up from where he had been inspecting the wagon.

“Too many for a patrol.” The sergeant moved to pull a sword free from his saddle. “Tiber! Marv! Back on your horses!”

The five Dustin men were soon ahorse yet made a pitiful display against the force which emerged from the darkness. Scores of armored riders, half carrying torches, the rest weapons. Jon and Gendry were back with the others as the newcomers circled about. Their leader rode out from the cordon, smiling widely.

“Well, well.” Ben Plumm touched the end of a dagger against his finger, twirling it about as he looked over their number. “Fancy finding you lot out in the night. Not a good idea to wander outside Barrowton’s big, safe walls.”

“You were ordered off these lands!” Osric bellowed and the smile disappeared.

“That would mean ignoring the orders I received from your overlords. I need to replenish my ranks, Ramsay Bolton wishes a proper escort for his betrothed and her family. We have mounts to spare, now all I need is men to sit their saddles. I see some here who will do nicely.” He waved at Gendry then. “Like the bastard of Robert Baratheon himself.”

“Not on my watch.” Yoren pulled free his own sword. “These men travelled far to take the vows. To be better than some well-dressed cutthroats. You come near any man here without leave, and you’ll meet the sword in the darkness.”

Jon O’Nutten followed his lead, notching a bow and a few others armed themselves as well. His knights already had their weapons in hand when Jon drew forth his dirk. A display which set the Second Sons to chuckling.

“Fine words. Truly.” Plumm bowed his head before smiling again. “Sad to say, Lord Bolton has declared the lives of any black cloaks away from the Wall to be forfeit.” He then pointed to Yoren. “Kill the cripple first. Spare the Dustin riders and any who can be of use. We can’t be disappointing Lord Ramsay.”

The sellswords moved swiftly, their weapons lowered into a steel tipped noose that tightened as they urged their mounts onward. The Dustins were surrounded by spearpoints and torches, driving them away from Yoren’s group which was set upon viciously.

“Mercy!” Koss begged as the orphans wept and tried to run. Their actions for naught, a flail caving in Koss’s head and the young boys ridden down.  Jon O’Nutten loosed his bow, only for the arrow to deflect off a Qohorik’s armor while Urreg crushed in a horse’s eye with his maul. He would have helped if a pair of riders weren’t upon them. Willem cut at one’s spear and Gendry leapt up at the other, trying to wrestle him from his saddle.

“Get on the horse!” Gendry shouted to Jon. “Hurry! Get out-”

A boot to face sent Gendry sprawling backwards. The sellsword didn’t turn in time to stop Jon from doing as Gendry asked. He grabbed at the saddle and pulled himself up, only just high enough to take hold of the rider and throw both of them free of the horse.

They rolled over one another, his enemy losing his sword and Jon coming out on top. The pair were struggling over his dirk while men were slaughtered all around. He could hear their screams. The ringing of steel. A wagon was burning.

Yoren’s body sprawled out before it, his head cracked open and eyes wide. Then the dirk was his again, the foe now holding out his hands and pleading.

“No! Wait! You don’t have to do this!”

I do, he drove the blade down into the man’s neck, this is what I have to do.

The dirk cut through flesh, grinding against bone. He raised it up, blood spurting free of the gasping man before driving it down again.

As many times as it takes… until this is over… until it’s all over.

The light had left his foe’s eyes when others tore Jon away. The battle was lost yet he lashed out all the same. Fists struck his face and he tasted blood yet he fought on.

He had felt worse.

And this was far from over.

Chapter 29

Summary:

To avenge brave ghosts, whose day’s not done. To brave the rising of the ride.

ARYA  

There were a hundred smells to King’s Landing. Most of them bad, like the filth from open sewers or the stench of the tanning shops. The sweaty, unwashed people moving through the streets spread odors all their own.

Not that some pleasantness couldn’t be found now and again.

The lilies Arya now sniffed deeply of were a blessing. Piled high in a basket, the flowers might not be the finest goods along this peddler’s way but their cheerful seller was easily her favorite.

“Careful there, girl.” Kally quipped, the young flower peddler throwing back her fair hair to smile. “Don’t be sticking your nose too far down, you’ll crush my living. Those lilies are as fresh as the morning sun. About as delicate as my Perkin here.” She cooed down at the fussing babe slung about her chest before swinging the flower basket Arya’s way. “Mind lightening my load for a moment, Weasel?”

“Gladly.” Arya agreed, much preferring to hold the basket than the tiny babe. “Take your time, really.”

She grinned to breathe in the fresh scent of the lilies again. Closing her eyes, she could travel far away from King’s Landing.

This was different than the wolf dreams though, it was her memories that helped her escape. Months of living in the bustling city made her yearn to be back on the open seas or strolling through the open countryside of the Reach. Her heart beat harder to think on riding across the fields of Winterfell again, the brisk hair blowing her hair back. All better than being shoved about by callous peddlers or groped at by cutpurses. That was life here in King’s Landing and she opened her eyes to face that truth.

Not that there was much truth to be found in this city. Her world had become one of half-truths. From the merchants selling stolen goods to the gold cloaks who only kept thieves at bay for a price, nothing was as it seemed.

Arya certainly wasn’t. To Kally and most in King’s Landing she was Weasel, the beggar girl. With her filthy and torn clothes and the heavy bundle of kindling by her feet, she looked like any other orphan struggling to make do.

They wouldn’t see me for what I am. I might be poor and without family but I’m no beggar.

I’m a Stark of Winterfell. A wolf on the hunt. The rebel in their midst.

If any were to look within her bundle they’d find the truth. Safely tied amongst the kindling was Needle, ready to be drawn at the moment’s notice. Doing so would likely grab the type of attention she wished to avoid now. With all the deftness Lommy the sneak thief had taught her, Arya slipped her hand within Kally’s basket and plucked the message out from under the lilies.

She was tucking into up her sleeve when she nodded to Kally it was safe to take the basket back. They were experts at this mummery now.

“When do you think you’ll go searching for flowers again?” Arya asked, wondering how soon Kally could get out of the city to reach out to the highwaymen upon the Kingsroad.

“A few days at the earliest.” Kally lifted up a foot in mock pain. “The load’s getting heavy enough that I’ll be needing a rest first. The Tyrells and their flower parades are making things hard, I’ve been having to travel farther and farther out. All sorts of pickers about the Gate of the Gods these days, as hungry as lions I say.”

More Lannister men at the gates. The sour ser was right.

Arya lifted up her bundle with a wheeze. “Try the Dragon’s Gate maybe?”

“I will. That is, if the lilies be selling well today…”

Unlike others, Arya didn’t begrudge Kally’s need for coin to do what was right. The young woman was only a few years older than Sansa would’ve been by now yet shouldering burdens her sister never had. She couldn’t give Kally any coin herself, but she knew others were on their way.

“Don’t worry.” She said. “I bet a couple lovelorn fellows with fat pockets will be by later on. Trust me. More than enough for both of you.” Arya tickled at Perkin’s chubby arm before locking eyes with Kally, her good cheer falling away. “Where’s the best place for a golden dragon?”

“In my purse.” Kally said before lowering her voice.

“In the ground…”

“Anywhere but the throne.” They whispered togethed.

The rallying cry of the Sons of the Dragon.

Kally then patted her shoulder as Arya turned to head off down the Street of the Sisters. Though the two were always careful to keep their hatred of Joffrey and the Lannisters hushed, being this close to Flea Bottom meant they weren’t alone in feeling so. Memories of the siege were still fresh in this part of the city, loyalty to Jon and Daenerys running even deeper. Those who might forget were served up with reminders often enough.

Arya came upon one underway at a crossroads. A septon wearing roughspun wool stood upon a barrel, waving a frayed book at those gathered below him.

“Look to the Seven-Pointed Star for the truth!” The frail man moaned with a large voice. “Look to the corruption of our High Septon! The lewdness and gluttony of his false devout! They take Lannister gold, not for the glory of the Seven, but to sate their avarice! Silken robes! Golden rings! Whores of both sexes! They make a mockery of the Faith, treating true believers as fools! Fools for the False King Joffrey!”

“King Aegon never starved us to build himself new ships!” A woman cried out from the crowd.

“I saw the White Prince after the Usurper died!” A man shouted from behind her. “Red from head to toe! Blackfyre just the same! Where was the lions then?!”

“They were buying the crown!” The septon held the book higher. “My septry at the God’s Eye was sacked by the Usurper first, but the lions came after! Our septas were raped! Brothers were hanged from trees!” He paused to let that horror sink in. “Crimes against the Faith that the High Whore forgave- for gold!! Instead of punishing them, he blessed the culprits with holy oils! Joffrey Targaryen! Tywin Lannister! The Kingslayer!”

“Traitor!” The crowd seethed at Jaime’s mention, Arya tensing herself. “Murderer!”

She had seen enough, turning away as hurt rose up in her chest. Jon was dead, murdered by a knight she has been fooled into thinking was true. The sermon went on as Arya left, not so much as stepping on a foot or earning a curse as she drove ahead. That’s why the others had taken to calling her Weasel.

Moons back she had come to King’s Landing as Robb, a deck swab aboard the Lady of the Tower. Life at sea had been a trial, the hard work somehow easier than keeping up the lie that she was a boy. Keeping her hair cut short, her budding chest hidden, and other foolishness had felt worth it when they reached the capital.

Only to find it crawling with Lannisters, the cruel prince who had maimed Bran ruling as king. Arya had seen red at this news while Lady Lynesse greeted it with glee.

“How wonderful!” Lynesse Hightower had cheered upon hearing that her husband, Gerion Lannister, now served as an admiral in the traitorous fleet. “We shall throw a ball in celebration! For Gerion and our new, rightful king.”

Somehow Arya found the strength not to throw the lady overboard. Her despair only grew worse when Lynesse turned their ship over to Joffrey’s use, so it could help in an attack against some fleet trying to help Jon. A fleet belonging to Princess Daenerys.

“There’s got to be something we can do.” Arya would whisper to Bronze Jon as they swabbed the decks. “Warn Jon and Daenerys somehow?”

“Well we’re not going to sail with this lot to fight them, that’s for sure.” Her friend had looked to the other ships at port. “We came all this way... guess it won’t hurt to try for Dragonstone. Want to wager that Sarella beat us here and has a ship ready?”

Royce lost that wager, in fact King' Landing was worse than Oldtown somehow. Anyone they approached for passage to Dragonstone turned them away fearfully.

“Get away from me!” A Gulltown trader had shoved Bronze Jon back and raised a fist to Arya. “You’ll not be serving ME up to Tywin Lannister. I’m a loyal man! Loyal I say! L-long live King Joffrey, l-long LIVE KING JOFFREY!”

She had grown wroth at that. “He’s no king and you’re a traitorous-”

“Not so loud.” Royce whisked them away, Arya suddenly mindful of how many now watched them, drawn by her words.

In that moment she had felt an utter fool. Worse still when they were set upon by three men on their way back to the Hightower ship. Arya couldn’t free Needle to defend herself, and she was helpless save for kicking and scratching as she was carried into an alley, a rag shoved in her mouth and a hood thrown over her head. She had thought Lannister agents had grabbed them up and they were bound for some dungeon.

The cellar they ended up in was dank enough to be a dungeon but it wasn’t a Lannister one. Their attempts to reach Dragonstone and Arya’s outburst had caught the attention of a different group. A dangerous sort.

One that needed their help.

As Arya hurried on towards Visenya’s Hill and the massive Dragon Pit, she smiled at the memory of the Lady of the Tower burning at anchor. She liked to think that the fire could be seen up at the Red Keep, where Lynesse and Gerion feasted with Joffrey, Cersei, and their like. With all that Arya and Bronze Jon knew of the ship, like how easily a certain deckhand could be bought off, it hadn’t been hard to make off with some supplies before setting the galley aflame. Others burned with it, three less warships that the Lannisters could use against Daenerys and Jon.

We tried, Jon. I did my best... even if it wasn’t enough.

Robb, Bran, Sansa... I couldn’t save any of you but I won’t give up.

Not until they pay for what they did to you. I’ll never give up.

Daunting and dark, the huge dome of the Dragonpit was supposed to be abandoned but Arya knew better. She was meant to be alone in her journey yet she felt eyes watching her, from darkened windows of empty huts and shadows of alleys. None approached the Dragon Pit without being seen.  The roads that led to the dome’s thick bronze doors were clear but Arya scorned them for a lesser known entrance. Away from the grander archways, a smaller passage meant for carrying out dragon droppings was her way in. A pair of men lurked about the entrance, dressed as drovers... except for the swords hanging off their belts.

There were too few torches to light the way properly but Arya was comforted by the darkness. They were safest in the shadows. She had become so used to these dark passages that she sometimes felt out of place in the open. In the dark she could tell apart the honest from the liars.

The day the Tyrells arrived had been strange for her and the city. Lord Tyrell had left the city as Jon's ally but returned as a friend of the Lannisters and their Florent pets. The lord showed no shame for his treachery, nor Garlan or Margaery Tyrell, as they waved to the cheering crowds while Tyrell servants threw flowers and fruit into the air.

A better welcome than the one Arya got when she emerged into the lower passages of the Dragon Pit. A few score men were gathered below, practicing with weapons, women sewing up disguises, yet none paid her much mind save an enraged Bronze Jon.

“Fucking hells!” Her friend threw his arms up in frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going on a run?!”

“I had to leave before I could.” She dropped the bundle of wood and pulled Needle free. “It’s not like you could’ve come. Ser Sour needed you for more secret meetings.”

Royce was taken aback by that. “Hey, I didn’t ask to do that. He wants me to tell people what happened at the Bloodwater. It might get us some help. If you want to do it instead then just tell them the truth-”

“Shut it.” She pulled the squire close enough to smell his foul breath. “They'd never let me out again. You know what they’re like. Beggar girls have their uses but ladies have to be protected.” Arya unsheathed Needle a bit. “I can do more with Needle than with my name. So keep it out of your fool mouth.”

“Fine, as long as you close yours.” Royce waved a hand in front of his nose. “Your breath is terrible.”

“Yours is worse!” She shot back. “So who heard the truth this time? Another septon?”

Royce shrugged. “Some lord with a beard. They never named him but he seemed familiar.”

“Half the lords in the kingdom have beards.” Arya rolled her eyes.

“I guess that’s why he looked familiar!”

They were about to fall into bickering again when the shuffling of Hot Pie interrupted them. The large baker’s boy was spattered with flour, his chin quivering in excitement.

“Weasel! You’re back! That’s great!”

“Wait till you smell her breath.” Royce muttered. “Why do you care?”

“Care? Oh!” Hot Pie blushed. “It’s not like that. I was taking bread to the heads and the ser said to see if Weasel was back. They want to see you.”

“Me?” Arya shared a confused look with Jon before remembering what was hidden up her sleeve. “Not me. They want the message. Well, best not to keep them waiting.” She started to follow Hot Pie but paused to pull at Royce. “Come on then. Since you’re set on knowing where I go and what I do.”

Hot Pie sneered at that. “You like Weasel?”

“No one likes Weasel!” Royce cuffed the baker, before earning a hit from Arya.

After some bickering they came to a makeshift door guarded by a few men wearing tattered golden cloaks. Only Arya and Bronze Jon were allowed entry into the alcove where three men sat around an ugly table.

The three heads to their tiny rebellion. The eldest was the Sparrow, a small, thin septon with grey hair and hard eyes. He sat as far as possible from the bald, plump form of Lord Varys, whose hands were folded within in massive silken sleeves. Between the unlikely pair sat a knight with black eyes and streaks of grey hair. As sour-faced as he was, Arya saw little of the jovial knight that she had heard about from Royce.

There was a fourth person who didn’t belong. A young woman stood before the table, a Summer Islander who was both tall and beautiful, and now looked their way with curiosity.

“Why is the squire here?” The Sparrow asked. “We’ve no further need of you.”

“Let him stay.” Alliser spoke in a sharp, cold tone. “He was trained well and served King Aegon with honor. The boy has earned his place in this.”

Varys tittered. “Intriguing. I agree. I can say from experience, the young draw less attention than most would think. One should never underestimate their uses.” His gaze moved to Arya. “Or what secrets they might carry.”

The Sparrow made a face at that but said nothing more. They had Arya bring the message then, and she caught the annoyance of Varys and Thorne when the Sparrow snatched it first. It was no secret among the sons that their leaders despised one another. They were only together out of necessity.

Alliser and his loyal men had escaped capture only because they were hidden by followers of the Sparrow. It was Varys and his little birds that found them safe haven while seeking more of their like. Such was how Arya had become part of an army raised from the sewers and grown in the shadows, waiting to strike back in the name of their murdered kings.

“Your highwaymen have met the ghosts.” The Sparrow said before Varys finished reading. “It seems Beric Dondarrion cannot give what you asked.”

“Damn.” Thorne cursed, ignoring the septon’s disapproval. “The Lightning Lord and his ghosts have been hitting the Freys hard since the betrayal. Weapons, men, coin, any of what they've pilfered could help us launch a real strike here.”

“Perhaps these ghosts have given themselves over completely to brigandry.” The Sparrow offered. “Lord Beric’s faith is suspect at best. All speak of his close association with the idolater, Thoros.”

“Thoros of Myr is long dead.” Varys sighed mournfully. “As many of the ghosts might be, had the Lightning Lord not proved a cunning leader. The Freys are vicious foes and the ghosts depends on a few loyal river lords who denounce the outlaws to the throne while secretly aiding them.”

Thorne scowled. “Well we need bloody help too. Sons of the Dragon we call ourselves. I count more children and weak-kneed preachers among us. What sort of uprising can I wage without able-bodied men? Half the ones we have don’t carry proper weapons!”

The ser wasn’t inspiring much confidence. That proved to be a duty the Sparrow and Varys were up to.

“Ser, remember your sacred vows.” The Sparrow spoke softly. “As long as we battle for the restoration of the Faith, the Seven will provide. The crimes committed by Houses Lannister and Florent go beyond the murder of King Aegon. It was an offense against the gods above. The young squire’s testimony will win what Lord Beric denies us.”

“It may have already done so.” Varys reluctantly agreed. “Today’s guest can give us all you seek to build our strength. We simply need to prove ourselves worthy of such aid. If we believe the word of our friend among the foxes, the time to strike is tonight.”

They’re talking about fighting, she realized, after all this time!

“We are worthy!” Arya grabbed at Needle’s pommel, to the trio’s shock. “Everyone else is bending over backwards for murderers and thieves but not us. We shouldn’t run and hide anymore. It’s their turn to be scared!”

“She’s right!” Bronze Jon nodded vigorously. “I’ll talk till I’m blue in the face if it helps, but just give me the chance to hurt some of those-”

“Quiet!” Thorne barked, rising from his seat. “A beggar and squire do not dictate to us! Some in the realm may let themselves be led by a foolish child, but not me!”

An angry challenge was building in her when Bronze Jon snatched at her wrist and shook his head. He didn’t have to say why. Royce wanted to fight as much as her, he just knew yelling at these men wouldn’t help them do it. So Arya reluctantly backed off, lowering her head yet catching how Varys eyed her strangely.

“I trained you better, lad.” Thorne said to Royce before turning his attention to her. “Do you think I’d let a waif hear any of this if she wasn’t to play a role? I’m no fool. I’m a knight of the realm, meant for battle, not sitting idle.” The knight looked ready to spit when he sat again. “Go on Varys, tell them of the storied fight you wish us to wage.”

Varys beckoned the mystery woman forward, smiling to introduce her.

“This is Alayaya, her mother operates an... establishment. One which has proven quite popular with the wrong sort of people.”

“A den of ill repute.” The Sparrow turned his nose up at Alayaya, who took no offense.

“My mother allows no illness in her brothel. All you’ll find are clean women who have earned the right kind of reputations.”

“Chataya certainly has.” Varys added. “She is a dear friend who could not come herself, as she is busy with arrangements of the utmost importance. A certain element has made reservations with her girls tonight. Clients of great interest to our cause.”

“Men we intend to kill.” The sour ser grunted, his face full of disdain as he looked upon Arya. “A noble deed tainted by the means we must use.”

She didn’t understand at first, and even when she did it was still a struggle to hand over Needle. No argument she made could win them over, abandoning the sword was the price she had to pay to take part.

It was well after dark when Arya arrived at Chataya’s brothel, her skin still raw from recent scrubbing and new gown itching. Unlike the women within, she wasn’t dressed in lace or flowing silks. Hers was a simple gown, a servant’s garb, and that was how she was treated by Chataya when the woman welcomed her into the two story manse.

“The spider chose well.” Chataya said, placing a silken sack into her hands. “Play your part better and follow my lead.”

She did her best. The brothel was a place of ornate lamps and exotic scents, a mosaic upon the floor showing two women entwined in a way that made Arya blush. Yet when they arrived in the large common room, the heat in her cheeks was dosed by the cold fury in her heart. Three men sat within, an older lord with two younger men watching an olive-skinned girl as she danced to the playing of a lute. All three looked to be kin.

“Another one?” The older man asked when he caught sight of Arya. “She's young enough, I might find the strength for another go.”

“Not one of mine, Lord Aenys.” Chataya beamed to present her. “She serves the merchant I spoke of. If you are in search of gifts worthy of royalty, he will provide.”

“For a king’s ransom?” A stringy haired man worried aloud before looking to the young squire beside him. “Surely one gift from our father will be enough, right, Tion?”

“Gods, Cleos.” The third Frey shook his head. “King Joffrey gave all of Riverrun to our father! We have to give him a proper gift for his wedding.”

“Wasn’t the crown gift enough?” Cleos grumbled as a fourth was led into the room by a barely clad woman. This one was young as well but no kin to the rest, for he had the golden hair and livery of a Lannister.

“Willem, there you are.” Aenys pointed her way. “Act as my squire and see what this girl has brought us.”

Arya handed over the sack, waiting for the Lannister to pull free a vial of violet liquid.

“A perfume which has travelled a great way.” She said, thinking it likely had. “From the distant city of Qarth. Rarer than Valyrian steel. A mere taste of the treasures my master offers.”

“He expects us to come to him?” Aenys scowled while Cleos stroked at what little chin he had.

“Why don't we just share in this gift you've already given us?”

“You could.” Arya replied. “But the price would be set. I’ve no freedom to barter and this is a meager measure of my master’s stocks.” She whispered the last part to Willem. “In truth he must sell all he has, and soon. Debt collectors from the Iron Bank hunt us.”

“A desperate seller?” The Lannister boy smirked before grasping her chin and inspecting her face. “It makes me wonder what else might he be willing to part with for some coin. My cousins of Frey, I smell a bargain through all this incense. There’s prizes to be had.”

Aenys rose then, grabbing a handful of the dancer’s arse as he did so. “I was sent here to collect on debts owed to House Frey. It would be good to win some extra favor for myself while doing so. Let Lothar and the rest look like graspers.”

“Fine.” Cleos begrudgingly agreed. “Lead on girl. Though I’ll be taking it out of your hide if the gifts aren’t worth it.”

Don’t worry. You’ll be getting all you deserve.

Chataya let the men leave with skins of wine, which only served to make them more obnoxious. None of the other patrons could miss the group leaving with all the noise they made, just as Chataya wanted. Outside a mix of Lannister and Frey guardsmen awaited and followed as Arya led them away from brothel. The whole time Willem Lannister kept trying to pester her, touching her arm and sliding a hand down her back.

His likeness to Jaime made it worse to endure.

“There’s something about you.” Willem touched at her face. “In the eyes. You remind me of Lady Delena. She’s got the same fire. I like that. Too bad she’s bedded half the kingdom. Tell me you’re a purer sort.”

“As pure as winter snow.”

“Don’t speak of winter. Grand Maester Pycelle says autumn is here.” He pulled her close. “Later we can pretend winter is here and keep each other warm.”

Arya kept from retching for the remainder of the journey. The manse they came upon was modest yet walled with thick timber gates. Most of its windows were dark, yet enough light flickered that none of the men protested. She knocked three times on the door before it swung open, a youthful gatekeeper bidding them to enter the cobblestone yard.

“Welcome.” Bronze Jon muffled from beneath the cloth wrapped about his face.

“What’s this?” Aenys eyed Royce as he entered. “Do the servants here have grey scale?”

“No, m’lord.” She answered quickly. “He’s just horribly ugly.”

Royce muttered something back but the Freys couldn't hear over their laughter. A darkened stable stood off to one side of the yard, a tool shed on the other, while the doors to the manse lay ahead, showing a well lit and inviting entranceway. 

“Our master awaits.” Arya made to lead them when Royce took hold of her.

“We’re to fetch wine from the cellar.” He said, catching the disappointed look on Willem’s face. “To share with our noble guests.”

“Be quick about it.” The Lannister squire winked at her before Tion forced him to follow. Arya watched as the group disappeared into the manse before hitting Royce in the arm.

“I want to be a part of this!”

“Hey! It was Thorne’s orders.” He rubbed at his arm before reaching into a ledge in the wall. “Here, this ought to cheer you up. Told you I’d keep it safe.”

With that Needle was returned to her. The slim blade was free of its sheath in an instant, enough time for Bronze Jon to produce a spear and for Thorne to emerge from the stable, eight men following after.

“Royce, you stay here.” The knight commanded. “Guard the gate and prove your value beyond story-telling.”

“What about me?” She asked as the group passed right by her. “I led them here!”

“Then your job is done. Now quiet yourself and keep your skirts clean.”

He hushed any further talk as the men carefully opened the door and slipped within the manse. She stared incredulous after them as the manse doors shut, then back at the gate. Royce was whispering without, meaning there were others on watch to the other side.

“We can’t just stand here.” She said as her friend closed the gate. “Those are Lannisters and Freys in there. For all we know they helped kill Bran and Jon.”

“Like I could forget that. Don’t worry, my lady. Bronze Jon always has a plan.”

“Since when?”

He didn’t answer, save to run off around the side of the manse, Arya giving chase. They were halfway along its length when she spotted the side door Royce was leading them to.

“I helped set the place up.” He threw back over his shoulder. “Thorne’s going to block their escape once the ambush gets going inside. This way in will take us to the thick of things for sure.”

Her heart pounded at the thought of crossing blades with Aenys or one of his guards. She quickened her pace then, blowing by Bronze Jon in hopes of reaching the door first. Before she reached it, a muffled shout echoed out one of the windows. More followed, along with screams and the ringing of steel. The ambush was underway.

The Sons of the Dragon were finally drawing blood.

An ugly memory of battle came back to her. Not one she could claim to have actually fought. A half-remembered dream full of snarling wolves and hounds. There’d been so much blood. So much pain. The taste of blood and tears stung at her tongue. The direwolves had never scared her before the dream. Nor could she have imagined how much it would hurt to see Domeric weep.

No! It was just a dream! Tonight’s not about Domeric. It’s about all the rest.

“For Robb and Bran.” Arya gritted her teeth as she grabbed hold of the door. “Sansa, Jon, Osha-”

The door burst outward then, catching Arya square in the chest and throwing her back onto the stone ground. Her arse and elbows screamed in pain. Willem Lannister was louder when he shot forth from the manse, bloody and panicked.

“Help us!” He shouted, sword in hand and eyes wide. “Treason! Murder!”

“You’re damn right!” Bronze Jon bellowed back, launching himself and his spear at the Lannister. “King Aegon sends his reg-”

He didn’t get to finish, the older squire knocking aside Royce’s spear thrust and trying to take his head right after. The distance between the two saved her friend, the Lannister’s cut falling short. That gave Royce enough time to swing the butt end of his spear about to catch his foe in the side of the knee. Willem gave a howl of pain as the wood connected.

“A trick I picked up from the Red Viper.” Royce taunted as he made to draw back his spear. “My friend and I used to practice it before you lot killed him!!”

Willem’s hand shot out and grabbed at the spear, pulling himself forward and surprising Bronze Jon. The Lannister tried to bring his sword down to split Royce in two, but her friend dropped the spear to catch Willem’s wrist and hold the strike at bay. The struggled ended when a powerful backhand from Willem sent Jon stumbling onto the ground with a bloody mouth and no weapon.

“Leave me be!” The Lannister shouted, turning away to try and flee to the gates. “Help us! Murder-”

He hadn’t expected to find her standing there. His green eyes were full of confusion as he gazed into hers. A queer expression passed over his face as his gaze moved downwards. It reminded Arya of how Theon had looked, after she landed her first blow with the club.

Needle was the better weapon in every way. The blade slid into Willem’s gut with ease. All those nights sharpening it had gone to good use, to stab someone who looked so strangely like Jaime.

It felt like lifetime ago when they first met under the moonlight. For half a moment it was Jaime’s golden hair trembling before her. His eyes filled with fear to stare at the blood dripping down Needle’s steel. Her hand trembled, causing Willem to gasp and break the spell.

“Murder…” Willem spoke, reaching for her face with a hand of flesh rather than gold.

“No.” She whispered back as she gave Needle a deadly twist.

“Justice.”

 

CATELYN

The High Hall of the Eyrie was long and austere, though it felt crowded with the sheer number of knights and lords within. What seemed like half the nobility of the Vale had gathered here, pressed up against white, blue-veined marble walls.

Catelyn did not let the wall of onlookers impede her. Her furious pace forced her companions to rush ahead in order to clear the way, either with the strength of their hands or the power of their names.

“Make way there.” Nestor Royce demanded, the massive, barrel-chested steward forcing his way forward. Though his bald head and greying beard betrayed his advanced years, Nestor matched the younger knight beside him in vigor.

“Step aside for Lady Stark.” The Knight of Ninestars stared down a Belmore knight. “She seeks an audience with Lord Robert.”

I seek more than that, she fumed, and not from my nephew.

It is my sister who will answer for this fresh outrage.

Lysa and her sickly son were seated at the far end of the hall, sharing the weirwood throne of House Arryn. Poor Robert had inherited his mother’s paleness, but where the young lord paramount was thin, Lysa was thick of body and puffy of face. This drew attention to her small, petulant mouth, which was pursed in disdain.

A ring of falcon men-at-arms pushed a spindly man before the throne. She knew him not, but his plain robes lended her to think him a wandering septon. Then Catelyn’s view was blocked and path barred by the heavily built form of Vardis Egen, the captain of the guards. The humorless knight and his men held their ground against Nestor and Ser Symond as well.

“Hold here.” Vardis spoke gruffly. “Lord Robert sits in judgement.”

“I must speak with my sister, ser.” She urged. “Let me pass so I might right a great wrong.”

The knight’s square face remained as firm as his footing. He gave no response and further admonishments were cut off by the shrill sound of Lysa’s voice.

“So this is the menace in our midst!” Lysa mused loudly. “Ser Hugh! Speak to the charges laid against this criminal so your lord paramount may decide the appropriate punishment.”

“Gladly.” A young knight stepped through the cordon to circle about the prisoner in an imperious manner. Ser Hugh of the Vale was barely a man, and that showed in how arrogant he had become since Lysa had him knighted.

“I apprehended this man myself!” Hugh near shouted. “With mine own ears and eyes I witnessed this false preacher attempting to turn the smallfolk against their betters. He bid the rabble to rise up against our king and the Faith, slandering our lord as he stoked the flames of rebellion.”

“A lie.” The septon lifted his chin high, quaking terribly. “H-how can it be treason to call for justice in the king’s name? Not the pretender who sits the throne, but the kings lions murdered so Joffrey could steal their crown. From a survivor I’ve heard the truth of the Bloodwater and King Aegon’s murder. A truth that the Seven bid me to carry in a holy pilgrimage. The gold of Casterly Rock has tainted the realm and twisted our Faith! A kinslayer now sits the Iron Throne! Crimes and sacrileges-”

“What’s a sack of ledge?” Little Robert twisted his face in confusion. “Mother, you said I could make someone fly. This is boring.”

“No, my strong boy, this is far worse.” Lysa shook her head. “This man’s ravings are treasonous. He defames us in front of King Joffrey and stirs up rebellion in the Vale”

The boy trembled in her grasp. “I hate Joffrey! He’s mean and scary. If we call him king he’ll stay away. Far away! The Eyrie is safe, isn’t it?”

“It is, sweetling. It is.” Lysa cupped Robert’s face before turning back to the septon. “As long as the Lannisters have no reason to come. But if Lord Tywin ever heard that we let traitors spread lies about them, they might come. This man endangers us all.”

“The truth is only dangerous to the guilty!” The septon shouted, earning a murmur of agreement from some. “Lord Arryn, I beseech you, do not be led astray. King Jon trusted the Lannister promises... do the same and share his fate.”

“No! I don’t want a wolf head!” Robert cried as Ser Hugh flushed in anger.

“Did you just threaten our lord?”

“He simply warned him.” Catelyn said from behind the Arryn guardsmen. “As I would have done for King Jon, if given the chance. Stop harassing this man for speaking sense.”

Lysa glared at her openly. “Your counsel is not sought here, sister. The Vale has so far been spared the troubles of the other realms, foulness that you and this false preacher would gladly bring upon us.” Her sister tutted. “You might have let poor decisions destroy your home and family but I will not make the same mistakes.”

She swallowed a shout of rage. For Lysa to invoke her losses was bad enough. Yet to act smug about it? Her calm barely held but it had to. Should she make a spectacle of her feelings, it would only lend credence to Lysa’s assertions. Something Catelyn couldn’t allow. Now with all the trust she had once placed in her sister torn asunder. Others needed to learn how false Lysa had become.

“I have not lost as much as some would have me believe.” She stared daggers at Lysa before addressing the Valemen. “We've all been misled. For weeks if not longer.”

“What nonsense is this?” Lysa leaned forward. “Sister, this is my last warning-”

“You’ll gladly give warnings yet refuse to speak one word of my family. Did you think you could keep it from me forever?”

“Lady Stark, really.” Lyonel Corbray sighed in annoyance, the lord making a fine show for Lysa. Ambitious and impoverished, the lord sought both Lysa’s favor and hand in marriage. “Your grief is no cause for discourtesy.”

“My lord is mistaken, it is not sorrow that inflames me.” She placed a fist against her heart. “I name my cause to be joy. Joy to say that the Lord of Winterfell lives. My husband has escaped from the wilds beyond the Wall and returned to the North!”

It felt like a dream to say aloud, as surreal as when she first heard this news. How long had it been since she thought of the family she and Ned had built without mourning? The eldest of her brave boys and sweet girls were gone, the youngest two lost to her. Edmure was far off at Casterly Rock, held by the same beasts who had murdered poor Jon. 

The dead often found her at the Eyrie. The corpses of her children climbing the mountain to reach her, calling for her help. All save the one not born of her blood, for the wolf head atop his body had forever been silent. In those nightmares Ned would make the climb with them, his body frozen and rotting. His warmth lost to the frost coating his pale flesh.

To any who offered sympathies for her husband, she would respond by declaring him merely missing. Bronze Yohn had gone so far as to propose marriage to her, so she could start anew at Runestone. A kind proposal but one she turned down, reminding the lord that Ned was lost and could return. He took the rejection well, yet Catelyn saw the pity in his eyes as she clung to her hope for Ned. Others likely thought worse, whispering of a woman’s fragile mind. Those words were wind. Unlike those of House Tully.

Family, duty, honor. All were tested. Battered but never broken. 

Sweet Ned, my heart stayed true to the vows we swore at Riverrun. Thank the gods you’ve done the same.

Her announcement that Ned still lived rippled through the hall, leaving shock and disbelief in its wake.

“Lord Stark was lost!” Edmund Waxley pushed by Lyonel, his stunned expression shared by so many that the voices became a clamor.

“Let her speak to it!” The elderly Anya Waynwood called, her son Donnel supporting her. “I would hear of Ned Stark!”

“As you should have long ago, my lady. We all might have known, if not for my sister.” She glared at Lysa then, who did not even attempt to show shock at her pronouncement. “Were you to return to your castles, word of Ned would likely greet you. Not here in the Eyrie though. Lysa kept word of my husband a secret. As she tried to do at the Gates of the Moon. Isn't that so, Nestor?”

“Lady Stark has the right of it.” Nestor Royce nodded gravely. “I have discovered letters from Castle Black, penned by Eddard Stark himself. Letters kept from me by my own maester. He claims to have served the will of Lady Arryn in doing so.”

“There’s more.” Ser Symond scowled. “Maester Colemon handed me two messages sent to the Eyrie from Ninestars. Both of which were tampered with! I learned my letters by our maester’s hand, and neither of those ravens were penned by him, I swear it.”

Lady Anya cleared her throat. “Maester Colemon rewrote a letter of mine as well. He said the original was too torn by travel.”

All eyes fell on Colemon, the thin and nervous maester already backing towards the throne. He looked beseechingly to Lysa, who was struggling to keep her hands over Robert’s ears.

“Mooooooo-ther! I want-to-HEAR!” He protested.

“We all want to hear the meaning of this.” Catelyn waved at the crowd before facing her sister. “Well, Lysa? Will you admit to it? Have you denied your bannermen the truth? Did you keep word of Ned from me?”

“Of course I did.” Lysa slapped her hands upon the armrests, which drew a curse from Symond and a grumble from Nestor.

“Why, my lady?” Nestor asked.

“I need not answer to you, a simple steward! But my reasons should be clear! Just look how mad my sister acts!” Lysa pointed down at her while clutching young Robert tight. “How she scares Sweetrobin. We gave her a home. A place in our peaceful domains. Yet instead of gratitude, she stirs up trouble at every turn. I knew this talk of Ned Stark would only make her more reckless so I did the merciful thing.”

“Merciful?” She rasped. “You dare name this deception a mercy?

Lysa made a sympathetic sound. “Yes, sister. It would be too cruel to give you false hope, Catelyn. To have you hear of Lord Stark and dream of a reunion that will never come to pass. This rebellion of his is doomed-”

“Ned is not rebelling! The North belongs to House Stark and Winterfell is his by right! He fights to take back what was stolen. The Boltons are thieves and the true rebels in all this.”

“By royal decree, Roose Bolton is lord paramount of the North.” Lyonel put in, earning her ire once more.

“I give that decree the same respect as I do the mummer on the throne who signed it. None. Joffrey is no king of mine.”

“Nor in the eyes of the Seven!” The accused septon found his voice, reaching towards the highborn. “The northmen cannot bring this false reign to an end! It must be done by true followers of the Seven! As the Andals first brought the Faith to the Vale, the Vale must spread it once more through the Seven Kingdoms! Justice for King Aegon!”

“Silence him!” Lysa commanded and Hugh struck the septon soundly in the ribs. The indignation this caused among the lords ignored by her sister. “You see?! This is what you have become! Ranting and raving like a fanatic! I barely recognize you!!”

“I feel the same way, Lysa.” Catelyn whispered softly.

“Lord Robert!” Ser Symond seized the opportunity to beseech the young lord. “With the Starks rising in the North we can finally act! Let the knights of the Vale rise against Lannister rule. In your name!”

“We need not fight alone.” Nestor joined the call. “Let us do as my cousin Bronze Yohn urges. The Vale should proclaim a dragon queen in place of a kinslaying king. Daenerys and her dragons defy Tywin Lannister at Dragonstone even now.”

“I remember her!” Robert nodded. “Daenerys was pretty, wasn’t she, mother? I’d like to marry her!”

“My sweetling, you don’t know what you’re saying-”

“Yes, I do! She’s beautiful and I want her and her dragons.” He clapped happily. “Then I can fly! Oh yes, let us go to Dragonstone and-”

“No!” Lysa grabbed hold of the child’s shoulders and shook him violently, her eyes wide in terror. “No! You can never go there! The Imp is there! That monster will hurt you, kill you! No matter how brave and true you are, he’ll find a way.”

“Lysa, you’re scaring the boy.” She shared an uneasy look with Vardis, whose brow was furrowed in worry at the scene.

“He should be scared! All of you want to get my boy killed. My strong boy… the Imp already tried once, baiting my lord husband to send Robert to Riverrun. He would’ve died like that false prince of yours. Lord Tywin swore that the Imp would never step foot in the Vale as long as we kept the peace... that hideous monster will never lay a hand on my Sweetrobin…”

“I don’t want the Imp to touch me.” Robert began to tremble. “He’s ugly and evil. Don’t let him mother. Don’t-”

His eyes rolled back into his head and the signs of a fit began. Just as Maester Colemon knew to rush to Robert’s aid, Vardis and Hugh ordered to clear the hall. Keeping their lord’s condition from becoming a spectacle was routine for them. The septon was dragged away, the Moon Door staying barred. Catelyn was among the last to leave, Lysa’s shrill cries chasing her out.

“Look at what you’ve done! No more, Catelyn! You go too far! Always! It’s my will that matters!! Mine!!”

This was nothing new to her. Her time at the Eyrie had been dominated by Lysa’s strange, unpredictable moods. Despite never being allowed to descend from the castle, Lysa treated her imprisonment as an imposing visit of sorts. Often she wondered if acting as her jailor had been part of the agreement struck between Tywin Lannister and Lysa.

An arrangement she was not alone in disdaining.

“We almost had him.” Symond fumed to Nestor as they returned to her chambers. “Lord Robert was ready to declare for Daenerys.”

“For what that’s worth.” Nestor retorted. “Our lord is young and cannot yet summon his banners in his own name. As long as his mother remains regent-”

“A moment please, good men.” She whispered, for this talk was dangerous in the open corridors and her ever present guards were a concern.

Or is it still beyond me to plot my sister’s downfall?

Gods, Lysa. It cannot come to that.

The lords heeded her, refraining from their scheming until all were safely ensconced in her chambers. While her guards waited without, others waited within. Brigid was there, the last vestige of Riverrun’s household allowed to Catelyn. The former wetnurse was supposed to be her maid yet it was a toddling babe Brigid watched over most often. The small girl took clumsy steps around the room, giggling with glee as she was chased about.

“Come back here!” Myranda Royce demanded with false fury, the buxom young woman waving at the babe. “I seek cheeks to pinch and yours are all I see, tiny Tasia!”

No, not Tasia. That poor babe is at Riverrun. A prisoner of the Freys.

My little Lorra is a prisoner here. With me.

Her heart swelled when Lorra caught sight of them and rushed to hide amongst her skirts. Every inch of her ached to pluck the child up into her arms but she could not. The truth of Lorra was not something she could risk any learning, even her allies.

“Father! Lady Catelyn!” Myranda greeted them warmly though her tone and manner became livelier to address Symond. “My brave Knight of Ninestars! Do say the banners of King Joffrey have been torn down along with Lady Arryn’s falsehoods.”

“Not quite yet.” Catelyn sighed as Brigid lifted Lorra up and away from her. “Brigid, perhaps you could take a walk in the garden with your daughter?”

The maid nodded somewhat distantly. “My Tasia always loved gardens… How long should we stay away?”

“Not for a long while, I have work for you.” She said, hinting that Lorra’s feeding was soon. Catelyn took any opportunity for Lorra to nurse of her, though the girl was well past the age to be weaned. Such small moments were the only way to remind Lorra who her true mother was.

She believed Lorra understood, especially when her daughter crinkled up her pure blue eyes and took to wailing when Brigid carried her from the room. The babe’s cries reached through the door even as the conspirators drew together to discuss the events in the hall.

“How did Hugh look when you spoke of it?” Myranda smiled wickedly. “Embarrassed I hope.”

“I marked some unease.” Symond said. “Either someone needs to teach Hugh how to keep his lord’s confidence or the lady must share how she pried the truth of Lord Stark from him.”

“That’s a lesson I’d gladly teach you, ser.” Myranda batted her brown eyes at Symond in such a fashion that Catelyn marked it fortunate that Nestor was so deep in thought he missed it.

“We only succeeded in embarrassing Lysa, not ending her regency.” He worried aloud. “Lady Catelyn, had you only denounced her in that role-”

“I held out hope that the truth would shame her to action. When we were children, my father and I could get Lysa to atone for any wrong if her mistakes were laid out plainly.”

Myranda eyed her with disappointment. “Forgive me, but I fear Lady Arryn was more reasonable in her youth. She kept us from helping King Jon and mustering for Princess Daenerys. If Hugh hadn’t hinted at what our maester was hiding away, who knows how long she would have hidden the truth from you?”

“Long after she thought the Vale could be of any help, most like.” Symond added.

“You are both right. Though it may be easy for my sister to plot against me, understand that I struggle to do the same. To try and strip away control of her home and son... those were the same tactics the Lords Declarant used against me.”

“None of this is easy.” Nestor crossed the room to fill a goblet of wine. “I’m a man of honor. Skulking about in a lady’s chambers, plotting against the wife of my liege... I have come to envy Yohn. To traverse the Vale, seeking out those who feel as we do. When he first spoke of it, I believed such work beneath a member of House Royce, but now…”

Lately when men spoke of honor and pride, Catelyn felt they only had a shallow idea of what those words truly meant. She wanted to shake Nestor and ask him to imagine how it would feel to fear the loss of his child, only to force another to abandon their child and live a lie.

Instead Catelyn held back, just as she had done with Lysa.

“Today was not a loss.” She said. “Many in that hall name my husband a friend and others shared our anger at Lysa’s deception. Symond, Nestor, you should approach the Waynwoods and Redforts. Perhaps with Lady Anya and Lord Horton by our side, we could sway others-”

“We should do so with haste.” Myranda broke in, pulling at her curls in worry. “Brigid and I heard some gossip today from those serving women, Gretchel and Maddy. They’ve been told to poke about Lady Catelyn’s washing.”

“My washing?”

Myranda nodded. “Talk from the washerwomen says your undergarments still bear the stains of mother’s milk.”

“Daughter!” Nestor flushed. “Some decency please.”

“Quiet!” Catelyn was seized by terror. “Who cares to hear such talk?”

“Lady Lysa. Maddy overheard the lady talking of how you should be dry after leaving your daughter at Riverrun To your sister it marks you as unbalanced in the mind that your breasts still give milk. How you want for things long gone.”

I do, but none of them are Lorra.

This talk troubled Nestor and Symond, the two unsettled by the discussion of her breasts almost as much as the idea that Lysa was working to undermine her credibility. They all agreed that it was just as likely efforts were being made against them too. So they moved all the quicker, the men deciding to reach out to the Waynwoods first. Myranda on the other hand would see what support the Belmores and Redforts would give. The young lady held out hope that Mychel Redfort could help rally his father. Apparently the knight was beside himself with worry for some girl trapped at Dragonstone with Princess Daenerys.

They were all long gone when Brigid arrived, delivering Lorra back into her care, their deception at an end.

“My sweetling.” She murmured when her breast was bared and the girl took to suckling. “Your mother does a strange thing. Did you know I once worried on Daenerys when Sansa was meant to be a princess? Now I’m trying to make that brash girl our queen.”

Unlike Lorra, who paid this little mind, Brigid took great interest in such talk.

“Could the dragon queen deliver my girl back to me?” The maid asked, eyes glistening. “It’s been so long, my lady. So long since any word from Riverrun. Tasia is far from me and with those people… they won’t hurt her? You said they wouldn’t.”

“They’ve no need.” She lied, knowing full well that Ned’s return put that babe in danger. Yet to say so to Brigid was to risk Lorra. “We’ll get your girl back. After that, the two of you will have no worries for the rest of your days. House Stark will care for you both.”

“That’s what King Jon promised.” Brigid smiled sadly. “He told me, over and over, that everything would be well. I wanted to believe him but they took his head and he never saw that coming.”

“Jon knew.” Catelyn struggled to admit, clenching the hand she’d struck him with. “He gave himself over all the same. That’s the man Ned and I raised.”

To go like a lamb to the slaughter, she thought, just as we offered up our own babes.

Such thoughts bid her to clutch Lorra a little tighter that night, after her own body stretched out to rest and the babe nestled against her chest. She had first done so with Robb, though only Sansa and Bran ever slept as peacefully as Lorra. Rickon’s little hands used to scratch and grab to be held tighter, even more so than Arya had. Somewhere out in the expanse of the Seven Kingdoms, Rickon likely bedded down with Brynden this night. She drifted off wondering if her uncle would let the boy cuddle against him like she had as a girl.

As harsh as he could be, Brynden knew how to care for children. Ned was the same in many ways. His cold manner always melted away when a babe was placed in his care. She fell asleep musing on how Ned would hold Lorra when the time came.

A period of peace shattered by Brigid shaking her awake. Before the maid need speak, Catelyn knew something was wrong. There was shouting without her room. Loud arguing that had no right taking place at this late hour.

We’ve been discovered, she feared all at once, our efforts are betrayed…

“Hide her.” She pushed Lorra into Brigid’s grasp, not caring that there was no place to flee for them. “Hide her now!”

Brigid was still fleeing off to a darkened corner when the door flew open and a guard fell inward. Stamping into the chamber after him was the broad form silhouetted by the torches without. An armed man with a hand to the sword at his belt.

“Ser Vardis?” She asked, pulling her furs up to shield her barely clad form.

“Not that sullen ser.” A familiar voice proclaimed, the man now covering his eyes. “Forgive me, Lady Catelyn. My father told me to fetch you with haste and these men objected-”

“Ser Albar!” She exclaimed, finally recognizing the voice of Nestor Royce’s son. “What are you doing here? Does Lysa know?”

“I cannot say, just come with me.” The ser beckoned and Catelyn did not argue.

Soon a robe was thrown over her form and she was stepping over the defeated forms of her guards to join Albar and his gruff men down the corridor. Their hurried pace gave the knight little time to explain things, save that he just arrived at the Eyrie.

“To make the ascent by night is madness.” Catelyn could not keep the terror from her voice. The climb to the Eyrie was treacherous by daylight. By night it had to be like traversing the seven hells themselves.

“You’ll find no argument here.” Albar grunted. “Wasn’t my idea. We lost four on the way but when my cousin has his mind set on something, few men argue.”

They travelled all the way to the Crescent Chamber, the welcoming hall for the newly arrived, before she believed Albar’s words. It was there she found Bronze Yohn and a collection of Runestone men and others warming themselves by the hearth fire.

Some stood out to her more than others. First was Yohn Royce himself, the powerful and weathered lord rubbing his large, gnarled hands for either warmth or in anticipation of her arrival.

“Lady Catelyn!” The lord’s booming voice echoed throughout the hall long after he came forward to grasp her hands in greeting. “Forgive me for ever being such a fool as to doubt Eddard Stark. Never let him know the folly I tried to entice you to.”

“You’ve heard of Ned?” She kissed his cheeks before slapping them lightly. “Tell me you did not risk certain death to tell me so.”

“No, no. I made this journey so a different tale could be told. One that will mark Tywin Lannister and his rotten family for what they are, once and for all!”

With that Lord Royce bid her to look towards the other two men who stood out among his number. One was a slight man wearing the blacks of the Night’s Watch, he shook still from his journey up the Giant's Lance and clutched at a bag about his neck with a hand lacking four of its digits. The other man had lost even more it seemed.

He was a hulking, terror of a brute, the left side of his face a scarred ruin of black flesh and deep craters. When he looked her way she saw eyes of grey, untamed rage.

“My search for friends in the Vale yielded better ones in the North.” Lord Royce said as he bid her on. “Lord Manderly sent me these two to win over Lord Robert.”

He gestured to the shorter man. “This is Ser Davos Seaworth, come to save the Wall from Bolton treachery.” As he spoke his men were already grabbing hold of the larger man like he was a prisoner. “And this one is here to speak of the fall of Winterfell. A dog of great use to us.”

“Let off!” The scarred man elbowed Albar and cursed out another man before settling his glare on her. “You’re the mother, then. Must be. You look just like the little bird.”

This was how she met Sandor Clegane.

 

TYRION

 

The blackened tapestry of death set Podrick to heaving, the bile splattering upon the nearest corpse. The dead man’s face was a mess of charred and cracked flesh, his mouth agape in silent agony.

“Mind yourself, Pod.” Tyrion chided his squire. “We can’t you giving the same treatment to the rest.”

The lad gagged again, averting his eyes from the scene Tyrion had no choice but to continue surveying. What had once been a tent at the edge of their encampment had been turned to ash, a dusty blanket which draped over the bodies of several men and what looked to be a mule.

“The black demon left more this time.” Gawen Westerling said with a hand pinching at his nose. “There were supposed to be five men was there not?”

“Five.” Mandon Moore confirmed, the Kingsguard’s eyes as lifeless as the bodies he looked over now. “I count only four here.”

“It took at least two the last few times.”

“Perhaps the beast was still full from his last meal.” Tyrion’s uncle Gerion put in, his usually jovial tone now dull and grim. Many named the older and taller Lannister the Laughing Lion, yet there was little reason for mirth here on Dragonstone.

More reason for fear. A truth borne out when Tyrion kicked at pile of ash and a ruined bridle.

“Arturion took more, not less.” He said, drawing Gerion’s attention to his discovery. “Pod had it from the witnesses, the dragon snatched one man and carried off his nag to boot.”

“An entire horse?” Gawen’s hand fell to his side. “It could not have grown so powerful!”

“I’m afraid so. With an appetite to match.” Tyrion looked to the grey sky, scanning the dreary clouds before settling on the misty peaks of the Dragonmont.

Let those kills sate you for a time, Arturion. Delay your next visit if you could.

For both our sakes.

“He grows bolder while our men lose heart.” Gerion looked back into their camp where a great collection of men milled about fearfully. The nearest tents had been abandoned in such haste that cook fires still smoldered like the corpses at Gerion’s feet. “How many have we lost now? Twenty? The black beast used to take the lone watchman or goat. Now it attacks armed groups. Tomorrow he could bathe the entire bloody army in dragonflame.”

“That’s still a ways off.” He mused, touching at the scar about his cheek. “Arturion still seeks the easiest kills. A common man with a spear is no match for a dragon but the knights and crossbowmen he’d find at our center, that gives him pause.”

“Pause?” Mandon repeated with disdain. “It is a mindless beast.”

“The same can be said of many among our number. Be truthful, ser, in battle you take the sure kill over the riskier strike every time.” The knight did not bother to reply, nor did Tyrion care to hear one. “When Arturion comes again, he will fall upon our flanks, cleaving off the fat.”

“We draw the men into tighter groupings then.” Gerion said. “Set more watches, bring more mail and steel from the siege lines-”

“No, uncle. Move some back but leave a handful to tempt Arturion. Easy pickings to draw his eye and give the dragon a reason to land. A fine target for the archers and scorpions we’ll set up near by.”

“You’d use loyal men as bait?” Gawen was incredulous.

“To save a thousand more, I would. Whether they fall storming the castle or die from dragonflame, they will have served the purpose my father set out for us. They brought a dragon low.”

A foul taste filled his mouth by the end and he regretted not forcing Pod to bring a skin of wine with them. Many a night a drink or ten was needed to settle his mind as he stared at the gloomy castle of Dragonstone.

The view from Gerion’s pavilion was better, which his uncle led them to soon after. It sat atop a ridge which offered a good vantage point for the bay and siege lines. Their fleet floated lazily upon the waters while closer to the Dragonstone, men moved to and fro as work continued on the mines beneath the castle walls.

The light of day did little to endear Dragonstone to him. Just as the Dragonmont dominated the rocky isle, the castle rose dark and foreboding above their encampment. Their crimson banners flew well below its black walls and dragon parapets. The Valyrian craftsmanship which went into building the castle raised questions on his part yet such wonderment was always short lived. He could not think of Dragonstone long before his mind turned to the two princesses within.

The one he was to rescue and the other he was meant to bury.

“There will be no pyre for that girl.” Father had dictated back at the Red Keep. “She wished to make a spectacle of herself on that useless rock, let her be buried beneath it.”

Joffrey reached crueler depths. “Why bother to bury her? It wasn’t right that the Freys got to keep Jon’s head. Bring me Daenerys’s. Cut her to pieces, we can hang her arms and legs from the gates. Feed the rest to her dragons!”

“I will not. If you want a butcher, seek one out in Flea Bottom.” Tyrion had snapped back at his monster of a nephew. “Be sure to go well guarded though, the smallfolk are becoming well accustomed to mourning kings.”

Joffrey had flushed a shade of red as deep as his doublet and it was Tyrion’s turn to be threatened with being fed to a dragon. A bout of foolishness the Hand put an end to with a burning glare and cold words.

“The dragons die with the girl. They are only matched in their destructiveness by their unpredictable nature. Too much has gone awry already for me to abide such beasts in my realm.”

Even Tyrion had been shocked by his father’s callousness. “The first dragons in generations, likely the only ones in the world, and you’d had them killed like common pests?”

“Not I. That task shall fall to you, Tyrion.” Father would not even dignify him by meeting his eye. “The years of you using our wealth and power to line the pockets of camp followers is at an end. Cersei and Jaime have done their parts. I expect at least half as much from you.”

There was more guile than faith in his father’s will. It was Gerion who would lead their fleet to rescue Myrcella and end the defiance of Dragonstone. The execution of Daenerys, the culling of the dragons, those foul deeds were fit for Tyrion. Half the realm already thought him a monster and most did so without glimpsing the scars Robert’s siege had left him.

At least mine can be seen. What Jaime did at Riverrun haunts him still.

For all father resents the reputations his sons carry, he’s certainly driven to have us earn them.

He hadn’t slain any kings, yet Gawen Westerling seemed fit to name him a monster after Gerion set the lord and Mandon to readying for their trap. Pod was sent off too, Tyrion wishing to hear Go and hear how Bronn and his sellsword friends were faring. After Pod had gone, Tyrion went to fetch a goblet of wine from Gerion’s stores. Though he filled two cups, his uncle declined one.

“You surprise me, Tyrion.”

“Truly?” He sipped of the red. “I thought you’d be accustomed to my mid-day thirst. This isle already lacks in brothels, surely you won’t begrudge what indulgences are left to me.”

“I don’t speak of the wine.” Gerion’s face creased with a warm smile. “Don’t forget who used to sneak a tiny lion sips from his goblet during feasts. I was just thinking of you at that age, a bright lad filled with questions and talk of riding dragons. Now you plot their end without pause.”

“Not true.” He admitted. “All the tapestries and murals of Casterly cannot match the beauty I see when Arturion soars above us. It would take a poet to do the wonder of the dragons justice. Better poems than they’ll write about me, I hope. Jaime shall be the Kingslayer and I the Dragonslayer. A stiff contest for the realm’s most hated. Lord Westerling’s choice in the matter is quite clear.”

“Gawen’s a good man. He’s one of those lords who could never quite stomach Tywin’s ways.”

“I thought we were speaking of my trap for the dragon?”

“A plot worthy of Tywin himself.” Gerion regarded his fleet again. “Lynesse went on and on after my brother named me admiral and leader of this campaign. Truth is, I’m but an empty suit of armor. The mining, the raid tonight, all I do is bark out the orders of another man.” He chuckled without mirth. “Spent most of my life doing so, first for the father, now the son.”

“Uncle, I only meant to give counsel. If I’ve overstepped-”  

“We’re both doing precisely what Tywin wants of us. My brother was clear, I’m only here to ensure you win us this victory. A strange thing to be considered the obedient one…”

“He does not trust me.” His words came out hoarse. To hear of his father’s mistrust was no great revelation yet it set the long scar upon his face to burning.

Cersei and Jaime can defy him at every turn and rise for it. I cleaned every fucking cistern and drain at Casterly Rock and still have to wade through shit to this day.

“The mistrust makes sense.” Gerion surprised him by saying so, especially with an expression of deep sympathy. “After what Tywin did to that Tysha girl… she might have been a whore but you cared for her. Sons have turned on their fathers for less.”

The mere mention of Tysha set the sounds of weeping and the clinking of silver pieces ringing through his mind. With that old hurt and embarrassment rushing back, Tyrion gulped deeply of the wine until he could face Gerion with a wide smile.

“You wound me, nuncle. How could I begrudge my father for teaching me one of life’s truest lessons? If not for the gold of Casterly Rock and the name I bear, no woman would ever stoop to touching me. Mockery and scorn is what await us dwarfs, not love.”

At that moment he regretted not having Bronn scour the island again for a better bed warmer. The island girls he’d bedded so far charged like common whores yet were untrained and could barely hide their disgust to lay with him. The last girl had even wept afterwards, a young thing with the fair hair and purple eyes. Her resemblance to Daenerys had not rattled him until that moment.

All your plans and strategies for killing a princess and you never considered how to face her tears.

Disgust or hatred I could expect, but seven save me if she weeps…

“Jaime has always held you dear, Tyrion.” Gerion’s hand touched his shoulder, squeezing firmly. “As have I.”

“Can’t say I’m tempted to bed either of you.” He jested, refusing to show how poor Gerion’s attempt to cheer him was. A favorite uncle was no true replacement for a father.

Gerion allowed him that escape, focusing instead on the rolling sea and dark clouds hanging overhead.

“A storm would be welcome.” His uncle said with a smirk. “I know, strange to hear an old sailor hope for such but it would help the raid.”

“Rain doses torches and drives watchmen to seek shelter.” He replied. “If things go our way, we’ll be back at King’s Landing in time for the royal wedding. Wouldn’t want to miss it, I have good coin wagered on Margaery Tyrell running from the ceremony screaming.”

“Don’t jest. Kevan worked wonders bringing the Tyrells on side. Beleaguered as the Reach might be, the Tyrells can still rally enough might to keep the Seven Kingdoms flying Joffrey’s banner.”

“The rose still has thorns.” Tyrion agreed yet suspected if not for the threat of the ironmen and Dornish, Highgarden would be against them. Margaery becoming queen could not undo the murder of Loras, yet it could spare the Tyrells further suffering.

And help inflict some on their enemies.

There’s no hiding the hatred they carry for the Florents. Perhaps Mace Tyrell begrudges how high Axell has risen since the Bloodwater.  

Or he suspects what I know to be the truth of what happened there.

“It be good to get back.” Gerion continued. “I left Lynesse getting fitted for a new gown for the wedding. She’s been looking forward to it and the woman’s had it rough. None of her kin have reached out since she came to the capital.”

“I can see Lord Hightower begrudging the loss of those ships.”

“Well Lynesse will behave worse after Tywin’s sends me off again. If it had to be a choice between facing the Greyjoys or that temper of hers, I know which I’d choose. Now the Dornish, that’s different…”

Gerion cursed with a shake of his head, causing Tyrion to raise his goblet as well as  an eyebrow.

“I wouldn’t worry about Dorne, uncle. Our brilliant Hand is not like to lend his precious fleet to Axell Florent’s doomed campaign to seize Sunspear. Mark my words, you’re bound for the Iron Islands then a triumphant return to Lannisport.”

“I’d settle for finding Lannisport in one piece.” The man lamented. “It be shorter to list the towns and villages Victarion Greyjoy hasn’t razed on the western coast. The man’s a dullard but a terrifying warrior. Under Balon he was dangerous, now that Euron rules the reavers… gods, help me.”

With that Gerion snatched up the goblet he’d scorned earlier, gulping down a healthy amount.

“How I miss Rhaegar. He might have lost esteem in Tywin’s eyes but not mine. Whatever disservice Rhaegar did to my brother’s pride, he shared my dream of an expedition to Old Valyria. Had he lived I’d be sailing the Smoking Sea rather than rotting on this smoking rock.”

“They burned him just over there.” Tyrion noted, pointing to a distant ledge of rock. “Out of his ashes rose the dragons. A legacy we’re here to end.” He breathed in the acrid air and lifted his goblet at Gerion. “To our departed friend. ”

“To Rhaegar.” Gerion clanked their cups together, pausing before drinking. “May he forgive us.”

Oh I think we’ll be well past forgiveness by the time we cross his path again.

He kept his tongue and together they finished their wine. Gerion decided to check on his ships once more so Tyrion set out to track down Bronn and Pod. The journey took him through the westermen’s camp, passing banners depicting golden dragons and lions. The seashells of the Westerlings were few compared to the blue cocks of the Swyfts and the Lydden badgers. Father had kept the finest of the Lannister strength landward, leaving Tyrion to get creative in this campaign.

Laborers impressed from the islander ranks toiled away at the mines just out or range of the castle’s defences. It was inevitable the mining would take them below the walls of Dragonstone. Daenerys had to know that, yet still the princess steadfastly refused to meet him to discuss terms. Thus the mining went on, and a part of him was dismayed to think they might go to waste.

For tonight a party of men would attempt to scale the battlements and lift a postern gate so the rest of the army might stream within. Some named the plan a foolish venture yet the man leading it was not one inclined to idiocy. Especially when it came to his life.

“Good day, my lord!” Bronn waved happily from the open ground he and his men practiced within. Pod might have waved too except he was trapped in the armpit of a rather burly looking man.

“Ser Bronn, do tell your companion to unhand his employer’s squire.”

“Oh, right. Leave off, Burch!” Bronn cuffed Pod’s assailant, who released the squire so abruptly the lad tumbled onto his arse. The sellsword turned knight helped him with a laugh. “Sorry about that, lad. The boys are full of piss for the night ahead.”

“They look the type to piss into the wind.” He said as he looked over the ragtag group of sellsword and hedge knights Bronn had gathered for the raid. “We can hold off if we you need more time.”

“Tonight’s good, might rain.” Bronn looked to the sky with a wry grin. “Wouldn’t have taken your shiny Lannister gold if I didn’t think this lot had the stones to pull this off. I’m looking forward to being the man who rescued the king’s sister.”

“Prepare to be disappointed by Joffrey’s gratitude. My nephew’s quite fickle in regards to his siblings. Not lay out your strategy again.”

Bronn held out a hand and a man in mail presented him with an exotic piece of glasswork. A Myrish eye they’d snatched during the sack of Hull, apparently brought back to Driftmark by the famed lord and explorer, Corlys Velaryon. Soon Tyrion was using it to look where Bronn directing him at part of the castle’s eastern wall.

“Been watching that spot for days. The rounds are regular enough but it’s the stretch that goes the longest without a guardsmen. The sights are funny if you approach from the east. I sent Burch and a couple others right up to the walls the last two nights and no shouts went up.”

“Well they’d be bellowing now.”

He pressed the glass tighter to his eye, to gain a better view of the pair he saw upon the battlements. There, near to where Bronn pointed, two women strode between the parapets.

So different were they he might have been able to tell them apart without the glass.

The large, white clad warrior woman could only be Brienne of Tarth, the Lady of the Kingsguard. For half a heartbeat he thought perhaps it was Daenerys walking beside her sworn protector, yet the second woman was a stranger sort indeed. Garbed all in the red, the copper haired woman had an exotic sort of beauty, one which enticed him despite her being a tad old for his taste.

She’ll suit the men if they get a hold of her. If a rape or two marks them fiends, you know damn well what murdering Daenerys makes you.

Tyrion lowered the Myrish eye.“I spy the Mistress of Dawn. She appears to be touring the battlements.”

“The lady who dueled Robert Baratheon and lived.” Pod’s was agape. “She wields Ser Arthur’s sword…”

Bronn whistled. “I’ll be sure to compliment it if we cross paths. Better to run into that wench than any bloody dragons.”

“We’ve not seen claw nor scale of Barraxes and Rhaegal. With Arturion flying wild, I think what we heard of Daenerys losing control of her dragons has more truth than gossip to it. Hard to believe, really. Marwyn the Mage is a mad old thing but he knew more about dragonlore than any. He had grand plans for Arturion-”

The distant sounding of a trumpet cut him off. Quick blasts of alarm that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on the end.

Speak of the devil…

Yet when Tyrion looked to the skies he saw no sign of the dragon he expected. Not above his head, nor flying over the camp or the mountain itself. More trumpets began to blow and it drew his gaze far down to the ruined fishing village and bay beyond. He worried perhaps there was a fire among the fleet yet a skim of the royal galleys and carracks showed no sign of flame.

“Look!” Pod jumped ahead to point out to the sea. “Look, my lord! Ships on the horizon!”

“That makes no sense.” He said despite realizing the squire was right. Dotting the horizon were dark specks that could be nothing else but ships. So many he struggled to count their number.

“Reinforcements?” Bronn asked, scratching his head. “Perhaps your royal nephew got wind there’s helpless women about.”

“No. Our fleet is here. Father must might have hired sellsails, no other houses can put so many ships to sea…”

His voice drifted off to consider another possibility entirely. One as unwelcome as it was unlikely. He saved speaking to it, out of fear of looking a fool. Instead he raised the Myrish eye to peer through it once more. Within the lens the specks grew large enough to make out these ships as a far different kind than their own. These vessels were long and sleek, like longships save much larger. Their swift pace as unnerving as their sails.

Black sails bearing a golden beast with many arms. The kraken of the Greyjoys.

He carried this news with haste to the rest of the camp, finding no sign of Gerion and a skeptical Mandon Moore.

“The Greyjoys reave the western coast.” The Kingsguard knight returned to readying his sword and armor like much of the camp was doing.

“Be sure to tell them that when they land!” Tyrion shot back. “Now get word to my uncle! We must get our ships to open water before they’re surrounded!” When he caught sight of Gawen Westerling he singled the lord out. “Westerling! Pull back our men from the siege! Get the foot down along the landings and every knight you can find on the high ground!”

“What if Daenerys attacks our rear?”

“We’ll be mildly more fucked than we already are! Quickly, my lord!” He feared he seriously understated their peril yet kept his resolve as hundreds stared his way. “Pod, ready my armor!”

Things moved quickly after that, lords barking orders and men running about with spear and sword, a frantic effort to completely rearrange their defenses against the deadly tide moving their way. By the time he emerged from his tent, armored and wielding an axe, the Greyjoy ships were so close there was no doubt the famed Iron Fleet was almost upon them.

Those ships are faster than ours, he fretted, fully manned and battle ready while ours have been drained of strength and idle for weeks…

“I count twice as many.” Bronn spoke up as he lifted Tyrion upon his horse so he could lead hundreds toward the rocky shores. “At least twice as many.”

“Yes, keep that to yourself. And stay close to me, this won’t be pretty.”

“Few things are with you, my lord.”

He finally spied Gerion when they reached the shores, his uncle was up on a hill moving among the few score horsemen who’d gathered there so far. It was a generous estimate to say half of their foot had formed along the bay’s edge. Mandon Moore stood out in his white cloak and armor yet few looked his way, most eyes following as their fleet rushed haphazardly out of the bay to meet the foe.

The Iron Fleet came on at a fearsome speed, warhorns blaring, oars churning the seawater and rams pointed at their prey. He did not fail to note which ship was hit first, the Lord Tywin lurching violently when a ram struck across its starboard hull. Oars snapped and wood flew into the air, joining the arrows being loosed between the fleets. The plight of the Lord Tywin was soon shared by others, the longships falling on the slower vessels like hounds tearing at a bear.

This fight will not stay on the water. These captains will have to flee sooner or later.

With good fortune some might return and it be good if any are alive to welcome them.

“Pod, I can’t see our archers.” He spoke quickly. “Get back up the camp and tell Lord Lydden we need them now!”

“B-but I’d stay with you! There are runners-”

“If you’d have me live, do as I say!” Tyrion commanded, proud the boy remained so loyal and that he had the wits to see through the ploy. “Make sure those arrows come when they’re needed. Now go!”

Pod obeyed, thankfully missing the sight of the Lionstar and Lance going up in flames. The loss of those ships opened a hole in the floating cordon that saw longships moving quickly to pass through. A score or more came on, brimming with armed men and closing on the shore.

“I’d say it’s time for a speech.” Bronn pulled his sword and cracked his neck. “A rousing one for the lads.”

“Oh, let me.” Tyrion grumbled, kicking his horse forward some and raising his axe to be seen. “King’s men! I may be a half man but I aim to live a full life! We hold here and we see another dawn! These brave men came a long way to step foot on this isle! Let’s kill them for it!”

Bronn bellowed in agreement and hundreds more did the same. Weapons were raised into the air while their war cries rose higher. Loud enough to drown out the sounds of the battle on the bay and the splashing of the oncoming oars. Truly he was amazed at how long the men shouted.

That amazement turned to horror when he caught wind of how panicked the cries sounded. While Tyrion was rallying his men, the hill where Gerion and the reserves gathered had fallen under attack. Ironmen were streaming out from a rocky pass behind them, hundreds rushing headlong into the unsuspecting riders.

They must have landed men to the other side of the island.

Gerion, get the hell out of there and reform at camp!

Tyrion watched Gerion ride about, cutting down at any who came near, and it pained him to realize only he could follow his advice. With their flank being overwhelmed and the longships now landing ashore, the sight of a thousand foes leaping forth spurred some defenders into breaking.

“Sound a withdrawl!” He called to Mandon. “The high ground! To the high ground!”

Either the knight didn’t hear him or didn’t care. Mandon and his men held their ground when the first ranks of the ironmen rushed out of the water. Stupidly, Tyrion did much the same. There would be no chance to reform if they didn’t stymie the advance of the iron tide. So as hundreds fled back towards camp, it fell to his pitiful company to cover the retreat.

Pod proved his worth then as arrows from farther back flew over their heads to cut into the salt-stained foes charging forth. The shield wall they’d thrown up withstood the first charge, Bronn cutting high and low over his shield to drop two men at his feet while Tyrion rode up and down the rear, hacking at the foes who broke through.

He nearly lost his axe when it drove too deep into the skull of a one-eared swordsman. His grip held and he wrestled it free to witness the second charge pushing their number further back, among the ruins of the burned fishing village. He welcomed that it since it spared them being outflanked by the enemy now rushing down Gerion’s hill. Those ironmen barreled over any of those still fighting along the landing. Mandon Moore was in the thick of that battle, holding his own and felling two foes as Tyrion watched. He began to clash with a third when a newcomer stabbed Mandon right through the back.

A second charge was breaking through their shield wall when he looked to make sure their own backs were safe. He groaned aloud to see smoke rising from the camp. These were no cook fires, someone had set part of the camp to burning. When he saw figures passing through the open gates of Dragonstone, the culprits were obvious.

Well, I was right. We’re only slightly more fucked.

“There’s the Imp!” A reaver with a cod upon his shield cackled as he cut down a young man-at-arms in his path. “You be taller than I thought!”

Clearly the man thought little of his mettle, for he gaped in shock when Tyrion did not make to flee with his horse. Instead he rode straight at the reaver, forcing him to duck aside, just in time for Tyrion’s axe to open up the side of his neck. Another came on to the left and his mount reared, kicking out and knocking the fool senseless. He fought hard to stay in his saddle the whole time and breathed a breath of relief when they landed and he remained ahorse.

Then he was flying through the air, landing with a shout upon the hard, unforgiving ground. He must have cut his head because blood blurred his vision qne it took several blinks to be sure he’d not been attacked. Merely robbed.

Burch had climbed up into his saddle and snapped at the reins to escape the carnage. Their line having disappeared in a chaotic mix of men and bloody steel.

Fortunately for Tyrion, a friend found him before a foe could.

“Still alive?” Bronn shot a hand down to him, the other holding a crimson sword at the ready.

“I can take care of myself.” He took the hand and hefted his own axe. “Though I think you do a better job of it. Think you can get me back to camp alive?”

“Only if you move those stubby legs.”

Bronn pushed back at him so they both began a desperate retreat, the krakens right on their heels. It became a fighting flight soon enough. Bronn blocking blows and delivering his own, Tyrion swinging low to cut their attackers legs out from below. His legs and chest were on fire and screaming from the exertion, sweat stinging at his wounds and blood marring his vision.

He still saw well enough to catch how their retreat had become blocked by more fighting. Armored riders were wreaking havoc at the edge of the camp, riding down men and his hopes alike.

“Well, can’t go that way.” Bronn wheezed, pulling a foe off his sword and sidling up beside Tyrion as two more came on. “Don’t see many ways out of this mess.”

“Nor I.” Tyrion took in the sight of his companion for a moment before facing their death. “Dorne. Robert’s siege. Taking the throne. We’ve made it this far together. You’re the best friend I ever bought. It’s an honor to fall at your-”

He had not the chance to finish, Bronn striking the flat end of his blade against Tyrion’s wrist. An explosion of pain followed and his axe fell. He was clutching at his tortured limb when Bronn grabbed a fist full of his hair to pull back his head and lay a sword across his throat.

“Sorry, I wish it was any other I did this to.” Bronn whispered before shouting at the encroaching ironborn. “Hold there! I claim Tyrion Lannister as my captive! Son of Tywin and uncle to the king!”

“You claim him?” The uglier of the group shared a confused look with his companions before laughing. “You hear that, Ralf? He’s got a prisoner!”

“One I’ll kill unless I get assurances.” Bronn pressed the blade closer. “Lannisters pay their debts but a dead one’s got no value at all.”

A limping man in ringmail pushed through. “I don’t have time for this. That camp needs to burn and that dwarf is a prize I’d be keeping with me. Ryck!” He beckoned to a youth with a bow. “Slay the big one.”

“Aye, cap’n.” Ryck notched an arrow. “Dwarf don’t make much of a shield.”

Bronn dropped to a knee, peering out from behind Tyrion’s head. That left the bowman and captain making sour faces.

“I live or you get no prize.” Bronn said, yanking at Tyrion’s head again. “Now start offering some promises-”

“There’s Lannister here!” A man with a head full of fiery red braids arrived with others as more ironmen surged on towards the camp. “Tell the Crow’s Eye the Red Oarsman’s got another Lannister!”

“He’s ours!” Ralf led his own men between him and the lady. “We’ve won this and the spoils are ours!”

“Not yet.” Bronn reminded. “To the highest bidder go the prize.”

“How much do you value your life?” A new voice weighed in.

It belonged to a man ringed by a sinister company of reavers and mongrel sorts. A pale man with dark hair and beard and a patch over his left eye. Behind him a large banner was carried, one bearing a red eye beneath black iron crown supported by two crows. All the ironmen nearby halted whatever they were doing to look his way, though Tyrion stared more intently at the sight of Gerion being forced to his knees before the stranger.

“This is amusing.” The man smiled at Bronn in an unsettling way. “It’s a rare thing for me to be impressed. On my honor as King of the Iron Islands, I offer your life for the Lannister. Do not think to quibble. I already have a Lannister to spare and I’d not think twice about killing you and your dwarf.”

“Fair enough.” Bronn pulled his sword away and pushed Tyrion towards the so-called king, the man kicking at Gerion so he could witness this.

“Tyrion…” Gerion spat red from his bloody mouth. “Trust him not… the Crow’s Eye…”

“I prefer King Euron.” The reaver stroked his chin. “Your friend made the right choice, most regret earning my ire, but never my gratitude. Having two Lannisters to play with is a fine turn of events. Cragorn, line up my prizes so I might admire them.”

Tyrion was kicked to his knees beside Gerion, the sounds of slaughter echoing down from the camp. He saw no way to live save to aid Euron Greyjoy in his efforts.

“My uncle and I will make valuable hostages.” He tried not to plead. “Or fatter ransoms. Treat us well and my father could forgive this outrage. House Greyjoy might just survive another doomed rebellion.”

One blue eye narrowed on him. “I thought the son of Tywin Lannister would know him better. He is a lord who respects might more than courtesy. I could win more favor from him by drowning you in sack, as he should’ve done the day you were born.”

“Euron, don’t.” Gerion pleaded, his golden locks stained some with gore. “My brother will pay. He values family… his children…”

“Sage counsel, Lord Gerion.” Euron raising his voice so that more could hear. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t want gold. I seek to prove my commitment to a dragon. I want to show the Lion of Casterly Rock how deep my cuts can go.” He smiled once more, a cold, false thing to look upon. “So tell me truthfully, what would wound Tywin more? Losing his stunted progeny? Or a fellow lion?”

The answer was plain to Tyrion. Just as it was to the Crow’s Eye, who nodded at someone behind them.

In a heartbeat, he locked eyes with his uncle. Unlike his father’s gaze, Tyrion saw no accusation in Gerion’s eyes. No dismissal. No disgust.

Only sadness as the blade was drawn across his uncle’s neck and the blood of a lion poured forth.

Chapter 30

Summary:

False prophecies, true friends, and angels of mercy.

Notes:

Trigger warning for sexual assault and torture.

DAENERYS

The white dragon towered over her, its head arched up towards the sun, its long, serpentine body basking in the warming light. When Barraxes stretched his wings, the golden membranes glowed like dawn with pale scales of cream gleaming heavenly white.

In that moment, there was more beauty in the white dragon than fear and fire.

She was lazily rubbing at her bulging middle when Barraxes yanked violently on his chains. The iron links grew taut and dust shook free from the walls where the chain held firm. Angered by this, Barraxes let loose a roar that echoed through the courtyard.

Everyone jumped as one, including Myrcella who cried out in terror. The princess lunged towards the protection of Rhaegal, clutching at the scarf about her face as the green dragon wrapped its wing around her. Chained across the yard from Barraxes, Rhaegal hissed at his brother, black fangs bared and tail raised like a whip of polished jade.

Dany barely gave any of this notice, the babe within her stirring and kicking at the roars of the dragons. The efforts of her own unborn dragon pleased her so. Quite unlike the laughter ringing out behind her.

The sound belonged to Euron Greyjoy, the so-called King of the Iron Islands. His blue tinged lips smiled widely as he watched Tess try and calm Myrcella’s fear. The rebel lord was alone in his cheer though. Harry Rivers and Brynden Blackwood guarded Euron with open disdain while Brienne and Richard warily lingered by her side. Not one of them thought much of the Greyjoy.

They cared less for his desire to marry Dany.

It sickens me even more, I’m just better at hiding it.

And I am not in a position to ignore the offer.

Nor was the Crow’s Eye the type to be ignored. When his laughter finally quieted his gaze settled on Dany.

“The dragons remind me of mine own family.” Euron said, winking at her. “We brothers Greyjoy were always a quarrelsome lot.”

“I’ve heard them called worse.” Ser Richard grumbled to Brienne, the clacking of his metal teeth louder than his words. That made things easier for Dany as she tried a more diplomatic reply.

“Those days must be behind you.” She said evenly. “Your brothers attack the Westerlands in your name, do they not? Some day these two dragons will join with their brother and do much the same. My three children fighting as one.”

“Oh, that would be a sight!” Euron’s remaining eye bore into hers, as bright a blue as the summer sky. “Though I had to be named king to bring my brothers to heel. Well, the ones that still draw breath that is.”

He followed that with a chuckle, a strange thing to do when speaking of dead kin. Yet Dany was not one to judge, considering what she intended to do to Joffrey. There was no doubt Euron was a bold man, both in words and actions. His defeat of the siege proved that.

Well before the Greyjoys arrived, Melisandre had warned of their attack, and Brienne begrudgingly prepared for a battle that none believed would occur. By the time Brienne led a charge against the Lannister rear, the enemy was already faring poorly. Her warriors fought all the way to Euron himself, where the lady Kingsguard claimed to have found him sipping wine over the corpse of Gerion Lannister.

It was there, standing upon the man’s corpse, that Euron declared his intention to wed Dany. His good spirits were not to last. In thanks for their aid, she had granted Euron an audience with her the day of the battle, a meeting which took an ugly turn. As soon as Euron glimpsed that she was with child, his face had reddened with rage before the lord stormed out of the castle.

Days had passed since, and she had not forgiven that slight.

“Is this really why you travelled so?” She reached up to stroke Barraxes’s nose ridge. “To make terrible jests and laugh at my niece’s discomfort? I must say Lord Greyjoy, for a leader who routed my enemies so completely, you have made quite the fool of yourself since. A so-called king who slays lions by the hundreds, but runs away at the first sight of a woman with child?”

Harry and Brynden laughed loudly at that while Euron’s smile melted away.

“Your… condition was not what I expected. To find you besieged, perhaps. But this? I had heard you were the mother of dragons, not a mother of bastards."

“My child will not be a bastard!” She lashed out. “Their father, the king, decreed that the blood of his blood would rule after him. By his will they shall do so as a trueborn Targaryen."

“A hard thing for any lord to swallow, even before the Lannisters bought out the Faith.” Euron replied smoothly. “The lords of the Seven Kingdoms will spit on that parchment as well as your claim. They’ll dismiss it as the ravings of a frightened little girl. Unless... they are too frightened to do so.” The grin returned. “Be my wife and I promise that your enemies will learn to know fear.”

“They should be afraid. My lord, I know you lack an eye, but did you miss my dragons?”

“I see two chained beasts where there should be three. I’ve also heard that not one of them has been properly used in battle. I’d go so far as to say I've killed more men than those three put together. Mark it a wager, if I’m wrong you can put out my last eye. A terrible gambit indeed, for I’ve no wish to miss your beauty or the glory of our future conquests.”

Euron’s eye moved up and down her form, a risky thing to do with Brienne near. The lady stepped between them, challenging the reaver, until Dany bid her to stand down. The ironmen might have army outside her walls yet their leader had come unguarded to this meeting. She would not be the one to violate that fragile trust.

“Rest assured, Euron, I know you to be a killer. Whether you are anything more is less certain.”

The Crow’s Eye laughed again. “But I would be your killer. With the Iron Fleet and the men I've brought with me, the coasts will be ours to ravage! King’s Landing and Storm's End, Highgarden and Casterly Rock, the entire realm itself-”

“To ravage.” Richard snarled. “Reave. Plunder. Rebel. That’s all Greyjoys do. Yesterday this man was rebelling against House Targaryen, today he wishes to fight for it. The winds around the Crow’s Eye shift so often, it’s a wonder he sailed here in one piece.”

“Yet here I am. Should I have let the Lannisters breach these walls? Eventually they would have done so, and found quite the collection of oddities.” He gestured with derision at the group. “Chained dragons, a handful of knights worth less than that one’s gold teeth, and a Kingsguard who must squat to piss.”

“Brienne wields Dawn!” Myrcella gasped while the lady in question kept her composure, a feat beyond the Bastard of Bracken who took a menacing step forward.

“Hold, Harry.” Brynden grasped at his arm. “He’s not worth the effort and has guest right besides. His safe conduct is assured.”

“I was just going to check him for weapons.” Harry gently pulled the Blackwood’s hand away, glaring at Euron still.

“The guards already did so.”

“Well I’d see to it myself and prove to this king just how safe Daenerys is.”

“I imagine she’s safe from you at least.” Euron’s gaze fell to the two knights' hands, which only now separated. “There’s comely women about, yet the only body you wish to handle is mine. Has this one lost his appeal-”

“You dare?!” Brynden flushed red as he jerked away from Harry, who gaped in shock.

“Enough of this.” She commanded, sending Brienne forth to separate the men. “Congratulations, Lord Greyjoy, only the Lannisters have proved to be worse guests.”

“A lesser evil, am I?” The reaver put a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “My apologies, princess. I like to think of myself as a man apart from my people but now and again the worst shows through.” He regarded Myrcella then, who stared at Barraxes once more while holding her veil tightly. “Mistakes happen. Even us beasts can redeem ourselves when the time calls for it.”

“You have much to atone for. Your rebellion against Aegon’s rule-”

“That was my brother Balon’s doing. A fool with a foolish cause. The Iron Islands are a backwards place, poor by most measures, its people beholden to old ways that have failed them time and time again. Just as you deserve more than Dragonstone, I seek better than the Seastone Chair. That tiny kingdom might have suited Balon, but I set my sight on a grander realm. The Seven Kingdoms themselves, and it is ours for the taking.”

She found herself listening more intently as Euron spoke, his tone growing more serious and his words gaining a dangerous edge. The whole time he stared at her with that eye. However sincere his speech, his gaze was filled with intensity and desire.

And he offered more than words and looks. Soon his thralls entered the yard to present gifts to her. Chests of gold and silver. Vials of Tyroshi dyes, Lyseni tapestries, and a Myrish lens. Casks of Arbor gold, Volantene sweet wines, and more.

“There’s so much.” Myrcella whispered from Dany's side, her eyes wide with curiosity. “We could make Dragonstone as handsome as the Red Keep with all of this. I thought he said the Iron Islands were poor?”

“Poor in wealth, gilded princess.” Euron startled Myrcella by addressing her so. “But not in ships or warriors and I’ve put both to good use in these waters. My fleet has been hunting for days. All you see here comes courtesy of King’s Landing. Give the word princess, and the Gullet will be closed and the lions will starve.”

“Not Tommen!” Myrcella protested. “He didn’t do anything. Don’t starve him. Or mother. She’s just confused, really. Joffrey always lies to her. When I learn to ride Rhaegal she’ll have to listen to me then.”

“This little thing plans to ride a dragon?” Euron rubbed at his beard.

“I will ride Rhaegal! He already lets me feed him and I almost got a saddle on his back. He bucked but I knew it was coming. If I keep a hand on his scales I can feel him getting ready to move. There’s a calm right before. It’s a lot like sailing and knowing a wave is coming. My uncle Gerion taught me…”

Myrcella’s words trailed off, her gaze narrowing on the Crow’s Eye.

“Oh, do go on.” Euron grinned. “Gerion Lannister was an interesting man. Shame I had to kill him. Well, almost a shame. He would’ve done the same to Princess Daenerys and her child too, once he learned of it.”

“No he wouldn’t have!”

The man shrugged. “Then hear it from the lips of a lion himself.”

Only then was Tyrion Lannister brought before them. The lordling was in a bad way, his faced bruised and one eye swollen shut, his hands bound in front of him and lacking several fingernails. It seemed a lifetime ago that Dany and Tyrion had joined together to fight Robert Baratheon. Back when Tyrion had acted as a friend, something Daenerys could no longer see him as.

“Oh, uncle…” Myrcella whispered. “What have they done to you?”

“Done to me?” Tyrion repeated, now glaring at Dany before gesturing to Myrcella's scars. “Jon sent Myrcella here for her safety! Did you do this to her? She’s an innocent-”

“Don’t you dare invoke Jon’s name to shame me!” She snapped before summoning Mycella’s minders. “Take my niece back to her chambers. The company here has become too foul.”

Myrcella argued but Brienne and Tess were able to spirit her away, the ladies so adept at doing so that the girl gave no sign of hearing Tyrion’s rushed farewell.

“She deserves better than this place.” He snarled. “The girl is missed. Tommen begged me to bring her home, even Cersei asked that I convey her love.”

“All after Lord Tywin bid the Imp to murder you.” Euron put in, cuffing Tyrion so hard the Lannister fell to a knee. “Took two fingernails to get that out of him. A third to be certain.”

“Wasn’t the third to learn all I knew of Arturion? Or is that meant to be a secret?”

Tyrion flashed a grin at that, flinching only slightly when Euron raised a fist in anger.

“No. No more of that.” She said, halting the reaver mid-strike to his bewilderment. “For the sake of Myrcella. Barraxes scarred her, Tyrion. He acted a beast, as you came here to do, but I will be better than that.”

“As you wish.” Euron backed away from Tyrion. “He’s yours to do with as you please. I suggest sending him back to Tywin Lannister. Let the old lion hear from his son that we are to wed.”

“I have not agreed-”

Tyrion burst out laughing. “Marry him? That’s rich! Do so! Please!” He reached up to wipe a tear from his eye. “My family’s done enough. Let this wretch be the one to kill your child. It is Jon’s child, isn’t it? Well the babe be reunited with their father soon enough if the Crow’s Eye falls upon it.”

This time it was Brynden and Harry that threatened Tyrion with violence. Ordering them off was a trial for her, harder still to have him taken to chambers where a healer could tend him. Many named Tyrion an ugly creature but Dany had never thought such things of him until now.

By his own admission he came to kill me. Now I’m supposed to heed him on how to safeguard my child?

He preys on my fears… tries to isolate me… just as they did to Jon.

Despite his charms, Euron was forced to depart the castle without an answer, though he did manage to kiss her hand in farewell before leaving. The feel of his lips against her skin caused an ache in Dany’s heart, for she had been denied such a moment with Jon. All she had was the memory of him standing on the shore, growing more distant as the sea pulled her away.

Dany pulled her own thoughts back to the matters at hand, bringing her council close together to speak in the presence of the dragons. As Barraxes and Rhaegal loosed flames upon haunches of goat, her knights and ladies readied to discuss the kraken’s proposal. A chair had been brought out for her, Brienne and Tess helping Dany to sit while Richard, Harry, and Brynden pretended not to hear Tess hissing at the state of her ankles.

“You poor thing.” Tess said. “To endure the likes of Lannisters and Greyjoys at such a time, you should be in your confinement. I actually miss the siege. At least then you stayed in bed.”

Richard’s teeth clacked together. “Careful there. We might only have traded one siege for another. Tywin Lannister sent what men he could spare but the Crow’s Eye brings more, and a fiercer sort altogether. The finest the Iron Islands have to offer.”

“That’s not saying much.” Ser Harry said, earning a chuckle from Brynden and a sour look from Brienne.

“Do not mislead her. The breaking of the siege was a bloodbath well before we joined it. Gawen Westerling and the rest surrendered to us only to escape the ironmen.”

Ser Brynden looked abashed. “Fine, they’re brute. All the more reason to we draw out this refusal. The Crow’s Eye was fool enough to give over Tyrion Lannister and all this wealth, we should see how much more he'll give before we seal the gates. It’s all about when her grace rejects the proposal.”

“If I reject it.” She spoke softly, watching Barraxes tear at goat flesh. “I am still not certain one way or another.”

The men were caught off guard by this, each shocked and horrified in his own way. The ladies stayed silent as they already knew how Dany wrestled with this decision. Tess held her hand tightly, her expression full of pity while Brienne’s eyes glistened with sadness.

“Half a year we’ve stood alone. Each small victory we win, the Lannisters come back stronger. The next time could be the last. If I must marry to hold them back... I will. To take the Iron Throne for my child, I’ll allow another to sit at our side.”

“But him?” Harry’s face wrinkled in disgust. “Do not forget what the Crow’s Eye is. Marry a Greyjoy and you lose any hope of winning the Reach to you.”

“The North as well.” Ser Brynden added. “There are more sensible suitors.”

“And more worthy.” Richard winced at the pain his teeth caused him. “I propose a marriage to Willas Tyrell instead. The might and influence of Highgarden could be yours."

Dany sighed at that. “You mean what support they haven't already given to the Lannisters.” She shook her head. "No, the Tyrells are lost to me. They chose to wed into Joffrey's false reign rather than oppose it."

“Then take me, your grace.” Brynden dropped to a knee, his dark hair hanging loose about his earnest eyes. “This isn’t the proper way but members of House Blackwood have acted as royal consorts before. Give me your hand and King’s Jon child will never lack for a loyal guardian.”

She was touched by the gesture and took notice at how Ser Harry bereaved acted at the idea.

“I must say no, ser. Not for any failing on your part. The Riverlands are crushed, Tywin holds Edmure Tully hostage, and the kin of many riverlords. A brother of yours included, if I remember correctly.”

Brynden took her point well enough, actually appearing somewhat relieved. Thus it fell to Brienne to rally up the cause against the Crow's Eye.

“Things may seem bleaker than they actually are.” The lady offered. "Ser Justin could return any day now with ships and men.”

“Perhaps, but do any of you believe that what Ser Justin might bring tomorrow will match what Euron offers me today?"

She wanted them to say yes. To give her some hope, however false. Instead Richard looked at her as if she was the one disappointing them.

“Your grace, you asked for our counsel but I fear your mind is already made.”

“It's not...” She rubbed at her middle. “It's in turmoil and full of doubt...”

“Then heed it.” Tess seemed to plead with her. “Daenerys, few women have the power to choose their fate as you do now. If you don't wish to wed the Crow’s Eye-”

“Wish?” Her laugh sounds sad coming from her lips. “I wish I was already wed. I wish that Jon was here with me, Rhaegar soothing us with a song. I wish my mother and Rhaenys could tell me what it is to have a child. I wish I could dance with Elara and Roslin again. I wish all that I've lost could return once more…"

Tess squeezed her shoulder then, so Dany would know that she was not alone in longing for what was lost. Selfishly she prayed that she would never understand Tess in the same way. To suffer the loss of a child.

"Tell me Brienne, truthfully, if I ordered you to battle and offered only wishes or a blade to fight with, what choice would you make?"

“She must choose the blade.” An exotic voice answered, for Melisandre was almost upon them. The red priestess walked straight to Barraxes, running her hand over the feeding dragon, an act that none beside Dany could do without risking their life.

“Why is she here?” Tess asked, voice full of disdain.

“I summoned her.” She replied. “Melisandre foretold Euron’s coming and I’d hear her take on this. Though one mention of burning people and your time here will be at end, my lady.”

“Whether I speak to it or not, many will burn in the fires of R’hllor.” Melisandre turned from the white dragon, her copper gaze falling on Rhaegal. “All set aflame by these blessed beasts.”

Tess hissed. “There, she talked about it. Away with her.”

“The pale lord with the blue lips, he fears the light.” Melisandre walked on towards Brienne. “The light of dawn. For as long as Daenerys is shielded by its golden rays, the reaver is kept at bay and the promised child will come.”

“Bloody nonsense.” Richard muttered and Dany regarded him sharply.

“Did you say the same to Rhaegar when he looked to prophecy for guidance?”

“No, but I should have… gods know that none of those ravings ever talked about us ending up in a spot like this. Perhaps Robert should have killed me in the breach. Forget the pain of my teeth, I would have been spared seeing my friend’s children come to such ends. To see his beloved sister so overcome with fear that she would heed a madwoman and think to marry worse. Rhaegar always believed better days were ahead-”

“Thank you, ser.” She interrupted, fearing to lose her own composure at that. “I think that’s enough for now. You and the good knights should check in on Tyrion and our other captives. I’d like to sit with the dragons for a time.”

“Your grace, I meant no offense-”

“None was taken. Go on. I will be well cared for.”

“R’hllor watches over her.” Melisandre said with a wave of her hand, which Tess made a face at.

“She meant us, you red loon.”

The lady was only half right. Sitting near to the dragons eased her mind some. She shared much of Tess’s dislike of Melisandre, yet without the red witch they might never have been able to lead the dragons out of the caves. Her power calmed them, and that, in turn, calmed Dany.

Even the sounds of Tess and Melisandre arguing helped some. Though their voices were strained and their words harsh, she found herself pretending it was Elara and Roslin bickering nearby. That she was sitting with her friends once more, neither one of them dead or missing. They would probably have a lot to say about Euron too.

Roslin would say he is comely at the very least… then Elara would call her mad.

“Should I send them away?” Brienne asked, nodding toward Melisandre and Tess, still quarreling.

“I think we can endure it. Of all the fighting lately, theirs is a milder sort. It would be good if harsh words were the worst things I had to worry about. Be truthful, Brienne, do I disappoint you as I do Richard?”

“Never.” Brienne blinked in surprise. “Grown men and great lords have bent and broken where you have stood tall. You are a queen, Daenerys. No matter what others may say, that’s what I see before me.”

“That’s what Rhaegar wanted for me.” Dany lamented. “He said I would be queen here on Dragonstone, with dragons all around me. A dream I fought tooth and nail against.” She felt it all coming back. “His wish for me to wed Aegon. To stand back and let Jon marry another. All Rhaegar’s plans turned to ash and yet part of the prophecy held true. Here I sit Brienne. A queen without a kingdom. Mother to a child without a father… gods, he might not have a future either…”

“He will. You both will.” Brienne moved a hand, perhaps to touch at her, yet held back. “Do not tell Tess but I pray the red witch is right. That Dawn will guard my queen and her heir. You asked if I’d take a sword or wishes into battle, well my answer is sword. The sword, Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever you lack, know that this sword is yours. When you are in need, Dawn will come-”

A distant roar caused Brienne to quiet. A powerful sound which echoed down the Dragonmont, which had turned to black with the coming of evening. Though she saw no sign of Arturion about its peaks or in the darkening sky, his cry was unmistakable. Barraxes and Rhaegel knew it too, both unleashing roars of their own.

Calling to their missing brother. Bidding him to come back.

I know the dead cannot rise, but please let me have one thing I’ve lost finally return…

She seized Brienne’s hand then, so quickly that the lady jerked.

“He kicks.” Dany said, pulling the hesitant woman’s hand to her stomach. “Feel this, Brienne. The dragons call and he answers.”

“If you think it’s proper…”

Brienne was tense at first, her hand pressed stiffly against Dany’s middle. Yet after a few moments, the awkwardness abated. The lady’s touch became more tender, her fingers extending to seek more of the sound. A smile spread across Brienne’s face, a beautiful thing no matter her crooked teeth and scars.

“He’s strong.” The lady said with a laugh. “He might very well kick me away.”

“Not you.” She found her way to smiling too. “We have too few friends left to think of that… especially with the allies I may have to embrace.” Brienne stiffened again and made to rise but Dany fought her. “No, stay put. He rarely kicks for so long-”

“Look there.” Brienne pointed behind her. “I think my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

She spun about, expecting to see Arturion soaring above the castle. Yet no dragon was to be seen nearby or anywhere else for that matter. It took her a moment to spot what startled Brienne.

A raven flying their way. A large white raven.

“Another one from the Citadel?” Tess asked. “Autumn was only just announced…”

“This beast is a foul one.” Melisandre declared, eyes narrowing on the approaching bird. “I sense the work of the Great Other in it.”

“You’re fine with the reaver king but a bird worries you?!”

Dany climbed to her feet and lurched away from them. The raven was fairing worse, its flight labored and slowing quickly. With each passing moment, Dany felt sure that this was no raven from the Citadel. She recognized this bird.

“Winter.” She whispered to herself before holding out an arm to Elara’s raven. “Winter! To me!”

The raven could not quite make it, collapsing on the hard ground before her. When she lifted it up into her arms, she found its feathers soaked and the poor thing rasping for air.

It must have flown through a storm. But from where though? Brightwater Keep? Starfall?

Has it been searching for Dragonstone all this time?

When Winter looked at her, a strange feeling settled over her, for its dark eyes were filled with a familiar warmth. Then its leg kicked and she spotted the parchment tied there. It was wet and much of it was torn. Unfurling it was an effort, Dany making sure the message wasn't destroyed in the process. Soon she read what few words had survived the journey. Words penned in a hand she knew well.

Daenerys… still alive… King’s Landing… they will find…

…to come again… time to fight... Stay strong…

...Elara...

Your friend.

 

SANSA  

Hungry eyes watched after her. Eyes that saw Sansa as a meal and little else.

She felt this way whenever Grey Wind’s pack drew near. Had she known that scores of wolves would crowd the small wood, she might have stopped Meera and Jojen from leaving on a scout. These smaller wolves often frightened her. They were deadly beasts, man-eaters...

And even they knew to fear the direwolves.

Nymeria kept them all at bay, pacing about, snapping and growling at any who thought to approach. If they managed to get past Nymeria, Grey Wind and Lady were far less forgiving. A week past a wolf had been torn to shreds at her feet after it foolishly lunged at her and Roban.

The direwolves were at peace now. Grey Wind lingered near Hodor and Old Nan, watching intently as they tended to Roban. The babe often smiled and reached toward the wolf, giggling loudly when Grey Wind started licking his tiny fingers. It warmed her heart to see, though she drew more heat from the scarred she-wolf pressed against her side, Lady doing her best to act Sansa’s shadow.

Of late the cold had deepened, snows falling thicker and the air carrying a bitter chill. Such a turn bid Sansa to allow the direwolves into her tent, so Roban could share in their warmth. Grey Wind would curl about Roban as if to cradle him while Lady laid with Sansa, just as they had when she was a pup.

That’s what Sansa focused on now as she pet Lady now. The gentle warmth and safety that the direwolves gave them. Not the blood and death that seemed to follow them.

It is not the direwolves who are cursed.

They are no more monstrous than me.

“It’s not so bad.” Old Nan asked, boldly swatting at Grey Wind so she could bundle Roban into another fur. “This cold is only a taste of autumn and this little wolf is strong. Not so much as a sniffle. Walder’s nose used to run in streams in cold like this.”

“Hodor.” Hodor smiled, patting Roban’s hand gingerly.

“Still, best we find a roof soon, m’lady. Some place warm and dry. Not just for the babe but for all of us. Autumn storms are foul things and worse will follow.”

“Winter is coming.” She whispered. That was one threat that the direwolves could not guard against.

Or so she prayed.

“Meera and Jojen should have been back by now.” Sansa worried out loud, looking to the frogging spear that Meera had left behind for her protection.

She wouldn’t leave us for so long. Head to the river, she said. Look for a crossing, a couple hours at most.

It’s been much longer… too long.

“Hmm, I thought they just left.” Old Nan pushed Roban into Hodor’s arms. “Those two befuddle the mind. The lady and her little poker. The lord with his funny eyes and strange dreams. They could return riding ice spiders and I’d not be surprised.”

“No more tales of such frightening things.” Sansa shivered. “It scares my nephew.”

Roban betrayed her by giggling again, for Hodor had let the babe’s bottom sag some and Grey Wind was using his nose to force the boy higher up. Just as Robb used to help Bran climb trees.

Grey Wind looked her way then, and for half a moment it felt like she was staring at Robb. A silly notion... yet a queer sense of certainty would not leave her mind. Her wolf dreams were to blame. She would see the world through Lady’s eyes and Grey Wind would be her brother. Somehow it was different for Nymeria, who was Lady’s sister but never Sansa’s. Arya just wasn’t there when she looked into Nymeria’s eyes.

Jojen said all of this was a part of her. He would go and on about Sansa having to accept a power she didn’t understand. Nor did Jojen understand that to do so meant accepting uglier truths about herself.

The torn flesh and taste of blood, sharp and sweet. The sound of weeping and worse.

‘Help me…’ The voice pleaded again, ‘Mercy…’

She battled her demons by staying busy. Tending to their meager supplies, feeding their poor terrified goat, singing to Roban. She went so far as to try and practice the proper posture and stride expected of a lady, just as mother and Septa Mordane had taught her. Somehow that turned into pacing, her feet crafting dark ruts across snow.

Then a loud growl rose up. It was Nymeria doing so but soon similar sounds weere spreading out through the entire pack. Grey Wind and Lady were beside their sister in a thought, facing a thick group of pines to the south.

Some heavy branches thrust outward and Meera and Jojen emerged, both coming to an abrupt stop at the sight of the pack.

“Sansa! Get control of the wolves!” Meera shouted.

“Don’t fret, the direwolves know you’re with us.” She pointed to their trio of protectors. “As long as they’re around they won’t let the others hurt you.”

“But we’re not alone.” Jojen worried aloud before the branches bent forward again.

A group of people broke through the trees. Ten or so men and women, all short of stature, wearing leathers and carrying arms. She spotted wicker shields, frogging spears, bows, a sword or two. All of which were raised in alarm when the wolves unleashed a chorus of growls and hundreds of fangs bared in threat.

“It’s the demon pack.” One archer declared, pulling an arrow and taking aim as a woman sidled up beside him. “Gods help us... Kanna we must-”

“Marlen! Put that away!” Meera raised her hands, urging the others to do the same. “Sansa! These are friends! Calm the wolves!”

“I can’t!” She said truthfully, for she too felt threat from these strangers.

“You can.” Jojen said in his strange way. “Sansa Stark. She-wolf. We are your friends. The wolves must leave.”

“Yes, I know! I can’t make them-”

“Sansa. We are your friends. The wolves must leave. Know that.”

A few of the wolves were growing closer to the Reeds and the strangers readied for a fight. So tried to do as Jojen asked.

They are friends, she thought, the wolves must leave.

Nothing happened so she repeated it again. Then again. Each time she felt calmer despite the growing threat of battle. It became easier when she locked eyes with Meera.

Meera was her friend. The wolves had to leave.

Then she was looking at Meera through different eyes. She felt stronger, more powerful. The strangers worried her but some were her friends. People that the small cousins wanted to hurt. They had to leave.

“Sansa?” Meera’s voice made her blink and it was all gone.

She was herself again, watching as the wolves and strangers prepared to fight. Then Lady pulled back and let loose a loud whine. Most of the smaller wolves ignored it, Nymeria barely looking her way, but Grey Wind paused. The whine came again and Lady nipped at Nymeria, finally grabbing her sister’s attention. Then Lady set about bullying the others, forcing them back from the strangers before running off into the woods. When Grey Wind and Nymeria did the same, the rest of the pack followed their leaders.

Soon the only sign of the wolves were their tracks and their distant yipping.

They won’t go far. Lady won’t let them.

She’ll keep them near… because I want her near.

“Amazing, my lady.” Jojen gave her a rare smile. “That’s been in you for awhile now.”

“This is her?” An older man asked, sheathing his iron sword and staring at Sansa in disbelief. “I knew we'd find Sansa Stark, but to find a skinchanger as well...”

“Pardon me?” She gasped to be called such. “Who are you to name me such a thing?”

“This is Korjen.” Meera scowled at the crannogman. “One of my father’s men. His courtesies fail him now, but I promise he's not as much of an arse as he seems.”

“Oh, he might be.” The skinny, young archer said before Korjen cuffed him.

“Shut it, Marlen! Now all of you bow!” He followed that by leading his group in bowing to her. “My Lady of Stark, Lord Reed sends his regards. I’m sorry it took us so long to find you. Meera and Jojen were taught too well. It was hard to track them.”

“You’re a part of the crannog army?”

“We are no army, my lady.” Korjen admitted sullenly. “Only a war band, and not much of one. The only army in these lands is the one we’ve been staying a step ahead of. There’s thousands marching up the river behind us.”

From his tone, it was clear that this mysterious force was not made up of allies. So she focused on Korjen and his people instead. As he told it, there were crannog war bands all over the North. Each was sent by Howland Reed, some to harry the Boltons while others sought her father. Korjen and his men had been among the few sent to track down Meera and Jojen. Such was how they discovered an army marching to Winterfell.

“It’s the mermen, they’re on the move.” Korjen said. “Lord Manderly is bringing every spear he can muster with him. Whitehill, Woolfield, Locke, they are all heading to Winterfell, mustering for battle against your father. We heard it from a prisoner we took.”

“Back when there were thirty of us.” The woman called Kanna patted Marlen on his back as Sansa counted again, finding only ten in their party.

“I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.” She tried to look in each of their eyes. “My father told me often about House Reed, how we Starks have no truer friends.” Her gaze fell on Meera and Jojen then. “And now I name you all heroes, worthy of song. With such brave company, we will no doubt find our way to my father. I promise, he will give you justice.”

“I’d rather it be your wolves.” Marlen’s voice was hoarse. “Let the direwolves tear Ramsay Snow apart, like his dogs did to my brother.”

The mention of the Bastard of Bolton sent a wave of terror crashing over her. She was in the nightmare again. Hounds baying, men screaming, so much blood. Then an ugly face, one twisted into a mask of cruelty. The face of Ramsay Snow.

“Ramsay Snow is with the Manderlys?” She dared to ask and Korjen nodded.

“Him and that sellsword scum.”

“The Second Sons.” Sansa tasted bile to speak of them. Hodor reacted worse.

“Hodor!” He shouted in fear, the poor stableboy grabbing at Old Nan and dragging her and Roban towards their tent. Trying to hide them all away. “Hodor! Hodor!”

“You’re safe now, my Walder.” Nan made to calm him as Roban began wailing. “They’re far away from here.”

“And less than they were.” Marlen noted. “Thanks to your wolves.”

“What do you mean?” She asked, sharing a confused look with the Reed siblings.

“The demon pack. The only reason we were able to grab that prisoner was because the sellswords were out trying to regroup their forces. The wolves have ambushed them twice in the last week or so.”

“That’s not right. Not Lady and the others. It couldn’t be them.”

She said all this with certainty. None of the wolf dreams she had of late involved killing anything more than deer and other game. Sansa was spared few horrors in this life, she didn’t see how Lady and the others could do murder without her knowing.

“Well... they do go on hunts.” Meera offered. “And they’ve killed before.”

“Not since Lady found us. The pack strays but never far. Whoever is killing our enemies, it’s not them. Do not ask me to explain further, I ask that you simply trust my word.”

“We do.” Jojen nodded, turning to challenging the rest. “In this, none can doubt Lady Sansa.”

Korjen scratched at his head. “We’re just going off of what the man said before he bled out. He said the Second Sons were sent out riding, that they didn’t come back and the wolves did it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Meera pointed to where Hodor was weeping along with the babe. “The point is they’re coming. Ramsay Snow, the Manderlys, all of them. None of us want to be here when they do.”

“Then we need to get across the White Knife.” Korjen crossed his arms. “And it needs to happen now. If the Lady Stark agrees.”

There was no argument on that. With the crannogmen’s help, they were off and out of the glen in a hurry. It felt strange to have armed men around her again. For so long now their group had been a small family. Now they were a war band on the march.

Through the woods, over hills, across snow-covered fields, each step felt cautious. Especially for Sansa, whose eyes searched the lands around them. Trees, ridges, the distant waters of the river, all were clear to her and there was no sign of the wolves. At first she thought that a good thing, considering how things had gone earlier, but as time dragged on their absence became alarming.

Lady would know we’ve moved on... and Grey Wind…

I can’t see him letting strangers carry Roban away, not without following close by.

Sansa tried to focus on the wolves, to seek out Lady but it was no use. Their hurried pace and the slippery ground was too distracting. All she could do was be patient, keeping her eyes and ears keen to the sight of fur or the sound of howling.

Time dragged on awhile longer before a cry did go up but rather than a wolf's howl it was the frantic whistling of Jojen. The lordling stood upon a crest ahead of them, staring down at something the rest could not see.

Korjen and Marlen pressed on, weapons drawn, and appeared somewhat put out when Meera and Sansa insisted on joining them.

“What is it?” Meera rasped to her brother as they neared the crest. “Don’t tell me the Manderlys beat us to the ford.”

“Someone did.” Jojen answered, pointing over the edge. “The crossing belongs to the dead now.”

The river lay ahead of them, and so stood the ford they needed to cross. Yet to reach either they needed to pass through through a red-soaked field of death. There was no way to count the dead from where they sat, for there were more pieces of bodies than proper corpses. A scene of such terrible carnage was hard to fathom.

“So this is where the wolves went.” Marlen ran a hand down his face. “Gods, don’t let those poor devils be from the Neck.”

“Was this them Sansa? Grey Wind and Nymeria?” Jojen asked.

“I-I’m not sure. I thought they were behind us. I mean, there was no sign, no howling…”

No anger. No rage. None of that terrible thrill they feel to kill.

I can’t taste the blood… I always taste the blood…

“There’s too much left.” Meera squinted down at the mayhem. “Look closer. The wolves tear men apart but then they feed. Remember what was left of the Boltons?”

“Only bones.” She said.

But they held back from eating the dead once. Just the once...

Korjen stood tall then. “Whoever did it, they’re not here now.” He pointed about the open lands around the ford and beyond. “And that’s the way we need to be going.”

“No. Can’t you feel the wind?” Jojen asked, yet Sansa felt little breeze at all. Still the lordling shivered as he looked south. “There’s a harsh cold that way. We need to rest, find shelter and gain our strength…”

These were troubling words, spoken in the strange tone he used whenever he spoke of his dreams. Yet no part of Sansa wished to rest. His wisdom came up against a wall within her mind, which drove her to keep moving. This was not fear. Her desire to flee was fading... replaced by an urge to give chase.

Korjen too seemed torn between the path ahead and what lay behind.

“My lord, unless you tell me that pressing on is to die, we have little choice. Not with the Bastard and that army bearing down on us.”

“It just feels right to stand firm.” Jojen argued but Sansa made her decision.

“No, I want us to keep going. My father is that way… it’s him we need to find, not shelter.”

She was trying to convince herself of that yet her words proved enough for the rest.

“Lady Stark has the right of it.” Korjen waved Hodor and the others up the hill. “We go to the crossing. Ready yourselves, we’re about to get an eyeful of ugliness.”

The girl she once was would have retched at the thought of stepping over bodies. Those days were long past though. As they trudged through the field, a morbid curiosity took hold of her. While avoiding severed arms and heads, she began to suspect that these poor souls numbered about the same as their group. She also suspected that Meera was right. This was not the frenzied killing of wolves. The bodies were cut to pieces, the few horses among them had been hacked apart, not bitten.

This is butchery. The kind done to animals, not by them.

Then she found a corpse she knew, and it was hard not to think of the dead as beasts. A dark-haired man laying in the snow, his legs and arms hacked away. She named him Ser Geribald, a sellsword knight she had last seen riding from Winterfell at Brown Ben’s side. He had sat proudly upon a large gelding then. Now he was sprawled across a torn banner bearing the broken sword of the Seconds Sons.

“Wolves don’t ride horses.” Kanna said, thrusting her spear point at some distinct tracks in the snow, leading Sansa’s gaze to where a large trail led south from the slaughter. “They’re not much for horse stealing either. This lot, they rode here to die... then their killers left with their mounts. None walked away from this.”

“Maybe not.” Marlen lingered near a ravine. Within it was a dead horse, caught up in a pile of sticks and bramble. This was not what caught Marlen’s eye though. Soon he drew her attention to a trail leading out from the brambles and heading towards the river. A trail of footprints and drops of red.

“One of the bastards survived.”

Korjen grunted. “Forget them. There’s no time. We need get the Lady Stark and the little lord away from- Lady Stark?”

Clearly the crannogman hadn’t expected her to follow the trail, and she was surprised that her feet had started moving, yet Sansa went on, trudging through the snow and mud. Meera and Jojen called to her and Sansa’s own good sense was screaming for her to seek the ford instead. Her strange instinct won out though, an overpowering urge to hunt down this stranger. To seek out answers to questions she couldn’t speak to yet had all the same.

That was what Lady was doing. They were following a trail. A much larger one than the one Sansa walked after. More like the horse tracks she’d seen leading away from the massacre. There was no blood mixed in with this snow but she smelled it in the air.

“Sansa, stop.” Meera tried to hold her back but she wouldn’t slow. “There’s enough dead here. What they did to Winterfell was horrible but don’t risk yourself for vengeance.”

“I’m not looking for revenge.” She struggled with her friend and found Jojen watching them. “This is important. I have to know.”

Jojen took a step forward. “What are you trying to learn Sansa?”

“What if they’re coming for us? Are they hunting too?”

“Who? Stop confusing her!” Meera grabbed at her cheek. “Let it be, it’s one man at most-”

“No, there’s so many. Scores of them. Men and horses. I can hear them now. They have steel. I can hear it.”

“Not you, it’s Lady.” Jojen spoke softly. “Skinchangers and their familiars... my father said the bond goes both ways. Lady can heed your bidding but such power comes at a cost. The wolf is in you too, Sansa. You sense what she does. I think it’s the wolf that hears something-”

He paused at the sound of rocks shifting. It came from the same direction that the trail led, right to a fallen log along the riverbank.

“Who’s there?” Meera demanded, spear in hand. “Show yourself! Do it now or I’ll have some arrows find you instead!” She called back to the approaching crannogmen. “Marlen! Notch your bow and aim over the log!”

“Don’t!” A hoarse voice shouted back. “Fucking hells… I’m coming. Just don’t kill me at first sight. Wait a few moments at least.”

With that a hand raised up over the top of the log. Its owner soon followed, a sellsword of little stature, his armor as poor as his health. So numerous were his injuries that the unkempt man practically fell over the log. That was as far as he went and he did not bother to rise again, instead sitting with his back against the log, awaiting their coming with a resigned shake of his head. There was no point to Sansa holding back, the stranger displayed several wounds but no weapons.

“Look at this, Kor.” Marlen laughed. “A sellsword without a sword.”

“Hey, I got a sword... my bloody swordbelt just got stuck under the horse.” The man griped. “Go and fetch it for me, then I'll swear on it that I’m not what you think.”

“Another poor, misunderstood man with a heart of gold?” Kanna pulled a knife. “We’ve heard that before. Do I get him to sing a different tune, Korjen?”

“No.” Sansa said firmly. “That’s not our way. Let the Boltons act so monstrously. The Starks have lost much, but we still hold to our honor.”

“Listen to the nice one. I like her.” The stranger smiled weakly, his gaze moving between her and the others. “Do you lot fight for the Starks? I name you warriors of the Neck. Sad to say, you’re the first living ones I’ve seen.”

Korjen scowled. “Aye, you might have thrown your life away for gold but we of the crannogs, we fight and die in honor of the wolves. The North remembers.”

“So I’ve heard. The bloody mermen who killed my horse wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Mermen...” She repeated. “The Manderlys? The Manderlys did this to you?”

He grimaced to nod. “The Bastard wanted us to take the crossing. Lord Chubs sent along some men to help. To protect us from wolves he said.” A wry laugh escaped the man. “Only it’s the Manderlys that have taken to killing Plumm’s men. Wish they would’ve let me in on the plan. I owe the Second Sons a world of hurt.”

They all grew silent, sharing shocked glances with one another. To hear that the Second Sons had been betrayed by the Manderlys... it seemed too good to be true.

Yet when her mind slipped away again, she and her siblings had found their quarry. The small cousins had given up the chase but not them, and now the three watched from the shadows as a company of riders gathered about a pond. Armored men, watering their horses as they lay in wait. Men wearing mermen badges and blood upon their weapons. Blades and spears were being cleaned and sharpened again. She could smell the violence in their hearts.

A hand was on her arm and the spell was broken. Jojen had a hold of her, his queer eyes staring into Sansa’s in a thoughtful way.

“I think it’s true.” She said to him and Meera. “The Manderlys, they turned on the sellswords. I... I want it to be true.”

“He’s preying on that.” Korjen offered as Roban started fussing behind them. “Likely in hopes of having us sit around and wait. All so his masters can get the drop on us.”

“I’d not wish that on anyone.” The stranger grunted again. “I’ve no idea what’s going on but you cannot let Ramsay Snow get his hands on that child. Or these women. The things he’s capable of…”

“He’s more beast than man.” Sansa wrung her hands at the memory. “But I believe you speak the truth. Until now, I only knew one honest man among the Second Sons. Name yourself so I might know the second.”

“I won't let you give the Second Sons so much credit.” He sighed. “I only rode with them to safeguard the lives of better men. Friends I was forced to leave behind… doomed more like. Unless you have a horse to spare?”

“So you can go back and warn the Bastard?” Korjen turned his back to the wounded man. “Lady Sansa, do not listen-”

“Fool!” Meera rasped as she and Sansa glared at Korjen for such carelessness. The truth set the stranger to gazing at her with confusion.

“Lady Sansa?” The stranger repeated, his face suddenly falling. “Sansa Stark? She’s dead. Long dead. Viserys killed her… that creature earned what’s been done to him…”

“Well we have to take him prisoner now!” Meera scolded Korjen, who acted thoroughly ashamed.

“It would be safer to kill him. If he escaped and spread the word, the lady would be in peril.”

“Wait! Is it true?!” The man threw himself forward, trying to crawl her way before Marlen kicked him down into the snow. Still the man looked up at her, hope in is his eyes. “Say it’s true. Say you are Sansa Stark of Winterfell! Say you know King Jon!”

“I knew Jon.” She admitted. “We were different people back then. He was a prince and I was…” The words escaped her. “It makes no matter. That’s all gone now. I do not wish to have you killed. Swear to the gods that if we take you prisoner-”

“Forget me! You must save him! Jon lives! He lives! Unless they’ve already found him out but- dammit already he died for your family once. You owe him this!”

“He’s mad.” Meera pulled at her but Sansa couldn’t ignore the desperation behind the man’s words. Nor the glimmer of hope he offered.

It’s impossible. He died at Riverrun.

Just as I died at Winterfell…

“Sansa Stark, if that is who you are, hear my words, I beg of you. On my honor as a knight, by my wife and the memory of my only boy, Jon- King Jon lives. They don’t know they have him. Not yet. But the Bastard, he- and Viserys is with him…”

In his fearful eyes, the horrors of Winterfell and the nightmare of blood were reflected back at her. Viserys and Ramsay Snow, reveling in the pain that they inflicted. She wanted to turn away from such thoughts.

Until she remembered a young prince standing in the godswood, hurt and alone. She had turned away then too.

And though Jon might be returned, that girl was gone.

A wolf now stood in her place.

 

CERSEI  

None dared stand in her way.

Lords, knights, and servants all bowed and moved aside when she approached. Whether it was the confidence of her stride, the posture as straight as a marble pillar, or the splendor of the crown upon her brow, Cersei radiated power.

The same could be said of the Tower of the Hand. Within these corridors, she and her father kept the Seven Kingdoms united under Joffrey’s golden reign. One day her son would not need such guidance, but for now Joffrey could depend on her.

Hence her fury when she learned that the small council was in session. She had not been informed of any summons, let alone that there was a meeting. If not for Delena Florent, her lady attendant, Cersei might have remained ignorant.

That trollop has a skill for gossip, no doubt she learned of this meeting on her back.

In truth Cersei put more stock in Delena’s cunt than half of the men upon the small council. When she arrived in the Hand’s chambers her anger only deepened. All were in attendance save for her.

Joffrey and her father sat at either end of the table, with the right side dominated by House Lannister and the left a collection of advisors. Mace Tyrell and Baelor Hightower took up space that could be put to better use, and at times Cersei thought the same of Pycelle, who was only half as smart as he believed himself.

Yet none of them disgust her as Tyrion did. Somehow the scarred little failure of a creature had returned from Dragonstone even uglier and more disgraceful. Yet there the little troll sat, right between Jaime and their uncle Kevan.

Tyrion having been granted a chair while she was left with nothing.

“Cersei.” Father greeted her with his strong gaze. “It seems the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard need have a word with his men. You were not announced.”

“It was an error of courtesy, much like my mislaid invitation.” She said, glowering at Tyrion, hinting at the Imp to rise but he didn’t so much as blink at her.

Finally Mace Tyrell remembered his place.

“Your grace, take my seat until another can be delivered.” The fat flower smiled. “It’s the least I can do for my daughter’s future goodmother. I thought perhaps that you had joined Margaery in the wedding preparations.”

“There are more pressing matters, such as my brother’s failure to defeat a pregnant girl and a band of pirates.”

Joffrey laughed. “I told grandfather that it was a mistake sending an Imp to do a man’s work.” He leaned back in his chair with a graceful smile. “Had I led the attack, Daenerys would be dealt with and the dragons mine.”

Tyrion sipped of his wine. “I bow to my nephew’s experience dealing with women, though I doubt Daenerys would have let you catch her unguarded in a storeroom.”

“Watch your tongue.” She snapped. “That is your king. You should be begging for his forgiveness on bended knee for your shameful display on Dragonstone.”

“Cersei, they were ambushed and outnumbered.” Jaime replied flatly, causing her temper to rise once more.

“That’s no excuse. Rhaegar imparted a vast amount of wisdom of Dragonstone onto Tyrion. That should have been enough for him-”

“Then blame Rhaegar.” Her father declared, silencing her and drawing all eyes in the room. “That husband of yours… Euron Greyjoy, his brothers Victarion and Balon, they all should have lost their heads the last time we crushed them.”

“The krakens are deceitful fiends.” Baelor said with a glance to Lord Tyrell. “Nearly the worst of the realm.

“Quite true, ser.” Mace agreed, patting his gut. “Why, even Lord Tywin’s wardship of Theon Greyjoy could not keep him from a life of treachery.”

Tywin turned his hard gaze upon the Lord of Highgarden, the rose wilting under his gaze.

“I raised Theon to be Lord of the Iron Islands. Had Rhaegar heeded my counsel after the rebellion and killed the Greyjoy brothers, the boy would have made the proper tool for that task. Instead Rhaegar ensured us the loss of the Iron Islands and now my brother Gerion. This time when we serve the Iron Islands steel and fire, the lords we raise up in place of House Greyjoy-”

“No one will take their place.” Joffrey slapped a hand against the table. “I’m going to scour those rocks of the iron scum and drive every single one of them into the sea. Let their Drowned God greet them.”

“Out of the question.” Father chided him. “Peace and justice. That’s what your reign will bring. Rhaegar did too little to maintain either and now you go too far.”

Joffrey seemed to bristle at that. “You can’t talk that way about my father. He was the king. You were his servant and now you’re mine.”

“Joffrey!” She gasped. “Apologize to your grandfather!”

“Maybe father was right not to listen to him.” Joffrey continued. “His roar has grown weak, like the caged lions of Casterly Rock.”

Complete silence followed. Pycelle pulled on his beard, Lord Tyrell and Ser Baelor blinked in astonishment, while every Lannister including Cersei feared what was to come. Her father should not have insulted Rhaegar but no one spoke to the Lion of Lannister that way.

Too bold. Too bold and too soon my son.

I see the fire in you that your father lacked but you’ve loosed it at the wrong time.

The Hand was a statue. “Lord Tyrell, since our business is completed, I think you should aid the king in attending to the wedding preparations. Nothing can be allowed to disappoint his high standards.”

“I don’t want to do that! It’s woman’s work!”

“None will say such if Ser Baelor joins you. Tend to our allies and your future queen, only then might you find yourself starting to act as a king.”

Joffrey was red-faced with rage when father had the guardsmen escort him and the Reach men out. She waited until the doors shut to mount her defense.

“Father, that was outrageous! You embarrassed Joffrey in front of his vassals.”

“He did that himself.” Lord Tywin folded his hands together. “The boy must be brought to heel. We did not risk so much to put another senseless ruler upon the throne. The Seven Kingdoms have suffered enough of those.”

“And we’re so devoted to sparing the realm suffering.” Jaime’s voice was full of scorn, as it often sounded of late.

He frustrated her at every turn. By slaying Jon Snow, Jaime had finally proven himself to Cersei and with Rhaegar lost to her she’d had thoughts of rekindling the love they once shared. They had come together in her chambers a few moons back, and Cersei’s body had enticed him so much that Jaime threw her against a wall. At first his lust and hunger excited her but then his touches grew rougher, the pulling of her hair painful. When he dared to press the stump of his wrist against her flesh, it might as well have been Tyrion touching her.

In the end she drove him off, leaving Jaime rubbing at the bloody scratches she left across his chest.

“I’m your queen, not your whore.” She declared before slapping him. “Be glad those scratches are all you suffer for this. What has become of you Jaime?”

He had the gall to laugh then. “Something far uglier than I ever imagined. To look at you is like looking in a mirror. One filled with lies.” Jaime then waved his red-tipped fingers at her. “Worry not, dear sister. I owed you some blood. Though I fear the debt is far from paid.”

Such nonsense had left a gulf between them in these pivotal days. They were building a golden dynasty, just as Cersei dreamed when she first wed Rhaegar. Yet she had never envisioned half the hurdles they would face along the way.

The North was in turmoil with Eddard Stark and Roose Bolton battling for control of frozen backwater. The Freys claimed that half the riverlords were aiding the Lightning Lord and his Ghosts, though the grasping weasels were known to say anything to win more lands from the throne. The Stormlords remained divided and leaderless, which was a worrisome thing considering the ongoing issues with the Dornish.

Threats which reached as far as the Red Keep.

“I heard screaming on my way here.” She said, looking to Pycelle. “Does Axell Florent continue to suffer from his Dornish kiss?”

The old maester gulped. “It is my grave duty to announce that Lord Florent is not long for this world.”

“Someone should inform his betrothed.” Tyrion japed. “It might raise her spirits.”

Tyrion was probably right. Arianne Martell was their hostage, but Axell Florent made sure to tell all who would listen that she was his future wife. More accurately she was his self-proclaimed path to claiming Dorne. A fool’s errand that her father had encouraged to a point, for it was a useful threat to hang over Doran Martell’s head. No one had perceived the daughter to be any sort of threat herself.

Lord Axell had made a little game of visiting his betrothed to speak on the imprisonment of her bastard cousins, Nymeria and Tyene Sand. To see them he would demand a kiss of her each day but she always refused him. Until one day the whore apparently decided to seduce the lord, followed by biting his ear clean off.

The Dornish are just a bunch of madmen, even their women.

“The wound was ugly but with care I had thought…” Pycelle pulled on his beard nervously while he made excuses. “The blood has turned black, his humors are pus, and the flesh about the wound is being eaten away. It should not fester like this.”

“Poison then.” Father raised an eyebrow and her uncle Kevan nodded.

“That’s a trick favored by her kin. Oberyn Martell must have taught it to his niece.”

“A poisonous princess.” Cersei mused aloud. “The girl probably coated her lips beforehand, all to deliver a strike worthy of the Red Viper.”

Pycelle sputtered in shock at the thought, saying that the Dornish slut would have lost half her face had she done such a thing. He then went on a long, boring diatribe, explaining the nature of the poison and how this venom seemed to have been thickened somehow, to draw out Axell’s suffering. Despite his prattling, it became clear that Pycelle had no idea how the girl had poisoned the wound.

More interesting was his theory on how the venom was obtained

“Gormon Tyrell was quite disorganized. I cannot tell you how much time has been wasted simply trying to arrange things in their proper places. One missing vial… you must understand, I allow very few into my chambers without good reason-”

“So we have a thief.” She turned to Jaime, full of accusation. “A thief and murderer lives in the Red Keep, sharing the same roof as our king. Stalking the same halls as my children. The Kingsguard should be ashamed.”

Tyrion scowled. “If Jaime dragged out every person in this castle guilty of some crime, Tommen and his kittens would be the only ones left.”

“This is nothing to jest about.” Lord Tywin declared. “Axell’s death may solve some problems with the Martells but we appear weak if we cannot protect our allies.”

“Or our kin.” Kevan’s mouth trembled for a moment. “My son was murdered… my Willem. And Genna’s two boys. Cut down and strung up like common criminals… and their killers roam free.”

“Addam Marbrand is doing his best, uncle.” Jaime replied. “The brothel owner and half the married men at court saw Aenys Frey and the rest follow some girl through the Streets of Sighs.” He regarded father coldly. “We might have more leads about these Sons of the Dragon if we didn’t hang every man found gawking at the bodies.”

“A message needed to be sent.” Cersei said, defending her father’s decision, even though she had wanted more than twenty to suffer. A Lannister was worth at least ten men each. “If we did things your way, the smallfolk would think nothing of killing us. You should spend less time worrying on the rabble and more time on how the Sons of the Dragon might have an agent among us.”

“Wait, I thought we were blaming the Dornish for Axell Florent’s suffering?” Tyrion fumbled at his wine with his bandaged hands. “Why not accuse the Crow’s Eye while we’re at it? Or the Ghosts? Or even the Others! No, I say we look closer still, not to our enemies but to our so-called friends. The Tyrells have every reason to want the Florents dead. They’re not deaf. They’ve heard the whispers about the Bloodwater.”

Father was unmoved. “Whispers are all they are. Should Mace Tyrell ever wish to turn them into accusations, Gregor Clegane will answer for it. As it stands, the roses are content to achieve power by marrying into our family.”

“To a point.” Tyrion grinned her way in a knowing fashion that irritated but before she could challenge the Imp, father slammed his hand down on the table.

“Enough with your fool tongue. There are matters of great import before us and you all bicker like children.”

His admonishments were followed by firm commands. The Hand tasked Jaime and Pycelle with bringing this poisoner to justice. Tyrion was ordered from the castle, not to rot in a gutter as Cersei wished, but to aid Ser Addam in the hunt for the Sons of the Dragons. Shockingly, while Kevan was commanded to Duskendale, Cersei was told to ensure that his son Lancel and Delena Florent were ready to depart for Summerhall, so her cousin could act as its castellan and make Delena his wife.

“What am I to do? Ensure they pack their trunks?” She rose in indignation as her uncle slumped in his chair.

“Accept no delays.” Father replied. “I know the girl tends to Axell but his condition cannot hinder this. That castle must be set to rights, whether it’s ready for a wedding or not is of no concern. A queen doting on the Florent girl should make up for her new goodfather’s absence.”

“Please Tywin, I ask again, let me go with Lancel.” Kevan did his best not to beg. “He’ll need me. Being named castellan does not make him ready. After what the Red Viper did to the last garrison…”

They got what they deserve. Only idiots could lose a castle to a band of bandits.

House Trant had seized Summerhall in Joffrey’s name, only to lose it in a raid by Oberyn Martell and his rebels. It took weeks for this news to reach the capital, and by then it was tainted by exaggerations. The men who arrived before the throne were full of tales of possessed guardsmen opening the gates and ravens refusing to carry calls for aid, turning on the castle’s maester instead. With Dorne simmering, the Red Viper needed to be driven from the Dornish Marches.

“I am sorry brother, but Lancel will have the Mountain protecting him.” Her father said plainly. “You must serve Joffrey and ready the coasts against Greyjoy attacks. Should Daenerys do us the favor of marrying the Lord Reaper, she will lose in prestige but gain in strength for the short term. You must be ready to bleed it away.”

Though Kevan clearly disdained this task, he obeyed as was his way. Cersei was ready to raise her own objections when Tywin dismissed all save her.

“We should speak of Daenerys’s bastard.” She said once they were alone, speaking to her father’s back as he filled a goblet of wine. “That bastard of a bastard. I’ve already spoken with the High Septon and he’s ready to produce decrees naming her child everything but an heir. The same as we did for Viserys’s get in Lys.”

The Rogares were an old and respected family in Lys but their wealth had become minor in recent years. Because of this they had made little of the whelp that Viserys had fathered on one of their women during his exile. Recently though, they had taken to styling the byblow as Aenar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne.

Someone should check the privy. There’s a good chance we’ll find more claimants there.

She smiled at the thought, yet Lord Tywin remained silent.

“Father, if you mean to apologize for earlier, it is forgotten. The steward merely forgot to inform me of the council meeting-”

“You were not told because I did not wish you here.” Tywin did not deign to turn around. “To arrange your marriage with you in the room would be inappropriate.”

“Marriage? I did not consent to that! I’ve no wish to remarry!”

“Precisely the reason you were excluded. The realm is fractured and we need to bind it together again with marriages. There are few options left among our family after paying off debts owed. Lancel must go to the Florents and Daven and his sisters to the Freys. You still have value as a wife to a potential ally and you are not too old for child-bearing.”

“I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not a brood mare. Joffrey will never allow this!”

“He would and he has. You’re soon to be a dowager queen and even my impetuous grandson understands that he’s beyond being mothered. I already gained his approval for my list of potential husbands. He seemed particularly amused by the idea of you marrying Willas Tyrell and becoming his goodsister.”

That shocked her. Not just that Joffrey could think to take part in this, but that he would hand her off to a cripple. When her father finally turned, he saw the anger plain on her face.

“Do not trouble yourself with it. The match is not to be. Lord Tyrell and I saw better ways to strengthen our alliance.” The Hand declared as he retook his seat. “A marriage to Renly Baratheon would make you the next Lady of Storm’s End and win us needed support from the Stormlands. Once Renly has properly bent the knee to us in front of witnesses-”

“First you entertain a cripple for me, now a degenerate? I will not. A few moments with Joffrey and he will see things my way. He is the product of a magnificent union, and if I am to stoop down and think of marrying another, it will be with a man of my choice.”

“Ignorance and willful blindness.” Her father acted as if he had stepped in something foul. “You married Rhaegar because I decided you would. Your son is king because I made it so. Reflect on that, and remember who it was that rescued you and your children from the ruination of Rhaegar’s reign.”

“You never understood him.” She sniped back. “The prophecies, his softness for the bastard, those Dornish whelps, none of it would last! If not for Robert Baratheon, Rhaegar would have seen Joffrey as his true heir. I would have helped him see.”

He was different at Winterfell, more taken by our golden three.

He promised to help Joffrey when he returned from the Wall.

“You would have suffered the same fate as Elia Martell.” Father’s expression darkened further. “Rhaegar was destined to failure. Weakness and superstition, I saw the same in Aerys early on. He set House Targaryen on a path to destruction. Aegon and Rhaenys, Jon Snow, this was a war waiting to happen, a war which would have swallowed you and your children whole if not for me.”

“No, you’re wrong. I protected them. My hard work, my influence at court, my place in this game of thrones, I made myself a power alongside Rhaegar.”

“You created problems I had to fix. Twice you tried to kill Jon Snow, and twice you bungled it so badly that you risked House Lannister’s ruination.”

“How many times have I told you? The attack on the God’s Eye was not me!”

Father stood unconvinced. “You were born a woman, Cersei. Accept your failings and your role in things. Now be gone. I have a kingdom to rule.”

She knew there was nothing left to say after that, she had been ordered away, treated more like a child than a woman of her station. Had Tyrion stumbled into her path then, she would have beaten him bloody. It was him she blamed for father’s hatred of Rhaegar. Though many at court could have done so over the years, she believed it was Tyrion who embellished Rhaegar’s failings to father.

Much as Tommen did for Joffrey. When she arrived at her chambers she found the boy weeping into Delena Florent’s arms, cradling an unmoving kitten.

“He killed her! He killed Lady Whiskers!” Tommen wailed to her. “She didn’t do anything! Mother!”

“Tommen, it’s just an animal. It was an accident no doubt.”

“No! I was talking about M-Myrcella and Joffy said losing a sister wouldn’t kill me! Then he stomped and stomped… in front of B-Boots and Ser Pounce… he said look they’re fine!”

“By the Mother, I’ve no time for this. Be rid of that dead thing and go to your rooms. Don’t let me hear you spreading such lies about your brother, our king!”

She did not allow his frantic cries and grasping meet success, she needed to be stern. After his minders dragged Tommen off, she sat in a chair and closed her eyes, doing her best to ignore his quieting wails. They gave her such a headache at times.

So of course the big-eared wench chose now to speak.

“Your grace, are you quite alright?” Delena asked, annoying Cersei more when she caught sight of the ugly ruby necklace about the girl’s neck. It did not match her gown at all.

“You depart on the morrow.” She replied, waving the slut on to remove her crown. Suffering Delena touching the crown was another price she paid for victory.

“But what of my uncle Axell? Your Grace, I’ve been by his side every spare moment-”

“Now you shall be by Lancel’s. Your uncle wanted this marriage for you, that’s the duty you owe him. Accept your place in things and the journey south will go easier.”

“Yes, my queen.” Delena removed her jewels in a distracted manner, her brow furrowed in thought. “I shall ready myself to leave. Truly, I’ve been preparing for some time.”

“Be careful, lest I think you ungrateful for the honor of being my lady attendant.”

Delena put a hand to her mouth. “My apologies! Truly! I swear I wish to stay by your side, learning all I can.” The lady began to work at Cersei’s braids, her hands quite adept at it. “I only wish to be of service. I should tell you while I can then, the whole court’s alive with rumours. Mostly about executions. They say the Dornish captives are set for the block, for Arianne's attack. Edric Dayne, the Sand Snakes…"

"That would be fair." Cersei mused aloud, for it was good to get the pulse of the court. "Though I expect it is the Starks who will suffer first. Ned Stark is in full rebellion. He is practically pushing that brother of his to the block."

"You mean Benjen?"

"Well there's no other Stark at court, is there?" She scowled and Delena had the sense to look ashamed.

“No, no others Starks.”

That admission was the last she’d hear from Delena. The rest of her undressing and preparations for the evening were spent in silence, save when Cersei needed to give corrections. She worried for Lancel having such a wife, especially when the girl needed to be reminded twice to seek her dreamwine from Pycelle. Now and again, it gave her needed relief and freed her sleep of wretched thoughts.

Looking over the balcony of her chambers, down at the darkened capital and its twinkling fires, the smell of shit and sweat reminded Cersei of her troubles. Her poor little Myrcella, scarred and ruined by one of Daenerys’s beasts. If Rhaegar were still alive, she knew he would rue his fascination with those creatures. He had doted on Myrcella and Tommen, which in some ways vexed Cersei considering how lax he could be with Aegon and Rhaenys. How aloof he could act in regards to Joffrey. She loved her youngest two but neither showed the strength and fire of her firstborn.

Damn Robert Baratheon. That brute robbed Rhaegar of seeing the true promise of our union.

Whatever his faults, his misguided grief over lesser women, he found his match in me.

A dragon can soar so high and only a lion’s roar can reach it.

The sun had long since set and still Cersei thought on what was lost and all that could still be gained.

A knock on her door tore her away from all that.

She kept her dressing gown closed tight. Had Jaime arrived alone she might have shown more, if only to punish him for his poor demeanor of late. Even now her brother appeared sullen whereas Pycelle acted nervously, the feeble old maester’s eyes looking anywhere but at her.

“What is it? The hour is late.” She strode across her chambers, head held high. “And I expected my potion some time ago, maester.”

“That’s what we’re here about.” Jaime spoke brusquely. “Where is Delena Florent?”

“Her?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I imagine she’s readying for her journey. Why?”

Pycelle quaked at that. “The lady, she arrived as usual, asking for the dreamwine and I prepared it as I always do. After she’d gone… you see, I’ve been vigilant, as Lord Tywin commanded, and I noticed a vial missing from my stores-”

“Sweetsleep, Cersei.” Jaime interjected. “A poison. We think Delena’s the thief.”

It was nonsense… was her first thought. Then like a bolt of lightning, things started to come together.

She was often in Pycelle’s chambers. After Axell was bitten, Delena was always there.

A traitor in our midst.

“Joffrey!” She shouted, grabbing at Jaime’s tunic. “Joffrey and Tommen! What if she-”

“They’re well guarded.” He said, his voice finally as soothing and loving as she remembered. “I’ve set the whole castle to hunting her down. Cersei, do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

She didn’t, yet soon Cersei was on the move, right by Jaime’s side as Lannister men tore the castle apart in search of the traitor. Reports came in. There was no sign of her near the royal apartments, or the guest chambers. They were assured that none had passed through the gates.

Until the alarm rang up from the portion of the castle reserved for their highborn captives. Hostages like Arianne Martell and Renly Baratheon. Jaime tried to keep her back but Cersei pressed on. A commotion echoed through the passages. She heard shouting and the ringing of steel, and she had to step over the bodies of two guardsmen in the corridor, a flagon sitting between them. Then she saw another corpse, this one with its throat slit.

“Four dead!” Lyle Crakehall declared, the knight leading them down a stairway towards the shouting. “The two guards outside Benjen Stark’s chambers and a third carrying the keys to the rest of the rooms. She freed him first and then Dondarrion’s squire. Stark killed the man coming up.”

Why the squire? She asked herself as they stepped over another body. He’s of middling import at best…

“Get off me!”

Benjen Stark was still struggling against the holds of five men, looking monstrous and wild, biting and thrashing at his captors like he was more beast than man.

“He held us back.” Lyle touched at his swords and shook his head. “Took the lot of them to force him back and by then the other two… well…”

“Well, what?” She demanded, searching Jaime and Lyle’s face for an explanation. “Where are the traitors?”

“I’m looking right at them.” The Stark snarled. “A bunch of traitors bound for the block. None of you have any idea what you’re dealing with, but you will.”

“They’re gone.” Lyle shook his head. “Lady Delena and the Dayne boy. There’s no sign of them down here.”

“Daynes.” The Stark man cackled at them. “I saw her… hidden for so long… but that’s always been her way…”

“Quiet him.” She commanded but even with an arm across his throat, the criminal persisted.

“The old gods stand with us… vengeance is ours…”

“The stars shine freely this night.”

 

JON

He was a second son. Made one by birth years ago, and later by force into a worst sort altogether.

Jon was a sellsword now, riding alongside thirty other Second Sons. A party of fiends moving north up the eastern bank of the White Knife.

“Keep up you worthless bastards.” Snatch snarled back at Jon and Gendry, for they were freshest recruits in the group. The sergeant’s teeth were stained red from sourleaf and he had a hook in place of a right hand, which he pointed at them in threat. “I don’t care what Brown Ben sees in you, prove yourselves out here or I’ll make you suffer for it.”

“By breathing on us no doubt.” He shot back and though Snatch gave no sign of hearing, Gendry smiled sadly at his words.

“You sounded like Willem there.” Gendry’s voice barely carried over the sound of their horses. “What if it’s like Tybero said? He might already be dead.”

“Words are wind. He’s alive until we see different. I should never have let it come to this…”

Though Jon and his friends were all forced into the Seconds Sons together, the sellswords also managed to rip them apart. After weeks with Brown Ben’s group, Willem had been forced to join Ser Geribald and others on a ride ahead to meet up with a Manderly army and the full strength of the Second Sons.

To lose Willem and serve alongside the likes of Snatch or the axeman Bokkoko sickened him. The only thing worse was taking order orders from Brown Ben Plumm.

Though this time was different. Indeed it came as a relief when Gendry and Jon were chosen to be a part of Snatch’s group. A party sent to track down Ramsay Snow himself.

Hours earlier, he had been by Brown Ben’s side when they finally came upon a large army encamped near the river. An army of northmen, hundreds upon hundreds going forth to wage war against Eddard Stark, their rightful lord. In that camp Jon saw many banners he remembered hanging in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Families whose loyalty to the Starks had burned away like the hall itself.

The Manderlys chief among them. Before Plumm’s group could reach the sellsword part of the camp, Lord Wyman and his entourage had intercepted them.

“Captain Plumm, you make a welcome arrival!” Wyman Manderly had declared, the large lord stroking stroked his massive belly with one hand and his moustache with the other. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever join our march.”

“Too busy terrorizing the good people of the North, no doubt.” Wylla Manderly had added, the lord’s granddaughter having become a striking young woman. She had dyed her long hair a garish green, which made her blond eyebrows stand out all the more when they raised in anger at the Second Sons..

Plumm had taken in stride, the sellsword captain laughing off the jab while Jon hid his face from sight.

“Lady Wylla, it has been too long. I’ll admit that some blood was shed during our journeys but only against rebels and those who dare slander your betrothed. Surely any who stand against Ramsay Bolton deserve punishment?”

“Ramsay Snow.” Wylla threw back, her eyes alight. “If you wish to punish me, it is already done. To be in your company is punishment enough.”

“Wylla!” Lord Manderly had chided his granddaughter. “Wylla, my willful girl! This a poor greeting for Captain Plumm after his long journeys. My apologies for my granddaughter, fair maidens are not made for the stresses of a march. Harsh burdens to put on an anxious bride.”

Wylla will face worse yet, Jon remembered thinking, far worse if all I’ve heard of Ramsay Snow is true.

How can Wyman blind himself to that?

He was forced to listen in grim astonishment as Wyman did all he could to placate Brown Ben. The lord went so far as to invite Plumm and the rest of their number to join him in his feasting tent to sate their hunger.

“Later, perhaps.” Plumm had said, his eyes moving over the large numbers of Manderly men. “First I must meet with my second, Kasporio. I need to learn how badly he’s handled the Seconds Sons in my absence.”

Wyman’s moustache twitched some. “Alas, your man Kasporio is dead. Killed five or so days ago. Torn apart by wolves, a horde of the beasts my men now call the demon pack. They took him unawares on a scout-”

“Kasporio the Cunning, taken unawares by wolves.” Plumm had repeated carefully, eyes burning holes into Wyman’s. “How interesting.”

“A tragic turn of events, this sort brutality is becoming far too common in the North. What can one expect when such bloodthirsty beasts roam free across the lands? Please, join me for a meal. We will drink to your departed-”

They did no such thing, for the news of losing his second drove Brown Ben to seek out the Second Sons with haste. Somehow their journey through the northern camp felt like a flight from danger. However their lords felt, the common soldiers glared at the sellswords as they rode by, making no effort to hide their hatred.

Nor could Plumm disguise his rage when they found the Second Sons. Though the sellswords seemed well protected behind defenses of ditches and stakes, it appeared their losses had been mounting. It fell to Tybero Istarion to break the news to Brown Ben, the plump and balding paymaster noticeably nervous while doing so.

“Kasporio and his men, gone. Others too.” Tybero had blurted out. “Uhlan and more! Manderly said it was wolves and you know how much Ramsay and his ilk hate direwolves…”

“Ramsay’s a mad fool.” Plumm had rasped, shaking the man. “How many in all?”

“Not quite twenty…” Tybero wrung his hands to answer. “That was the count… unless Ser Geribald’s party has truly been lost. Then it be thirty-three…”

Plumm shook the man near senseless at that, until a story spilled out that made a sort of sense. Apparently Wyman and Ramsay had decided to seize a crossing ahead far in advance of the army. A contingent of riders from the Manderlys and Seconds Sons rode on ahead to the crossing, yet only a few northmen would return. All claiming they had been set upon by a horde of wolves and crannogmen. Jon cared less about Ramsay going forth to lead a hunt for the lost men and wolves than to learn that Willem was amongst the missing.

“Bloody bastard.” Plumm cursed and paced about. “Wolves and bog devils defeating skilled warriors? Only the fat lord’s men return and none of this draws suspicion?”

“I protested! But Ramsay threatened to flay me and threatened me with those hounds! He kept going on and on about finishing a hunt or some nonsense.”

“It’s him that will be finished. Ramsay and the rest of us.” Plumm had eyed Manderly camp in suspicion. “I want all the men ready for battle within the hour. We go to seize this crossing in force.” He follow that pointing up at Snatch. “Take the best of this lot, Moryn, Kalo, Arstan, Gendry, you know who I mean! Go and find Ramsay fucking Bolton. Kill anyone or anything that gets in your way.”

That had been hours ago, hours Jon and Gendry spent in search of Ramsay Snow, while truly seeking out their friend and a chance at escape.

“What are you two conspiring at?” Bokkoko demanded, the axeman urging his mount between his and Gendry’s. “Thinking of fleeing from some wolves? I can spot cowards and you two act as weak as women.”

“Careful, Bok!” Kem shouted. “That’s the captain’s pet you’re teasing.”

Though an exaggeration, Brown Ben clearly held some esteem for Gendry. Mostly due to the actions of his father.

“I met Robert Baratheon.” Bokkoko continued. “Saw him slay our last captain with my own eyes. Mero called himself the Titan of Braavos, well the real titan wouldn’t have crumbled so easily to a warhammer. You aren’t half of what Robert was, bastard.”

“Good.” Gendry said, the muscles of his jaw clenching, his tone ice old. “My father lost his war. He lost his company, his life… my brothers’ lives too. Everything he claimed to care about ended up withered or dead.”

“Sounds like a true killer!” Snatch laughed, turning back to glare at Jon. “Like Arstan the Bloody there. When we going to see that beast that stabbed Treize a hunnerd times again?”

Something in his eyes caused the man’s laughter to die away. He led his horse to the edge of the line soon after, ignoring any further attempts by the scum to taunt him.

He tried to stay focused on the snow-covered pines and hills they traveled by, willing for time to move as swiftly as the steady pace of his mount’s gallop.

All while his mind raced with thoughts and fears. Such as what they would do if Willem wasn’t with Ramsay. His musings on who among the sellswords he might need to kill during an escape. Whether or not direwolves were among this demon pack. Could Grey Wind or Nymeria truly be so near? Then there were the worries about his uncle Eddard’s march or how Dany was faring in the Free Cities.

She’ll find a way to get by, at least she has the dragons with her.

What have I become without Ghost?

If he and Ghost were still together, the wolf would be the only guide he’d need. They could run across the vastness of the North together. Finding all those dear to them. Jon could act a wolf again.

Except Ghost was gone and he wasn’t a wolf. He was a failed king. A bastard. A sellsword.

Above all, he was dead.

A thought which chilled him so, for a moment later, the hounds of hell began to call to him.

The others heard the baying as well, Snatch swiftly changing direction to follow the sounds rather than the river itself. A trail that led their twenty to the top of a small valley and a battle already underway.

“Gods be damned.” Snatch cursed down at a sight Jon never could have imagined.

At first glance, it appeared to be a battle between man and nature. Men armed with spears and swords fighting against the claws and fangs of a horde of wolves. Then he saw blades clashing against shields, spears thrusting through leather and horseflesh. From the sigils he put it together that a large number of Manderly riders were battling against Second Sons and Bolton men. Each and every man also fighting all against the ravages of the hounds and wolves among the fray.

The northmen had the upper hand and Snatch acted swiftly to change that.

“Bare your steel!” Snatch shouted and most did so in a flash, Gendry hesitating until Jon did the same. “Form a wedge behind me! Any with a spear, kill the beasts! The rest, take the mermen! Let’s get bloody!”

The veterans shouted as most followed Snatch down into the valley, Bokkoko and Kem hanging back to drive forth the newer recruits. Jon and Gendry tried to linger but the hard glares and sharp steel of the men at their back forced them downward. Charging straight into the chaos of the battle below.

His heart beat like a drum, fingers tensing around the handle of his sword, eyes searching the fray for Willem. It was no use. Not with all the frantic activity and so many threats growing closer with each passing moment.

Snatch’s charge hit with a vengeance, the sergeant cutting down a Manderly cavalryman while those following behind him rode right over northmen and beasts alike. Jon watched in disgust as one Manderly swordsman was set upon by a wolf after being knocked out of his saddle by Kem. No sooner had the wolf torn out his throat than another sellsword skewered it with a spear.

Jon did little more than stick to Gendry, slashing at any beast that came near, the pair of avoiding the northmen altogether.

It wasn’t hard to do. This new wave of sellswords caused a terrible shift in the battle. Caught between the charge and the Bolton men, the Manderlys were now hard-pressed. Still, they fought bravely. One armored man slaying Kem and another Kalo’s horse. Until a trumpet sounded the retreat.

Truly it was the wolves who broke first, abandoning their kills to save themselves from the blades and hooves of the newly arrived riders.

That’s when Jon saw the direwolf. Like a bit of his past come to life, she stood amidst the killing. The grey wolf staring right back at him. Despite her scars and bloody mouth, a simple truth shone through. This was Lady.

And she saw him too.

Sadly it was also Lady that spooked their horses. For the moment she closed on him, his mount reared, forcing Jon to drop his sword in order to keep the saddle. Unlike Gendry, who tried to hold onto his blade and ended up on the ground.

A pair of hounds fell on his friend in a flash, the savage dogs clamping down on an arm and leg each.

Lady was forgotten as Jon leapt from his horse to snatch up his sword again. The hound at Gendry’s leg never saw him coming, his slash cutting deep through the dog’s back. Its dying yelp assaulted his ears just as the second beast lunged up at him. Yet the hound didn’t quite make it, for Gendry grabbed hold of its leg and yanked the dog back in mid air.

Maybe it was the violence in its eyes or the fire within him, but it felt good when he took the hound’s head clean off in one stroke.

His relief was short-lived though. While he helped Gendry up, around them the villains were shouting in victory. Those Manderlys still ahorse fled either north or south, the wolves even more scattered. While he caught sight of his and Gendry’s horses cresting the hill to flee, when Jon looked for Lady, he couldn’t find her among the living nor the dead.

Someone else was looking at him though. Quivering behind the corpse of a horse, an old man started at him, a pale wreck of a man at that. Yet there was something familiar about him…

“After them!”

The shout came from an ugly man pacing about over the battleground. He wore dark, riding leathers and a red, rounded helm resembling the screaming face of a flayed man. When the stranger tossed that helm away, his ugly face was revealed, a pair of pale eyes whipping about in rage.

“I said after them!” The stranger roared, pointing about at the Manderlys retreating north. “They tried to kill me! Look! Look all my girls are dead! I want those Manderly cunts brought back to me alive so I can flay them screaming! And those fucking direwolves!”

“Bad idea, Lord Ramsay.” Snatch said, wiping at his bloody hook. “Brown Ben sniffed out this ambush and it’s him we should be getting you back to-”

“I’m your lord! It’s my father lining your pockets and if I can’t have the men I want dead, I’ll settle for you!”

“We need horses too.” A strong looking but fouling smelling man said as he walked to Ramsay. “They killed our horses, m’lord. It’s the traitors who should give us theirs.”

“Reek’s right.” Ramsay waving a heavy sword about at men like Jon and Gendry that lacked mounts. “Unless you want to give me your horse… and your skin, get me prisoners.”

Snatch grumbled something before choosing twenty riders and sending them off after the Manderlys heading south. Then he looked to Jon and Gendry.

“Arstan, Kem, get up the northern hill.” Snatch ordered. “I want eyes up there in case that lot tries to come back. Or those fucking wolves.”

“Yes, the wolves.” Ramsay rasped, coming close enough to them for the dirty chips of ice the bastard called eyes and his wide, wormy smile made Jon’s flesh crawl. “If you see the big ones, the direwolves, I must know. They cost me a fine prize, so I’ll take their heads and furs instead.” He looked about searchingly, settling his gaze on the ruined man behind the horse. “Creature! You live! Marvelous. Come here at once. Bring these two a horn to blare if they spot…”

Ramsay’s words faded away when the thing called Creature rose shakily to his feet. Jon blinked several times before he was sure. This was no old man. His hair was patchy and filthy, what was once silver-blonde had turned white, several fingers missing from his trembling hands lacked, his confident stride turned to limping.

The truth was in the eyes. Whatever hell he had suffered through, it hadn’t changed the purple tint of their bloodline.

His cruelty has come back on him tenfold… this is Viserys…

Or what’s left of him.

The uncle he had long despised earned a moment’s worth of pity then. Pity towards a man who had always looked on Jon with disgust. Soon though, the fear he saw in Viserys began to flow through Jon as well. Just as he recognized his uncle, there was no doubt Viserys knew him too.

Kill him. Kill Ramsay. Try and get away before you’re betrayed.

“What is it, Creature?” Ramsay asked, looking between them in curiosity. “Why do you look at this man so?”

“N-no reason, Lord Ramsay.” Viserys flinched away and Ramsay wasn’t pleased by that, the Bastard and Reek closing in to grab at Viserys. Ramsay yanked his hair violently, causing Viserys to yelp and cower when their faces were but an inch apart.

“You’re lying to me. I can smell it through Reek’s stink. That’ll cost you a toe. Save a finger by telling the truth.”

“We take Kem.” Gendry whispered, nudging at Jon then, trying to back away without anyone noticing. “Grab his horse and ride.”

A desperate plan which was doomed to failure. Their efforts did not go unnoticed, as several Bolton men moved in around them. To fight was to face five each, more if Snatch and his men got tired of watching from horseback. Still, Jon readied his stance for a battle when Viserys began to mewl in fear. His eyes flicking to Jon for half a moment before his resolve crumbled, and Viserys fell to Ramsay’s feet.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…” Viserys whimpered. “It’s Jon, my lord. The man, he’s Jon.”

“Jon who?” Ramsay crinkled his face in confusion and looked their way.

“My nephew Jon.” Viserys continued. “Rhaegar’s son, it’s him.”

“He knows me not.” Jon spoke gruffly as Gendry stepped between them.

“Your creature is mad, this is Arstan, I’ve known him for years-”

“Jon Snow!?” The Bastard’s face came alive with realization. “But he’s dead… are you trying to make a fool of me, Creature? I’ll not believe some lowly scum a rebel king. Reek, my knife better be sharp, there’s so much I need to cut away from this filth!”

“What if it is him?” Reek hissed in excitement. “Jon Snow. Imagine how pleased Lord Roose would be.”

Ramsay paused to consider that, looking from Jon to Viserys again and again. Then Reek whispered something he couldn’t hear and Ramsay nodded, pointing to a wounded man, a fair-haired one with a whip at his belt.

“Damon! You spied on the Winterfell tourney for my father! Did you see the prince?”

“Aye, but Lord Ramsay, my guts are-”

“Shut up and tell me if this is him!” Ramsay bellowed and others forced the man to his feet, his grunts of pain quieter than the pounding of Jon’s heart. Damon was only a few steps closer when he narrowed his gaze and gave a shout.

“It’s him! That’s fucking him! Jon Targaryen! I saw him joust!”

“You didn’t- I’m not…” He tried to argue. “Well… fuck.”

There was no point in denying it. Everyone knew it now. The Bolton men. The Second Sons. Reek. None as happy as Ramsay was.

“Hunting for direwolves and I find a king.” Ramsay licked at his lips. “My father will forgive me now. I’ve got big plans for you, Jon Snow.”

“It’s Jon Targaryen.” He said before rushing right at the trio ahead, sword raised high.

Viserys was thrown aside so Reek and Ramsay could draw their swords, barely in time to deflect his first two attacks, which drove Reek back and opened a cut across Ramsay’s chest. Others were already joining the fight, Gendry snatching up a shield to batter down another Bolton man while two more came to help Ramsay. The first struck too high and Jon cut deep into his leg. The second one was smarter, waiting for Reek and Ramsay to close in before launching another attack.

He managed to hold all three back for a few moments before he was overpowered by four foes altogether. Perhaps there was some pride to take in his last stand, yet he couldn’t feel any through the pain of being driven to the ground. Or to Gendry thrown down as well, his friend being pummeled to a bloody pulp by several men.

“Leave him… just stop.” He fought against hold of the pair keeping him down. “Let him be, it’s me you want.”

“Alright, stop.” Ramsay growled, ending Gendry’s beating only to kick him hard in the gut. “I can do it better later.”

“Jon, I’m sorry…” Gendry spat blood and wept, his tears no doubt from pain. “We came so far… if Barristan was here-”

“He would be proud of you… a Kingsguard in every way save what I-”

“Guard this.” Ramsay kicked Gendry again, so hard his friend took to retching. Jon cursed Ramsay for it and the monster backhanded him so that he was seeing stars as the monster took to gloating. “The Lannisters, they’ve been hoarding their Stark prizes. Refusing to kill them or give them over. Now we’ll have a prize of our own. A prize of my own.”

The Bastard paused then, touching at the cut on his chest and looking at the blood there in revulsion.

“You Targaryens, you’re so full of pride. I peeled Creature’s away myself. Perhaps father will like it better if you came to him with less… pride. Reek, I need my knife.”

They stripped the mail and shirt from his chest then, Ramsay cutting some of it away with a small curved knife. One with a hooked point and razor sharp edge. Viserys watched all this and whimpered, and truthfully Jon was filled with dread too. A terror as deep as the night at Riverrun when he believed the end upon him.

This time he feared what was about to come was only the beginning. Snatch and Reek held him firm as Ramsay ran the knife’s dull end over his chest, drawing a cold lines across the flesh. Jon made himself meet Ramsay’s gaze, raising his chin high.

“I was due for a shave.” He spat at the man’s feet. “Try and wield your knife better than you do a sword.”

“So much heart.” Ramsay smiled again, stopping his knife just over Jon’s heart. “Let’s see what I can do about that. Stay still now, I take great pride in my work.”

Though he braced for it, nothing prepared Jon when the cutting began.

He mashed his teeth to keep from crying out as the blade worked about, grinding them for what seemed like an eternity. Gendry’s shouts were all he heard until Ramsay started pulling at the flesh. Then the screaming started. A high-pitched, shameful sound he couldn’t stop. The pain wouldn’t stop. The burning agony that tore at his mind. He fought hard but couldn’t move nor could he see through his tears.

His sanity was being torn away with his flesh. The pain driving him far away.

Someplace warmer. Where the sun was brighter and he stretched upwards to meet its welcoming heat. The air smelled of sweet sulfur and salt of the sea. His wings spread wide, the air damp against them. The fire within him burned hot. His power ready to be unleashed. The sky awaited.

Then the chain pulled taut and he found himself a prisoner, trapped by steel in a castle of stone. He bellowed in outrage, letting the world know he would not be kept down.

That was when he saw her. Standing there. Staring up at him. A beautiful, silver beacon. She glowed brighter than the sun.

An angel of mercy…

“Mercy!” Gendry’s voice brought him back to the agony.

Back to the world where his heart had been torn away and strong arms held him in place. Except that these arms did not hold Jon down, they cradled him with care. He fought through the pain to find himself laying in Gendry’s arms, his friend protecting for him as the world tore itself apart around them.

Battle had found them once more. The snarls of wolves, the screams of horses and men, steel striking against steel. The Manderlys were back and they hadn’t come alone. Short men in leathers loosed arrows and attacked with strange spears. The lot of them following behind a line of wolves that were driven onward by two massive direwolves.

All while a third paced around him. Circling about the two friends, driving off man or beast that came too near. Her golden eyes locked on him, her whine fearful.

“Lady…” He rasped, unable to do much more as a strange cold took hold of him.

“Hold on, Jon.” Gendry pleaded, trying to get him to look somewhere. “They came from the North… stay with me… look who it is…”

The chill spreading through his body was weakening him, yet found the strength to do as Gendry wanted. Though his head was spinning, he saw two figures coming their way.

Willem leaning on a crutch of sorts and limping terribly. His friend calling to him.

And the other… her hair was like fire. He couldn’t recall it ever being so bright. The ice was in his veins now and he yearned so to feel something other than cold or pain. His heart to believe what his eyes told him. To have that small mercy before the dark took hold.

Then she was there. Her touch warm and merciful.

An angel come to him.

Chapter 31

Summary:

Traitors and true hearts.

SANSA

 The tent was large and spacious, a fire keeping the cold without at bay. Nearby sat table was a washbasin and a pitcher of clean water. Along with her own seat, and another cot, there was a heavy oaken trunk on top of a large bear fur rug.

Furnishings befitting a lord perhaps, Sansa thought, but not a king.

Beside her, bandaged and sleeping, lay Jon. To look at his prone form was to think of Winterfell after the sack. Something she’d loved that had been torn apart and burnt. Nearly half the skin from his left breast had been flayed, an ugly gash which had to be seared by a hot brand to keep from festering. The wound seemed to be doing well, though she tried not to let her eyes linger there, nor on any other part of his bare chest.

At times it felt like she was looking at a stranger and not the prince who had ridden out of Winterfell. His hair was longer, his beard thick and well past needing a trim. There were scars all over his body, the most prominent being the pale, white antlers on his cheek. Even at rest Jon was tense, his brow furrowed, hands closed into fists.

At first she had taken these as signs that Jon might wake soon. Yet still he slumbered. Not even the hot steel pressed against his wound had roused him. Though he had screamed and thrashed in agony, his eyes remained rolled back and unaware.

The Manderly healer had been at a loss.

“There’s no fever, no chill…” Isodur had rubbed at his bald head in worry. “Milk of the poppy would not account for this. He lost a fair amount of blood, true, but not enough to weaken him such as this. And nothing accounts for the... other bleeding.”

He meant the blood which ran from Jon’s eyes and ears after the battle. Isodur thought he'd suffered a blow to the head but Jon's companion was adamant against that theory.

“I had him.” Ser Gendry had told them. “The moment you lot showed up, I was on the bastard. No one touched King Jon after that, I swear. Not until the lady came.”

Finding Jon should have been a gift from the gods yet to come upon him flayed and suffering, begging for mercy before he was lost to the world... it was like reliving the nightmare over again.

Mercy. They both asked for mercy. Roslin asked for my help.

Such gentle words. Must they always lead to death?

Another grunt from Jon was answered in turn by a small whine from Grey Wind. The direwolf was a frequent visitor, and it felt right to have Grey Wind join her in this vigil. When the large wolf moved to sit by her and looked upon Jon, she reached out to lay a hand his furry head.

“Nothing yet.” She did not feel the least bit foolish in speaking to Grey Wind this way, not anymore. “Meera suggested smearing something foul smelling his nose. Dung, perhaps. A bog remedy of sorts. I told her no.” She sighed. “He’s been cut and burned, but it just feels wrong to submit Jon to more indignity. He is our king, after all.”

He’s meant to be more to me. My betrothed. My one and only love.

At least, that’s what he was at Winterfell.

But Winterfell was long ago. She had been a different person then. Now she was something else entirely. Much like Robb…

She turned then, half expecting to find her brother by her side, only to see Grey Wind instead. Yet to look in his eyes was to see more than a wolf there. Especially in how intensely he gazed at Jon. More so when Grey Wind cocked his head to the side, moving forward to stand and smell at Jon's wounds.

Her first thought was to pull him back when she heard the voice.

“Ghost?”

She was on her feet in the blink of an eye, pushing at Grey Wind to find the king waking. His eyes were only half-open, peering up in confusion at the wolf.

“Ghost?” He rasped again. “Ghost… oh gods.”

“No, Jon.” She drew his attention to her. “It’s Grey Wind. Only him and me. I’m sorry, I-I had heard what happened to Ghost-”

“Who’s there?” Jon asked before his eyes widened in shock. “Sansa?”

“Hello, your grace.” She fought back tears to smile. “Be still, you’ve suffered terribly. I’ll summon the healer at once.”

“But Viserys, he- they told me you were dead.”

“I thought the same of you. What strange company we are, two dead people. The others have to hear that you have awoken.”

She turned away and rose when Jon grabbed hold of her arm. Before she could stop him, he’d wrenched himself up to sitting, grunting in pain. He did so again to take her other arm as well, holding Sansa in place. His grip was tight yet it felt good to be held.

“Don’t go, not yet.” His voice was groggy, his eyes earnest. “Stay and tell me that this isn’t a dream. Tell me you’re really here.”

“I’m still here, Jon.” She said, the words feeling wrong. Why was she still here when so many others weren't?

She couldn't stop herself. In a tumble of words, everything came rushing forth. Robb marrying Roslin. Viserys taking Winterfell. Domeric’s betrayal. The Dreadfort. The Reeds. Roban. Lady and Nymeria. Losing Roslin…

Some parts she left unspoken. Shameful deeds she was not quite brave enough to admit yet. Though it spared her Jon’s disdain, the guilt grew heavy when he began to praise her.

“Sansa Stark, all those games of playing heroes and fair maidens... now you've grown to be both.” He looked to Grey Wind, petting the wolf longingly. “Before, death was almost welcoming. Now I hear that Arya might live, how Robb has a son, and you are here. It’s been so long since I felt something other than… I thank you, Sansa.”

“Words beyond kind, your grace. Too kind really.” She wrung her hands in worry. “I am undeserving. What good tidings I can speak to have little to do with me. Besides, I’ve heard of your actions at Riverrun. I name you the true hero.”

“Do not call me that.” Jon snapped at her. A familiar look of shame crossed his face, the same he had after Robb’s fall. “I’ve done things. Terrible things. Most for the right reasons, others for my own selfishness. Trust that I’m not the man you think me to be.”

“You’re my king. And I’ve made mistakes too. Monstrous wrongs.”

“What if it isn’t in me to call some of my wrongs mistakes?”

“It’s not for me to judge, your grace.”

“That’s not true.” Jon slurred his words somewhat then, a glassy look coming to his eyes. Sansa thought this was more milk of the poppy speaking than the king.

“I should really fetch the healer. Isodur wanted to be told if there was any change in your condition. Ramsay Snow did you grievous harm.”

“Ramsay.” He repeated, fist clenching once more. “What happened to him? Viserys too, I remember he was there. Watching while that bastard cut me… oh gods, what of Gendry? He had me after. Then Willem came with the red angel- that was you, wasn’t it? It’s all so hazy. What happened?”

“We found your knight, Ser Willem. The Reeds and I. He told us the danger you were in and I... I…”

Ignored Korjen and Meera’s warnings? Left Roban with little protection save Old Nan and Hodor? Trusted some unnatural sight and used the wolves to find you?

Say none of this, lest he know the depths of your recklessness.

“The crannogmen are excellent trackers.” She said, mixing truth with her lies. “We were following a trail of riders when we came on the Manderlys. Their ambush had failed and they begged the Reeds and the direwolves to help in a second attack.”

In truth it was Sansa who had pressed them into the fight. Were if not for Lady seeing Jon in the midst of the battle, she might not have found the courage. While her goal was to save his life, it disappointed her that another had been spared.

“Ramsay Snow escaped.” She watched Jon’s face darken. “One bowmen, Marlen, he nearly felled Ramsay with an arrow but the fiend used some foul-smelling servant as his shield. He grabbed Viserys and beat his horse half to death to flee.”

“They’ll never ride far enough.” Jon touched at his bandage, looking at her with sadness. “Ramsay, all of House Bolton, their time will come. For all the harm they’ve done to the North, to you. It was good that Domeric freed you, but that does not excuse him betraying your family. He’ll have to answer for that Sansa.”

“He already has.” She mumbled without thinking.

“How so?”

“Domeric is dead.” Sansa pulled some at her hair, trying desperately not to think on the nightmare, the blood. “I watched him die... Ramsay killed him.”

Before she could say any more, a shout went up behind her. The tent flap was thrown open and two figures rushed in. The smaller Ser Willem leaned on the imposing form of Ser Gendry, both still looking poorly. Though Ser Gendry had a black eye and a broken lip, Ser Willem had suffered from a twisted ankle and bruised ribs. Still the smaller knight made noise for a man thrice his size.

“I told this bull I heard your voice!” Ser Willem declared, limping forward. “Lady Sansa! You have a skill for rousing knights!”

“He only just awoke. We should summon the healer.”

“A healer won’t help what ails him.” Ser Willem reached Jon’s bedside, looking him up and down in worry. “The bastard did some foul work on you Jon. Sorry to say, I think your face might be a lost cause.”

Sansa gasped. “There is nothing wrong with his face!”

“Tell that to my eyes.”

While she was taken aback, Jon made a sound that could’ve been a laugh.

“Thank you Willem.” Jon said, shaking the knight’s hand. “For the jest and for being well enough do so. Well, what passes for well with you.”

“I’m glad the bastard didn’t flay your poor excuse for wit. Managed to claw our way back from the brink again, eh my king?”

“We had help.” Jon nodded at her, then turned to Ser Gendry. “It feels good to be out of that sellsword armor. Doesn’t it, my friend?”

“That it does. Couldn’t stand all that poor workmanship.” Ser Gendry managed a smile. “I was starting to worry you might never wake to tell me what a shit sworn shield I’ve been.”

“Prepared to be disappointed then.”

“No my king, let me apologize.” Gendry began to kneel but Jon stopped him by holding out his hand once more.

“Stay on your feet, ser. I’ll need your help to gain mine.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” She asked and Ser Willem laughed without humor.

“Likely not, but good sense never seems to stop him.”

Sansa watched in worry as Ser Gendry aided Jon in standing. The knight threw a second arm across Jon’s back to steady his stance and she wished others outside the tent could see this. Some questioned having the bastard son of Robert Baratheon watch over Jon. Robert had slain King Rhaegar, and there were worries about the son taking after the father.

To her it was plain that Ser Gendry was no threat to her king. As Jon rose on unsteady legs, the large warrior supported him on the left, while Grey Wind came to his right. Ser Willem brought forth a roughspun shirt for Jon before helping him take a few steps.

“Careful.” She urged. “There’s no need to rush. You've been abed for days.”

“I felt trapped laying there.” Jon ran a hand down his face. “Like I’ve been penned in for so long. Chained in place when all I wanted was to fly.”

“Fly?” Ser Willem shared a worried look with her. “Might be you’ve had a touch too much milk of the poppy.”

“That’s it, I’m summoning the healer.” She said with determination, yet before she could the tent flap flew open again. Despite her hopes, it was not Isodur coming to check in, only Meera and Jojen with Lady at their heels.

Her sigh of frustration caused Meera to pause.

“Sansa, what’s going- oh!” Her friend caught sight of Jon but it was Jojen who reacted first, drawing Meera down to a knee with him.

“Your grace.” He said as the Reeds lowered their head in deference.

“King Jon, may I present Lady Meera of House Reed.” Sansa gestured at the pair. “And her brother, Jojen. Children of Lord Howland Reed and dear friends.”

“It was their men who helped win the day.” Ser Willem added. “They make them fierce in the Neck.”

“Brave too.” Gendry spoke with respect.

“Then rise.” Jon beckoned them. “Sansa told me what you’ve done for her, how your people rallied to the Starks. It means little now, but in acting a friend to Sansa and our kin, you have made a friend in me.”

“Friends of a king? We’re honored, your grace.” Meera said while Jojen stayed silent, staring at Jon in his strange way. “Aren’t we, Jojen?”

“Yes, sorry. I’ve just wanted to meet the white dragon for some time.”

“He’s not the only one.” Meera added as Lady pushed up at Jon too, earning a gentle petting. His hands lingered at her scars and his lips set in a firm line.

“I saw Lady in the fighting. I knew her in a moment. No scar could hide her beauty.”

“Damn, I nearly forgot.” Meera turned to Sansa, shaking her head. “We were coming to tell you. Lord Wyman is coming. He wants to talk to you about Roban again.”

“Then he’ll hear me reject him again.” Her mood soured. “My nephew stays close, where the direwolves can protect him. The only lord I’ll entrust him to is my father.” She regarded Jon then. “Lord Wyman wants Roban sent back to White Harbor, to safeguard him against the Boltons.”

Meera grunted at that. “Problem is, people that the Manderlys take in have a habit of disappearing.”

That was another tale which would have to wait, for true to Meera’s warning, the Lord of White Harbor soon arrived. Two guardsmen had to hold open the flaps for the large lord to enter freely, wearing a blue-green doublet with golden embroidery at the sleeves and collar, an ermine fur cloak over his shoulders pinned by a silver merman. Though his pace seemed hurried, he came to an abrupt halt within the tent. Whether it was the party who greeted him or the sight of Jon standing, she wasn't sure..

“The king awoke!? Why did no one summon me?” Isodur said from behind the lord.

“We tried.” Ser Willem scratched his head. “But Lady Sansa said things were in hand.”  

She was still gaping at the knight when Jon waved off Isodur’s attempts to look him over. Instead he remained singularly focused on Lord Wyman, all warmth gone from his face.

Still Isodur pressed him. “King or not, you had blood leaking from your eyes and ears not two days past. You need to lay down.”

“I've been down long enough.” Jon replied. “I would have the lord answer for himself.”

“It is good to see you awake, your grace.” Lord Wyman bowed, speaking in the same, even tone he used with her during their talks. “Forgive me that I did not recognize royalty when it first entered this encampment. You were but a boyish prince when we met at Winterfell, not the warrior I see before me. It is a testament to your disguise that your nobility was so well hidden beneath the vile dressings of a sellsword.”

“Your confusion is understandable my lord, since I could not make myself known at the time. I saw you as a traitor and an enemy to my kin of Stark. Now I hear you act as their ally once more. I have to wonder, who will you support on the morrow?”

The mood in the tent grew tense then. Despite their injuries, Ser Gendry and Ser Willem rested hands on their swordbelts. The Manderly guards watched them the knights as warily as they did Grey Wind, who now paced between the two groups.

Sansa tried to bring peace then, stepping between her king and the lord.

“Jon, you must hear Lord Wyman.” She said. “There was much to tell you and little time to do so, but his actions have done us both good.”

“The lady has seen so herself.” Lord Wyman added. “As have your own men.”

“His army did turn on the Second Sons.” Ser Willem shrugged. “Whether that’s some farce too, I cannot speak to.”

“Careful there.” One of Wyman’s guards growled, an older, grizzled warrior she knew as Wade Docksworth. “We lost good men in that fight.”

Ser Gendry frowned. “Yet somehow Brown Ben and most of his sellswords escaped. Convenient.”

“You’ve a bold tongue, bastard. Slight my lord again and you’ll answer for it.”

“Enough Wade.” Lord Wyman commanded, perhaps noticing how the hair on the wolves’ backs stood up. “King Jon, Lady Sansa, it might be best to continue this conversation alone.”

“They stay.” Jon spoke curtly. “My people and Sansa’s. It is them I trust.”

“Surely the lord would not begrudge a king his protection.” She offered, laying a hand on Meera’s arm. “Nor a lady her noble attendants. Perhaps while we speak, your men can stand watch outside, to establish some trust here.”

Wade and the other Manderly men clearly hated the idea, yet the lord proved himself more open-minded. He ordered his men outside, but not before sending for some chairs for her and Jon, as well as himself. Her seat was placed in a position of esteem directly next to Jon’s, an honor she did not deserve.

He distrusts Lord Wyman now, but if he knew half of my failings…

She sat without objection. All eyes were on Lord Wyman, who seemed more at ease now.

“Everything you’ve said of me I’ve earned.” The lord dabbed at his sweaty brow. “In truth I worked hard to appear false, cowardly, most of all weak. For our enemies to think me simply fat and foolish. Even my granddaughter Wylla had her doubts about me.”

“Well you did promise her to the Bastard of Bolton.” Meera spoke up.

“A necessary ruse. I had to promise my granddaughter to the bastard in order to save her father, my son Wyllis.” Lord Wyman defended himself. “He is the only son left to me after Wendel died fighting for King Rhaegar at Gulltown.”

“He did honor to your family.” Jon conceded as Wyman closed his eyes in grief.

“That he did. Sadly there were many in my city working to betray us from within. My maester is a Lannister of Lannisport. When my warnings about Viserys’s sellsword fleet never arrived, I suspected... but to grasp at the terrible depth of this conspiracy…”

“Many were blind to it.” Jojen spoke softly from his place, scratching Lady behind the ears. “Spot the snake slithering over the bog, miss the lizard lion below the waters. No man can see everything that’s to be. That’s wisdom only the gods can bestow.”

“He’s an odd little fellow.” Ser Willem whispered to Ser Gendry a tad too loud.

“Look who’s talking.” The taller knight answered.

“The young Reed is right.” Lord Wyman began again. “Maester Theomore was but one of many threats lurking at White Harbor. Roose Bolton had spies throughout my city When his army came to my gates, they had eyes and ears within the walls. I was forced to keep my loyalties and plots close at hand… to be true, I had to look false.”

“You did a good job of it.” Jon rubbed at his chest again. “Raising an army for the Boltons is bad enough. And though you say it was to save Ser Wyllis, you still betrothed your granddaughter to a monster-”

“Marriages make for powerful ties, and betrothals broken only by the worst sort.” Lord Wyman interrupted, his words causing Jon to start and Sansa to blush some. “Though most are not upheld after death and while I fear your uncle Benjen might not survive to wed my eldest granddaughter Wynafryd, I was certain Ramsay Snow would not live to say his vows. A promise made to a bastard is as worthless as one made by a bastard.” The lord tapped his large, sausage-like fingers together. “And with such mummeries, I lulled the Boltons into thinking me weak. Then I set about winning support for the Starks.”

“He means the Vale.” She felt confident enough to speak on this plot, since she knew most of those involved. “The man of the Night’s Watch who brought us from the Dreadfort, Ser Davos Seaworth, he found his way to White Harbor. He couldn’t come back because Lord Wyman wouldn’t let him.”

“I had to keep the ser out of sight.” The lord continued. “The Boltons have put a bounty on the heads of sworn brothers-”

“We know.” Jon interrupted, looking to his knights.

“It took time to ferret out the spies in my city. I needed the Onion Knight to take part in a delegation to the Vale. A knight speaking on behalf of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch might not have swayed the lords of Vale to rally. Yet his words could lend credence to another witness.”

“One who could tie the Lannisters to the North’s woes.” Sansa said. “A man who could testify that Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton brought Viserys and the Second Sons to Winterfell.” She paused to picture him once more. “Sandor Clegane.”

“The Hound.” Ser Willem spoke with disgust. “Man’s a bloody killer and little more.”

“He is.” She relented. “And yet, at Winterfell the Hound could have let me suffer. He tried to spirit me away near the end and… he was no knight, but he is a good man.”

While she spoke, Jon sat listening with a strange intensity. Neither Ser Willem nor Lord Wyman seemed to agree with her estimation of the Hound, yet whatever Jon thought of Sandor Clegane remained hidden behind his solemn face.

“Sadly, it took some time for me to find any value in the man.” Lord Wyman continued. “After we found him I let Clegane rot in my dungeons for moons before he finally spoke to the plot. Now Clegane and Ser Davos do the same in the Vale. So they might win thousands of Vale swords House Stark's cause.” His words of hope fell away in a sigh. “Though I fear that help might be too late to help Lord Eddard.”

She knew all too well the reason for his worries. Looking to the direwolves, she cursed that her dark gift had not stopped the pack from ruining the Manderly ambush. Had the wolves not become involved, Ramsay Snow might be dead right now. She remembered feeling Lady’s rage upon seing Ramsay that day.

Or perhaps that fury was inside me.

“The failure is mine.” Lord Wyman declared. “My march was always meant to be the end of Ramsay Snow and the Second Sons. We were supposed to cut away at their leadership in secret and catch them unready when the trap was sprung. Ehen the time came, we were undone by that fiend, Plumm.”

“Brown Ben’s a crafty one.” Ser Willem said. “He broke through the trap with more than half his strength left to him.”

“But they’re trapped on the wrong side of the White Knife.” She tried to find hope in that. “Lord Manderly took the crossing and if Ramsay or the Second Sons want to find another, they’ll have to travel a long way north-”

“Which they can do with ease.” Jon ran a hand down his face. “You have more men and heavy horse, but theirs is the faster force.”

“Your majesty is correct.” Lord Wyman tugged on his whiskers. “This is why I wanted to be closer to Winterfell before springing the trap, to give Roose Bolton less time to learn of my betrayal. I have little doubt that the sellswords will arrive before us now. My plans for taking Winterfell unawares are now worthless.”

Jon did not share her disappointment at such news. “I think they already were. Your army is formidable but the strength Roose has mustered at Winterfell would make attempting the walls suicide.”

“Ben Plumm may be crafty, but Lord Bolton is cunning.” Lord Wyman nodded gravely. “He’s made it widely known that he awaits Lord Stark at Winterfell but I’ve learned the truth from some men we captured. When Lord Eddard’s army draws near, Rickard Karstark and Rodrik Ryswell are to ambush him with a force hiding in the wolfswood.”

“You did not tell me this!” She leapt to her feet, angry to have vouched for the lord.

“I did not wish to worry you.” Lord Wyman admitted without an ounce of shame. “Your father is a hardened leader of men. If he does not sniff out the attack first, he might very well throw it back. Win or lose, my hope was to keep Roose from falling on an already bloodied force and then take Winterfell.”

“There’s no chance of that now.” Jojen spoke up again, rising beside her, yet addressing Jon. “But we must not be idle, King Jon.”

“Back off, boy.” Ser Willem limped forward. “After all he’s done, don’t ever let me hear you utter his name and idle in the same breath again.”

“My brother’s right.” Meera stood tall. “We of the Neck came to fight for House Stark. It sounds to me like there’s plenty more to be had.”

“Indeed.” Lord Wyman agreed. “I intend to have our force here seize Castle Cerwyn and harass Winterfell as best we can. Most of the Cerwyn strength has been impressed into the Bolton host, but if we-”

He was interrupted by Jon’s abrupt rise. This caused Lord Wyman to struggle and try to do the same until Ser Gendry offered his arm, which the lord begrudgingly took.

“My lord, I am ready to think of you as an ally.” Jon said with far less coldness. “But if you truly name me your king, your fealty will soon be put to the test.” His gaze went to her then. “We shall do as Sansa and her companions did, appearing where our foes do not expect. Once I’m ready, I’d like to tour your camp and look over some maps with you, perhaps speak of what else you know of the realm… But first there’s a young lord I must meet.”

Jon not only left Lord Wyman and the others with questions on their tongues, he soon left the tent altogether. They dressed him in a fine blue doublet given over by a Whitehill knight, and though the weight of it was likely a burden against his wound, Jon complained not. When they left the tent he looked more like the king he was. He almost drew more stares than the direwolves. Men bowed or knelt at his passing, yet Sansa paid more mind to how Jon sweated despite the autumn chill.

When they reached her tent, Jon smiled some to reunite with Old Nan and Hodor, Nymeria resting at the foot of a cradle. Yet when he looked within the cradle she caught a glimpse of the pain.

“He has Robb’s eyes…” Jon gripped the sides of the cradle tightly as Grey Wind pushed in to lick at the babe’s fingers.

“And his charm.” Old Nan said with a wrinkled smile. “Lady Wylla was very taken with him. Less so with the wolf here.”

“Why?” Jon asked sharply. “Did Nymeria seem at odds with her?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Wolf just has a wild look to her.”

“You’re sure? If the direwolves act strangely towards any you must be on guard-”

“We always are, Jon.” She nearly touched his arm but held back. “The North is a hard place, but we survived. Before the wolves found us, when Viserys kept us prisoners, we found a way to endure.”

“The Starks endure.” Jon and Old Nan said together, yet where the old woman acted pleased to share the same thought with a king, his grey eyes clouded over again.

“You shouldn’t have to endure any of this. The Lannisters and the Boltons... they came at your family to get to me. I could've stopped this. If I had only come...”

“I’m glad you didn’t. Domeric said that was their plan the whole time. To lure you north. If you had fallen into their hands because of me, I could not bear it.”

“I’ll get you justice, Sansa.” He said, hand over his wounded heart. “There’s much I cannot give you… but if things unfold as I hope, those who dared to hurt you are dead men. Viserys, Roose Bolton and Ramsay Snow. If your father does not get to them first, I will. Domeric cannot be the only one to die for their crimes.”

“Hodor?” Hodor interrupted, staring at them in confusion while Old Nan frowned.

“Lord Domeric is dead?” The woman asked. “When did that happen?”

“When?” Jon was surprised. “Were you not with Sansa when Ramsay killed him?”

“They weren’t.” She said quickly, giving a sharp look to the pair while hiding her fear of this lie unraveling. “Forgive me, Jon. It’s not a tale I wish to speak on right now, there was so much ugliness to it. I’d rather focus on happier things.”

“Then it shall be left unspoken.” Jon looked ashamed then, causing her guilt to swell once more. “I’m sorry to bring that up again. It’s been some time since I’ve had to consider a lady’s feelings… I’ll go now.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I should go and attend Lord Manderly. We have a march to plan.” Jon made to leave before stopping himself, taking her hand and kissing it softly. “Until then, my lady.” He smiled down at the babe then. “I leave you in the best of care, Lord Roban.”

The weight of her lies felt like heavy chains around her body as she watched him go. Ugly truths even a good king like Jon could not forgive.

Her betrayal of Winterfell to the Second Sons. Her hand in the death of Roslin.

Domeric.

Roban was mewling up at her helplesly and it was impossible not to think of Domeric.

The night of blood washed over her again.

The passing months had not dulled her memory in the least, likely because the senses of the wolf were so powerful. It felt like yesterday she'd been running through the lands of the flayed man. Their entire pack had been following Grey Wind in his hunt. A scent on the wind. That of a woman he longed to find.

They had been chasing Roslin. And that night they finally found her.

Except it wasn’t Roslin at all. Only another who carried clothing with her scent. One who was being hunted.

The stench of the men and hounds had been thick in the woods. And blood. Domeric’s blood. Men had strung him up between trees. Domeric had uttered such terrible screams, his clothes stripped away like so much of his skin. They arrived in the midst of Ramsay carving off another long piece from Domeric’s side. When his hounds took to baying, she remembered the ugly man turning her way, his face bloody, his lips curled in a snarl.

The fight was short and brutal. The hounds and men fought hard, slaying several of their pack but they were too many. The direwolves were too strong. Ramsay escaped with half his hounds and a handful skin, roaring in rage to leave Domeric behind.

The men had tried to take Domeric with them, only to leave him dying on the ground. While the wolves devoured the rest of the dead, Grey Wind and Nymeria kept them away from Domeric. His breathing came out in pained gasps, his blood mingling with earth, steam rising from his flayed flesh.

“Mercy.” Domeric begged as the wolves circled, sniffing at his flayed skin and bloody wound. “Mercy… you have to…”

Grey Wind stopped the others from feasting on Domeric, but did nothing else. Nymeria had whined and nudged at him, trying to help Domeric to rise. His pale eyes eventually found hers. There was no guile in them. No lies upon his lips.

Only pain and pleas.

“Mercy...” His voice still rang in Sansa’s mind.

Lady had moved closer to Domeric. She remembered him trembling when her fangs touched at his throat. Then gasping to look into her eyes.

“Sansa.” He'd rasped.

Then she bit down, crushing and tearing at his throat. Blood and flesh filling her mouth.

And Domeric Bolton died by her mercy.

 

CATELYN  

These were dark times. They would have to be for her to pray for the likes Sandor Clegane.

There was no missing the brute among those gathered in the garden of the Eyrie, an open area of grass and scattered statues, all dusted by newly fallen snow. She took this all in from a terrace overlooking the garden, for Lysa had gathered Catelyn and the most of the highborn here for the finest view of the trial to come.

Which began with a childish bellow. 

“Fight!” Young Robert Arryn called excitedly down from the terrace.

Ser Vardis answered by closing the visor of his helm, the heavily built knight bulging with well-polished, heavy plate, complete with large rondels enameled with the cream and blue sigil of House Arryn.

Wasting no time, Ser Vardis lifted his heavy shield up and advanced on his poorly armored foe.

Everything from the Hound’s plate to the greaves were mismatched, rusted or dented from battle. Few suits could fit Clegane’s size and having arrived with no armor to his name, unsurprisingly he’d inspired little generosity from others. Indeed, nearly all the knights and men-at-arms standing around the Hound now eyed him with violent intent.

Though she believed the Hound was more wary of the torches and braziers ringing the combatants than anything else. Even Ser Vardis.

The knight struck first, his blade cutting at the Hound. Clegane met it well enough, his stance firm. The knight caught a blow across his shield before advancing forward to strike again. This time the Hound gave ground, his mismatched and borrowed armor clanking with his limping steps. Ser Vardis was right there with him, before he was forced back. The Hound stabbed so close to the knight’s face, Ser Vardis rubbed at his cheek to check for blood. What Clegane lacked in armament, he made up for with his reach and terrifying fury.

“Did you think I’d just lay down?!” Clegane bellowed, hacking a piece of Ser Vardis’s shield away before slamming into the knight. “Fancy armor, strong sword, rested killers! If both my legs worked, you’d have used a Valyrian steel blade! Fucking knights!”

“Have at you, cur!” Ser Vardis swiveled about, striking at the Hound’s back and drawing a grunt from him.

Sandor Clegane was terrifying in both size and demeanor, yet he was not a well man. The large muscles he once boasted were stripped away, his skin drawn tight about his unmarked cheek and jaw. Worse was the awkward gait he now walked with, courtesy of a Manderly shackle which had set his leg to festering. Only boiled wine and cutting away the putrid flesh had saved it.

No healer could help Clegane now, who Ser Vardis was pressing into a fighting retreat, with the knight following after, dodging the Hound’s blade when he needed to, letting his armor absorb the rest. A glancing blow off his rondel barely slowed Ser Vardis, who slammed his massive shield into the Hound, knocking him so that Clegane stumbled towards the ring of onlookers.

“Away, you ugly sot!” An Arryn guardsmen shouted, shoving a torch at the Hound who recoiled in terror.

Then he was grunting in pain, for Ser Vardis cut swiftly at his arm, the mail there catching the strike but doing damage all the same. The Hound blocked two more strikes with his shield before dropping it completely, blood seeping through the mail and the man starting to favor his arm as well as his leg.

“How the guilty do suffer.” Lysa said to a chuckle from others. “This is hardly sporting at all. Almost offensive.”

“What's offensive is your loyalty to the lions.” She followed the Hound’s retreat across the garden with worry.

The chase made Ser Vardis breath heavily, his breath misting through his visor, his steps slowing, though not as much as Clegane. The Hound was practically dragging his leg behind him, cursing at each of Ser Vardis's attacks while avoiding torches that came from the crowd. In a way Catelyn was glad of them. The flames drove Clegane to move quicker for a moment or two. The man acted like a beast, yet one whose suffering tugged at her sympathies.

Did Robb know such fear before his end?

Did Sansa? Is she somewhere, cornered and alone like an animal? My poor Sansa...

I must remember, she is better cornered then dead.

Sansa had survived Winterfell, and Cat thanked the gods every night for such news, almost as often as she questioned them. It already sounded too good to be true that Catelyn's daughter could survive Viserys Targaryen, but to also survive out in the Northern wilderness alone... the idea filled her with dread.

“I had no clue it was the ladies Sansa and Roslin I ferried.” Ser Davos of the Night's Watch had told her. “By the time Lord Manderly let me into his plots... I went back myself to find them. Months after I said I would, but still I had hoped. Then we found that grave...”

Catelyn had been increasingly troubled by the question of Sansa and Roslin's fates for these past few days. The arrival of Lord Royce and his companions from White Harbor had raised many questions, but some answers as well. She knew now it was Roose Bolton and Tywin Lannister who had contracted the Second Sons to seize Winterfell. That the Boltons were always meant to sack the castle, to weaken the Stark hold over the North while strengthening their own.

“Take the castle, hold the girls.” The Hound had growled his testimony at them. “Gold from Casterly Rock, swords from the Dreadfort, Plumm took home mountains of gold. Left the hard work to me. I stayed back when he and the Greyjoy moved to put down the Young Wolf.” The scarred brute had shrugged away the outcry at that. “Me? I was supposed to keep the little bird safe from that mad shit, Viserys. That’s what the Bolton lordling wanted, when the time came, for me take her down into the crypts and hide out. She wouldn’t go though, not without the Frey girl...”

“So you fled.” Catelyn remembered feeling the urge to strike Clegane in that moment. “You left a little girl to fend for herself in the midst of a siege? What sort of man are you? You abandoned her! You left her! Alone! You-”

“The kind that’s faced fire before.” Whether in shame or disdain, the Hound had turned the ruined half of his face her way. “My brother did this to me, and one day I’ll see him dead for it. So when that castle started to burn, I wasn’t about to let myself burn with it. Call me a coward but I’m still standing. Crawled out of those crypts in a better shape than the men I found above ground. Here to speak to all the fat sack of White Harbor wants me to.”

Catelyn didn't know what disgusted her more about the man. His cowardice, or his dark desire to be a kinslayer.

Despite his questionable character, Clegane’s words had started a wave in the Eyrie that soon consumed the entire Vale. Catelyn and her trusted allies were confident enough to finally confront Lysa once and for all. Some had even gone so far as suggesting that they call their own banners, without Lord Robert's word, and start marching for the capital.

At that Catelyn managed to calm them, hoping that her sister would finally do what was right.

I wanted to give her one last chance.

Another test of faith she failed

Lysa had dismissed Ser Davos as a beggar and clasped the Hound in irons. She declared that he would be tried for rebelling against King Joffrey with lies by her son's judgement, and the sellsword had asked for a trial by combat. Over Catelyn's protests, Lysa named Ser Vardis her champion before locking the Hound in a sky cell for four days.

Draining what little strength the man had left.

“Stand and fight coward!” Lord Lyonel’s shout pulled her mind back to the present, where the Hound was reeling after being hurt yet again.

The rondel upon his right shoulder hung loosely, the Hound wincing to lift his blade. His strikes were wild, his steps shaky as he passed by a statue, seeking shelter perhaps. Only to find another torch waiting, this one wielded by an overzealous youth who lunged past the guards to taunt Clegane up close.

It was the last thing he ever did.

“No!” The Hound bellowed, bringing his longsword down, cleaving the torch and the boy in two.

“Murderer!” Lysa screamed in outrage, others echoing the call.

Yet soon their anger turned to joy, for Ser Vardis powered forth. His sword came down like an executioner’s blade, knocking the Hound’s to the side and throwing his full weight behind his shield. Even at this height she heard the crack of the Hound’s head striking the iron-studded wood. His nose and mouth were already pouring blood when Clegane tumbled backwards, catching the edge of a brazier and upending it.

Burning wood and coals flew through the air, much of it raining down on the Hound or spilling forth across the ground and his tunic. Though clearly dazed, the sight and heat of the fire brought forth an agonized howl from Sandor Clegane. To Catelyn’s horror, he abandoned his sword in his haste to escape the flames. Men were laughing uproariously at the sight of the Hound crawling across the ground on all fours, screaming and pawing at his burning tunic.

“Not the fire! Help me! Please!” The Hound wept as he came to the base of a statue of Alyssa Arryn, the man grabbing at the weeping woman’s marble legs. “Help… someone, help…”

Ser Vardis watched from the other side of the fire, the knight lifting his visor to seek out Lysa above. If he was seeking permission to give mercy, none was to be found in her sister.

“Enough, ser.” Lysa said with a wave of her hand. “Finish this. My brave boy has better things to do.”

No argument came from Ser Vardis, who slid his visor back down and readied his sword. Nothing but the sound of the Hound weeping and the wind could be heard as the knight passed through the burning flames. Others likely thought that a glorious sight but Catelyn was too focused on the Hound.

For Clegane watched as Vardis came on, striding through the fire and flames, his footfalls driving logs and embers ahead of him. The Hound’s eyes widened in a crazed terror and he pulled himself closer to the statue of Alyssa, his blood marring her pale beauty.

“NO!” He bellowed as Vardis closed in, his voice strained as he hugged Alyssa with all his might. “NO, GREGOR! NOT AGAIN! NOT THE FIRE!”

Then she heard the cracking of the stone. Catelyn gasped when she realized it came from the statue itself, which Clegane was pulling over. Abruptly it broke free of its platform and began to fall. In such heavy armor, Ser Vardis was too slow to avoid Alyssa’s fall, its upper half striking him soundly to the ground, trapping the knight beneath the statue.

“Get up!” Lysa screamed, not comprehending the state of her champion. “Ser Vardis! I command you to rise!”

Ser Vardis did his best, struggling to free himself from Alyssa’s crushing embrace. He reached around for his sword but the Hound grabbed hold of it, which he did with shaking hands. The wounded man towered over Vardis, his eyes still wild and his words too mumbled to make out.

“Mercy!” Ser Symond shouted, and soon he was joined by others, including the Ser Vardis’s young son. “Mercy!”

“Mercy!” She added her voice to the cry.

It was all for naught. With a brutality that turned her stomach, the Hound drove the blade right through the throat of Ser Vardis. His mumbles soon became bellows, and then roars like an animal as he twisted the blade.

“It was only a toy…” The Hound wept, shaking to press the sword down harder into the dead man’s throat. “Damn you, Gregor… damn you for this…”

Dear gods... revenge is all this beast has left.

Even if it means being a kinslayer.

My salvation is a kinslayer.

Young Robert looked from the knight’s corpse to Lysa in confusion.

“Why did Ser Vardis lose? You said he would win! He was supposed to win!”

“The fiend fought without honor.” Lysa fumed, turning to Catelyn. “More beast than man. Are you happy, Catelyn? Ser Vardis is dead because of you.”

“Me?” She was incredulous. “It was not I who called upon Ser Vardis for this grisly trial!”

“Knights should win!” Her nephew interrupted them, his frail form beginning to shudder. “Mother, why d-did you l-l-lie?”

His eyes began to roll back when Lord Royce shouted for aid. As Maester Colemon and a steward carried Robert away, Bronze Yohn went further still, waving forth Ser Albar and Ser Donnel Waynwood, as well as some guardsmen, to follow.

“Sers, aid the maester in tending to our young lord. Despite the day’s events, let him see he does not lack for good knights.”

This display of authority earned a sharp look from Lysa, who made to follow after her son until she blocked her sister’s path. Lord Lyonel and Ser Hugh puffed out their chests at this, yet more were gathering. Nestor Royce, the Knight of Ninestars, Lady Waynwood, Ser Davos, and chief among them, Bronze Yohn Royce.

“Foul as it was, Sandor Clegane has been vindicated.” She said, eyeing all the court that stood on the terrace. “His claims are judged as true, by his blade and the Father above. You can no longer deny what the Lannisters have done. Does anyone here truly believe that such a treacherous family can be allowed to rule the realm?”

“Not I.” Lady Waynwood said, her voice old but still noble and still strong. “They go too far. With all that they’ve done to House Stark, a good and noble bloodline, I start to question their role in the Bloodwater. No wonder they keep Ser Harry Hardyng hostage against us! Imagine what truths my former ward might speak to.”

“We have stood idle too long.” Edmund Waxley surprised her by saying. “Without the knights of the Vale, look at what’s become of the realm! Honor and chivalry ring hollow in the court of the golden dragon.”

“Then his reign must end.” Yohn’s gaze fell on those nobles who looked unsure, like Horton Redfort. “Let me say it first. Joffrey is no king of mine. Runestone will rise against the gilded dragons. We shall tear down the false king and raise up another in his place. A dragon queen, perhaps. My family and my blade could be for Daenerys Targaryen.”

“As are House Templeton’s.” Ser Symond declared, with Lady Anya nodding.

“House Waynwood will defend the Vale by retaking the throne.”

“None of you will do anything of the sort.” Lysa crossed her arms, her expression that of a petulant child. “Your Warden of the East has sworn the Vale to King Joffrey, and you are all fortunate that my son is resting. Renounce your treasonous words and Lord Robert will not hold you to account nor share any of this with Lord Tywin.”

Lysa was too tethered by her fears and too ignorant to see that her loyalty to Joffrey was more dangerous than rebelling. Her sister was blind to what was unfolding here. The tide had risen and the wave was upon her, yet Lysa dug in her heels.

Unlike Lord Horton.

“My lady, you cannot mean to hold to the Lannisters.” The Lord of the Redfort reasoned. “What we’ve learned, not just from the Hound but also this man of the Night’s Watch, in addition to what Lord Manderly himself claims... it all names Tywin Lannister as a threat to your family.”

“Not my family.” Lysa shrilled, narrowing her gaze on Catelyn. “Hers! My sister’s follies are her own. I’ve done what she failed to do. My child is safe, far from any dangers. Here in the Vale, we will be left in peace.”

“Oh, Lysa you fool.” She exhaled, feeling ashamed to name this woman her sister. “My family was at peace too! We did nothing to invite Tywin’s wrath, save lay in the path of his ambition. Before long you will too.”

“Enough of this. Guards, take my sister to her chambers. Keep her there. From henceforth she will be confined to her tower rooms and none-”

“Hold there.” Bronze Yohn commanded of the Arryn men, with Nestor holding up a hand to reinforce him. That the three guardsmen heeded them brought a flush to Lysa’s cheeks.

“Who are you to command my men?”

“A loyal vassal to Lord Robert.” He replied, though he addressed the others more than Lysa. “As many of us are! It has become clear that our lord is being ill-served by his current regent.” Yohn paused to seek Catelyn’s approval, which she gave with the smallest of nods. “Lady Lysa, in the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, you are removed as his guardian and protector.”

“We shall stand in your place.” Ser Symond added, coming to Yohn’s side. “To care and guide the young lord as his father would have wanted.”

The pair weren’t alone in this. Six were meant to come together to rule the Vale until Robert was of the age of majority. Besides Yohn and Symond, the others were Lady Anya Waynwood, Lord Horton Redfort, Lord Benedar Belmore, and lastly, Lord Lyonel Corbray. Adding Lyonel to the list of protectors had been Catelyn’s idea, an attempt to rob Lysa of a potential ally. None were more shocked than Lord Corbray to hear his name, yet he offered no protest as the scale of the rebellion against Lysa became clear.

“You can’t do this.” Lysa argued. “The garrison will have you all in shackles.”

“Not so.” Nestor stepped forward, pained as he spoke. “My lady, I can safely say the Arryn garrison is loyal to their lord… and those best able to care for him.”

“Such as Nestor.” She added. “He acted as High Steward of the Vale for many years. The men here know him, they respect him, and they trust him to care for Robert.” With this she found the decency to reassure her sister. “As you will be taken care of. You’re no prisoner, Lysa. You’ll have freedom of the castle and see Robert as often as you want. Bronze Yohn and the rest will lift the burdens from your shoulders and-”

“This was you!” Lysa wheeled about on Catelyn, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. “I should have never taken you in! If it didn’t gain me so much favor with Tywin… but you betrayed me from the beginning! Didn’t you?!”

“Lysa, calm yourself.”

“I know what you did! The danger you put Robert in! All for your selfish wants. It’s always about you, Catelyn! You brought your treasons into my home!”

The lords were becoming embarrassed at her outbursts, ending it as swiftly as they could. She watched as Ser Hugh led Lysa from the terrace, the only champion left to her sister besides the corpse of Ser Vardis. While the others set to debating the finer parts of Lysa’s downfall, she wondered how long she should wait until revealing the truth of Lorra to them. Something she now believed Lysa had worked out on her own.

Thankfully her sister was no longer in a position to endanger Lorra. Many of the Vale lords however were quite eager to strike at the Lannisters. Though Lyonel and Anya urged caution, considering their lack of a proper fleet, Bronze Yohn and Ser Symond won out. An army would be assembled and marched through the Bloody Gate before the snows closed the pass. Though they still had to win the Graftons of Gulltown over, Yohn was adamant what few ships he had to boast about would carry men to White Harbor, to aid Ned in his battles against the Boltons.

Whether Catelyn wished to join them was left for her to decide. She had yearned to return North since the revelation of Ned’s return, the pull growing stronger still after learning Sansa still lived. Yet now that she might lead the Vale in aiding them, a nagging guilt tempered her hopes. Foul thoughts which echoed in her mind as she walked down the elegant corridors of the Eyrie.

I came to the Eyrie as Lysa’s prisoner, now I shall leave it as the Lady of Winterfell.

Leaving Lysa as little more than a prisoner, herself.

It couldn’t be helped. She had tried every way to reach her sister, to make her listed to reason, to remind her of right and wrong. Yet her sister had built a wall around herself, built of fear and pride, behind which her delusions held sway.

The good-natured girl Catelyn once knew had always been prone to flights of fancy. Lysa would build crowns of wildflowers, in hopes that Petyr might name her his Queen of Love and Beauty, only to weep if he did not take the hint. Her sister was delicate in those days, full of dreams and hopes of romance that she shared only with Catelyn. At the slightest bit of loving scrutiny, Lysa could break.

Once, the sisters had enjoyed a summer’s day lounging by the Tumblestone, Lysa musing about all the things her husband would be. Brave, handsome, daring, and above all, loving, so much so that title and station need not matter. When Catelyn had rightly chided her for such foolishness, Lysa had pulled away, weeping and wailing to leap into the water to escape her words.

And I jumped in after her… as silly as she could be, I loved her so much.

Oh Lysa, what’s become of us?

She decided to try and mend things with Lysa before departing. Perhaps if she presented Lorra openly and honestly to her aunt, allow Lysa hold the sweet girl, it might bring them back from the precipice.

Yet when she came to her rooms, neither Brigid nor Lorra were there. Only Myranda, who seemed confused to see her.

“Lady Catelyn? What’s happened? Did Lysa’s ouster fail?”

“No, it went rather smoothly, all things considering.” She said with a sigh. “Your father commands the Eyrie and Bronze Yohn readies the Vale for war. Now where is Brigid and her babe, I thought I was clear in wanting them to wait here.”

Myranda raised an eyebrow at that. “I’m sorry, but did you miss them at the throne room? Brigid readied the girl as quickly as she could-”

“The throne room? Why would they be there?”

“Because you summoned them.” Myranda spoke carefully, as if Catelyn’s wits were fragile. “That servant girl, Maddy, she said you wished Brigid and the sweetling to attend you in the throne room.”

“I did no such thing, Maddy is Lysa’s handmaiden…” The words fell away, her heart pounding. “Myranda, go fetch your father. Tell him to find me at the throne room.”

“What is-”

“Go now! Fast, girl!”

The main doors were closed yet no guardsmen stood to watch without. Nor were they barred, Catelyn pushing them aside with ease. The long hall was deserted, the lively chatter of the nobles replaced with the sounds of banners flapping against the walls and a soft whistling of the wind. The cold crept within her when she saw what lay ahead.

Between two pale white pillars, the Moon Door was flung open. In front of it, Ser Hugh stood over Brigid, who lay pale and shaking on the ground, her eyes screwed shut and tears coating her cheeks. Near to them was Lysa, with Lorra in her arms.

Both watched her approach. Lorra’s eyes were glistening and her lip trembling, while Lysa wore an expression of triumph. The whole scene was made all the more terrifying by the emptiness beyond the door. White sky, falling snow. Nothing else.

“Catelyn. You are early for your trial.” Lysa looked down to Brigid. “Too late to stop this one from confessing to treason.” She then waved at the knight. “Ser Hugh, bar the doors. I’ll have no more interruptions.”

When Ser Hugh stepped away, Brigid raised her head slightly.

“I-I’m sorry, m’lady…” Brigid sobbed. “The door… they tried to put me out the door. Made me tell of my little girl…”

“Lysa, what have you done?” She blinked back her rage at Brigid’s treatment.

“I know about your mummer’s wolf.” Lysa hissed, jerking Lorra violently to display to her. “Here! Here is what the lions wanted of you! This weak little thing! Even with so many children of your own, you’d risk my only boy to keep this one close.”

“Come away from the door, please.” She reached out towards her sister and child, only for Lysa to back away. “I admit it, Lysa. That’s Lorra you hold. My daughter, your niece. Please, I couldn’t let the Lannisters take her.”

“You should know what it’s like to have a child stolen away!” Lysa raged so that Lorra took to screaming, her wails and the wind filling the hall. It drove Catelyn to take another step, only for Lysa to turn and hold Lorra towards the Moon Door. “Look down, sister! Look down and see where your selfishness will take her! Look I say!”

She swallowed to do as Lysa demanded, seeing only a tiny way castle jutting out of the side of the mountain, the ground too far down to glimpse at all.

“I’m sorry, Lysa. Forgive me. Damn me. Do whatever you will, just don’t let an innocent suffer for my mistakes…”

“Did you ever care for how I suffered?” Lysa shouted over the wind and the child’s screams. “Years of being pawed at by that old lecher. Father pushed me into his bed, but only after he made me drink the moon tea… I can still taste the mint and tansy, a touch of honey…”

A commotion began behind them, from back towards the doors. Men were shouting and pounding on them, Ser Hugh looking to Lysa for commands but her sister merely her shook her head in denial.

“Everything I ever wanted, everything I loved… they’ve taken from me. Petyr, I tried to help him, I gave him all I could. My maiden’s gift. My heart. All the secrets I heard, how the dragon princes quarreled, he worried which would go to Harrenhal, but it wasn’t the dragons he needed to fear. The lions came for him…”

Throughout these admissions, Lysa’s arms began to shake under the weight of Lorra. A gust of wind rattled the hinges of the Moon Door and Lysa began swaying, nearly dropping Lorra. She held her breath to rush forward, but Lysa caught herself, reaching out to grab the frame and pressing the babe against her chest.

“Lysa! Stop this!”

“No!” Lysa wept nowl, eyes flicking between Catelyn and the door. “My sweet baby, my Sweetrobin. No one will ever protect him like I can. They wanted to send him to Riverrun, where father killed my first child. I wouldn't let the rest of you doom my son. I did what I had to. I kept him from the lions!”

“My lady!” Ser Hugh bellowed as something battered the door. “They’re going to break the door down!”

“Sister, it’s over!” She pleaded with Lysa. “You’re no kinslayer, you’re not. Give Lorra to me. Do this and I’ll not seek redress. They will listen to me.”

“My dear sister.” Lysa shivered against the cold. “Who stole my home. Who tormented Petyr and abandoned him at his lowest. Who will make my son a traitor against my will…”

Lysa backed her feet to the door’s edge, so close as to knock off the snow gathered there. Lorra was reaching for her now, tiny fingers wriggling and grasping as if to be held. They were so close. She could almost touch her.

“Ma!” The girl cried hoarsely to her. “Ma-ma! Mama!”

“It’s alright, sweetling. Mother’s here.”

“Don’t lie to her, Cat. Not like you lied to me.” Lysa replied, breathing deeply, chin held high. “Bid her farewell, I'll give you that, so tell Sweetrobin I do this for him… Lord Tywin will hear how I dealt with this treason. He’ll spare my boy if I prove myself… and I will.”

Then Lysa let go of the frame, eyes closed and leaning backwards. Her feet moved on their own, a few swift steps back toward the abyss, her arms outstretched. Only for Brigid to beat her there, the serving woman lunging upwards to grab hold of Lorra.

Lysa kept a tight grip on the babe, her plunge halted as the pair wrestled over the Lorra. Time enough for Catelyn to join them, prying free one of Lysa’s hands from the little girl. Brigid had wrenched Lorra away when Lysa lashed out with a kick, striking the servant in the head and sending Brigid and Lorra sprawling across the floor. This cost Lysa her footing, which sent her sister tumbling backwards again.

Dragging Catelyn out the Moon Door with her, Lysa's fingers scratching at her wrist. The women screamed, the babe wailed, the wind howled.

Yet somehow Cat grabbed the hinge of the door, stopping their fall, Lysa dangling below. She screamed in agony, for she could feel the cold, iron hinge digging into the flesh of her palm. The weight of Lysa felt like it was tearing her in two, yet she managed to keep her sister from falling.

“Don’t let go!” Lysa begged, the wind running its icy fingers through her. “Please, Cat. I’m scared… so scared…”

“Help us!” She shouted, feeling her grip failing. “Hugh! Brigid! Someone help us!”

The wind was too loud. All that came was the blood from her hand, dripping down her arm and into her face. The blood struck Lysa too, the red mixing in with her tears. Below her, the pale abyss awaited. Snow and blood lost in its depths.

“Lysa… I can’t hold on.” She spoke through gritted teeth, both at the pain and the horrible truth.

“Just pull me up.” Her younger sister pleaded. “I didn’t want to do this alone… don’t let me go. Please, Cat. I love you.”

It was true. Despite all her fears and frustrations, the lies and the trials, Catelyn still remembered that little girl Lysa was. The one who would run from her, to jump into the river and hide away.

I can’t go with her this time…hand is slipping...

...need to find Ned... Sansa... alive...

I cannot leave them… I love them so... I cannot…

“I love you, Lysa.” She managed to choke out, catching the flash of relief across Lysa’s face. A small hopeful smile.

Then she let go.

… kinslayer...

The two sisters hung together a moment longer. The two sisters hung together a moment longer. Lysa fighting for what little time was left to her. Then she slipped away. Plunging down into the abyss. The wind was so loud none likely heard her final cry.

Only the sister who let her go.

Only Catelyn.

JAIME

The ship was one of horrors. There were corpses strapped to the mast, the bow, the rudder, all manning their stations even in death.

And all lacking their heads.

Reminds me the flatterers Cersei surrounds herself with, save those fools can’t blame the Crow’s Eye for their sorry state.

To find the missing heads he need only look up to the mast, for there they hung in grim decoration. The ship was a part of the city’s meager fleet and had been found adrift in the bay come dawn. He had come down to harbor with Addam Marbrand, to personally inspect the mayhem. Jaime couldn’t help but note how the smell of the rotting corpses did little to worsen the putrid stench of the docks. A stink which had more to do with the filth of the city than the shit sitting the throne.

It was Joffrey the letter was addressed to. The one Addam pried free a corpse, where a dagger had lodged it in place. The knight looked it over quickly before handing the letter off to Jaime in disgust.

“Euron Greyjoy’s idea of a wedding announcement.”

He already had a bad taste in his mouth when he took to reading.

‘To the pretender, Joffrey Targaryen.

Do accept this gift for your upcoming nuptials. I know its cargo helped make my own wedding a splendid affair.

In my vows I promised my regal bride the Iron Throne and it shall be done. So know this is but a taste of the suffering I will reap on behalf of my queen, Daenerys Targaryen.

Euron Greyjoy, the Iron King.’

To not crumple up the letter then and there was a trial. The anger that coursed through Jaime had less to do with the threats of the Crow’s Eye or the ship of death he now inspected.

“She did it.” He slammed his fist against the rail. “The silver fool married him. What the fuck was Daenerys thinking?”

“Trying to win the war, I imagine.” Addam said, scowling at all the state of the ship. “She’s already won the seas. Seven hells, this ship was only patrolling the bay and they were overtaken. You knew this was coming after we lost Driftmark and Massey’s Hook. Both were stepping stones to an attack against the city itself.”

“Reaving I expected, but not this. Daenerys marrying the Crow’s Eye… Tyrion had gold on her knowing better.”

He looked to his own golden hand, half hidden by the billowing of his Kingsguard cloak. For so long it was the fake hand he hated putting on every morning, now it had become the white cloak he’d lost his hand for.

I turned my back on my family for this bloody thing and the true king could lay rotting in a ditch somewhere.

Knowing Jon, he’ll want to crawl into one if he ever hears about Daenerys’s new man.

I pushed her to that. All I had to do was get word to her somehow…

He knew better. King’s Landing was a place where no secret was truly safe. Save those of dead men. While Black Walder had carried the truth of Jaime’s treason to whatever hell he ended up, any number of spies might intercept a message he sent to Daenerys.

What would he have said?

Dear Daenerys, I didn’t truly kill the man you love. Oh, but don’t ask me where he is, because I haven’t a clue.

Or expect me to abandon my post, because betraying my family and actually taking up arms against them is a bit too much.

His musings were put on hold by the arrival of Josmyn Peckledon, who boarded the vessel to come their way. The skinny young man had done some great deeds during the taking of the city, earning him a place as Jaime’s squire. Peck acted like it was some great honor, though the youth did not look content at the moment.

“Ser Jaime!” Peck came one, unbothered by the death around him. “Ser, a summons came down from the Red Keep, you’re to return to the castle at once.”

“The Hand is cruel to yank me away from all this.” He waved to Addam. “Let’s go then, it appears my father is eager to hear the details of this great battle.”

“What about the bodies? This vessel was little more than a river galley so there were no men of note among the crew. We could dispose of them with little notice.”

He glanced to the heads and bodies again. “No, have the poor bastards cut down and carried on to the Faith. They’ve suffered enough indignities for our cause, let’s do right by them.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Addam grabbed his arm. “Moving these bodies through the city might start a panic. Your father has been adamant on keeping such matters quiet…”

“Addam, there are no secrets here to hide. Don’t doubt that talk of this is already wending its way through the streets and back alleys.”

He was sincere in that belief. While the gold cloaks had cleared most of the docks of prying eyes, there were still some smallfolk lingering near enough. Scores of eyes watching and mouths whispering away. Few of them likely sung his family’s praises. The threat from the Greyjoys had spurred father and Tyrion into action, they’d bolstered the harbour defenses by tearing down the shanty village built up against the walls outside the gate. Such acts meant the dispossessed of the harbour now held as little love for House Lannister as the poor of Flea Bottom.

Riding by a group of idle peasants, he found their expressions even yet a coldness within their eyes.

“Any one of them could belong to the Sons of the Dragon.” He said to Addam as they passed through the gate and into the city. “Tyrion tells me their numbers could be in the hundreds by now.”

“Including some of my own men.” Addam eyed the gold cloaks around them. “I can trust half the officers at best, and that number lessens the further down the ranks we go. I’ve replaced as many as I can with westermen but still the sons stay a step ahead. They’re getting bold, Jaime.”

“That’s not how the counsel sees it. Apparently the sons peaked early. Robberies, attacks on the City Watch, preaching treason, none of that ranks to the murder of a Lannister. Especially when it’s all kept to Flea Bottom.”

Addam shook his head. “I doubt it will stay there. The false preachers haven’t. They set up on a new corner every day, denouncing the throne and the High Septon both. Winning new friends for the sons with every foul word.”

“Well, take heart that at least Mace Tyrell agrees with you.”

The Lord of Highgarden had become a boisterous opponent of the lawlessness in the city after falling prey to it himself. Not two weeks past, a storeroom in use by the Tyrell garrison was robbed and a group of guardsmen gone missing near Flea Bottom. Since then, armed men bearing the rose of House Tyrell joined in patrols throughout the city.

His party passed a group of Tyrell men when they turned off the main street onto the Hook, a long, curved thoroughfare which led straight to Aegon’s High Hill. The green-cloaked men bore golden roses on their chests, and each shouted greetings their way.

“I welcome the help, truly.” Addam nodded to the Tyrells as they rode by. “But I cannot speak to how much good they’re doing.”

He was surprised by that. “The way the fat flower tells it, the dungeons are overflowing with those his men have brought in.”

“I’d be the first to say the Tyrells are clearing the streets of a foul element. Rapists, thieves, and the like. Common criminals. Though to my eye, not a one of them is a Son of a Dragon.”

“Would you truly know a traitor if you saw one?”

The fact that Addam looked right at him and did not pepper Jaime with accusations spoke volumes. Addam was a good knight, and a good friend, but Jaime doubted the man understood treachery half as well as he believed.

Perhaps I’ll have better luck at it.

With that he turned his attention to the street they travelled through. The Hook was a long, curved thoroughfare which led straight to Aegon’s High Hill. In the distance he could see the Red Keep atop the mountain, rising above the smoke and filth of the city. His gaze did not linger long, for the castle was not his focus right now.

The people populating the street were. He needed a distraction and trying to spot a spy among the masses seemed like fine sport at the moment. This was as good of a place to have one as any. If one set up along the Hook, they’d spot everyone travelling between the castle and the harbor. Now he searched the crowd for someone doing that very thing.

A near impossible task considering the disturbance their column created in their passing. The coming of the riders and gold cloaks forced people to the sides of the street and out of their way, meaning most now stood by to watch his passing.

His eyes flicked from one face to another. A beggar harassing a well-to-do merchant. A pair of washerwomen taking an order from a sellsword. A flower peddler balancing a basket and small child in her arms. None seemed overly villainous. Some even bothered at displays of loyalty.

“Long live the king!” A noble shouted as Jaime rode by. “Seven keep King Joffrey!”

“Yeah, keep him away from us!” Another added from among the crowd, earning laughter from many and Addam’s ire to boot. He was forced to reach out to stop his friend from hunting down the jester.

“Leave it. More trouble than it’s worth. Let him scurry off to the shadows-”

The words died away right then. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her.

A dark-haired girl. Her face long but pretty all the same. Then the eyes, fierce and grey.

Just as they had been that night at Winterfell. Long before the girl would come to die there. Little Arya Stark, come back to haunt him.

For a moment Jaime was sure of it. As he turned from Addam he saw Arya staring back at him, hidden amongst the crowd and dressed in a peasant’s garb.

Yet in the blink of an eye, she was gone. There was no sign of her save the empty space between the two youths he swore she’d been standing in a moment before. One was a fat lad, the other a honey-haired young man who had trouble etched across his face. Or perhaps he was a lackwit, for as soon as the youths caught Jaime staring at them, the fat one started stuffing his face with bread and the thin one set to picking his nose.

The little she-wolf would never abide such fools…

“What is it, ser?” Peck asked, Addam and him both urging their horses closer. “Trouble?”

“She was, yes.” He smiled.

“Ser?”

“It’s nothing.” He said, feeling foolish. “Went looking for traitors, found some old ghosts instead.”

Peck didn’t care for his mention of ghosts. The Red Keep was alive with foolishness about ghosts and dark magics ever since Delena Florent and Edric Dayne’s escape. Some, like his squire, were beholden to tales that Delena was some sort of shadowbinder and stalked the Red Keep to this day.

To Jaime’s mind, the truth was far worse.

He knew for a fact that the pair had made their escape using a secret tunnel within Maegor’s Holdfast. A tunnel neither should have any knowledge of, which meant Delena and the Dayne were either incredibly lucky, or they had help from someone who knew the castle’s secrets intimately. Yet another person working against his family from within.

He was thinking on this still when they arrived inside the Red Keep. Peck had taken charge of his horse, which left him with only Addam at his side when a party of Tyrells descended upon them in the yard.

At the head of the small group came Ser Garlan Tyrell, who escorted his grandmother, her twin guardsmen and an older servant about. Though the shrunken older woman dwarfed by her larger, bearded grandson, Olenna Tyrell made her presence known to all.

“Lord Commander, I hoped to find you” The Queen of Thorns hailed them, before waving a dismissive hand toward Addam. “The Lord Commander wearing white, not gold. Though perhaps the ser counts that hand as a decoration.”

“Lady Olenna.” Jaime kept his voice even. “What can the Kingsguard do for you?”

“For me? Nothing. Your duty is to the king. Truly it’s your noble order I hope to discuss with you over some roast boar. My son is hosting a mid-day meal at the Maidenvault and invites you to attend. I know you’ve sworn off wives but surely you can bend to sitting next to an old prune.”

“I see.” He did more than see, he already knew what this was about. The Tyrells had ideas of who should fill the empty spots on the Kingsguard, suggestions neither Cersei or father were open to so far. “As fond as I am of prunes, I’ll have to disappoint you. There’s some pressing business calling me away.”

“I told you, grandmother.” Ser Garlan said with a warm smile. “A Kingsguard has better things to do than amuse our family. I pray your business is not too foul, ser. My men tell me there was some trouble in the harbor?”

He looked to Addam.

See, my friend. Few secrets worth having are kept for long here.

“There’s always some trouble these days.” Olenna wrinkled her nose like there was a foul smell in the air. “The Lightning Lord preying on the Kingsroad, krakens on the coasts, vipers in the Kingswood, and murder in the Red Keep itself! Who was the killer again? There’s so many murderers about these days…”

“Delena Florent.” He said, ignoring the jab.

“Lady Selyse begs to differ.” The elder servant spoke softly to Lady Olenna. “She claims Delena kidnapped or worse. The lady has always had a problem accepting ugly truths.”

“A terrible failing for an ugly woman to have.” Olenna added before focusing on Addam. “Well, it’s no great shame to fail at tempting a Kingsguard from his duties. Still, I already promised Margaery’s ladies a Lord Commander would attend the meal. One from the City Watch should do.”

“I, um…” Addam fumbled for an excuse but came up wanting.

“A meal with noble ladies?” Tyrion’s voice reached their ears, for his brother now strode out of a nearby arch and bowed towards the Tyrells. “Sounds like a splendid affair. I dare say I’m tempted to ignore our father’s summons to attend such.”

“Feel free to take my place, brother.” He offered, to the clear disdain of Lady Olenna.

“Ser Addam has already taken it. The meal is meant to be a very cozy affair but let me ask my steward. Olan, is there any seating to be had?”

The steward took his cue well enough. “None, my lady.” Olan answered. “And little enough boar to be called a proper meal. Finer foods are becoming scarce, it was difficult to arrange for this one at all..”

Olenna grinned. “A good servant is hard to find, and Olan here, well he came highly recommended to us by dear friends.”

He cared little for Olenna’s friends and less for her old servant, but poor Addam was treated to an earful when the Tyrells departed. They left swiftly enough, for it appeared Tyrion’s arrival had dampened Olenna’s desire to secure a Lannister for her mid day farce.

“Do you think it’s the scars?” Tyrion asked as they continued on to the Tower of the Hand. “Or is it my stature that the Queen of Thorns holds against me?”

“Likely the company you keep.” He said and Tyrion laughed. A rare enough thing these days. Both for Tyrion to laugh so good-naturedly, or for Jaime to inspire such. All that made it harder for him to pass off Euron’s note to his brother. “Found this on the ship the Greyjoys ravaged. You’re out some gold, brother.”

“Damn.” Tyrion shook his head as they passed through the doors of the tower. “The girl’s not thinking straight. She endangers herself, her child, Myrcella too. I hoped at least for the sake of them Daenerys would see through Euron’s guile. She offered her family up on a platter.”

We’re not so different then.

With Tyrion walking beside him, he noted once more how his brother was the true outsider in their family. It was a commonly held view, yet Jaime believed his reasons for thinking so were quite unique. Tyrion alone had never betrayed any of his kin.

Though father and Cersei blamed Tyrion for their mother’s death, that was no true betrayal. Not like his own. Or how Cersei had turned against him at Winterfell by trying to kill Jon.

Or what father did to the crofter’s daughter… Tysha. That was her name.

He dared not speak to his part in that. Instead, as they climbed the tower stairs, he inquired at what Tyrion knew about this urgent meeting.

“Well, it could be about the Red Viper setting up in the Kingswood.” Tyrion wheezed with each upward step. “Or the looming reaver assault on Duskendale.” He turned his mismatched eyes to him then. “But my guess is, it’s all about what sent Pycelle scurrying from the rookery. A raven came from the North. From the Bastard of Bolton himself.”

That surprised him. “You’re jesting. First the Crow’s Eye, now Ramsay Snow?”

“I know. We should levy a tax on letters sent by cruel buggers.” Tyrion’s lips twisted into a misshapen grin. “Exempting our king, of course.”

He was thankful Tyrion got that jape out of his system before they arrived in the Hand’s chambers. For waiting within was Joffrey, who looked to be in a rage as he paced around the room, Pycelle watching after him in distaste. Cersei looked little better as his golden twin gulped down a chalice of what could only be wine. She made to refill it upon catching sight of them both.

What surprised him was the Hand, for Lord Tywin’s stern demeanor appeared marred by something he rarely saw in his father. The man looked tired.

“What took you?” Father demanded, lowering the letter he held in one hand, grasping something leathery in the other.

“We didn’t have to wait for them!” Joffrey raged. “They’re both failures! The dwarf cost me my fleet and if that one-handed weakling had brought back Jon’s head like I wanted-”

“I take it something is amiss.” Tyrion suggested and Joffrey’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head while Jaime looked to the Hand.

“We came as quickly as we could. What’s happened?”

His father waved Pycelle over, delivering both the letter and leather to the maester.

“Show him.” Father commanded. “Our friends to the North have gone beyond making demands. They now threaten us with falsehoods.”

“It’s for you, Jaime.” Cersei quipped as she sipped of her wine.

Pycelle handed him the letter and Tyrion the other curiosity. The letter itself bore a broken seal of pink wax, its front addressed with a single word.

Kingslayer.

He prepared himself for some ugliness ahead. Efforts which did little when he began to read the evil within the letter.

Your false king lives, Kingslayer. He and his followers met us in fierce battle. I flayed his flesh. Look upon it. Show his silver whore.

Yet he lives. Come to the North and see what you know to be true. Your gilded king lied, and so did you. You told the world you killed Jon Snow. Instead you lost him and he has found his way to me.

I will have my bride back. If you want Jon Snow, do what the old lion promised. I want Benjen Stark. I want the wolf pup at Riverrun. I want the boy child you say is missing.

Send them to me, Kingslayer, and I will not trouble you or your gilded king. Keep them from me, and I will show the realm your coward’s heart. I will tell them of Jon Snow. I will show them, piece by piece. And all will know you to be false.

Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell.

He found it hard to look away from the words. Expecting to find all staring at him in accusation. Instead father seemed rather impatient, Cersei and Joffrey annoyed and Tyrion confused.

“What’s this?” Tyrion held up a palm sized, dried bit of leather. The sight of it made Jaime swallow hard when he realized the truth.

“Skin. It’s skin.” He numbly handed the letter to Tyrion, scorning the dried flesh of his king.

“No. It’s a mummery.” Tywin countered, rounding the table and shaking his head. “A bastard’s trick. Trying to use a dead man’s name as a threat against us. To force my hand. I nearly burned his words already, worthless use of parchment. ”

“You’re going to ignore this?” Jaime asked but the lord didn’t seem to hear him.

“What was Roose Bolton thinking letting his bastard undertake this folly? He assured me he had Ned Stark well in hand.”

“We made assurances too, father.” Tyrion tossed the letter aside. “That is, you made promises. Help for House Bolton in holding the North. Yet Ned Stark marches and those Starks we hold still draw breath. Roose Bolton looks weak for threatening them to no avail.”

“Ser Benjen will be executed.” The Hand said. “That was decided after his failed escape. As for the boy, Rickon, he and the Blackfish have not been seen for months.”

“Having that child at Riverrun put to death would be harder still.” Cersei added. “House Frey isn’t inclined to do the Boltons any favors and from what Lysa Arryn writes us, the Vale could rise up if that child dies.”

“Rise against me?” Joffrey asked incredulously. “For some stupid dead girl?”

“Murdering children wins hatred, not loyalty.” Father corrected him. “Executing a noble should be done as an act of justice rather than petty butchery. The situation at Riverrun-”

“Did you really just say that?” Jaime gaped at his father in astonishment. “You would stand there and criticize Joffrey for wanting to murder children? To murder nobles? In the same breathe as you speak of Riverrun?”

Father’s expression hardened. “It appears you require a lesson too. To gain power and wield it are different things-”

“Will you instruct us on what happened at Brightwater Keep too? We are discussing the death of kings and children are we not?”

“Jaime.”

Tyrion grabbed at his hand but he wrenched away. His stomach was a churning storm within him, his chest feeling tight. The bastard could be lying, but what if he wasn’t? That would mean he saved Jon only to let him be flayed alive. Murdered and hidden away like some secret.

“What of Rhaegar?” He demanded, looking hard into eyes so much like his own. “Be honest, father. Own up to their deaths. Admit to what you’ve done. Just once. Don’t let Joffrey be the only monster here.”

“You’ve no right to call my son that!” Cersei snapped, holding back Joffrey who was making a fine display of being offended. “And what’s this of Rhaegar?”

None answered her. Jaime trying to pair his righteousness with good sense. All while Tywin Lannister stood tall, eyeing him with a detached look of disappointment. Not like Jaime was a son who let down his father, but as if he were a lowly knight failing his lord.

“I need not answer to you.” The Hand proclaimed. “Nor must I do any more for the Boltons than take Benjen Stark’s head. If his bastard wants to spread lies, we’ll be ready. You want to speak harsh truths? Ready yourself and those men who witnessed Jon Snow’s end to give testimony. Should the need arise, Pycelle can distribute letters across the realm attesting to his end.”

“There are no witnesses.” He said simply. “None living at least. You wanted it done quietly, remember.”

“Fine. Then someone who saw his head after the deed was done.”

“The head I handed over was already tarred. None could speak to who was beneath that filth.”

Father’s eyes narrowed in suspicion then, Tyrion’s widening. Joffrey on the other hand looked at them as if they were simple, the cocky shit actually shrugging it all off.

“So what if we don’t have witnesses? We have the man who killed him right here. Who is going to doubt the Kingslayer killed another king?”

He wheeled about on his worm of a nephew. “I was a Kingsguard before I became the Kingslayer.” Jaime raised his golden hand up, causing Joffrey to flinch away. “And by the gods, I became a Kingsguard again. I remembered my vows.”

Cersei blinked in disbelief. “What are you…”

“Ramsay Snow says he has Jon. He very well might. If that’s so, then Jon’s blood is on his hands, not on mine. It never was. I did my duty. I served my king. The true one.”

There it was. Cersei recoiled in realization. Tyrion ran a hand down his face and swore. And their father… he watched Lord Tywin’s hand clench and unclench in a fist. His golden side-whiskers trembled some, though his gaze remained on Jaime, steady and heavy with scorn.

In that moment, he felt the boyish urge to explain himself once more.

“Father…”

“You are not my son. You name yourself a Kingsguard. Loyal to a false king. Very well, ser. Prepare to take your proper station.”

With that father slammed a hand down on a table, bellowing for guards. When four Lannister guardsmen entered, the Hand of the King pointed at him yet could not look his way.

“Take Ser Jaime into custody. He is a confessed traitor. Disarm him, strip him of his armor, everything but his precious cloak.”

“And this.” He unstrapped his golden hand and tossed it on the table between the lord and himself. “Take it. It helped me become a better man. Let it do the same for you, my lord.”

They made to take away him after that. Joffrey shouting insults at him. Tyrion shaking his head. Cersei looking disgusted. Tywin staring at the hand.

And Jaime turning his back on all of them.

Chapter 32

Summary:

A battle of ice. The reign of fire.

JON

The snow was finally letting up.

It had been days of cold winds and harsh storms, growing more severe with every step north. Even here, deep in the Wolfswood, the snow was nearly knee deep. The branches of massive evergreens and sentinel pines creaked under the weight of heavy snows. Beneath the trees, the Manderly army stretched out in a long march shrouded in shadows.

Yet Sansa refused to stay hidden.

From where he rode at the front of the march, Jon followed Sansa’s approach from the rear with interest. Her auburn hair caught what little light made it through the trees, its radiance drawing the eye like a flame. She rode forth upon a pale gelding, leading Wylla Manderly and Lady on toward him. Though her presence comforted Jon, she was also the source of his strongest worries.

I vowed to bring deliver her safely back to her father yet my uncle may very well be dead and this gamble already a terrible failure.

Which means I will have broken another promise to Sansa…

That turned to thoughts of Dany and he fought to force them away. Seeking a distraction, Jon looked to the knight walking alongside his horse. With every step, Gendry shivered and clutched his furs tighter. His poor friend had labored so ever since his horse broke its leg days ago, braving the deep snow with a heavy warhammer slung over his shoulder

Willem had scrounged the rusty weapon from the Locke provisions yet his efforts to find a new mount for Gendry had come up wanting. Their journey had taken a grim toll on the army’s horses. Not that being in a saddle offered Willem much relief, a glance the knight’s way found him grimacing once more. The harsh weather and relentless pace had served only to aggravate his hurts, not that Willem would dare speak of it.

He found other things to complain about.

“Is that Lady Sansa? Manderly must be daft.” Willem grumbled before spitting. “Fine work, letting her ride up and down the line. Last thing we need is that lady getting lost in this white hell.”

“Weather’s not that bad.” Gendry replied with chattering teeth. “It’s been warming up some and there’s less snow now. I wager the storm must be at an end. We’ll be moving all the quicker soon enough.”

Willem grunted in a dour manner. “You’re dreaming Bull. A waste of a dream at that. At least in mine I escape this godsforsaken land. I'm in a hot spring with my wife and a fresh-faced mule tender, as naked as can be. There I’m warm and happy. Taller too.”

“Mule tender?” Jon raised an eyebrow and Willem winked.

“A feisty beauty I met a few years back. Don’t ask me to say more in front of the Bull, he might feel the urge to defend her honor.”

Jon cut Gendry off from responding, unwilling to hide a grim truth from his friends.

“We cannot depend on the weather being merciful. My uncle spoke of autumn storms often. He held that the heaviest snow often falls after a chill breaks.”

Both men groaned to hear such news and he couldn’t blame them. Somewhere near the rearguard, he imagined Lord Wyman was cursing him from within his litter. After all, this grueling march to the Wolfswood had been Jon's idea.

There was little doubt that Ramsay Snow arrived at Winterfell full of talk about Jon and the Manderly betrayal. If Lord Wyman’s army marched on the castle, Roose Bolton would be waiting for them. Just as the Karstarks and Ryswells laid in wait for his uncle, ready to break the Stark cause as they had done many times before.

Unless someone stopped them.

“Winterfell is not the key to the North.” Jon had argued during Lord Wyman's war council. “Eddard Stark is. The Boltons only dared to seize power because they thought both him and Robb murdered. My uncle's return puts their rule in jeopardy. Our revolt against the Lords Declarant will find its greatest hope in Lord Stark, and should he die-”

“You should have more faith.” Ser Donnel Locke would declare with scorn. “Even if Lord Stark does fall, the fight will continue. We northmen are not so fickle as to abandon a just cause.”

“Nor do we lack for wolves to rally around.” Lord Woolfield had added. “Ser Benjen and young Rickon may be beyond our reach, but should the worst befall Lord Stark we still have the Young Wolf’s son, and Lady Sansa.”

“The Starks are not pieces in a game.” He said to the assembled men. “Losing one does not mean they can be so easily replaced. Even with my uncle’s return, much of the North still sits idle, or worse, declares for the Boltons. With so much disloyalty in the north, any blow to House Stark could be a fatal one.”

Ser Donnel had grown red-faced at that. “All of which stems from House Targaryen. Do not forget, it was your kin who attacked the Starks first, opening our lands to all these ravages.”

The knight’s words were well received by many in Lord Manderly’s tent. Harsh feelings that the lord himself did his best to temper.

“His Grace has a point.” Lord Wyman explained. “Shameful as it is to say, losing a lord of Ned Stark’s stature, with only a babe and a young woman to take his place, would weaken our cause.” He had looked to Jon then. “Though I am surprised you would not embrace Lady Sansa’s claim wholeheartedly. Gaining Winterfell through your bride could only help in retaking the Iron Throne.”

He remembered doing his best to stay expressionless at that, just as he had done when asking Lord Wyman about Dany. When the lord confessed to knowing little more beyond her fleeing across the Narrow Sea, his disappointment had been terrible to endure. As was his anger to hear the lord plotting about Sansa for his own ends.

“Whether it be Sansa, Roban, or any other Stark still drawing breath, I would fight to see Winterfell returned to them.” His eyes had challenged any to speak differently. “The Lannisters have stolen my throne, but I remember well the duty a king owes his vassals. By the old gods and the new, I vow that I will see House Stark returned and the North restored.”

At the time, his words had sounded feeble. Yet none would question his commitment again. So Ramsay was allowed to win the race back to Winterfell. Their goal instead would be to reach the Stark army marching south from the wall. The Boltons only served to benefit with those loyal to House Stark being divided as they were. Were they to unite, the Lords Declarant would be outnumbered, facing the rightful Lord of Winterfell and the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Though if things continued as they were, he doubted the Manderlys would have much of an army left.

Like Sansa’s presence on the march, he felt the storm also served as both a blessing and a curse. He doubted the Boltons would send any reinforcements out in this weather, yet the constant snows slowed the army’s progress and bled them terribly.

Though today’s respite allowed Sansa and her companions to reach him with relative ease.

“Here you are.” Sansa said as she rode up, rubbing gloved hands against reddened cheeks. “We were told you were with the vanguard, not riding at its head.”

“It’s not the safest place to be, your grace.” Wylla added pulling on a braid of green hair and smiling down at Gendry. “Good ser, aren’t your feet cold?”

“Lady Wylla, my everything is cold.” Gendry replied to Wylla’s amusement. Jon suspected her grandfather would strongly disapprove of that.

“There was no need for Lord Manderly to send you here.” He said. “Only a few scouts have returned and if they’d learned anything of importance, I’d have shared it.”

“Lord Wyman did not send us.” Sansa sounded somewhat put out. “Though he did wonder why you always stray so far away from the other commanders. My own worries bid me to seek you out myself.”

Willem chuckled. “A dreadful pastime, worrying after our king. He’s ruined many a night’s sleep for me. I think it’s causing me to shrink.”

“Sansa, there is nothing to worry about.” He lied. “Leading from the front serves more than my ego. The men question their steps less if they see me taking it first.”

“And you’d be the first to walk into a trap.” Sansa replied. “There’s every chance you stumble upon the foe out here. The wolves have been uneasy of late Jon.”

“As they should be.” He eyed the forest around. “This is a hunter’s wood. Even an army as large as ours could become a prey to something.”

Sansa gave him an impatient look. “All the more reason to have a proper guard then. Not that I mean any slight against the noble sers-”

“None will harm the king, my lady. Not while we stand ready.” Gendry said.

“Oh come off it. We’re quite pitiful.” Willem snorted. “Between me and the horseless wonder here, we make one knight at best.”

Gendry grumbled something in reply but he paid it little mind. He was more interested in how Lady kept searching the snowy woods around them. Though Jon saw nothing himself, he imagined Bolton swordsmen hiding behind every tree. Ramsay Snow among them, one hand wielding an ugly knife, the other filled with Jon’s bloody flesh.

He touched at this chest, his hand resting on the ugly scar hidden beneath his furs and leathers. Most were ignorant of the gruesome marks that Ramsay Snow had left him. Sansa had seen it though. A moment later, she proved to know his mind as well.

“It’s not your fault we haven’t found father yet.” She spoke quietly, mist filling the air between them. “The woods are massive and the snows are terrible. Coming this way made sense.”

“Ser Donnel disagrees.”

“Well he’s wrong.”

He smiled at her bluntness. Of late Sansa tended to surprise him. It was hard to imagine the girl he had known at Winterfell holding up in these conditions. The cold and deep snows were enough to break grown men, yet Sansa persevered without complaint. At times he thought her presence even inspired the men.

Perhaps that’s why Lord Wyman lets her ride up and down the line.

To remind everyone that Sansa has not given up. That there is still hope.

That’s what he kept reminding himself ever since they came upon the Kingsroad. Some woodsmen had aided them in finding the stretch of road that ran through the forest. Even with the snow hiding much of the evidence, it was plain hat a battle had been fought. The banners and sigils found among the fallen left little question to the combatants. The Karstark sunbursts, the horse’s head of the Ryswells, the Umber giant, and the Stark direwolf.

The meaning of all this was clear. The ambush had come and gone. They had come too late.

Yet their march did not end. There was no sign of Eddard Stark among the dead and instead they found two trails leading away, both large enough for the movements of a great many men. One went east while the other headed west, deeper into the woods. Ser Donnel and others wished to follow the eastern trail, in hopes of finding Lord Stark regrouping near Long Lake.

In the end Jon trusted in the direwolves, who had howled off to the west until he and Sansa convinced Lord Wyman to choose that direction. A decision Jon was beginning to regret.

“The trail is lost, Sansa.” He lamented as they pulled away from the others. “That’s assuming it was even your father’s in the first place. Even if the Reeds or wolves find it again, there’s a chance that we’ve been chasing the enemy this whole time.”

“No, it is him.” Sansa looked to Lady in a strange way. “In my heart, I know it was father. The wolves had us walking in his footsteps.”

They never spoke of how much Sansa depended on the direwolves. Still, he fostered theories on the matter, of a bond much like the one he'd once shared with Ghost.

“The wolves travelled halfway across the North to find me and Roslin.” She continued. “How could the Wolfswood compare to that?”

“Entire villages and holdfasts have been swallowed by this forest. Even at Winterfell, those who knew it best were still wary of venturing into its darker parts, lest they become lost forever…”

His words tapered off when he caught the grief tingeing Sansa’s face.

“I was not speaking of Arya.” The world seemed to grow quieter at the mention of her name. “She could be out here still, hiding like those who survived the sack. Nymeria escaped with Arya and she found her way back to us.”

“But Nymeria would never leave Arya.” Sansa wiped at her eyes. “Unless something terrible happened. It took losing Robb for Grey Wind to form his great pack… it’s horrible to think on what led Nymeria to join them.”

Her head lowered as she looked away from him.

“How will I explain any of this to father?”

Only now did Sansa appear as downtrodden as the rest of the army. He didn’t think less of her for it, yet any words of comfort that came to mind felt hollow. Talk of how he wished to avenge Arya, or how full of rage he was at the thought of what had befallen everything he loved.

The Boltons will know why the Dothraki came to curse me. All that death and carnage I visited upon them is within me still.

I will be a curse upon my enemies.

He was not so foolish as to think Sansa wanted to hear any of this. Taking command of the capital, leading armies, plotting the bloody ends of his foes, dealing death itself, it all came easier to him than trying to speak kindly to a lady.

That wasn't always true. Oswell mocked me for it, but I was never so poorly.

Somehow, he found his way to resting a hand upon Sansa’s back. With Jon making every effort to keep his touch as gentle as possible, he wondered if she could even feel it through her heavy cloak.

Then Sansa lifted her head to face him. He saw her blue eyes, both bright and sad, and a smile forming on her lips.

Perhaps Sansa would have found the right words to ease their minds. Lately she usually did. Yet she never got the chance, for a chorus of howls soon burst forth from the woods to their left.

Lady answered the call, and it came as no surprise when Grey Wind and Nymeria appeared. The two direwolves threaded their way through the trees, bounding through the snow to reach them. Behind them he saw Meera and Jojen struggling after, along with the crannogmen and the woodsmen who’d joined their scout.

They were sweating beneath their furs, Jojen falling to his knees and Meera half collapsing into Gendry’s arms.

“We found them!” Meera exclaimed breathlessly. “Lord Stark’s men… the Karstarks… all of them… not far…”

“Where?” Jon demanded, his heart pounding.

“The smallfolk were fleeing.” Jojen stared at him with his queer eyes. “There’s to be a battle… between the two lakes with the islands…”

“In a crofter’s village.”

 

DAENERYS

Wherever Euron was, she hoped he stayed there.

Dany held no illusions of her husband being any comfort in this. Euron’s lack of enthusiasm for her child meant little against the joy Dany felt when she finally took to her birthing bed. At first it came as a relief, with her belly was swollen to bursting and Dany quite ready to have some happiness in her life again.

Yet something was very wrong.

She knew so without needing to hear what maesters and healers whispered of in the corner of her chamber. The birthing pains had given way to a sharp stabbing in her middle. An endless amount of potions and differing positions, and still her child stayed put. Her babe would not come.

Five days… five days of this.

I know the world seems harsh, little one, but it needs you all the same. I need you.

Her body and mind were being tested terribly and she loathed what a spectacle it had become. The white curtains of her bed had been drawn back so several sets of eyes could stare at her exhausted form clad in little more than a shift.

There were the healers of source. Then the septas and maidservants came and went, fetching clean linens and warm waters. Foremost were a group of noblewomen who had stayed by her side the entire time.

Brienne kept silent vigil at the foot of the bed, her Kingsguard armor polished to a shine and Dawn held upturned in her hands. Sitting by Dany’s side was Myrcella, where the golden princess held her hand and stroked her undone hair with loving tenderness. Tess was dabbing at her sweaty brow with a damp cloth, making soothing sounds and doing a better job of hiding her unease than the others.

“Things must be dire.” She sighed as another spasm worked through her. “I’ve not seen such dour expressions since my wedding day.”

That was a half-truth, really. She had seen worse come her wedding night.

The ceremony itself was mercifully small and swift. Euron and those men of the Iron Islands in attendance cared little for the rites of the Seven and Dany had no desire to make any more of the occasion than she had to. The aches in her ankles, an ill-fitting bridal gown, Myrcella’s quiet tears and Ser Richard ceaseless glowering, how bored Euron seemed with it all, these were her memories of the day.

Were it Jon swearing vows to her, Dany would have savored every moment. Instead she had to put him from her mind during the ceremony, lest Euron mistake her grief as a sign of weakness. After all, theirs was a marriage of necessity, not love. From Euron, she wanted ships and the means to strike back at her foes. No doubt he expected to wield power through her, but she’d crush those ambitions with time.

Their first quarrel had already ended in a triumph for Dany. While she was willing to forego a long betrothal, consummating the marriage was another matter. Her confinement demanded that she must wait. Of course, Euron demanded the opposite.

“A marriage is made in the bed.” Euron had fumed at the time. “The vows, the titles, nothing but words without the deed. I named you wife, now I will make it so. Pleas, tears, even a little blood, none of that has ever stopped me before. Your swollen belly is nothing.”

“It is everything.” She went on to explain. “My child will be the next king. A dragon as much as I, and this dragon will not plead with you. I have told you my will. Once my child is delivered to the cradle, then you may share my bed.”

Euron had offered a smile full of scorn. “Wife, there is fire in you. Trust that I can stoke a heat in better places altogether. I’ll make you regret even thinking of a delay-”

“When I am ready. Not a moment before.” Dany remembered Euron’s pale skin flushing some at that. It worried her not, for his men were drunk and feasting while hers were ready and waiting. Some right outside her chamber door.

“My lord is free to enjoy the chambers arranged for him. Lady Brienne will act your escort, Ser Brynden and Ser Harry as well. It would be a poor start to our marriage if I had to send for them. One you would regret, dear husband.”

Euron had been furious at this turn of events. A terrible anger the Crow’s Eye soon unleashed upon their foes.

While Euron could not yet share her bed, she allowed him to take a leading role in their new campaign. With the Iron Fleet at his command, Euron left to begin a campaign of terror upon the seas. His longships prowled Blackwater Bay with impunity, falling upon their prey like ravenous sharks. No ship was safe, not even those in sight of King’s Landing.

Much of their plunder found its way to the vaults of Dragonstone. Euron sent her gifts from his own spoils, usually wealth from distant lands such as Braavos and Slavery’s Bay. None more exotic than Qarth.

A ship from that fabled city had fallen in Euron’s clutches. He claimed it carried warlocks seeking dragons yet said little more of their fate. Instead, her husband insisted on Dany taking their possessions. Books and scrolls written in strange tongues, jewelry of jade, ivory, and onyx, a fruity wine that’s taste changed so quickly she and the others had a grand time trying to keep track.

Even Ser Richard partook of a cup after hearing of Rook’s Rest. That victory came courtesy of Red Ralf Stonehouse, who led a squadron of longships to free the seaside castle and its lord from a Lannister garrison. In thanks, Lord Staunton pledged himself to her and was doing all he could to rally the men of Crackclaw Point. While Stonedance was won back to them in a similar way, the mere arrival of a few longships at Claw Isle and Sharp Point convinced their lords to foreswear Joffrey.

These men are only the beginning. A handful I will turn into a horde after I rise from this bed to mount a dragon.

If that does not serve to inspire a revolt, the king I carry with me surely will.

Dreams and hopes. Matters of war. She welcomed these thoughts since they made fine distractions from the fear and pain coursing through her.

Though one particularly vicious spasm would not be ignored and Myrcella soon cried out at Dany’s strangling grip.

“Myrcella, child. I did not mean-”

“It’s alright.” Myrcella lied, finding the grace to squeeze her hand in reassurance. “I was just surprised, it’s never come so sudden or strong before. Are you feeling worse?”

“Princess.” Tess chided. “Do not worry her so. Daenerys needs to concentrate. Men practice for years at bearing swords, but the first time we women fight the battle of the birthing bed, we do so untested.”

“This is not her first time.” Brienne put in softly. “She is the mother of dragons after all. No tale will ever do justice to the night I watched her walk through fire to bring the dragons back. With so powerful a mother, this babe is in good hands.”

There was a deep sincerity in the blues of Brienne’s eyes. The calm that followed was fleeting, for the pain returned with vengeance and Dany cried out in agony. Tess and Myrcella were helping her bear down when an answering screech came from without the window.

“My older children are troubled.” Dany sighed to hear them and soon felt something different than the stabbing sensations. Her child was kicking within her.

Did it feel weaker than before?

“They smell the blood in the air.” Brienne shook her head. “The Crow’s Eye- that is, his royal consort’s men are trying something new to lure Arturion from the mountain. The beasts they use are being bled in an ugly fashion. Take a walk on the battlements and all you’ll hear is the screaming of sheep.”

“How horrible.” Myrcella touched at her scars with a shudder. “Isn’t being bait for a dragon suffering enough?”

Tess shook her head. “That Red Oarsman does not seem the type to trouble himself with matters of mercy. Whether it be for man or sheep.”

Her friend had the right of it. The Red Oarsman was one of the few captains Euron had left behind to defend Dragonstone and she found him to be a savage sort. While Dany felt his efforts to trap Arturion worthwhile, she had refused him the right to use captives as bait. When he’d asked for a peasant or two instead, Ser Harry was given her blessing to drag the reaver from her presence.

If only I could command my child forth in the same way. Melisandre saw the coming of my son in her fires but gave no warning of these trials.

What else hasn’t she told me?

“I want the lady Melisandre brought to me.” She fought through the pain to command of Brienne. “Send word to my knights. To the castle guard. To anyone. Bring the red woman to me. At once.”

The whispers of the healers died away at that and the septas took to scowling with silent disapproval. Tess pulled away, shooting a look at Brienne who shifted her hold on Dawn in hesitation.

“Your Grace, do you think that’s wise? The lady is a tad-”

“She’s mad.” Tess finished. “And no lady of anything. That red witch will take one look at you and start going on about Rahloo or whoever. ‘Burn this, burn that, burn them,’ it’ll do no good.”

“There’s little good being done as it stands!” Dany snapped at them. “Brienne, I will climb from this bed and send the summons myself. I trust you’ll spare me doing so.”

Her lady protector bowed to her will, walking to the door even as the trio of healers stepped forth to protest in her place. Two were aged healers collected from Driftmark and Stonedance, the third being Dragonstone’s own maester, Malequin, who made the other two seem young in comparison.

“There is no need for that woman to attend you.” Malequin said with his chin raised high. “We three have more than a century of learning between us.”

“That may be true, yet here I lay, suffering and confused as to why. Unless you discovered the reason in your council of whispers, I cannot see how Lady Melisandre could make things worse.”

“Superstition is a dangerous thing.” Malequin began to twirl the silver link upon his chain, eyeing the healers who nodded in unspoken agreement. “Whatever potions or mummer’s cures the red woman peddles might only serve to worsen your plight. My queen, let us tend you. The pain you now endure will soon be remedied with some milk of the poppy.”

“I thought you said she couldn’t have any.” Myrcella furrowed her brow and Dany was equally confused.

“That they did.” She looked to Tess, whose expression had become grave. “Milk of the poppy can weaken the child. Muddle my mind. You told me so too, Tess. My child needs his strength and I my wits.”

“It will spare you undo suffering.” Malequin said as he coughed some. “With what’s to come... what we fear will unfold… the risks to your life itself-”

“Her life?” Brienne interrupted as she returned, the lady’s towering presence unnerving Malequin even more. “We brought you all together to help Daenerys through this, not frighten her.”

“We are trying to help.” Malequin protested. “In truth, I’m quite confident the queen’s life can be saved.” He swallowed deeply then. “The child’s however… a thousand apologies but we fear it a lost cause entirely.”

Outside, another dragon bellowed. A screech that echoed her feelings at the maester’s words. Her babe kicked in defiance as well, though it paled to his earlier efforts.

“My child will live. He will be king. Like his father before him.” She pointed a finger in accusation at the trio. “You’ve been turned against us. How much gold did Lord Tywin promise you to speak these falsehoods? They took Jon but they will not have-”

“I serve none but you!” Malequin raised his hands in defense, the healers sputtering similar declarations. Brienne nonetheless put a hand to Dawn and Tess rose up in threat as well. Their fierce gazes drove Malequin to plead with her further.

“Please, Your Grace. All of this comes as a shock! A frightful turn! You were fairing well! Your humors were pure and pains the proper kind. With the child placed as it was, the septas were sure it would come the first day… then nothing. A delay is nothing to fret over. A day or two. Yet five in your condition is dire. We’ve all listened at your middle. Where once we heard your child’s heart beating, now there is nothing.”

“No.” Dany pulled Myrcella’s hand so that it pressed against her stomach. “I felt him! Just now! He kicks when the dragons call. Feel for yourself. The next time they roar, you’ll see. My child lives.”

Malequin was not convinced. “The child may well live for the nonce. Yet his heart is surely weak and will only worsen with time. By the color and smell of your humors this evening, I fear by morning you will be carrying a corpse inside you.”

As Dany recoiled in shock, Tess strode forward and slapped the maester, earning gasps from Malequin and many others.

“Shame on you! All your studies and not an ounce of sense! No mother needs to hear that!”

“I speak only the truth.” Malequin rubbed at his reddening cheek. “I wish it were different. There’s no reason for this. No reason at all.”

“Could you cut him out?” She asked, her mouth becoming dry and her stomach turning. Myrcella gagged at the question yet Dany persisted. “I’ve heard of it being done. If it saves him, sharpen your blades.”

Again, the learned men disappointed her. They gave excuses, first that neither Dany nor her babe were strong enough to survive such a thing. None of the practices and potions they relied upon had worked so far. Each had different reasons for why each failed and they seemed to only agree on thing.

That her child was doomed. At best Dany could save herself and live to mourn his passing.

I’ve done that before. Not again, please not again.

There’s finally hope to retake the throne… why must the gods curse me to do so alone?

She knew the answer of course. Being at Dragonstone of all places made it impossible to ignore her crimes. It was here she betrayed Rhaegar. One reckless act which doomed her brother, a good knight, and a poor friend. Parts of a life long lost.

With Elara reaching out from the capital and Jon’s child to look forward to, she’d let herself believe some pieces of that life could return. Yet ash could not be remade into what it was before the flames.

Rhaegar burned in his pyre and the dragons rose in his stead. Her children born of fire. They thrived in this world, yet such was little comfort as the child of her body faded with each passing moment.

Myrcella and Tess were holding her tight when a bellowing roar boomed from outside the window. One so powerful it shook her to the bones and sent all in the room to jumping in alarm. Though little of the night sky could be seen through the window, she swore a shadow passed over the stars.

A few moments later the doors to her chambers were thrown open and a dishevelled young woman appeared.

“He’s come!” Mya Stone blurted out, as breathless as her arrival was bold. “Your Grace! The black dread! He has come!”

It was a rare thing to see the former mule-tender so excited. Mya’s steady manner was one of the main reasons Dany had chosen her to care for Rhaegal and Barraxes. That and all the time Mya had spent with Marwyn had bequeathed upon her a knowledge of the dragons matched by none but Dany herself.

“I saw him circling but I never thought…” Mya clutched at her chest. “The ironmen have lured Arturion to the ground. He’s just beyond the walls but I don’t know how long he’ll stay.”

Suddenly Mya became aware of how the septas and healers were staring at her aghast. She looked from them to Dany and must have seen something in her face that could not be hidden. Mya’s excitement quickly died away.

“I should have knocked… or waited. Sorry, Queen Daenerys. I was only thinking of how glad you might be to hear… I’ll just go and tend to Barraxes and Rhaegal. To think one day your child could be riding one of them.”

Mya was trying to smile but it fell away as a spasm attacked Dany’s body. She did not hide the pain this time, her agony mingling with the fear and sense of doom that hung over her birthing bed.

“Mya, the others can wait.” She said after the worst was over. “Fetch my river knights. Ensure whatever snares the Red Oarsman has prepared will not risk Arturion. I will protect what children I have left.”

“Arturion has come to do the same.”

Melisandre’s exotic voice reached them before the crimson clad lady appeared in the doorway. Despite the autumn chill, she still wore little more than thin silks and her red ruby necklace. None were pleased by her arrival, yet Mya showed a special disdain by backing away as far as she could. The dragon minder clearly still unnerved by her ordeal with Melisandre. Having someone wear your very image like a cloak was not an easy thing to accept.

Dany, however, had more pressing issues.

“You didn’t warn me.” She said as more of Arturion’s roars were heard. Her anger rising with them. “The defeat of the siege, the coming of Euron, all of that you saw. What about my son? The king I’m owed? Not one word of losing him!”

“He is not lost. Not yet.” Melisandre answered with a calm that enraged her. “R’hllor has gifted you Azor Ahai himself, and now he sends his blessed harbinger to welcome our savior’s coming.”

“What did I say?” Tess crossed her arms. “Bloody nonsense.”

“Lady Royce speaks my mind on this.” She added as the dragon roars and her fading child’s kicks continued. “My healers offer milk of the poppy, you give my more confusing prophecy. Are they right to call you mad and useless in this?”

“Yes.” Malequin and Tess spoke as one yet Melisandre was unfazed.

“With fire comes glorious light and warmth, but also pain. The same will hold true for the birth of our fated prince. When the flames burn bright and light pierces the darkness, Azor Ahai will be delivered to us. R’hllor has shown me so, and how I can act a guide in bringing this to pass. So I come to offer you a choice, Daenerys Targaryen. Faith or fear. Light or darkness. Only the right choice can save the life within you.”

“Utter nonsense.” Malequin scoffed yet refused to turn his back on Melisandre as he looked to Dany. “I beseech you to ignore her. Allow us to tend you as is proper. Milk of the poppy for the pain, then some herbs to force the babe free.”

“Born dead and cold.” Melisandre’s copper eyes burned away. “R’hllor can deliver your child into the light, alive and warm. There is a sacred rite I can perform so that mother and child can draw needed strength from the dragon. More than enough to see them through.” She smiled to hear Arturion once more. “Even now the harbinger calls to you both. Can you feel the power he lends to you? The salvation he offers?”

She could. There was no denying that the mere sound of Arturion made her feel better. Stronger somehow. Then her babe kicked again and she wondered if he felt this power too. The dragons had always caused him to stir. He wanted to be with them, and they with him. A part of her knew it made no sense, yet neither had Winter flying so far to deliver Elara’s message. Fighting through a storm to find her. Was it so mad to believe Arturion had come to help her now?

“Arturion is outside the castle walls.” Brienne pointed out, moving to stand between Melisandre and her. “I cannot see what help the dragon can be to Daenerys in this.”

“With her here, he can do nothing.” Melisandre answered. “That is why a pilgrimage must be made. Daenerys must seek Arturion in the place of his birth.”

“You wish her to leave the bed?” Malequin blanched and Tess blinked in astonishment.

“Go that dragon? He’s a killer. A man-eater.”

“Dany can’t go anywhere. Look at her!” Myrcella protested as Tess moved towards Melisandre only for Brienne to push her back.

“Melisandre of Asshai.” Brienne’s voice was thick with threat. “You told me once that as long as I wield Dawn, Daenerys would be safe. That no darkness could touch her. Now I fear you’ve become all that you warned of. Unless you mean to help in a meaningful way, I ask you to leave.”

“She will leave.” Dany spoke with determination. All the dragons were screeching now, and she thought to see a flash of light out the window. “Melisandre will leave and I will follow. We go to Arturion. My child does not have the strength to come on his how, so we will borrow that of my firstborn.”

“Daenerys, no.” Brienne was the first to plead with her but it was all for naught.

Their words meant nothing against the certainty within Melisandre’s eyes. Or Dany’s own deeply held hope that the dragons could save her. She had carried them from the fires, they would surely see her through this.

So she made the choice Melisandre put before her.

Dany had chosen faith.

 

EDDARD

He was not alone in his prayers.

Several knelt about the weirwood, seeking the old gods upon this rocky and wooded isle. Finding a heart tree had been a good omen in this dire hour. Above him, the weirwood’s outstretched branches were full of rich red leaves that kept the heavy snowfall from falling down on them. A sign perhaps that the old gods would protect them on this day.

Yet the snow was a relentless foe, and here and there a few fat, pale flakes slipped through. Ned’s own head and shoulders would soon be covered, as would the dark braids of Maege and Dacey Mormont. Already Robett Glover's normally thick brown-grey beard had become as white as Mors Umber’s. The Greatjon’s uncle loomed large over Ronnel Stout during their prayers. While the younger man kept both eyes closed, Mors had flipped up his eyepatch, displaying a dragonglass eye nestled in his socket, glinting in a cold, sightless way.

We’ll all be blind if these flurries keep up. Out on the lake, men can barely catch a glimpse of the village anymore.

Our foes must struggle as we do. That means they can be led astray all the easier.

He looked at the carved eyes of the weirwood. The narrow slits stared back, as if in judgement. Why would the gods judge him? He'd abandoned his family afterall. Embraced the wildlings. Made a bargain with the Three-Eyed Crow.

Any one of those acts could serve to damn him, though it was the defeat on the Kingsroad which haunted him most of late. His men were weary and unprepared when the Karstarks and Ryswells had struck, their attack so swift and brutal that it cut his army in two. Even now Ser Kyle Condon and the Greatjon were missing, along with thousands of their men.

What forces were left to him retreated west, with Rickard Karstark chasing them the whole way, gaining with each passing hour. Ned had more men but fewer horses, whereas his outriders guessed that the lords Karstark and Ryswell had almost six hundred heavy horse altogether. There was little doubt that on open ground, his foes would have the advantage.

Unless the gods are with us and our efforts bear fruit.

With that he began to rise, his leg screaming at the effort.

“The hour draws near.” He said, interrupting the prayers of the rest. “Good lords and ladies, brave defenders of the North, rest assured that I’ve told the gods of your worth. May they see you through the day ahead…”

“If not, they will await us in death.” Robett led the rest in rising.

With a touch to the mailed fist on his scarlet tunic, Robett pulled the hood of his chainmail shirt over his head. Though both Maege and Dacey had maces hanging from their hips, the mother wore patched ringmail while the daughter prefered boiled leathers. Ronnel carried a halfhelm under one arm, his broad chest protected by dented plate. None could match the fierceness of Mors, who looked more beast than man in his snowbear cloak, the creature’s head acting his hood.

Himself, he wore wolf furs over iron mail and heavy wools beneath that. Plate would have been wise but the weight was too much for his leg. Should the need arise and he was drawn into the fight, Ned intended to fight well. Yet none were more eager for battle than Mors.

“I killed three on the Kingsroad.” Mors smiled at the memory. “Today I’ll be putting that number to shame. Send the tally to the Leech Lord, so he might count the cost of keeping the Smalljon in chains.”

“Don’t get too excited there Mors.” Maege said. “Remember patience. We’re all looking for blood, and there’ll be enough to sate us this day. If you can bottle up that bloodlust of yours.”

“Might be wise to stay away from bottles altogether.” Dacey added with a wink. “Flagons too.”

The Umber gave a hearty laugh at that. Robett on the other hand was not so amused.

“We will wait. We will wait because Lord Stark bid us too.” Robett touched at his sword. “Hours are nothing compared to a year. That’s how long my family suffered in these woods since the Boltons and the Karstarks drove us from our home. I buried my newborn daughter in that time. My little Erena never saw Deepwood Motte. At her grave, I promised my child vengeance. If waiting is what it takes to see it done, I will stand eternal.”

The only sound after that was the wind howling through the trees. Robett’s loss bid Maege to grasp at Dacey’s hand, her faced creased in worry. He knew that feeling well.

His mind turned to what Jeyne Poole’s letter had revealed of Arya. Of his little girl’s true fate. How Sansa had misled their enemies with poor Beth Cassel’s corpse, allowing Arya’s flight into the Wolfswood. Yet unlike Jeyne, who had found sanctuary at Ironrath, none claimed any knowledge of Arya.

In that bewitched dream I saw her in dark waters, fighting to stay afloat.

Gods let that fight continue. If she cannot reach shore, allow me to find her.

In hopes that such a day could come, Ned led his commanders on through the woods. Though this island was the largest one upon this frozen lake, it took little time to reach its shore. Beyond its reaches, out on the snow-covered ice, more than three thousand men stood ready for battle.

Mormont spears and Glover archers, clansmen garbed in ragged skins and studded leathers, black cloaks of the Night’s Watch, and Stark men who had first marched with Ned years past. Among those hundreds he spotted Rodwell, Cayn and Varly, Winterfell guardsmen.

He turned south then, peering through the heavy snows at the distant outline of the crofter’s village. Nestled between two lakes, there was little more to the settlement than a collection of huts, a watchtower, and a longhall. Abandoned by its people, hundreds of mountain clansmen had taken up residence there at Ned’s behest.

Denied the village, his foes were mustering somewhere along the eastern lakeshore. The snowfall kept them hidden for the moment, yet he knew they were there. Just as the lords Karstark and Ryswell knew he was here.

In case they had forgotten, he gave orders for the horns to sound again. They blared as more men of the Night’s Watch marched to the line.

“My lord, another call to muster?” Ser Jaremy Rykker asked from atop his horse, the black-cloaked knight among the few who still had a mount. “If I heard this, I would think my adversary in a sorry state.”

“I think that’s the point.” Ulmer shot Grenn a knowing look as he tested his bow. “Apologies, m’lord. Can’t say I’ll be much use in this mess. They’ll be on top of us before I spot a target.”

“Then save your arrows until we are on them.” He said, earning a grin from the old outlaw.

Though the snow hindered the archers, the flurries had hidden all Mors and his men had been up to the night before. Soon enough, Mors and Robett were gone, pair going forth to take command in the village. He did not envy them, for the village and much of the shore were being terribly battered by the winds and snow. When the time came, they’d be lucky to find their way back to the lake.

Larence Snow knew enough to bring forth Ned’s shaggy garron. Most lords would disdain such a horse, but there were none better in such conditions. The same could be said for his squire.

“They are sharp to the touch.” Larence said, helping to strap Ice across Ned’s back and fasten a longsword upon his belt. “I checked both blades for frost. Neither will stick my lord. I swear it.”

“Then I am confident in them.” He said to the lad, who was no stranger to battle himself. Larence had served with Robb against the Greyjoys and was one of the few who escaped with Robett. As the bastard squire helped him into his saddle and strapped a shield to his arm, Ned was struck by a sudden thought.

Larence is barely older then Robb was when I left Winterfell. My son who led an army, who defended our home so bravely…

They took his head. They murdered my boy.

“What of your blade?” He asked Larence, for he saw only a spear laying at the lad’s feet. “Should your spear snap or a foe grow too close-”

His words were cut off by a horn blowing from the enemy’s direction, its sound reaching through the white shroud and across the frozen length of the lake. More followed and Maege and Ronnel turned their gaze to Ned, waiting for him to speak.

“They are ready. The charge will not be long in coming now.”

“My lord, I am ready.” Larence pulled aside his cloak to display a hatchet strapped to his side. “Once in my hand, it will not rest until the blade is red with traitor’s blood. Be it Karstark or Ryswell, I’ll have at them. The North remembers.”

“The North remembers.” Echoed Maege and Ronnel as Dacey rode up, leading their garrons behind.

“Then let’s make today memorable.” Dacey spoke bravely, yet this time it was she who reached out to hold Maege’s hand.

Together, they all travelled to the fore of the army, which stretched out in a long line in front of the island. The wind set the banners to flapping, whipping up snow into white spirits that danced atop the ice. The sight reminded Ned of the Others, and a shiver went through him.

Those demons can wait a thousand years more.

I’d rather fight the living than the dead.

Horns continued to blow, growing closer with every moment. Though the storm hiding their coming, Ulmer was soon proven wrong. For towards the far side of the lake, dark shadows could be seen moving within the snow. At their head came the riders, several ranks bristling with spears and flying unfriendly banners. The foot followed after, hundreds upon hundreds marching over the ice, ready to fall upon the chaos that the heavy cavalry's charge would cause.

Just as they had done at the Kingsroad.

When they had crossed at least half the distance between the two forces, a familiar trio of horn blasts rang out. The Karstark and Ryswell cavalry pulled away then, the riders urging their horses on through the snow.

Some faltered and fell, yet most carried forth, advancing their way. Ambling horses were spurred into gallops. Hundreds upon hundreds of hooves stamped down on the ice, a dull thunder that grew louder each moment.

This was when fear began to claw at his mind. Tearing at his courage, at his confidence in leading so many to this place.

His fear was not stoked by the Karstarks drawing near. No, he needed them closer.

Closer… just a little more, he pleaded, I’m right here and you need me dead.

You think me weak. Ride right over me.

He was gripping his horse’s reins so hard it hurt when he heard the cracking. A moment later, a horse and its rider plunged through the ice. Followed by another. Then five more. All throughout the charge, the ice was breaking, swallowing men and horses alike.

Mors was right. The holes froze over weaker than before.

This was his desperate gamble, having Mors and his men toil the night away, hacking holes in the ice, enough to break a weaken the cavalry charge they feared to face on the morrow.

“Look at them.” Maege spoke in disbelief as more of their foes crashed into the icy waters. “They’re like a bear in a pit of stakes. Any move only means more pain.”

The lady was right. The riders had strayed too far into the trap. Those pushing forward risked finding more holes and those who turned back plunged into the cracks they missed before. This all served to weaken the ice even more, so that large swaths broke under the weight of the riders, upturning and throwing many into the icy waters.

Hundreds were dying, but they were only the beginning. The Karstark and Ryswell foot held firm, watching as their one advantage floundered and shuffling about uneasily.

“Time to hit their flanks.” He declared, pulling his longsword. “Ronnel, to the northern edge! The southern part falls to me! Signal Mors and Robett! They’ve earned this!”

They deserve to sup of justice. We all do.

Once the horns signaled their attack, the clansmen were to stream out onto the ice and head straight at the enemy rearguard. With their help and good fortune, Ned hoped to encircle and crush Rickard Karstark and Rodrik Ryswell right here and now.

Yet when more horns started blowing, he knew something was amiss. For it was not his force sounding them. These horns were sounding from the village and they did not call for an attack. Frantic as the blasts were, his stomach turned to hear trumpets among them.

The clansmen do not use trumpets.

“The lord! The Ned!”

The shout came from a rider was now galloping hard up the line. From his furs and the direction he came from, Ned named him one of the clansmen from the village.

“Betrayed!” The man shouted, spittle flying into his beard. “We are betrayed! There be hundreds! Thousands! They came from the woods!”

Even though the ice below him stood firm, a deep sinking feeling took hold of him.

His prayers had been for naught.

 

BRIENNE

Seven save us. Protect her.

Brienne whispered every prayer she could think of. Quiet words uttered between labored breaths, all echoing within her greathelm. The strain came not from the weight of Dawn upon her back or her heavy armor, nor the woman she carried in her arms.

Fear. Shame. Guilt. Each a boulder shackled to my legs, weighing me down.

All reasons to turn back…

“Seven above, hear my prayers.” She whispered. “I invoke the Father, the Mother…”

Appealing to the Father and Mother above for aid was usually a comfort yet now it felt wrong somehow. Why should the likes of the Warrior and the Crone offer them any protection when they followed the path of a false god?

The first time Brienne made this journey was years ago. The night the king and the traitor burned and the dragons returned. She remembered how young Daenerys and Elara Dayne had looked as they walked towards the Dragonmont and the king’s pyre.

While the night sky and its stars were the same, so much else had changed. Daenerys was a child no longer, though Brienne carried her as gently as one. Her ailing princess felt too light for one who shouldered so many burdens. By the light of Brynden and Harry’s torches, she saw sweat running down Daenerys’s face, even as the queen shivered at the damp chill in the air.

To see her suffering so bid Brienne to silently curse Daenerys’s companion once more.

Melisandre was a poor substitute for Lady Elara. Similar necklaces and strange ways aside, the absent Dayne never troubled her like Melisandre’s cryptic words and fiery rites. Brienne was not alone in thinking so. Ser Harry kept watch on Melisandre from the right, Ser Brynden from the left, both eyeing the red woman with open contempt. As Ser Richard led on a small company of guardsmen he spat blood at Melisandre’s feet, his gums having suffered dearly in his raging against all this.

If Richard had his way, there would be a hundred men with them, not a mere five. It was Melisandre who insisted on so few and once more Daenerys had indulged her.

“I should have cut you down after Marwyn.” Ser Richard had said to Melisandre before leaving the castle. “Lord of Light be damned, woman or not, if any harm befalls Daenerys out there, my blade will be for you.”

“False teeth, empty threats.” Melisandre had waved away his words but paused when Brienne approached.

“The ser made no threat. That was a pledge.” She had said as she donned her greathelm. “One I too swear by, Melisandre of Asshai. Daenerys will come out of this alive and well. Anything less, and one of us does not return to this castle.”

Upon hearing that, Princess Myrcella had come to her, offering a show of support in the form of her favour. She thought the princess better off making the gesture to Harry or Brynden instead, yet Myrcella insisted.

“They’re good men, but they aren’t as brave as you.” Myrcella had touched at the scars upon her face before doing the same to Brienne’s. “There’s no pain anymore, but with how people look at us, our scars will always hurt. I hide behind my veil for now, yet one day, I hope to have half as much courage as the Mistress of Dawn. I know you’ll bring Dany back to us.”

In this Myrcella displayed a hardened wisdom beyond years. Her earnest and blunt words sadly familiar. When Brienne was about Myrcella’s age, she had to speak similar truths to her father. He wanted her to be a lady, a wife, but her destiny lay in martial matters, not a marital bed. To become a noble warrior like those in the tales Lord Selwyn Tarth had told a squirming little girl upon his lap. No doubt he wished his daughter to become like the maidens in those tales, yet whatever his misgivings, father had accepted her will.

That he loved Brienne still proved Selwyn Tarth to be a better father than his poor excuse for a daughter deserved.

Would he be proud of me now? I’ll never wear a bridal cloak, but he might smile to see my Kingsguard one.

Or to see his daughter wielding Dawn, keeping company with noble knights and royalty.

Facing dragons themselves.

A burst of flame lit up the night ahead, so bright it made their torches appear meager things. She was able to sidestep a dip in their rocky trail, but in looking down she caught Daenerys’s searching the darkness before them.

“He knows I’m coming.” Daenerys spoke with sincerity and clutched at her pregnant middle. “Tonight of all nights, he came back to me. Fate brought him to us…”

“More like a score of sheep did.” Ser Richard grumbled as another bout of flames went up.

“Hunger did not guide the harbinger here.” Melisandre said as her ruby caught the distant light. “This is the will of the Lord of Light. Dragons are fire made flesh, and from that power Daenerys shall draw the strength to bring Azor Ahai forth.”

“Arturion bends to the will of none.” She reminded the woman. “Unless you or your red god intend to harness him for us, this is folly. The dragon will fly off. Or worse, he might attack.”

“No, he’d never hurt me.” Daenerys argued. “Brienne, you were there. You saw. I should have died when they were born. Burned in the flames. The dragons have always been my salvation… always…”

“I just don’t see how.” Brienne looked to Melisandre then. “A dragon is no mid-wife. How will it draw the babe forth?”

Melisandre cocked an eyebrow at her. “Arturion will merely act the herald. It is for Daenerys to face the darkness and usher in the light. From her own mouth you’ve heard how Arturion empowers her beyond anything your false healers and gods can provide.”

“I can feel it, yes, but the pain-” Daenerys grimaced and grunted, tears now adding to the dampness on her face. “It’s so terrible now. So much worse. And the babe, he’s not stirred. We’re so close now, I should feel him. Hurry, Brienne. Please, hurry.”

And so she did.

Nearby dark waves crashed against the seaside cliffs below with such power that a salty mist found them upon the heights. In time they would become as drenched as those they found waiting athwart the trail. By the torchlight Brienne saw the soaked figure of Mya Stone among the company of reavers clad in salt-stained leathers. She noted how each and every one of them was armed to the teeth.

“There, you see.” Mya scowled at the Red Oarsmen, kicking dismissively at the heavy chains laying across the ground. “I told them what you wanted but they were about to go after Arturion anyways.”

“I figured the bastard to be lying.” The Red Oarsman growled, water dripping from his red braids as he eyed Daenerys with confusion. “Who would believe this? King Euron wanted me to catch this dragon. He never said nothing about letting his pretty wife getting killed.”

“He spoke to you of death though. This I suspect.” Melisandre said and the reaver blinked at her in surprise.

A fresh storm of flames distracted them all. The heat of which reached her despite its master still being a good thirty feet away. Still close enough for Brienne to gape at the size of Arturion.

His wings twenty feet long from tip to tip, his body long still. The horns atop his head could double as swords, his black fangs as vicious dirks. She watched in terror as Arturion unleashed a bout of black and red flames upon the corpse of a sheep. All around him the rest of the flock was either aflame or scattered about in heaps blackened bones.

A sight so unsettling Brienne thought it better suited to the seven hells.

“Look at him.” Brynden gaped in terror. “The Black Dread reborn.”

“We can’t do this.” Harry grabbed at Brynden, trying to urge him back. “He’s not like the others. That thing is a bloody monster.”

“Your ignorance is distressing.” Melisandre said dismissively. “Nearly as much as your lack of faith. Such is why we shall leave you here to clinging to your false gods. Only the lady protector and I shall accompany Daenerys on to the harbinger.”

A chorus of disagreement rose up at that, from the knights as well as the Red Oarsman.

“This is our best chance to capture the beast!” The reaver declared before Ser Richard pushed him way

“Forget capturing him, what of holding Arturion at bay? The other dragons are smaller and still the most lethal creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Then it might be good if you stayed back.” Mya put in, obviously unhappy to do so. “The dragons are clever creatures. They dislike blades and large groups. If too many draw near they lash out. Going alone, I’ve never had trouble tending to Barraxes or Rhaegal.”

“Then it is those dragons we shall seek instead.” She said to Daenerys, who trembled to gaze at the dragon. “Barraxes or Rhaegal would be better. Anything would. Daenerys… Dany, there must be another way…”

“Her way is forward.” Melisandre said as flames sent shadows dancing across her face. “If she turns back, she is lost.”

“Shut your mouth. No more. You’ve misled her enough-”

“She’s right.” Daenerys reached towards Arturion, as if she thought to touch him. “It’s warm there… warm and bright. Take me to him… this is how it must be…”

When she backed away instead, Daenerys’s hand shot up to grab a hold of her cloak. The silver queen’s eyes were wide and bloodshot, her teeth bared in rage.

“Am I not your queen? Are you not my Kingsguard? I gave you a command.”

“What of my vow to Ser Arthur? I swore to protect you. By Dawn, I did so. Daenerys, your child is lost. Risking your life will not bring him back. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies.” Daenerys began to struggle, her face twisted in agony to do so. “I want what I’m owed! My dragons! My child! Let me go. I’ll crawl to Arturion if have to. Just let me go!”

All Brienne’s good sense screamed for her to ignore Daenerys then. To clamp a hand over her mouth and spirit her on back to the castle. Yet a deeper compulsion bid her to hold her ground. Just as she had against Robert Baratheon. The Sword of the Morning had entrusted Dawn to her, and that sword served Daenerys before all things.

Daenerys is right, I am Kingsguard and she is my queen.

We have not come so far for me to abandon her now.                                                                                                   

“I could never leave you to face this alone.” She lifted Daenerys higher, so the queen’s head might rest against her shoulder. “If this path is your fate, then it is surely mine to share it with you.”

“Thank you, Brienne.” Daenerys exhaled breathlessly before waving the others back. “Hold here. Stay wary, but give Arturion no reason to grow wroth.”

Brienne shuddered at the idea. The dragon was terrifying enough already, and it seemed quite content at its meal. Thus each step she took towards him was taken with the greatest care. A glance behind showed the firelight dancing across the bared steel and shields of Ser Richard’s group. Arturion could not have missed it, yet so confident was the dragon that he ignored them entirely for the time being.

The stench of burnt wool and flesh was causing her eyes to water when the dragon finally paid them any mind. The dragon’s massive head turned from the sheep’s carcases then, Arturion watching their approach with the two smoldering red pits he had for eyes. As smoke rose from his open mouth, a long snake-like tongue flicked out to dislodge the flesh hanging from his fangs.

“Closer.” Daenerys urged, she and the dragon staring at one another in a queer way. “He knows me. He remembers.”

He could be remembering what man flesh tastes like.

She kept that thought unspoken. They had closed to within ten feet of the dragon when Daenerys was inflicted by a terrible agony and cried out. Arturion’s tail whipped about at that and he hissed a warning at them. She immediately came to a halt and was readying to run when Melisandre did the unthinkable. Touching at her ruby, which seemed to emit a light all its own, the witch continued onward. In her madness, she went so far as to ignore the second hiss Arturion sent her way.

“We have come, as the flames willed.” Melisandre met the dragon’s gaze and raised her hands to the sky. Then she began speaking in a strange tongue. A jumble of words in so thick an accent they flowed like molasses. At times it sounded a chant or a prayer of sorts, perhaps even a song.

Brienne understood none of it, yet Melisandre’s babbling had a distinct effect on the dragon. Arturion appeared entranced by the sounds, cocking his head and relaxing his tail back down to the ground. When Daenerys screamed with another spasm, the dragon paid it little mind at all.

“Daenerys Targaryen.” Melisandre paused between two burning carcasses, turning around as flame and smoke danced around her. “Your deliverance awaits. The pain and suffering is at an end. Come and be blessed by R’hllor.”

Daenerys nodded with her eyes screwed shut, tapping at Brienne to urge her on. With Melisandre continuing her strange rites, Brienne set to her duty. Her queen’s frightful condition gave Brienne the courage to step over the glowing rocks and scattered bones to bring them both before Arturion.

The dragon was a nightmare, but so close she could not deny him a wondrous one.

His serpentine neck lowered so that he could sniff of Daenerys. So hot was his breath that it caused her to sweat within her armor. When Daenerys reached out to touch his snout, she half expected his scales to scald her. Yet no such thing happened. Instead her touch seemed to calm the dragon further, for his eyes closed soon after. Daenerys’s trembling ceased then, and she unfurled her arm from around Brienne’s shoulders to touch at her middle and the dragon both.

“Leave her there.” Melisandre spoke softly. “Here where the harbinger was born and she was spared by sacred flame. The time draws close. Azor Ahai will soon be among us.”

“Dany?” She sought assurance and Daenerys managed to smile through her pain for the first time in days.

“Lay me down, Brienne. Lay me down and feel.” Daenerys rubbed at her stomach. “He kicks again… like that day in the courtyard… we’re going to save him.”

After bending low to lay her queen upon the ground, Brienne did as she was told. Removing a gauntlet, she pressed a hand to Daenerys’s middle. There was indeed a kicking within, yet it pained her to feel how much weaker it was than she recalled.

Arturion exhaled another burning breath and Melisandre was suddenly tugging at Brienne’s cloak, trying to pull her away.

“Give them this time.” The red woman said between her chants, which had changed in tone somewhat. “Look at them. All penitent before the flames of R’hllor.”

She wanted to point out these fires were Arturion’s doing when the dragon hissed at her. His eyes opening again and narrowing on Brienne in a way which made her feel distinctly unwelcome. So she backed away, one step at a time.

Her retreat did not take her far, stopping near to Melisandre only a only a few feet away from where Daenerys lay. The dragon was staring down at the queen as she endured another assault from within. When Daenerys gave voice to it, Arturion nudged her with his snout, as if to calm her.

“What now?” She asked Melisandre, finding the red woman staring into a nearby fire with a frightening intensity.

“Now I shall invoke the harbinger to act as R’hllor wills. Arturion must cleanse Daenerys of the dark magics poisoning our savior.”

“Poison?” Brienne repeated in shock, Daenerys’s cries nearly drowning it out. “She couldn’t have been poisoned. Everything is tasted before it reaches her mouth. None have fallen ill.”

“Only the unborn child.” Melisandre replied, dropping to her knees in front of the fire. “He is the one having his life choked away. Your healers know poisons but are blind to magics such as these. Vile curses born of lands from across the Narrow Sea.”

Lands across the Narrow Sea? None there could have any reason to harm Dany’s child.

We’ve not even had any visitors from the east…

“The gifts.” The suspicion struck like a blow from a mace. “The ones from Qarth. Given to Dany by Euron… no. He wouldn’t. Even the Crow’s Eye could not be so mad.”

“A great evil surrounds the pale lord with the blue lips. Ambitious, cruel, murderous, he’d doom the world if only to rule it for half a moment.”

Melisandre began to chant in earnest then as Brienne grappled with her rage and confusion. She thought to have taken every precaution against any treachery by Euron. Had there been any hint of such a plot, she would have cut him down in a heartbeat. Daenerys expected as much from her, that’s why she kept Brienne so close.

“I was supposed to keep him at bay. That’s what you said, that with Dawn in my grasp, Daenerys would be safe from him.”

Melisandre continued on without pause, her words sounding harsher. Suddenly Arturion uttered a rumbling growl, his talons clawing at the rock and tail raising in threat. Daenerys was trembling once more, her hands tearing at her gown as she groaned without cease. Her agony drawing the attention of the increasingly agitated dragon. Brienne turned to seek the others then, fearing them to have come too close. Yet the others remained where she’d left them. Something else was stoking Arturion’s anger.

She returned her gaze to Melisandre. For all that had changed was the tone of her rites.

“Stop it.” Brienne warned as Arturion bore his fangs. “Whatever you’re saying, it’s not helping.”

“It is.” Melisandre insisted. “If the child comes now, he will be born amidst salt and smoke. First the flames must come and a sacrifice made to safeguard his life. I saw all this… the dragon, the queen, you and I. We were all meant to be here.”

“There was never any talk of sacrifice.” She reached behind her to grasp Dawn’s pommel. At that Arturion loosed a blast of fire into the sky above. A sight Melisandre welcomed by chanting even louder.

She saw this. She knew about Euron’s poison.

Yet she spoke not a word save to urge Daenerys here… she wanted Daenerys here…

Daenerys gave an agonized wail then and Arturion bent low and roared at her with such fury that Brienne staggered backwards. When she found her footings, she saw Daenerys laying still beneath the dragon as he spread his wings wide. With a screech, Arturion unleashed a torrent of black flames onto ground between her and the queen. The heat turned her armor into an oven, yet Melisandre opened her arms as if to bask in all that unfolded.

“You wanted this!” Brienne shouted as Arturion’s roars grew louder and louder. “Daenerys is your sacrifice! You want her to burn!”

“There must be a sacrifice!” Melisandre cried to her. “To earn R’hllor’s favor there must! One would do but I brought both he deemed worthy of his light!”

Through the flames she caught of glimpse of Daenerys then, trapped beneath Arturion’s talons, her hair and skirts aflame. This wasn’t like the pyre. These flames meant Daenerys as much harm as the enraged dragon. Despite the intense heat, Brienne’s heart turned to ice.

“Azor Ahai comes!” Melisandre shouted in glee at the fiery hell before them.

“Dawn shall come first.” She pulled the greatsword free with both hands, holding the blade before her.

The milk glass steel shimmered in the firelight, glowing so bright it seemed forged of the sun itself. To Brienne, here and now, nothing could be so stunningly beautiful. It was as if Dawn had been made for such a moment.

Perhaps the same could be said for her.

Then she was charging through the fire. Ser Arthur might have bellowed an inspired war cry, yet she was left gasping and coughing as the smoke and flames attacked her. Leaping over burning carcasses, she fought through it all to emerge directly before Arturion. The black dragon was not prepared for by her sudden appearance, his eyes staring at her in surprise.

That hesitation proved her saving grace.

Arturion was opening his maw to bathe her in flame when she swung Dawn with all her might. The dragon jerked away at the last moment yet the blade cleaved the upper side of his head, cutting free a horn and spraying steaming black blood through the air. Worse erupted from his mouth as he roared in raged, black flames pouring forth in a wild tempest. She pivoted to the side, yet the flames found her still. Her cloak was set afire and her armor scorched.

Beneath the steel, her flesh began to burn and Brienne turn her screams into a war as she pressed her attack upon the dragon. Powerful as his wings were, her two-handed strike with Dawn cut through the red membrane with ease. Arturion reeled at this, the dragon stumbling away from the women. A glance to Daenerys showed she was mercifully spared the worst of Arturion’s wrath, like the same flames creeping up Brienne’s back. In vengeance she slashed down the length of Arturion’s back, cutting through scales and flesh.

His tail came out of nowhere. As swift as a whip, the tail slammed into Brienne with all the force of a ram. She hit the ground in a crash of steel and flames. What parts of her not already burned were now seared against her red-hot armor. The smell of her burning flesh and hair bid her was overwhelming. Her coughing worsened by the blood that now came with it and she knew the tail strike had broken something within her chest.

Not her heart though. She could feel its beat grow stronger to see how badly Arturion fared. The dragon was ailing only a short ways off, breathing fire in no set direction. Blood flowing from the wound upon his head was blinding him for the nonce.

Get up… get up… Robert hit you harder than that and you rose then.

You can do this… act as a Kingsguard would… rise.

As her body screamed at the effort of climbing to her, Brienne thought of her father once more. Of those grand tales he told her of heroes and maidens pure. How the knights who battled dragons always won glory and saved the day.

Yet if any knights were coming, they would be too late.

She was limping Arturion’s way when the dragon started to turn. Dawn was heavy in her grasp but a welcome burden. For it drew the beast’s attention from Daenerys so his red eyes were for her alone. She wished beyond anything to look into her father’s once more.

I miss you so. You and your tales. Who will tell you this one?

Of the lady who battled a dragon.

Her tears felt cool against her cheeks as she watched Arturion raise his head high above her. She was running now, blade poised to strike as Arturion’s wings spread out in challenge. One she met with Dawn in hand.

A golden ray of light against the black flames that followed.

 

SANSA

Something was burning.

There was little to be seen of the fighting ahead save blowing snow, yet now the blanket of white was tinged a bright orange. A flaming beacon guiding those men still rushing forth into the blizzard, reinforcements who charged right by the retreating wounded.

Others stood firm, namely the knights who formed a tight cordon around Sansa and her noble companions. They stood atop a snowy knoll, where Lord Wyman’s litter now rested and a brazier had been lit for their comfort. While Sansa shared its warmth with Wylla and the Reeds, Lord Manderly was busy pacing as he commanded the rear

“Wade! A runner to the Ramsgate levees!” Lord Wyman barked to one of his captains. Bundled in a heavy fur-lined cloak, the lord reminded her of an agitated walrus. “They must press the foe from the west. That fire should give them a chance to find an undefended approach to the lake.”

“Seven save us if they find another thousand foes instead.” Ser Willem grumbled from just behind her. The knight had dressed for battle yet was kept back from it, for both his sake and her own.

“Lord Wyman is no Frey, but I shall not give him the chance to act like one.” Jon had said only a short while ago. “Willem will stay close and should either of you fear treachery, his blade will press threaten the lord or his granddaughter, to buy Meera and Jojen time to get you and Roban away.”

Seeing how close Willem was keeping to Wylla troubled her some, for the lady had been nothing but kind to her. Yet Sansa could not deny that unspoken threat came as a comfort as well. For the air was thick with blood and treason this day.

She was glad Roban was kept safe from it. Within a hastily erected pavilion upon the knoll, her nephew was sheltered from the cold and the evils of war.

One of which was the frightful chorus coming from the tumult ahead. The cries of the brave and the dying, something she had grown far too accustomed to. Now and again the injured passed so closely that their ghastly wounds were visible to her. Faces smashed to bloody ruins, bellies opened and innards exposed, limbs lost to blades.

Just as it had been for Ser Donnel Locke.

He was the first to stumble upon the foe. In his search for the frozen lake where her father was meant to do battle, the knight and the vanguard were set upon by a horde of traitors. The attack came as a surprise and the blizzard hindered the Lockes so much that a hundred men were lost before any word reached Jon and Lord Wyman.

Ser Donnel told the tale himself, despite having lost his arm in the fray. Trembling and pale, the knight claimed his outriders had reached the lakeshore to see two armies combatant upon the ice. One flying her family’s banners.

“Wanted to reach them sooner…” Ser Donnel had gasped through his pain. “Tried for the village… the beasts were waiting… a bear… a snow bear took my arm.”

Nearly an hour now and still the Manderly army proved unable to overwhelm the traitors in the village. Just as she failed to convince Jon to stay free of the carnage, for when it came time for a second wave to charge forth into the snows, the king had gone with them.

And the wolves went with him. Ser Gendry and the crannogmen too. I cannot say how many men are with father but surely he is well protected too.

Just as Robb and King Rhaegar were…

Nothing is sure. No one is safe.

“Something’s wrong.” Jojen shivered against the wind. “This storm, it has a cruel and callous nature. The winds are full of guile.”

“They feed those flames well enough.” Lord Wyman mused at the sight of the distant fire. “A barn full of fodder would be my guess. Better if it were full of foes.”

“There shouldn’t be any there.” Meera shot her a look full of apology. “The village was supposed to be abandoned. Not full of bloody killers. The crofters must have lied to us. If I had stayed at the front-”

“It might be you missing an arm.” She pulled her hood tighter. “This wasn’t your doing, Meera. We must pray that the guilty are being punished as we speak. By our lord and king.”

“Pray for an end to this storm while you’re at it.” Willem suggested, his hand working over this sword pommel. “Bad enough I’m being kept from this fight but to have no bloody idea of how things are going?” He grimaced. “What I’d give for the eyes of an eagle right now.”

“Or a wolf’s.” Jojen stared right at her then and she wondered how he could know her mind so well.

Reaching out to Lady meant gaining a power that still frightened her, yet also strangely tempted her. Sansa could feel her wolf’s heart beating with the thrill of the fight. The others were spared the assault she felt upon her senses.

Her nose filled with scents that came from men killing men, of sweat and fear, anger and blood. A ghostly sensation took hold of her tongue. Her mouth was empty yet she could taste blood. Somewhat sweet despite the metallic tinge to it. The noise grew louder too. Her ears were ringing as steel clashed against steel.

A gust of wind blew some snow right into her face, forcing her to shut her eyes…

... and when she opened them the beast lay dead beneath her paws.

No. Not a beast. Only a man wearing the skins of beasts and gripping a staff of mountain ash. Beneath the furs and tanned hides of her kill were studded leathers. His long beard hung over what little was left of his throat. Already the falling snow was covering his face.

She would let the storm have him. There were others to face. Many more.

Looking up, she found herself in the midst of a savage battle bathed in white. Among the scattered huts, hundreds of men were slaughtering one another mercilessly. The dead were falling faster than the snow, large pools of red spreading out across the white ground. A ways off, a hall was aflame, and by its light she could see men atop roofs, shooting arrows into the fray.

She spotted her brother and sister then. Her wild sister leapt through the doorway of a hut and soon after one of its walls collapsed outward under the weight of men fleeing and Nymeria taking down another.

The swift brother was challenging a trio of spearmen. He did not meet their challenge alone, for the swamp men stood with him. Marlen dropped a man wearing a wolf skin with an arrow while Korjen cut at another with his iron sword. When Kanna netted the third, the swift brother fell upon the tangled prey.

She was leaping over corpses to reach him when a gap in the snowfall laid bare those just beyond her brother. Gendry was there, wearing mismatched steel and laying about with a mighty hammer. She both saw and heard when he broke through a thick wooden shield. The splinters blinded his bearded attacker, who shrieked terribly when the hammer came down on his shoulder next, crushing the bones and flesh there with wet snapping sounds.

Then there was Jon. When the wind shifted he emerged from the pale haze, his hair and beard dotted with snow, lines of sweat and blood running down his face. With a slash of his sword, Jon slew a man wearing moose hides and a rusted halfhelm, whose last breath and spurting blood shrouded him in mist as he fell.

The others were doing their best to throw back any who came toward Jon but they could not stop them all. With every step more appeared, leaping out of the flurries, bellowing war cries and bringing death along with them. She was preparing to lunge at one such man when a powerful blast of freezing air blew through the village. Powerful as she felt, even she had to turn away from the torrent of ice and snow, which clawed at fur and flesh alike.

Then the snow bear attacked. The towering beast crashed through the snowfall with a mighty roar. Charging forth on two legs, a massive axe clutched in his hands, he fell upon the swamp men first.

“Kor! Behind you!” Marlen shouted in warning but the axe came faster, burying itself in Korjen’s skull.

Then the snow bear kicked at the dead man’s chest to wrench the weapon free. Korjen was still falling when Marlen put an arrow right into the bear’s shoulder and Kanna flung her net at his arm. Neither slowed the giant down, for he caught the net and pulled Kanna forth to backhand her senseless.

“Traitor scum!” The snow bear growled, coming on Marlen before the archer could notch again. He cracked the smaller man with the shaft of his axe and might have killed him if not for Jon.

She snapped in anger when Jon’s blade met the axe. The strength of the blow knocked Jon back a few steps, the snow bear following after. He danced away from the next strike of the axe, cutting across his attacker’s large chest, drawing forth blood and another roar of rage. The bear’s fist glanced across Jon’s eye, opening a cut and causing him to stagger.

None came to his aid, for the snow bear was merely the first of a fierce assault. Gendry struggled against two fur-clad men while her swift brother was finishing off a third.

Then she saw two men carrying swords, hiding in the snows. Behind her Jon battled on against the snow bear, and she would not let these two reach him.

So when they came on, she did not hesitate.

The bigger one was closest, and with his eyes being worse than hers, he did not sense her coming until she was nearly on top of him. His sword was large and heavy, and he proved his strength to cut at her so quickly. Yet she ducked beneath the blade with ease, closing her jaws around his leg and pulling with all her might. She tasted more leather than flesh as she brought the man down. His other foot struck her in the face.

She let the leg go to seek his throat. He was trying to pull a knife when she landed atop his chest, her weight pinning him to the ground. Her fangs were ready to tear into his neck when she stopped.

Being so close, she could see the man clearly now. He met her gaze with courage as he struggled against his fate. Bearded and bald, he looked like a hundred others to the wolf she was. Yet his face was known to her other self. Her true self.

‘Morgan Liddle …’ she thought. ‘His family came to Winterfell… friends to my father…’

That was when her brother’s whine reached her ears. A glance to him found the swift brother approaching a scarlet colored stranger, yet he made no move to attack. Instead her brother paused before the man, whining once more.

“By the gods.” The stranger declared. “Grey Wind!? Is that you?”

Then she saw his tunic. The Glover mailed fist. His face sealed it for her.

‘Robett Glover,’ she remembered. ‘He fought with Robb... he stayed true.’

“These be the Stark wolves?” Morgan asked from below her. “What are they doing with the Boltons?”

She sniffed deeply of him then. There was a change to his scent. His heart beat swiftly but not in violence, the threat to her slipping away.

‘Friends. We’re killing friends,’ she realized.

With a whine she leapt free from Morgan. He mattered little compared to Jon. The snow bear meant him harm still.

Yet when she found them, this threat too was ended. Jon stared down at the face of the man he murdered.

With the bear’s head torn away, the face beneath was no longer hidden. She saw a ruddy face and white beard, two staring back at her. One made of black glass. The other just as cold.

“Mors.” Jon choked out. “Mors Umber… he is with the Starks… he was.”

“Gods, what have I done?”

 

DAENERYS  

She dreamed of those lost to her.

At first she was lost in a black abyss, but they found her there. Appearing one by one, the specters glowed with an otherworldly light. Rhaegar came first, his expression sad and chest caved inward. Ser Arthur and her dear Ser Barristan wore bloodstained armor. Aegon wore a crown of jagged iron barbs which pierced his skull and Rhaenys wept tears of red upon the tiny shrouded form in her arms.

When Jon found his way to her, his head was bound to his shoulders by gruesome stitching. His eyes gone, pecked away from the crows.

They all pressed in on her. Forcing Dany to share in their agony. Soon her body ached and hurt as if it had suffered untold cruelties. They were tearing apart from the inside out so she pushed back at them. She pushed and fought endlessly. Doing all she could to break free.

To escape towards the new light shining through the darkness.

A bright golden glow that called her name. If she could reach it, the pain might end.

The dead would let her be.

If only she could reach the glow…

Yet when Dany opened her eyes, there was no relief awaiting her. Only a thousand hurts and the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. The sky above her was dark still but the sun must be rising, for a dim light allowed Dany to make out three beleaguered faces looking down upon her.

“She awakes.” Ser Richard’s golden teeth clicked away as Ser Harry made the sign of the Seven and Ser Brynden smiled down at her.

“Never have I seen a more welcome sight than those purple eyes.” The Blackwood knight said.

“A word or two would be sweeter still.” Harry added.

She wished to call them poor excuses for poets, but her mouth and throat were as dry as a desert, and her words came out a hacking cough. Richard produced a skin of water and she drank deeply. Though its cool, wetness was welcome, what she truly wanted was to rise.

“My child… Arturion…” She managed to rasp. “What happened?”

The men shared an ominous look between them, which spurred her to try and learn the truth herself. Her feeble efforts to rise were soon aided by the sers, who gently lifted her to a sitting position as she gasped and groaned.

The flesh upon her arms was singed and raw to the touch. Much of her hair had been burned away and she was sure the rest of her body similarly afflicted. None of this mattered compared to the pain she felt in her sex. Her breath caught to behold the bloody mess about her skirts and the ground between her legs.

“No. Please, no.” Dany looked to Ser Richard, her heart sinking to see sadness within his eyes. “I lost him… Seven save me, why didn’t I listen to you? To Brienne? Gods, where are they?”

Before Richard could speak, another answered in his stead. A series of high-pitched wails that numbed her aches to hear. The knight’s lined face offered a small smile as he moved aside, allowing Dany to catch sight of Melisandre standing nearby. The red priestess appeared untouched by the night’s events, nor much interested in Dany’s awakening. She was too focused on the stained white bundle she held in her arms.

“You have a son, Daenerys.” Ser Richard spoke softly. “He came after the worst passed. Not a burn or scratch upon him. Healthy as can be.”

“He’s more than that.” Melisandre declared. “Azor Ahai, a warrior of fire. Born amidst salt and smoke. The son of fire itself.”

A sob of joy escaped Dany at that. The smile and tears that followed set the burns upon her face to stinging. Dany embraced these hurt as sweet for their cause was worthy.

I have a son… Jon, we have a son.

“Let me see him.” She held out her arms. “I wish to hold my son. My dear prince.”

Melisandre handed him over begrudgingly, yet at soon as the babe was in Dany’s arms, the red woman mattered not. She cared only for how wrinkled and pink his face was. How sweet and strong his cries sounded to her ears. What little hair he had seemed much like her silver-blonde, yet some parts appeared far darker. Her son proved himself a darling treasure when he opened his eyelids to gaze at her with eyes of smoky purple.

“You look like your father.” She planted a kiss on his tiny brow, which was already furrowed. “He has Jon’s temperament too.”

His cries quieted some and Dany could not mistake the hiss she heard over them. When her river knights stepped back, Arturion was revealed to be laying against an outcropping of rocks. The Red Oarsmen and his men were hard at work chaining his wings and legs, though it seemed a wasted effort. The dragon was in a terrible way. Great steaming wounds stretched across Arturion’s chest and back, his dark blood painting the stones beneath black. Mya knelt beside his muzzled head, and by the dim light, Dany saw she was weeping.

“Did Euron’s men do this?” She asked her knights. “They were to stay back. If you name them to blame for this I want the garrison roused. You sers will see to their arrests, Brienne will be guard enough for my son and I-”

“Daenerys. The reavers did little.” Ser Richard’s grimness returned, and it spread swiftly among the others. “When Arturion went wild, half those men fled. The rest came with us but the flames were everywhere. They burned so hot we could not get near enough in time…”

“It was the Lady Brienne who brought the dragon low.” Ser Brynden spoke gravely. “A deed worthy of song and tale. I’ll speak to it for the rest of my days.”

Ser Harry grunted. “If not for the lady, we would be grieving our queen. King Jon’s heir as well.”

“No, no that can’t be.” She shook her head, looking between her babe and the dragon she’d raised from a hatchling. “Arturion would never hurt us. Ask Brienne. He was lending me his strength before-”

Dany became distracted by a strange sensation that came with caressing her son’s bundle. She had felt this cloth before. Though singed black and stained red in places, there was still enough white left for Dany to realize this a piece of Brienne’s Kingsguard cloak.

“The lady wrapped my son in the cloak off her back, didn’t she? The cloak she takes such pride in. Bring her to me.”

So I might repay her sweetness a hundred times over. As soon as we’re back in the castle.

Whatever happened with Arturion can be settled later.

“My queen-”

“Richard, send for Brienne. I want to her to have a turn holding my prince.”

It was then Dany noticed something odd. This whole time, she thought what little light there was came from the sun rising behind her. Now she realized that the east lay ahead of her. Beyond Arturion and the cliff they all gathered upon, the sea and the sky were beginning to brighten. If the dawn was rising there, what caused this light shining behind her?

Not shining. It glows. Like in my dream.

When she tried to seek the source of the glow, Ser Richard reached out to grasp her chin. Holding her in place, he shook his head firmly.

“Don’t.” He urged as her son began to wail in earnest. “There’s no need for you to see this. Remember her as she was-”

“Remember who? Unhand me.” She spoke over the crying babe. “I told you to send for Brienne. She should be with me-”

“The lady is here.” Melisandre spoke in her queer way. “Blessed be the Lord of Light, who shone his magnificence upon her.”

That answered nothing and Dany had enough. Wrenching free or Richard’s hold, she sought the truth of Melisandre’s words. Hoping to find Brienne standing there in the midst of an awkward silence. Perhaps playing shy at holding her son.

When she turned, her eyes were assaulted by the terrible truth Richard meant to hide.

For the source of the glow proved to be none other than Brienne herself. The lady knelt upon the ground, grasping Dawn as she would when standing vigil. Though it was plain the lady would never stand again. The armor about her knees had melted into the ground itself. There the metal had cooled back to grey, but the rest of Brienne’s suit glowed with such an intense heat that the air rippled about her.

When Dany dared to seek her friend’s eyes, there was no sign of them. The slits of her helm was gone, the face melted into a mask of glowing steel. Somewhere within this prison wrought of dragonsflame, Brienne was hidden away.

Blind to how Dawn glowed brighter than the sun itself.

And deaf to how Dany screamed in her grief.

 

EDDARD

The mournful sound filled Ned with despair.

Hearing the horns sounding a withdrawal from the village sent a cold hand to strangling his heart.

Moments earlier, victory was within their grasp. The enemy encircled, outnumbered and near collapse. Their dead covered the ice, far more numerous than the loyal men who had given paid the suffered to reach this point. Though he was glad to see none of his men among the frozen corpses within the icy waters of the broken ice, the dead there gave him no pleasure.

I am only grateful that their eyes do not shine blue, like the men lost beyond the Wall.

There and here, too many northmen have fallen.

He feared that cost would rise further when he wheeled his garron around to seek the village. Although they’d managed to persevere without the aid of their reserve, the clansmen had been forced to stand alone against an onslaught of reinforcements this whole time. One which now forced his allies into a retreat .

Despite the snows, he spied hundreds of clansmen fleeing onto the lake, coming their way. Thousands more chasing after them. He could not make out their banners yet their great numbers were enough to make Maege curse.

“Not bloody now!” The lady shouted up to him. Although she’d lost her horse, she gripped her bloody mace still. “We have them on their last legs! Ned, what of Ronnel’s push?”

“Have him shore up the clansmen instead.” He replied, eyeing what was left of the enemy cavalry. Their regrouping movements were meant to be quashed by the center under Ronnel Stout, but the clansmen had gone too long without reinforcement.

“This bloodletting will only worsen if the traitors link up. I want Ronnel to form a shieldwall. He must hold these new arrivals back. Let him take Ulmer and his bowmen too.”

He watched Maege send the word out. The pair were but two ranks back from the main fight, a noose that continued to tighten around his enemies. Near the front he spied Dacey and Ser Jaremy hacking at men from atop their mounts. Ulmer was leading the archers in loosing again and again as Grenn and the black cloaks joined Rodwell and other Stark men in breaking through a line of Ryswell spears.

He had lost his shield in a similar effort and Larence his hatchet. His squire stayed by him with the horn of his slain crier hanging from his neck, a spear in hand and no worse for wear. Quite unlike Ned himself, whose longsword looked as battered and dented as his leg felt. His crippled limb throbbed from the strains of the saddle. He could only imagine what his agony would be if he had to fight afoot.

I would have if forced to. After leaving Robett and Mors to suffer in the village, hopping about this lake is the least I can do.

This day may be won if we are wiling to suffer for it.

“My lord! The horse!” Larence cried out to him, raising his spear towards the tumult.

Following the point, he saw that a good number of enemy riders now bulling over their own men. A hundred survivors of that ill-fated opening charge, all riding straight at this part of the line. Coming for him.

“Larence, ready your horn. Signal our riders to pull back.” He gripped his sword tightly. “They’ve spied what’s coming from the village. Now comes a gamble at a breakout. Seek the rear after and await-”

“I will stay.” Larence spoke defiantly. “May the lord correct me, but there’ll be no rear if they succeed.”

He did not argue the matter further. The snow was falling heavily once more when the first of riders arrived, Malcolm Branfield and Dacey among them. Soon after he saw that Maege had done her duty as well, for Ronnel and many more went forth to meet the retreat from the village. Trusting in the Stout man to live up to his name, Ned cursed to glimpse what became of Maege.

Rather than returning to his side, the lady sought a place among those who awaited the enemy horse.

“Damn you, mother.” Dacey cursed as her horse reared. “Lord Eddard, I beg leave-”

“Stand fast, Dacey. You do her more good here.”

The mist which arose from his words still lingered in the air when the first of the foe rolled over their friends. Cutting savagely, the riders cleaved through shields and spears as well as flesh. The defenders buckled, giving ground as they were trampled over yet he and the others stood firm.

Though watching Maege being forced backwards made it a trial. Nevertheless, the lady did grievous harm to her attackers, make them pay for every step. She brought low a Ryswell rider by caving in his mount’s head, ending the beast’s suffering before the man was trapped beneath. Then she yanked down a Karstark man, battering him with her mace until half his skull fell away.

The Mormont warriors about him began to chant Maege’s name and Dacey beamed with pride at the lady’s skill. Ned was looking at Dacey still when her expression twisted into horror.

“Mother! MOTHER! The Karstarks!”

He saw them now, a group of riders powering forth towards Maege. Lord Rickard’s large form was armored in mail and draped in bloodstained wolf furs. His heir Harrion followed, a fierce expression upon his unprotected face.

Maege looked ferocious in her own right as she beat down yet another challenger. She was heeding Dacey’s warning even as Rickard closed in on her. Maege was only half facing the threat when the lord’s sword found her. A simple cut against her neck. That’s all it took to bring down the she-bear. A woman who risked everything to prove her loyalty.

“NO!” Dacey screamed so hard that her voice grew hoarse. Before he could stop her, the grief stricken daughter of the North was kicking at her horse, riding straight at the Karstarks. He did not let her go alone.

“For the North!” He shouted. “For justice! For Maege!”

Answering cries rose up as he and his men went to meet the foe. Dacey was battling a Ryswell rider when their grappling brought them both to the ground, so it fell to Larence to strike the first blow in vengeance for Maege. The youth drove his spear up into Harrion’s mount, bringing the lordling and his horse down hard upon the ice. When Harrion climbed to his feet, Dacey leapt down from her horse onto him, mace in hand.

And so a daughter, grieving her mother, did her best to make a son answer for his father’s crimes.

“Stark!” Rickard’s gruff voice cut though the battle, the lord charging on with his sword raised. “Face me! Stop hiding behind women and act a man!”

He felt more wolf than man then. Their horses were grunting and stamping down on the ice, those heavy thuds acting as a drumbeat when the two men brought their blades together. Hard and gaunt, Rickard was dangerous in his wroth. The lord slashed at Ned with fury in his strokes, hatred in his eyes. Several blows landed, to his shoulder and back, as well as his ruined leg. Though his mail held firm, blood flowed underneath. His leg burned as if it was aflame.

So he used the agony as fuel for the strike he landed to Rickard’s leg. The memory of Maege holding Dacey drove his sword right into her killer’s ribs, nearly piercing his mail and unseating the lord. Once Ned had thought of this man as being among the finest of the North, and the memory of that gave Ned's arm terrible strength. When he brought it down, Rickard’s grunt could not hide the snap of his forearm.

“Woe to your father that his line withered to the likes of you.” Rickard snarled as they circled. “Targaryens, wildlings, you’ll bend on your worthless knee to the Others as well. I curse you, Eddard Stark, The Weak Wolf. I curse you as you do me. We are kin, Stark and Karstark. None are more accursed than the kinslayer.”

“End this.” Ned urged. “You speak of family, spare yours any further shame. Lest Eddard and Torrhen’s last moments of bravery be forever tainted by their father’s treachery!”

“Do not speak of my sons! They died like true northmen! None will think the same of you. A cripple best put out of his misery. Just like your son.”

Ned's next slash knocked the rebel lord’s sword away. Before he could become a kinslayer, Rickard reached out to take hold of his wrist. They grappled then, Rickard kicking at his ailing leg, Ned twisting the lord’s broken arm. When they fell, his face struck the ice and his head filled with white stars.

They stayed with him as pushed himself up, snow sticking to his face and hair, his mouth and nose dripping blood. Rickard was crawling away from him, towards his misplaced longsword. Ned thanked the gods to feel Ice still slung across his back. Drawing the dark and smoky blade, he felt ashamed to drive the tip in the ground so he could climb to his feet.

My leg be damned, Ice will never fail me.

With Rickard snatching up the other blade, Ned made to ready himself. Yet the lord did not come, showing Ned and the battle his back. Looking past Rickard, the sight gave him pause.

Ronnel’s shieldwall was broken, yet not by force of arms. They and the clansmen were coming his way in a screaming charge. Nor did they come alone. The force of strangers once pursuing them now rode alongside his men. He saw the bronze keys of the Lockes, the Woolfield wool sacks, and above them all flew the Manderly merman, right under the grey direwolf.

“Stark!” The thousands did cry. “Stark!”

As Rickard continued to gape at the tide sweeping over him, Ned staggered to see a ghost among them. Robert’s ghost.

He looked exactly the same as when Ned had last seen him. The wind tussled at his black curls, his armor was dented and marred by battle, and in his hand he carried a reddened warhammer. For a moment Ned grew mad, and he wondered if he had somehow stumbled onto the Trident seventeen years in the past. Robert drew close enough for Ned to see the blue of his eyes and all he wanted to do was grip the brother he had chosen close him... but Rickard’s resolve had returned.

Younger men with the use of both arms had balked to challenge Robert’s ghost. Yet Lord Karstark met the warrior with his sword held before him, and his son’s names on his lips.

“Torrhen! Eddard!” Rickard roared defiantly. “Karstark! Karstark!”

“King Jon!” The ghost bellowed back, swinging the hammer’s end into Rickard’s blade. The lord’s grip proved stronger than his steel, for the blade snapped and Rickard was left holding a broken sword. Undaunted, the lord made to drive the ruined end up into Robert’s throat.

The ghost caught the blow in his gauntlet. With the other, Robert brought his warhammer down upon Rickard’s head. The blow caved in the man’s skull, which broke to pieces when the hammer was ripped free.

As Ned watched this he was struck by a queer thought.

Will Stannis welcome Rickard’s end when he learns who gave him justice?

Then Ned and the ghost faced each others while many more stormed by. He spied Robett Glover, Morgan Liddle, Big Bucket Wull, crannogmen and a Ramsgate knight, all adding their might to those battling on behind him. Harrion Karstark’s fight was over, for Dacey had pinned him bodily to the ground. Wounded and grief-stricken, they both looked in opposite directions, each staring at the parent that they’d lost.

Robert’s ghost was saying something to him but Ned missed it over the howling of wolves. Following the sound, he found them among the reinforcements. Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Lady. Three direwolves who had outlived the children he gifted them to.

They were running ahead of a party of riders, all struggling to manage the ice and corpses in their haste to reach him.

He was not prepared to see any corpses among the riders. His leg gave out at the shock of seeing the dead coming his way and he fell to his knees.

No… not them. They cannot be wights. The Others have not reached so far.

Please, I cannot burn them…

The dead girl upon the pale gelding was closest, and when Ned found the courage to seek her eyes, they were not the shade of blue he dreaded. In them he saw the same Tully blue Sansa had shown him on the day she was born. To look to Jon was to stare into grey eyes that reminded him so much of Lyanna.

Yet she was dead and gone. As were Maege and Rickard.

They would never rise again, but Ned forced himself to. He wiped the blood from his face and limped to forth, his pain forgotten in his need to embrace the truth rushing to meet him.

The wolves had come again.

Chapter 33

Summary:

The rising of rebels, great armies, and captive fates.

TYRION

An honor. That’s what a private audience with the Hand of the King was supposed to be.

Not so for Tyrion. Ever since his father had taken up residence in the Hand’s chambers, a summons always carried with it a sense of foreboding. He had never felt such unease with Lord Tywin’s predecessor. Quite the opposite really. During Prince Jon’s short tenure in the distinguished office Tyrion had actually enjoyed his visits here.

Jon brooded better than he drank but our talks were fine ones.

He was more like Rhaegar than Cersei dares admit.

None were meant to speak of their deposed king at all. Nor of Jaime, who rotted in the black cells. Their father continued to pile secrets upon secrets, to keep their enemies from smelling blood and rising up.

Tyrion was tempted to ask his father how that was working out for him. At that very moment, the Lord of Casterly Rock was inspecting the battle armor he would be taking to crush this new revolt against Joffrey.

“Was that your squire without?” The Hand asked as he circled the suit armor that stood at ghostly attention in the center of the room. “That stumbletongue Payne?”

“Podrick. Yes, that’s him. Though Pod’s not such a boy anymore. He’s served me well since you forced me to take him into service. Better than men twice his age.”

He thought of Bronn and a bad taste came to his mouth. One he washed out with a sip of wine from the golden goblet in his hand before raising it in the air.

“To Pod, whom I owe you thanks for, father.”

“You owe me everything. Your obedience foremost.” Tywin ran a hand down the golden lion upon the crest of his greathelm. “Put the wine down and listen. I’ll be expecting you to take two more squires on. The hostage, Lewys Piper, and Josmyn Peckleton-”

“Jaime’s squires.” He interrupted and the lord’s face darkened at the mention of his eldest son.

“He has no use of them anymore. Unlike you. Keep Payne if you wish, let him serve tedious tasks while these new ones bolster the authority I’m bestowing upon you.”

“Two boys? I’d rather keep all those men you’re robbing from the city’s defense. There are dragons and ironmen practically a stone’s throw away and the walls are still not fully repaired. If we are attacked from Dragonstone-”

“You will have a chance to redeem yourself after that last debacle.”

Tyrion gritted his teeth. His own love for Gerion aside, were it Jaime who died at Dragonstone, he could not fathom referring to his brother’s death so glibly.

Lord Tywin was plainly a different sort, the lord now approaching a table where a map of the city had been laid out.

“Let the Crow’s Eye come. Let him waste his ships and men storming these walls. Should he be so foolish, hold the attack until Kevan can come down from Duskendale.” The Hand jabbed a finger at the Rosby road. “Then smash the reavers to pieces. Robert Baratheon was an actual commander and had better odds and more men than this pirate king, and here he was broken. A defense, unless I was misled, that you played a key part in.”

“I did indeed. As did Daenerys.” He pointed out. “Talk of Euron but do not forget her. Daenerys has come too far to hand us victory on a platter. King’s Landing is her home, we merely squatters. Bleeding this city of half its defenders will give her the opportunity she’s been waiting for. To steal King’s Landing from us as we did from Jon.”

“It was never his. Nor will it ever be hers.” His father glared spoke firmly. “You whine for more men as if I have not given you the lion’s share of my army. Still I go forth to face Bronze Yohn Royce and the chivalry of the Vale. Complaints. Laments. Pester me not with such uselessness. The world turns and the weak move with it. Bold men act and the world turns for them.”

For better or worse, father? For better or worse?

The situation here in the capital was bad yet Tyrion agreed that the Vale was their greatest threat. Lysa Tully’s corpse wasn’t even cold when the Vale began its march. Thousands of knights and pikemen were pouring through the mountain passes and Merrett Frey wrote from Castle Darry of numbers as high as thirty thousand. A ludicrous amount to be drawn together in such a short time and Tyrion doubted Lord Royce commanded even half that. But they were still more than enough to threaten their hold on the Riverlands. The Freys at Riverrun and Darry were rallying at Harroway’s ford, in hopes of keeping the foe penned up north of the river.

“At best they will delay them.” Lord Tywin had explained to the small council days earlier. “Lord Royce will cross the Trident with all his might and there he must find me. The rebellion will end, either by the lord bending his knee or losing his head.”

Lord Tywin had sounded confident but Tyrion had known even then that his father was worried. The Mountain was being recalled from Summerhall and word was sent to Casterly Rock demanding that Tyrion’s cousin Daven reform the host they had only just split. Another worry was the snow. If autumn snows fell in the west, Daven might be denied the Gold Road and be forced to march around the mountains, delaying him greatly. However if snows fell in the Mountains of the Moon, it would cut Bronze Yohn off from supply and reinforcement.

“You cannot leave the city!” Cersei had shouted at father. “There is a fleet of bloodthirsty brutes at Dragonstone foaming at the mouth and poised to attack! The king must be safeguarded!”

“His grace faces two foes divided by distance. Hiding behind the city walls today gives them the chance to unite on the morrow.” Lord Tywin had explained with a look to Cersei that Tyrion had only ever seen reserved for him. “If we allow the king to look fearful other traitors will be emboldened. By the time the foe is within sight of the city they could have numbers twice what they are now. We must crush these threats piecemeal, so long as the dowager queen remembers her place and leaves such matters to those capable of handling them.”

Cersei fumed to be chided so harshly in front of the council and neither she nor Joffrey were won over until they were assured that the bulk of the Lannister army in the city would remain. Much of the men Lord Tywin would march with were sworn to the Tyrells, as well as a number of subdued riverlords and crownlanders.

Aegon the Conqueror led a similar force of ragtag lords against the Gardeners and Lannisters of old, and victory was his that day.

The Conqueror had his dragons and my father has his hostages.

Only those like Lewys Piper were openly called such. Others like Selyse Florent and the Tyrells were honored guests. They shared the king’s bounty and the friendship of House Lannister and would continue doing so, as long as their fighting men remembered their allegiance to Joffrey. Should they act otherwise in the field, Benjen Stark would not be alone in meeting the block.

The Stark’s end was another bit of unpleasantness that his father avoided by leaving the capital. So while the Hand was preoccupied with laying out his meticulous plans for the city’s defense when Tyrion felt obliged to point out the more glaring flaws.

“Joffrey and Cersei will be a problem. Our king will look to depose me the moment your army is out the gates. He thinks he should have control of the city.”

“As long as things are quiet, let him believe he does.” Father replied. “Joffrey commands the castle garrison, no more. Sarsfield, Crakehall, and all the others know to defer to you in case of attack. The city is yours Tyrion.”

“So not only do I have to scan the horizon for black sails, I must contend with my sweet sister and her cruel son? Oh and a city full of people who want us dead. Willem and the Freys’ murderers are still out there. ”

“The Sons of the Dragon. You’ve driven them back into the shadows where they belong. Should they raise their heads again, cut them down.”

“This quiet has little to do with me.” Tyrion admitted. “The few we arrested and put to the question were of low import, only able to point to others of their like. There was some talk of the Dragon Pit but Ser Garlan’s search turned up nothing of use. And losing the Tyrell patrols could make things worse. The roses are better loved by the city than us.”

“Then let fear suffice for the nonce. I trust you can deal out a fair share of that. Or must I be forced to summon Kevan from Duskendale?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already.” While acting as the authority here in the capital gave Tyrion the freedom he needed, he was troubled. He could not shake the feeling of being back on Dragonstone. Was he being handed a doomed cause once more?

“Why me? Why not my uncle? Or Ser Addam or Lord Serrett? They are all capable.”

Lord Tywin faced him. “You are my son.”

And there it was. All the years he had hoped to be accepted by his father, and now he final had. He was no fool though. This second son only rose because Lord Tywin had shunned the firstborn.

You bloody bastard. You’d really do it.

Ride off to war and leave Jaime to the mercy of men hungry to revenge themselves against you.

He swallowed his rage, meeting the Hand’s steely gaze with not so much as flinch.

“This city can be held.” Father said, running a hand over the map again. “Do so and the realm will accept you as my son.”

“Trust me father.” He smiled earnestly. “I will prove myself a son of Tywin Lannister. None will question that.”

Two days later Lord Tywin departed the city flanked by Ser Garlan Tyrell and Ser Imry Florent, with twelve thousand knights, freeriders, and foot. Joffrey wore crimson silk to see them off, his eyes alive when he ordered that they bring him the heads of the Vale lords to decorate the battlements.

Joffrey’s future queen used a softer touch. Tyion made note of how Margaery kissed not only Lord Tywin’s hand, but that of Ser Imry as well, before she did offer her favor to Ser Garlan. The lady then waved Tommen forward, who the Tyrells had doted on of late, so the young prince could present a wreath around Ser Garlan’s neck.

“Come back brave ser.” Tommen did beg sweetly. “Then one day I can be your squire. I’d like that very much.”

“Squire or prince, you will always be more to me lad.” Ser Garlan had bowed while Joffrey and Cersei scowled.

After the army left the city, Joffrey kept busy attending to Benjen Stark’s execution. Beneath the gleeful cruelty he showed in choosing which blade would end the northerner’s life, Tyrion found the same unease he sensed in Cersei. Unlike the realm at large, Joffrey knew Jon was alive and it troubled him deeply.

Cersei’s problems extended beyond Jon or the Tyrells. Like Tyrion, she had the pressing issue of a looming betrothal. Lord Tywin believed wars could be won with swords and quills in equal measure, and peace was only stitched together through the right marriages.

In this Cersei and Tyrion were united, both opposing their respective matches to Renly Baratheon and Arianne Martell. However, while he and his sister were served only chastisements, the objections from Renly and Arianne earned them a lengthy visit to the dungeons, to break their resolve.

Tyrion made his way to them now, down the dark stairway with Podrick in tow. Little Lew and Peck were off somewhere training or perhaps cleaning his small suit of armor that he’d caught Josmyn scowling at. Pod was the only squire he had need of, in this and for what would come.

The lad held a torch in front of them as they walked. The upper level had large cells for common criminals, while the ones below were smaller and meant for highborn prisoners. When they stopped in front of the first cell, the torchlight cast through the iron bars illuminated the lone occupant among the old rushes and dust.

He who was a lord paramount and consort to a princess.

All that grandeur is gone now.

“Lord Renly.” Tyrion addressed him, the lord’s blue eyes blinking from behind, greasy, coal locks of hair.

“You have the wrong cell, my lord.” Renly replied, gesturing further down the block. “Your betrothed is three down and to the left. I hope you’ve brought more than that boy if you’ve come to threaten her or the Sand Snakes.”

“I’ll keep it in mind when I visit her next but I’ve come to speak with you as well.”

“Oh? Let me assure you, I don’t have that coin from our last wager.” Renly jested without humor as he clawed at the wall to rise. His right arm stayed pressed to his side the whole while, an injury taken during the Bloodwater having left it useless.

“This Lannister can forgive that debt.” Tyrion said.

“Then you come on behalf of your sister.” Renly approached the bars, his shoulders hunched in defeat. “On that score you can leave satisfied. I won’t die a traitor’s death like Robert or join Stannis in frozen exile. I’ll take her company over that of rats. When the torches burn out they bite terribly.”

“So does Cersei.” He sighed. “I doubt you’ll believe this, but I did not come here to press on that matter. I’m ordering you returned to proper chambers. Tonight you’ll sleep in a bed due your station.”

Renly narrowed his gaze on him. “And I need not agree to the marriage?”

“Not right now. Just be ready to do so for when my father comes calling.”

“A step towards Storm’s End.” Renly’s eyes were far away. “Home. To glimpse those walls again... to feel the salt in the air once more off of Shipbreaker’s Bay… forgive me, Loras…”

Tyrion left the defeated lord with his memories. Unlike Renly, Arianne appeared ready for him. The princess stood in the center of her cell, thick, dark hair drawn back with ribbons clearly torn from her gown. She radiated confidence that was out of place here. Her olive eyes were filled with an amused curiosity as she peered at him.

She did the same when her family held me captive. That mess with Littlefinger earned me a visit to the Martell court in chains.

How annoying for her to act like our fortunes haven’t been reversed.

“Princess Arianne, I pray you-”

“Pray? What use would a Lannister have for prayer? A bag of gold delivered to the High Septon is more to your liking.” Arianne spoke with an air of boredom. “They sent him to me before I was cast down here you know. How much gold was he paid that for that little sermon?”

She stepped forward slowly and Tyrion resisted the urge to step back, remembering the bars between them.

“A marriage to Lord Tyrion will heal the realm and restore your family’s good name in the eyes of the faithful.” She smiled after her recitation. “I offered to repent then and there and whispered my sins into his hear. He pissed his pure whites robes to yellow after only the first.”

“Axell Florent?” He ventured and her smile grew wider.

“A name you should take to heart my lord. That wretch also had ambitions of wedding me, as if I was some spoil to be claimed by the butchers of the Bloodwater.” Her smile melted away and somehow she became even more terrifying. “The man with the blood of my brother and my cousins on his hands. I remember them all, and you will too. Quentyn. Obara. Aegon. Rhaenys. Orys. Daemon…”

The listing of the dead took their toll, the princess’s voice breaking towards the end. After a brief pause, the fury returned.

“Each and every dornishman murdered by the Florents at your family’s behest will have justice done. Dorne will never bend. We will never break. Whether by my father or by mine own hands and teeth, I swear it.”

She smiled again though this time in triumph. Delena Florent might have finished Axell off with poison but Tyrion remembered that it was those teeth which tore his ear clean off.

“Much of Dorne must feel the same, to see House Lannister torn to shreds.” He grabbed hold of the bars and leaned forward. “I plead innocence to all you say. I had little to do with Brightwater Keep or our proposed betrothal. My father meddles in such things and they do not serve me well. Not that you’d believe me.”

“You might as well offer me bread and salt for all that’s worth from a family of jackals.”

“My family is fearsome indeed, which is why Dorne sits idle.” He noted, wanting to finally take control of this conversation. “You are a prisoner, princess, and the Dornish are captive to your Prince Doran’s love for you. They will not come because he will not risk you.”

“Then I should open my veins and force his wrath upon you.” Arianne lifted a wrist to her mouth so quickly he and Pod jumped.

“Do so and you’ll deprive the ladies Nym and Tyene of your companionship!” He almost shouted. “I’ve already promised them that you’ll attend their evening meal. After you’ve bathed and readied yourself.”

“You mean to bribe me? I’ll sup of vengeance, not of your pitiful charity.”

“Perhaps you can enjoy both. Take it as an apology for how you’ve been treated.”

“A drop in the ocean, Lannister.” Arianne replied. “The only apology I want will be wrought in your father’s blood.”

“A pleasure speaking with you.” Tyrion bowed and departed quickly before she did something else to shake him.

“Pod, fetch the gaolers to free our guests. But only after you have some stewards bring them fresh garbs. We can’t have them walking in the Red Keep in their present state.”

“What of you, my lord?” Pod asked and Tyrion looked to the stairs leading further below.

“I’ll keep them company. Go on now lad, I’ll be fine.”

Pod hesitated but the squire was loyal to a fault so he went to his duties, leaving only his torch behind. The third levels of the dungeons were named for their lack of windows and solid wooden doors. Those locked away down here were kept in absolute darkness, lest light permit them some hope of ever being free.

The door he sought was barred by a heavy beam which Tyrion groaned to lift and toss aside. It thudded loudly in the darkness and Tyrion hoped the scratching and skittering he heard from the other cells belonged to rats. Opening the door, a second made of iron bars greeted him, and it was through them that he spied his brother.

Jaime stepped out of the shadows, shielding his eyes against the torchlight. Captivity had changed him. His beard was now overgrown and his Kingsguard cloak had from white to grey.

“Feeding time again? Is it the brown gruel or the grey? If it’s the grey, do dose the torch so I can pretend otherwise.”

“They allowed you the grey gruel? Our gaolers must be growing soft.”

He watched Jaime’s face brighten at the sound of his voice. As children at Casterly Rock, Tyrion imagined he must have looked the same whenever his big brother spoke kindly to him. Cersei came first in Jaime’s heart, she always had. Yet no one had ever accepted Tyrion like his brother.

“Tyrion.” Jaime’s voice was hoarse with disuse. “Do stay awhile. My visitors have been infrequent of late.”

“As our father willed it, but now he has ridden off and left this dreadful city in my hands, so now I make my own rules.”

“Father is gone?” Jaime’s good cheer fell away immediately.

“To fight Bronze Yohn and the Vale. Apparently, Joffrey isn’t well-liked there.”

“Surprises abound.” Jaime replied. “For a moment I thought father would go north.”

“He couldn’t dirty his hands with the white dragon’s blood before and that hasn’t changed. Our father leaves Jon to Ramsay Snow. Word has already flown to Winterfell that Benjen’s dead. Unfortunately following up on that falls to me.”

“You could always pretend.” Jaime smirked, waving his stump about the chamber. “Look where it landed me.”

“How many prisons is this now? Three?”

“A couple more and I’ll have to use my toes to count.”

They shared a laugh then. The pair could have been sharing a bottle of wine over dinner or enjoying a ride through the Lannisport. Speaking with his brother was as pure a joy as anything, even now. Beneath their laughter though was the truth of things. The bars between them could not be ignored.

“You know what they intend for you?” He asked and Jaime nodded.

“The Wall. I am to trade my white cloak for the black.”

“A death sentence. The Night’s Watch serve the Starks now.”

“Black never was my color.” Jaime smirked wryly. “I knew what sparing Jon might lead to. I became too accustomed to saving kings rather than killing them.”

“Then it is finally time for someone to save you.” He said before producing a key from his pocket. “This cost me enough gold to make you a new hand.”

“Tyrion, what are you- stop. Do not be so stupid.”

“I’m far from stupid, now shut it while I test this key.”

A quick turn and click proved his gold well spent. The bars began to swing inward when Jaime reached out to hold them in place.

“Stop. Brother, this is beyond reckless. I can’t just walk out of here.”

“You warning against recklessness? That’s rich. Now have faith and listen close. This key I’ll leave with you. In a day or two someone will come. Open your cage and follow them. I’ve arranged passage out of the city. It’ll mean a perilous journey through the Stormlands to the sea but you’ll have enough silver to book passage to wherever you’d like after.”

“I’m where I belong.”

“Then seek out Daenerys if you wish. She has a son now and with the company she keeps, he’ll need protection lest the son end up like the father. Not that I wish to war against you, Jaime. The surest course would be across the Narrow Sea. The Dotrathki threaten the Free Cities with sack and ruin, and there’s any number of sellsword companies that would gladly have you on. They pay well. You could live a rich life.”

“I’ve never sought wealth.”

“That’s because you’ve never lacked for it.” He tried to push the door in again but Jaime held firm. His brother’s eyes were the same green as their father’s, though they held a kindness that Lord Tywin’s never did.

“Tyrion, they’ll know this was you. Father will know.”

“He’ll suspect.” Tyrion admitted. “Let him prove it. I am the last son he has remaining to him.”

“Neither of us are the sons he meant us to be. For any other father, shaming his son would suffice, but for ours… you don’t know the depths of his malice. His cruelty.”

“Don’t I? Arianne Martell was just speaking of it.” Tyrion remarked coldly. “I am not ignorant to what he is. Most of my life I’ve borne the brunt of his disappointment. I’ll endure some more if it means sparing you worse.”

“He’s done worse than you know. If you knew… if only you knew… then and now, you’d never bother… Tyrion, I laid bare many truths of late but the worst I could not… here in the black, I’ve had time to think. What we did to you haunts me most.”

“What’s this great crime? Never slapping Cersei on my behalf?” Tyrion asked jovially yet Jaime’s expression robbed all good humor from the moment. Shadows made his brother unrecognizable for a moment.

“Tysha.” His brother spoke the name and it echoed over and over through the dungeons, each time plunging into Tyrion’s heart like a fresh dagger in an old wound.

“What about her?” Tyrion found himself holding the bars too now.

“What I said, about her being a whore… it was a lie. One father bid me to tell you, to spare your feelings. His words lulled me but… it was all as it seemed. Our rescue of her, the love you two shared. She was your wife Tyrion. By vow and by choice.”

No. No, I was a fool. She played me for a fool. Father told me…

Secrets upon secrets, hidden one on top of the other.

He could hear the silver pieces falling through her fingers and onto the floor again. A harsh sound which tainted every memory he had ever shared with his young wife. To think of the love they’d shared in their tiny cabin, of the life he had dreamed of sharing with her, it meant remembering Lord Tywin casting her down as a whore. Remembering how the men of the garrison had used her. Raped her.

And how he had played his part.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Jaime whispered to him. “Father willed it and I played along. Would that I had lost my hand before then-”

His words were cut off by Tyrion jerking the door shut. He gripped the bar so tightly he feared his skin would break around the iron.

“You deserved it. I wish you lost more than your hand. I wish Rhaegar had taken your whole arm.” Tyrion hissed, shaking with anger. “I hope the hand left to you freezes off at the Wall. I hope the wildlings have you. Just as father’s men had Tysha… my wife… death is too good for you. Where did he send her? WHERE?!”

“I would tell you if I knew.” Jaime backed away from the door, the shadows swallowing him up. “She’s not here. There’s nothing for you here.”

“Oh but there is.” He snarled, his fury all-encompassing. “I will always have this moment. I can look back upon this proud warrior turned into a weak, shamed cripple and smile for all his failures. Condemn him to the mercies of a man who ruined the one good thing in my life.”

“I’m sorry-”

“No you’re not. But you will be.” Tyrion began to shut the wooden door, slowly sealing Jaime into a world where he willed rats and demons to dwell. “Enjoy your life at the Wall. Die knowing that the sister you lust after will become another’s whore. That all those who you meant to save died all the same. That you did as much good for Jon and Rhaegar as Moon Boy.”

Then the door slammed shut and Tyrion turned away. He felt blood running down his hand as his mind screamed in his ear. It was a welcome sound, anything was better than the ringing of those silver coins.

Every insult done to him ran through his mind, by his father, by Cersei, by Joffrey and all their lickspittles and cravens and monsters. Once he had endured it. He might have done so the rest of his days, if not for what they had done to him, to Tysha.

His family had inflicted that upon them. The one person who had loved him for what he was. Tortured and banished by the very man who had finally named him son only days ago.

He put his trust in me and they all look to me to protect them now.

Let them see me for what they always feared me to be. I will make them suffer. I will see them torn to shreds…

At that he halted his ascent up the stairs. His mind was racing as his heart pounded in his chest. Then he was seeking a prisoner once more. Not Jaime. His brother was dead now.

This captive was of actual use to him.

“What is it?” Arianne demanded upon finding him outside her prison once more. “Come to charm me? To win me over? If release from this cell and a supper with my kin could not do so, what makes you-”

“Shut up. Let us not fight. Let us speak of what we have in common.” He raised the key up and grinned, the scar from Robert’s siege stretching uncomfortably across his nose. She looked disgusted by the sight of it. For once he was glad of it.

“Let’s speak of lost loved ones. Of kings and graves.”

“Of those we’d like to see dead.”

 

ARYA

The chute was cramped and filthy, its rough stone sides coated in ash.

Crawling up it was never going to be easy, but the tight fit was made worse by having to share it with another.

“If my mother knew I was alive she’d kill me for this.” Bronze Jon whispered as he struggled beside her, cursing the Dragon Pit, the dark chute, and her in the same breath.

She jerked about to press a blackened finger to her lips before pointing upwards. A few feet about them was a small opening carved into the side of the chute. The small amount of light coming from it guided their ascent. Some whispers made their way through as well.

Voices they had made this journey to hear.

They were sick of being left in the dark. Arya had run across this city ten times over for the Sons of the Dragon. Stealing for them. Spying for them. Killing for them.

No. What I did at the manse was for my family.

For Jon, Robb, Sansa… 

For Bran.

It was hard not to think of Bran as she climbed. Not because his ghost haunted her of late. No, these were happier thoughts. Her little brother would’ve been up the chute in the blink of an eye with a smile on his face. Sweat was running down hers by the time they reached the opening.

Affixed over it was a black iron grate, but through the bars she could see what lay beyond. The chamber was a massive one of high ceilings, stone arches, and gravel floors. Long ago, it had served as a dragon’s berth but no such creature could be found within it now. Only men who styled themselves the heads of a dragon.

They did not stand together, each member of the trio having taken up a place all his own. The Sparrow stood beneath a well-lit arch while Varys kept to the shadows. Ser Alliser was the easiest to spot, right in the center of the chamber, a hand on his swordbelt as he faced off with another grouping of three.

These men were all strangers to her. Each wore a drab, featureless cloak yet their builds and bearing marked them as warriors. Perhaps even knights from their cleanly state. By the torchlight she soon realized that the two to the left and right were twins. While they were clean-shaven, the broad man they flanked boasted a beard, and a well groomed one at that.

“That’s the lord.” Bronze Jon hissed in her ear, jabbing a finger at the bearded man. “The one they had me talk to before Chataya’s.”

She hushed him again, for the men were having words and they did not sound friendly.

“You must hold off.” The bearded lord said evenly. “The plans won’t work now. Lord Tywin has seen to that. Without our strength in the city there’s no guarantee-”

“There won’t be any delay.” Ser Alliser growled at the strangers. “Not when we finally have enough men and weapons to strike. By your own words we know the Lannisters are off balance and soon their numbers will dwindle.”

“Still more than you can handle even with all the aid my family has provided. Stay your hand for now. Lull them into thinking the reprisals have worked so that when we return, the rising will catch them unawares.”

“They are already clueless to what’s coming. The Imp thinks he hunts thieves and assassins, not an army.”

“One best kept in the shadows for the nonce.” The stranger implored the ser. “The Vale invasion was unexpected but it could work to our favor. Should Lord Tywin fall and I return at the head of the royal army, the city would be ours without any blood being shed.”

“You mean yours.” The Sparrow folded his gnarled hands before him. “We work to return this city to the faithful, not to hand it over to House Tyrell. Our cause does not serve your family’s ambitions, Ser Garlan.”

“Fuck me-” Royce gasped before she clapped a hand over his mouth. Not that Arya wasn’t shocked herself.

Garlan Tyrell was one of the most powerful men in all of King’s Landing. Though she’d never laid eyes on him, all knew he commanded the thousands of Reachmen the Tyrells had in the city. Troops the Sons of the Dragon had been robbing weapons and armor from for a while now.

Now Arya wasn’t so sure there was any actual stealing involved.

All those new recruits the ser keeps going on about, the ones he hides away.

Have we been fighting the roses or taking them in?

“Good septon, we seek the same goals.” Garlan put a hand to his chest. “The downfall of Lord Tywin, the ouster of Joffrey, for a good and noble sort to rule the realm again. Together, we can restore justice and order to these lands. Apart, the outlook is bleak.”

Alliser scowled. “Not as I see it. Benjen Stark’s execution is the chance we’ve been waiting for. Stay behind if you want to be a part of it.”

“Quite impossible.” Varys tittered. “The False Hand is already wary of his Tyrell allies. Were their most renowned warrior balk at leading their forces against the Vale insurrection, our friends would be undone.”

“Lord Varys is right.” Garlan said. “Circumstance is to blame for this, not I. None of us foresaw the death of Lysa Arryn or the rising of the Vale. The Lannisters surely didn’t. This is why they turn to my family and others.”

“The Hand makes haste.” Varys added. “He fears a combined assault from land and sea should the Vale make common cause with the reavers at Dragonstone.”

“I cannot believe the chivalrous of the Vale could stomach such.” Garlan said and Ser Alliser grunted.

“Why not? You Tyrells aren’t retching from your foul choice of allies.”

“We work against Tywin-”

“No, you fight with him.” Alliser shot back and Arya saw a glimmer of the man Bronze Jon defended so often. “Lest when battle is joined, you roses grow some thorns and cut down Tywin then and there.”

She thought that a great idea. Let the Lannisters suffer a betrayal like they’d served Jon and King Aegon. The gods could take the Freys and Florents too.

A prospect Ser Garlan acted uncomfortable with.

“Should Tywin Lannister fall in the field, it will not be by my hand. Even if I could be so treacherous, it would leave my sister and father at the mercy of Joffrey and Cersei. No. We must deal with these new threats first, then the evil we know. The one we’ve prepared to bring to justice. Which will come in time. After this campaign.”

Alliser was not convinced, launching into another tirade against any delay. The whole while, Varys was whispering into the Sparrow’s ear. She couldn't hear what they were saying. It worried her so that only the sour ser was tearing the Tyrell apart.

They have to follow through on the rising, she thought, Uncle Benjen needs us.

We can’t let the Lannisters kill him too.

“The Royces and Greyjoys are no threat to me.” Alliser snapped. “It wasn’t them that slew our kings. That took this city by the sword and forced us into hiding! Were they to arrive at the walls tomorrow with Daenerys Targaryen at their head, I’d open the gates myself.”

“Madness.” Garlan shook his head. “The princess became a thrall of the Greyjoys the moment she wed Euron. You’d trade one monster on the throne for another.”

“But the golden dragon would be in the ground. Where it belongs.”

“At a cost far too high to bear.” The Sparrow interrupted. “The knight has made a convincing case. A delay would be prudent.”

“I’m forced to agree.” Varys spoke in a mournful way. “Half the Lannister strength is still too many. Another opportunity will present itself.”

“What?!” Alliser raged. “When? When will so many of them be exposed again? My men can do this!”

“Pride is a sin, ser. Do not let it lead you astray.”

“Nor to forget our arrangement.” Varys gestured between himself and the septon. “One head cannot act without the other two. Ser Garlan, the matter is settled.”

She gripped the grate with anger as Alliser endured his with clenched fists. He did not let it explode until the Tyrells had left the chamber, jabbing a finger at his cowardly companions.

“This is what I get for throwing in with you two. A sheep in a frock and the other missing a cock.”

“My wits are unchanged.” Varys replied coolly. “The same can be said for our plan. So calm yourself, ser. The rising will go ahead, only without the Tyrells.”

“Why the lies?” Alliser asked and the Sparrow met his gaze.

“What honesty do owe we those who deceive us? By our good works, this city will become a beacon of salvation for the realm. The Tyrells wish us only to serve their ends.”

“Ser Garlan spoke truly in not wishing to kill Tywin himself.” Varys said. “The Tyrells want the Sons of the Dragon to dispatch their rivals for them. So when the blood flows, their hands remain clean. This delay is not because they fear us outmatched, they worry we can succeed. That the city might be ours instead of theirs.”

“They’re trying to use us.” Ser Alliser spat.

“Just as they make use of Tywin against the Valemen, or perhaps the reverse. The Tyrells wish to avenge themselves upon the Florents and Lannisters but seek to put a puppet on the throne as well. A dragon that is not Daenerys Targaryen, nor her son.”

“A bastard born of carnality cannot sit the Iron Throne.” The Sparrow declared. “That Daenerys has taken up with a red priestess preaching a false faith makes her even more unworthy of the crown.”

“Bastard dragons, puppet dragons, scheme over who gains power after we become one in our own right.” Alliser said. “Take the city, seize the Red Keep, and deny it to the enemy. Once the gilded dragon and the lions are dead and buried, the Dragon Queen, the Tyrells, whoever, they can deal with us.”

“With the right hostages, we can force a council.” The Sparrow said as they began to leave the chamber. “First comes the trial. Where we reveal the crimes of these false rulers to all and let them meet the justice of the Seven. The Royce boy is ready but the Dornish bastard worries me. We need free those highborn captives in the Red Keep.”

“Also to learn what became of our Florent friend.” Varys’s voice distant as they moved out of her version. “I know our holy septon thinks little of her as a lady, but Delena was of use… cannot see why she summoned me for her escape… a bastard girl… cousin… Edric Dayne… their story… must be sure…”

Then they were gone. Most of the meeting was confusing, but their talk of Benjen came as a relief. Every winesink and back alley was full of whispers of how the lions were due to kill him any day now. The Lannisters were supposed to make a grand event of his execution. A spectacle the sons were primed to ruin it seemed.

She thought on this the whole way back down the shaft. Climbing up had been easier yet she managed to keep pace with Royce. They were nearly at the end when her foot slipped on a foothold covered in ash and she fell. Arya landed on Bronze Jon first and then together they tumbled the rest of the way, ending up atop one another in a dusty pile of gravel.

“Move. Your. Hand.” She growled as she pushed him away from her backside.

“Bathe.” The squire growled back, scrambling to his feet and nearly bumping into Hot Pie.

They had left the baker’s boy keeping watch over the small side room in the dankest depths of the Dragon Pit. The old guards said that, way back when, this was where they’d dumped charred bones, ash, and dragon shit.

“What’s wrong?” Hot Pie looked ready to shit himself. “Did they catch you? I told you! The Spider knows everything! He’s going to cut out our tongues! The ser will kill us and the Sparrow will damn our souls!”

“Hush up. All is well, the heads…” She started before changing her mind. “They never showed up. We waited and waited but nothing. Guess you were right after all.”

“That’s great!” Hot Pie smiled with relief as Bronze Jon gave her a look that made her shrug.

Hot Pie had been brave enough for today. When she asked him to keep watch, he’d believed she was like the rest of the sons, frustrated at sitting idle while the lions continued to rule the city. In truth she was just scared for Benjen. Although her uncle’s visits to Winterfell were rare, Arya clung to the few memories she had of him. His smile stretching across his thin face. How loudly he laughed to toss her in the air. Memories like these were worth more than gold to her now.

They were all she had of her family.

We’re going to rescue Benjen.

Don’t let the ghosts in again.

They returned to the main passages below the Dragon Pit. The narrow tunnels were crowded with fellow sons or those seeking refuge with them. They pushed through the ragged rabble and found a quiet corner to enjoy their meager meal of broth and fresh bread. Hot Pie took great pride in his bread, and while he was going on about it to Royce, Arya found herself staring into her bowl, thinking of her lost family.

Her reflection in the broth brought the dreams back for a moment. The way her features kept shifting and changing, how her eyes became black, empty holes. Like someone had gouged them out. The noise would be all around her, all the different voices of the underground changing. Twisting into the cawing of crows.

Not only crows. Ravens too. Hundreds of them. They came to her in the night, beating their wings and grasping at her with their talons, lifting her up and away from the city.

She was being carried across the Blackwater to the forest, flying over the treetops. It scared her. The forest was calling to her. It was always calling to her.

“Arya.” The trees swayed and leaves rustled. “Robb… Sansa… Rickon…”

The calls twisted into cries as the birds lowered her towards the darkest part of the woods.

“Mother… Father… Jon…”

“Elara…”

She’d opened her mouth to scream but no sound would come out. The crying grew louder, the whole forest bending and twisting as if from some great storm. When the trees parted, a pale figure marred by shadows stood waiting for her. The darkness played tricks upon its face, long filthy hair covering his eyes.

Bran.

“Gone!” The flock cawed and crowed. “Gone! Gone!”

Bran, she tried to scream to him over the birds and the forest weeping around her. Bran, Bran...

“Dead! Dead! Dead!”

Bran, I’m sorry. I’m here.

“Pain! Pain! PAIN!”

Then the ghost looked up at her. His hair parting to reveal an empty hole where an eye should be. A black pit of nothing.

When he opened his mouth, a terrible torrent of anguish poured out. The sounds of the dead and dying at the Brightwater Keep. A babe’s wailing and a woman’s screams. King Rhaegar speaking of her aunt. Osha’s last rasping breaths. The crunching of Theon’s skull. Robb’s cry of pain as he died. His horse screaming at the tourney. Domeric pleading for mercy. The rushing of water and the howling of a wolf.

“Weasel! Royce!” Lommy’s shrill voice shook her out of her memories as the young sneak thief rushed up to their group. “Oh hells, what did you do? What did you do?”

“We didn’t do anything.” Royce said quickly. “What are you on about?”

“There’s men hunting for you both. And they’re angry! Bloody angry!”

Shit.

“Oh gods. Oh holy Father and Mother.” Hot Pie slapped his hands together in prayer. “We’re dead and damned.”

“Stop it. We’re fine.” She lied, getting to her feet and waving Bronze Jon to her. “Let’s go topside. Grab some fresh air.”

“Sounds good to me-”

“There they are!” The gruff shout belonged to Lewan Largent, a former sergeant in the gold cloaks. He was followed by a half score men, their hands on their swordbelts.

“We didn’t mean anything by it!” Hot Pie quaked. “Please! They made me!”

“Made you what?” Lewan grumbled as he glared down at them. “Who let that tub of guts out of the kitchens? You, thief, shut him up. Squire, you’re coming with us. Same for that rodent you’re so smitten with.”

“I’m not smitten with her!” Royce protested. “She doesn’t wash proper!”

“Where are we going?” She asked and Lewan glared at her dismissively.

“I don’t answer to you, welp. If you must know, there’s a need for you Bloodwater brats across the city. Moving you two through the streets by daylight isn’t smart but the Spider and the Sparrow won’t hear different from me. So grab up your topside cloaks and let’s get going.”

Lewan was right. They let her move through the city freely because she was a poor orphan. Bronze Jon was their prize though, a highborn witness to King Aegon’s murder, to be protected. He was barely ever allowed out of the Dragon Pit.

Royce acted giddy when they saw sunlight while Lewan and his five men acted wary. They took alleys and side streets that rarely saw a Lannister patrol, heading in the direction of Chataya’s brothel. After an hour they reached a small, rundown looking house with filthy beggars lazing around its entrance. When they got close, Arya spotted daggers hidden within their ragged clothing. Lewan left his men at the tavern across the street, calling on the house itself with her and Royce.

The home was somehow less impressive on the inside. Sparsely furnished with stained walls, Lewan did not dawdle, heading straight to the stairs with a curse.

“Pate, you damned fool.” Lewan growled. “One simple command. Keep watch on the door. If he’s crawled into bed with that bastard…”

The gold cloak was still grumbling as they reached the top of the stairs and pushed at the door.

“Pate!” Lewan shouted into the room. “What are you-”

Arya was right behind him when she heard the thud and Lewan’s surprised grunt. The man was already falling when her eyes caught a glint of steel to the left. Lewan was hitting the floor as she pulled Needle free. In the same instant that she felt cold steel against her neck, Arya pressed Needle against her attacker’s.

Their blades stayed then, steel kissing against flesh. She saw her foe to be a young man then, only little older than her, but with a haunted look in his dark blue eyes that made her worry.

“Ow!” Royce shouted, having been struck with the same weapon that felled Lewan.

The blow must have missed its mark for she glimpsed Royce ducking away, grasping his shoulder. He danced right over another man lying bloodied on the floor. She wanted to watch Royce’s back but seeking out the mysterious first attacker would mean taking her eyes the boy.

“Lower your sword and let us leave.” The youth demanded, giving a quick shake of his head. “I’ve no desire to hurt you-”

“You won’t. Drop your blade before I poke you full of holes.”

To press her point, she angled Needle a touch, causing him to wince. Bronze Jon distracted her a moment later, gasping loudly and backing away with a fearful expression. As if he’d seen a ghost.

“You’re dead. Dead like all the rest…”

“Many say the same about you, Jon Royce.” A familiar voice whispered.

She dared to seek the voice and saw a shadow standing near the balcony. Through the wind-blown curtains she saw a black-haired young woman holding a wooden cudgel. Her eyes were a queer blue like her companion’s. Only darker, almost purple.

“Elara.”

“Arya? Arya Stark?” Elara took a step back then. “But you died…”

“So did you.”

“This hurts my head.” Royce pulled at his hair.

She remembered Elara at Winterfell, her beauty rivaling even Daenerys, yet now the lady seemed ill. Her skin was stretched over her skull like she’d been starved. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and her mouth was set in a grim line, her lips dry and pale.

There was something else as well. She couldn’t put it into words, like the feelings that came with her wolf dreams; Arya simply sensed the lady was different. Somehow Elara was stirring up Arya’s mind.

Her attacker appeared as troubled as she was, his attention turning to Elara.

“This is the Lady Arya?” He asked, lowering his guard.

She lashed out with her free hand, knocking his sword arm aside and kicking into his groin. The youth collapsed to his knees and she pointed Needle at his chest.

“Arya stop!” Elara begged of her. “That is my cousin, Edric. Edric Dayne. He was only trying to help me.”

“Then help him. Tell Edric here to drop his blade.” She poked at Edric Dayne’s chest as he gasped in pain on the ground.

“I’m a friend… I fought with King Jon… at Riverrun…”

“So did the Freys.” Arya imagined his comely, earnest face won others over. Not her. Not after Jaime Lannister.

“Ned, lay the blade down.” Elara commanded and he did so begrudgingly. Arya waved him to stand by Elara while Bronze Jon snatched up his sword. His eyes never leaving the Dornish lady.

“You got your necklace back.” Jon pointed at the bronze jewelry, a red ruby in the center. “Delena was wearing it when she helped me escape. Is that how you got out?”

“I didn’t get out.” Elara grimaced. “Delena helped me survive the massacre but I became a prisoner. Hidden away for so long I feared to go mad. I nearly forgot my name, Jon Royce. Can you imagine that? To be so lost that you start to lose yourself?”

“I can.” Arya replied without thinking.

Nan the orphan. Robb the deck boy. Weasel the spy.

It’s be so long since I was plain Arya Stark.

“Perhaps you can.” Elara was looking her over in a queer way, her gaze moving from Arya’s clothes and Needle before settling on her face. “You’re not as you were, but I see Lord and Lady Stark’s daughter still. To find you here though… Bran said you were always turning up where you shouldn’t be. What did they call you at Winterfell?”

“Arya Underfoot.” She said, fighting the wave of longing for her home that followed. “But don’t think of telling anyone. That girl is gone. Like Winterfell and Bran. The sons call me Weasel now. They won’t take well to what you did here. Why were they keeping you prisoner?”

“Because I’m not who they wanted.” Elara sat upon the bed. “I- that is Delena and I were spying on the Florents. First for the Red Viper, then for your people at the Red Keep. We were about to be discovered so we fled. I wasn’t going to leave without Edric and Benjen but… but more guards came on so quickly and-”

“He stayed back.” Ned spoke with admiration. “To hold them off so the Spider could get us away. First King Jon, then Ser Benjen, you Starks are a brave sort.”

“They have to be. Winter is coming.” Elara toyed with her necklace nervously.

“What of Lady Delena?” Bronze Jon asked. “She saved me at the Bloodwater… saved me from what they did to Bran-”

“Delena wasn’t the hero you think.” Elara snapped. “She died a traitor’s death.”

Royce acted like he’d be smacked. He opened his mouth to say more but Elara interrupted.

“Is there any word on Benjen? Last we heard he still lived. Do the Lannisters still mean him harm?”

“Not if we have anything to say about it.” Royce boasted before she hissed at him. “What? Elara’s no traitor. She got King Aegon through the Red Mountains. She took care of Bran after Joffrey cut out his eye.”

“You think me in league with the lions?” Elara glared at her, an edge to her voice. “They who protected the monster who tried to rape me and maimed the boy that dared to help. I saw the carnage at Brightwater Keep, I was at the Bloodwater.”

“So was I.” Arya remarked to Elara’s surprise. “That’s what happens when you put your trust in the wrong people. Give me one good reason to trust you.”

“Because I want the same thing as you. To protect the people I love. Help Edric and I get to the Kingswood and I can help you, Arya Stark. I can get help for us all.”

“How? What can you do that the sons can’t?”

“I can try and gain a power that’s unfathomable to most. Forget the Sons of the Dragon or the Lannisters or even those armies marching here or there. They can’t match a force of nature.”

“You mean the dragons?” Royce raised an eyebrow. “I can’t see Princess Daenerys launching an attack for Ser Benjen or you, Elara… even if you were friends once.”

“We were more than friends. Dany was like kin to me. She saw the dangers of Marwyn’s teachings long before I could. The costs…” Elara ran her fingers over her cheeks then, feeling the bone there. “I reached out to Daenerys but she won’t come. Not in time at least. She has her hands full at Dragonstone. Dany is a mother now, with a babe of her own. There are terrible shadows looming over them both.”

“How do you-” Arya was about to ask but shook her head. “Fine, you say no dragons will come, so who will?”

“The Red Viper and his men. Maybe. They’re in the Kingswood now and they haven’t come alone. I told you. There’s a power in those woods.”

“What power?” She asked, fearing the answer. “What’s in the woods?”

Elara eyed her with care. “I think you know. The dreams. You’ve had the dreams, haven’t you? How it calls to be heard?”

“Stop it.” Needle was shaking in her grasp as Elara made to stand again, seeming more frightening than before.

“It’s alright to be scared. I am too. I’m not certain of what’s out there. Perhaps it’s all the wrongs done to us, all that pain made flesh. Rising up to set things right.”

“I said stop it!” Arya shouted, pointing Needle right at Elara’s heart. Both Royce and Ned cried out in alarm when the point of the sword went through her gown and a small spot of damp redness began to appear.

Elara did not so much as flinch. Instead she looked back at Arya with sympathy, her hand slowly moving to caress the bit of Needle cutting into her.

“It’s alright, Arya. That anger and fear. The sadness. I’ve felt it myself. Not just now. When I came to Winterfell I was torn between raging and weeping. I fought against a sense of belonging… but after denying myself for so long, I can’t do it anymore.”

“More nonsense.” She hissed, hating the weird sensation filling her head as they stared at each other.

“You won’t hurt me.” Elara whispered gently, sliding her fingers up Needle to where her chest bled. “No more than your father could. For the same reason. This blood, my blood, it’s the same as yours. We are kin, Arya Stark. Just as your father is my uncle, my father is yours.”

“How’s that?” Bronze Jon exclaimed before noticing Pate starting to wake. “Not now!” He then booted the man’s head, knocking him back into unconsciousness.

“Elara, are you sure about this?” Ned asked.

“No, but Arya is.” Elara looked deeply into her eyes. “You can feel it in me. As I can feel it in you. Forget what Marwyn taught me. It’s in the blood.”

“I don’t know… uncle Benjen can’t be your father, someone would have said…”

“Not Benjen. Brandon. Brandon Stark. He was my father. That makes you my family as much as Ned is. Your enemies mine. The same goes for the vengeance you seek above anything else…”

Vengeance. The word was sweet in her mind. The lions, the foxes, the krakens. It was them she wanted to hurt. A sudden shame took hold of her to have cut Elara, to have spilled her blood. But she also knew Elara was wrong about her.

“Revenge, justice, I want them both.” She pulled Needle away. “They can wait though. Helping my family, saving uncle Benjen, that’s what I want more than anything.” Her voice began to falter. “I want my family back.”

She glanced to Bronze Jon and Edric Dayne before drifting to the two sons laid out on the ground. Then she thought on the divisive heads of the dragon and all the uncertainty they inspired in her. Her mind was spinning and she was filled with doubts.

There was only one thing she was sure of. There was something in the Kingswood that scared her. Something that hurt as deeply as she did.

“Tell me what’s in the woods.”

“I cannot.” Elara knelt so that she looked up at her. “Not until I’m sure there’s some light in that darkness. It be cruel otherwise. You can come with though.” She smiled slightly. “Searching the forest would go easier with the help of a wolf.”

“I can’t leave Benjen here. Nymeria is the kind of wolf you want. She’s back in North. Where they made me leave her… she’s with family.”

“I believe you.” Elara whispered, leaning close. “Bran was the same with Summer. As I am with Winter. She flies over the Kingswood as we speak. Searching, calling. Our gifts allow us to see more than most ever will.”

“Good.” She pulled away, pointing to Edric. “Then you won’t need his help. He stays with us.”

“No, Arya, please. Ned and I have only just found each other again.”

“Then when you find what you’re looking for, he’ll be waiting. With us..” Arya laid Needle’s blade against her palm. “Try and betray us, and things will go badly for him.”

“It’ll go better for us with the sons if he stays.” Bronze Jon put in, slapping Ned on the back. “So sorry one of the Daynes got away, but hey! At least we caught poor Eddy Swollenbits here.”

“Don’t call me Eddy.”

“Swollenbits is good though?”

“No!” Ned scowled and focused on the women instead. “Elara, I’ll be fine. I rode with the Ghosts, I can handle this lot. With all you can do, I’d just hold you back anyhow.”

“Ned…”

“It’s true. If you hadn’t come for me, Ser Benjen would be free right now. We owe him.”

Elara considered this long and hard, and Arya felt for her. She truly did. This was how it had to be if Elara wanted them to let her go.

I want her to go. Those dreams, Elara knowing about them… about me.

It all has to mean something.

Just please let it be good.

“I’m sorry, Ned.” Elara blinked back tears and went to her cousin, the pair hugging each other tightly. “I’ll come back for you. Take care. Take care and blame it all on me. No one trusts us bastards.”

Arya tried not to let that sway the trust she was putting in Elara when the dornish lady looked to her and Bronze Jon.

“Take care of each other. All of you.”

“Oh we’ll be careful.” Royce said. “Coming back from the dead the one time was enough for both us. It’s not as much fun as it sounds.”

“Don’t jest of what you don’t understand.” Elara’s voice became hollow and mournful. “We have only passed through death’s shadow. Were any of us truly touched by death, we would be broken.”

“Broken? How badly?” She asked.

The ruby in Elara’s necklace grew somewhat brighter then, and some trick of the light made the lady’s eyes dim to black as she looked to Arya. Staring in a way that her flesh crawl.

“I’ll know soon enough.”

 

JON

They were hugging again.

Stepping out of the cold night into the pavilion, Jon was treated to the sight of Sansa and Uncle Eddard embracing by the fireside. The lord’s arms encircled the younger woman’s back as she rested her head against his shoulder, eyes closed and lips smiling serenely.

Lord Wyman and a maester stood witness to the display from the corner of the tent. Neither appeared put out, as this sight had become common of late. Ever since their reunion, Lord Eddard and Sansa seemed desperate to make up for their lost time as father and daughter.

Something Jon could never do with his own father.

Father and I wasted our time at Winterfell. We were supposed to have another chance.

I hoped we would.

‘Lyanna hoped…’

King Rhaegar’s last words. Forever entwining hope and death for Jon. Depending on the former often meant the latter came calling. Still the loving display between father and daughter touched him. Both had been through hell and back, escaping the clutches of death several times over.

And now they had each other. Apprehension took hold of him. For what he had come to say to them would no doubt sour the mood.

Another broke the moment first, for Larence Snow followed him into the dead and cleared his throat.

“The king, my lord.” The lord’s squire announced him. They all turned his way, the Lord of Winterfell breaking his hold of Sansa and appearing embarrassed.

“Jon.” The lord’s face bore more lines than, some bending in an expression as warm as his welcome. “Good, it’s good you’re here. I was just sharing the outrider’s good tidings with Sansa. We are nearly home.”

“I’ve heard.” He replied, crossing the space between them to spare his uncle’s limp. His outstretched hand was soon shaking Lord Eddard’s, whose strong grip was comforting.

“One more day.” The lord declared. “One more day and we’ll be in sight of Winterfell. Most of my life was spent in that castle, now being so close to it again beggars belief.”

“Because it was stolen from us.” Sansa spoke in an odd tone, her eyes downcast. “They sacked and burned the Winterfell that was. What’s left flies the flayed man, a home to its killers. Winterfell is as betrayal has made it.”

“Not forever.” His words drew Sansa’s glistening gaze. “We were much like Winterfell once. At the mercy of enemies, given up for lost. We drew together all the same. We can take it back, Sansa.”

“We should not have to.” She replied. “So many died losing Winterfell, how many more will fall to take it back? Think on all that blood. All the death.”

“I have.” Lord Eddard spoke grimly. “Those deaths only to add to the shame I bear for letting my home come to this. Sansa is right, Winterfell should never have been lost in the first place. I served up my children to Tywin and Roose on a platter…”

“No, father. I did not mean that. You are not to blame.”

“I cannot fault Robb. He fought hard, he did his best, but the true threat never met him on the battlefield. Roose and Tywin, they murdered him with the scratching of quills and the flights of ravens. Viserys Targaryen, Theon Greyjoy, the Second Sons, a crush of pawns to clear the way for the coming of their masters. I’ve seen it before. Beyond the Wall.”

Despite his stern demeanor and warmth of the tent, Jon watched the lord shiver. Sansa was ringing her hands and opened her mouth to speak, but when nothing came Jon did so instead.

“Roose has few pawns left to him.” He said. “Enough to delay the end. Not to escape it. Tomorrow, he will look over Winterfell’s walls to justice coming for him. Northern justice.”

“No, not only that.” His uncle grasped his shoulder, but not for support. More like those times when Jon had grasped a lesson quicker than Robb, or risen to his feet after a defeat in the yard.

“Roose shall see the Warden of the North and the King of the Seven Kingdoms marching together. That the direwolf and white dragon stand united. May ravens fly to Lord Tywin telling him so.”

“Shall I can change our letters to that very wording?” Maester Medrick interjected, fumbling with the stack of parchment in his hands. “Before ‘all seven kingdoms are imperiled by the return of the Others and must come together.’ Perhaps after ‘by vows of fealty, and ties of blood and marriage, House Stark names the one true king to be King Jon, First of His Name.’ Hmmm, I might need longer parchment…”

“Later, Medrick.” Lord Wyman shot Jon a wide smile.

This and the maester’s words about marriage made Jon uncomfortable. He had finally worked up the courage to discuss his betrothal to Sansa. He’d put if off so as not to burden Sansa further during the search for Lord Eddard. After that reunion, he’d not wanted to spoil the joy of all three being together again.

Nor deepen the rancor over his killing of Mors Umber.

A day after the Battle on the Ice, Lord Umber did arrive with the missing portions of the Stark army. The Greatjon had cursed his own lateness, offering apologies in the form of Medrick and his ravens, who was found among a band of Hornwood fighting men that had escaped their castle’s downfall.

At first the Greatjon celebrated that Mors had come to die fighting in a great battle. Yet when he learned at whose hands that end had come, the lord nearly had to be restrained in his fury.

“Bloody Targaryens!” The Greatjon had bellowed in the middle of camp for all to hear, pointing a massive finger at Jon in rage. “Haven’t you dragons done enough to the North? Killing loyal northmen! He’s no better than that Viserys!”

“A falsehood, my lord.” Uncle Eddard had replied but the Greatjon’s fury matched his size. “The storm is to blame, not my nephew.”

“Did he not slay my kin? My men? They tell near a hundred of Last Hearth fell in the village. How many by your blade, dragonspawn?!”

“Tallies that should not be broached.” Lord Wyman replied. “For I lost men in that fight too. As did House Reed and House Locke in the brave Ser Donnel.”

“Dead by their own folly.” The Greatjon grumbled back and this drew the ire of Jon’s protectors.

“We weren’t the ones who attacked first.” Gendry shot back and Willem grunted agreement.

“It was Mors who took Donnel’s arm. He meant worse for Jon so give a thought to what you would’ve done in the king’s place.”

“What king?” The Greatjon had glared into Jon’s eyes and snarled. “I see a boy who lost his kingdom and came here to hide. He wants me and mine to fight for him. Bah. By rights I should be running him through.”

Gendry and Willem had grabbed at their weapons when Jon eased them back, walking forward so all could see him facing the bereaved lord.

“The lord talks of rights in the same breath as treason. I killed Mors Umber before he could kill me. Mors fought well, and I will go so far as to say he died well, for there was honor it. The same will not be said of the Greatjon when I take his head as a traitor.”

“Jon.” His uncle’s tone had broached on chastisement as the Greatjon cursed and his men grew wroth.

“Heed me, Lord Umber. You shall be pardoned of this crime by the same authority as did condemn you. For I am your king. Yes, I came to the North for aid. And I offer the same. My uncle has told me of the Others and the onslaught they threaten. I will fight for House Stark to regain the North, then I will press on to regain my throne. Alone, I will likely fall. As these lands will fall against the Others. Lord Umber has faced them. Many of you have. Do you wish to fight them again with the power of one realm or that of seven?”

He remembered how the northern lords had looked at him afterwards. Men like Robett Glover or Morgan Liddle, who had known him since boyhood, and regarded him with suspicion.

“The king stands with House Stark, so my house shall stand with him.” His uncle had addressed the Umber party, standing in front the Greatjon with a growling Grey Wind backing him.

“Lord Umber... Jon, you pledged your family to mine. Our enemy is at Winterfell. So swallow this anger against my nephew. He is your king. My daughter will be his queen. I will not forgive a threat against that or the North’s survival again.”

  

Those words did more than back down the Greatjon. ‘I will not forgive.’ They echoed over and over anytime Jon thought to speak of Daenerys. His betrothal to Sansa was the work of his father and uncle, his engagement to Daenerys born of love and devotion.

However Jon acted, he broke a vow and faith. He hurt someone he loved.

Days and nights he’d worried on doing so, and now that the moment was on him, Jon was glad the presence of others gave him reason for delay.

Only until the others leave… then I must speak the truth.

“I’d like to see those letters.” He gestured to Medrick. “Before you send them. You are announcing my survival to the Seven Kingdoms after all.”

“None were going to leave without your say.” Uncle Eddard nodded. “Once ready, they’ll fly to give the true reason to take up arms. Oldtown, Seagard, Runestone, the Eyrie…”

His uncle paused awkwardly, as if he meant to say more. Jon suspected the lord nearly gave voice to worries after Lady Catelyn and he’d press him.

“Friends will be most welcome.” Lord Wyman added. “For if it as his grace fears, and the Boltons have forewarned Tywin Lannister, the lions will look north. Lord Roose may attempt to weather a siege if he thinks reinforcement coming.”

“He has the men and food to do so.” Maester Medrick shuffled through his parchments before finding one in particular. “Let’s see…yes, our captives say Winterfell is provisioned to feed its defenders for three months. A force that numbers in thousands…”

“How can we overcome that?” Sansa asked, wilting some under the attention it garnered her. “Forgive me, it’s only that my father told us that Winterfell could be held with a garrison of only a hundred. If the Boltons have so many, an attack would be a terrible thing.”

“A bloodbath.” He put in. “We have to tempt the Boltons out of the castle. Or exploit one of the weaknesses left by the sack.”

“I have that revised layout!” Medrick exclaimed, yet his fervor to find one parchment allowed the rest to fall in flurry upon the ground. As Wyman rolled his eyes, Sansa bent to aid the maester in his cleaning efforts.

“A battle outside the walls or a way within would be ideal.” His uncle agreed. “I fear my bannermen will not abide a siege. The Greatjon wills carnage in answer to the murder of his son.”

It was from the mouths of their prisoners that they learned of the fate of those the Boltons held. Smalljon Umber, Rodrik Forrester, each had lost their heads by Lord Bolton’s decree. The Greatjon had wanted to take the heads of the captive Harrion Karstark and Roger Ryswell, but so far his uncle had deflected those demands.

He’d been there when Roger was told Lord Ryswell had drowned during the Battle on the Ice. The man was more put out to recognize Jon as the Night’s Watch recruit who’d visited Barrowton.

Roger’s look of shock strangely akin to the one that formed on Sansa’s face now. Her eyes locked on one of the fallen parchments, her brown furrowing into deep confusion.

“I have summoned Lord Umber and the others here.” His uncle continued, breaking Sansa’s spell. “To talk, to listen, to ensure the army that arrives at Winterfell is firm in duty and resolve. Jon, I think it best if you weren’t here when the Greatjon arrives. I promise to seek you out after things are settled.”

“I’d insist on it. Send a man to find me. I’ll walk the perimeter until then. It settles my mind.”

“A leader and a soldier.” The lord allowed a flicker of a smile. “Do you see, Lord Wyman? It is as I said. This is a king to have faith in.”

A strange moment passed between the two lords, as if his uncle had proved some unspoken point. Sansa had just handed Medrick the last of his papers when her father beckoned her.

“Go with Jon, Sansa. You’ve become pale with all this talk of war. A walk would do you well.”

Sansa nodded absently, and Jon felt poorly indeed to take the arm of such a lovely lady knowing full well he must soon crush her heart.

Outside the tent lay the Stark camp, and a company of men sworn to his well-being. Most were of the crannogs, like Marlen and Kanna, and were doing Lord Stark’s bidding. Gendry and Willem were sharing words with them before they caught of Jon and Sansa.

“A good evening to you, my lady.” Gendry bowed as Willem scowled.

“Good? Lady Sansa’s worthy of a great one at the least, Ser Bull-for-Brains.”

“Surely she is!” Gendry flushed, which gave Willem and the others a good laugh. Sansa offered a false smile, clearly troubled.

“Back to your tent?” He asked and she shook her head.

“Might we do as father said? Take a walk? We’ve not had much of a chance of late… to talk.”

“Yes. We should talk.” He realized then how cruel it would have been to do as he planned without warning Sansa. How might things have gone if his father had spoken with Jon before making the betrothal?

So they walked arm in arm through the camp, the others keeping pace. A heavy snow was falling yet it failed to dampen the spirits of the northmen. The camp was an orderly one, ringed by stakes and trenches, but within men gathered around fires, drinking and singing. Some were livelier than others. While the Stark men thrived to grow so close to home, the groups of Ryswell and Karstark men they passed were much more subdued.

They’d been offered a simple choice; surrender their horses and arms and endure a torturous march home in shame, or renew their fealty to House Stark. More than half the Ryswell riders had come over. Only one in three among the Karstarks.

“A sorry looking bunch.” Willem put a hand to his sword. “I’m telling you, they’re another bunch of Freys laying in wait.”

“No one’s as bad as the Freys.” Gendry replied.

“Oh? How about the Lannisters? The Florents? The Dothraki? The bloody Others?”

“Alright, you win. The world is full of loathsome people. Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when I’m back with my wife.” Willem grew somber. “And as long as she’s safe in the Free Cities with Princess Daenerys, I’d rather the worst of the lot here with us.”

Jon shot his friend a baleful look at the mention of Dany, and he was sure Sansa blanched to hear so. Willem took the hint and acted contrite.

“There’s more good folk, of course. Don’t let my fool mouth make you think otherwise, my lady.”

“Thank you, ser but I’ve spent enough time among evil men to know when I’m in good company.” Sansa’s gaze moved over their won over foes. “How many are sincere in their loyalty? Are most here out of concern for their lords?”

“A mix of both I hope.” He replied, inviting Lyanna hoped to haunt him again. “Harrion and Roger would have nothing to fear if they saw reason and bent the knee.”

“Roger cannot. He’d doom his sister and nephew were he to join us. Lady Barbrey and Roderick are with the Boltons at Winterfell.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I am. He told me so.” She said and drew back at his surprise. “I do more than look after Roban, Jon. The rest of you came at Roger with threats, I gave him a sympathetic ear… and a skin of wine.”

He laughed at that. “Point taken. But why speak with Roger at all?”

“To help. I thought Roger might know a way to beat the Boltons without storming Winterfell. Last I saw it, Winterfell was aflame, awash in the blood of good people. It keeps me awake, thinking on what’s to come. Of father reaching home only to be killed in its taking. I fear the same for you, Jon. You’re both so reckless…”

“This time we won’t be. I swear it.”

“We won’t allow it, my lady.” Gendry added, with a hand to his chest.

“What of you, brave ser? What of your life? Of Ser Willem or Marlen? The thousands around us!” Sansa was sounding frantic so he placed a hand over hers, willing her startled eyes to seek his. “Oh, Jon… it’ll be my fault… all of it is…”

“That’s nonsense. You’ve done nothing-”

“You don’t understand.” She began but her voice gave away to glance at the others listening.

“Give us some space.” He commanded and his protector took their leave, staying with sight yet far enough for whatever Sansa needed to say to stay private. “Now tell me what I’m failing to grasp.

“It was me.” She whispered to him, tears streaking her face as the snow melted on her skin. “I let Viserys and the sons into Winterfell. All of this is because of me.”

He didn’t believe her. Not at first. Yet as Sansa’s story spilled forth, her meaning became clear. Trusting the wrong person. Letting slip a bit of knowledge which proved disastrous.

“I did it all for a gown. Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, they died for a dream.” She wept as Jon started at her. “Poor Jeyne, if you knew what I let happen to her… losing Arya… I cannot bear this secret any longer…”

“You made a mistake.” Jon said, holding her arms as softly as he could. “We all have. I trusted the Freys and lost my crown. Lord Tywin, Lord Roose, they preyed on us thinking the best of people. They used the good in our hearts against us.”

It struck him then how sincere his words were. That he wished the chance to go back and speak them to Dany in that tent rather than scorning her. He did as he should have done then, gently drying Sansa’s tears with the back of his sleeve.

“No.” She begged. “You must hate me. You must.”

“Never. If it had not been you, I’m sure Viserys or Plumm would’ve found another way to surprise Winterfell. Let me forgive you this. Not only because you deserve it, but to make up for how I failed another. Someone who trusted me to understand… who thought better of me than I was.”

“Daenerys?” Sansa asked and he pulled away in surprise. “It is Daenerys you speak of, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You love her.” Sansa spoke as her eyes searched his face. “Domeric told me so. He needn’t have. I saw enough at Winterfell to make me suspect. Speak to it Jon, you love Daenerys.”

“I… I do.” He felt as if he’d lost his footing. “I wanted to tell you. To tell the realm but everything became so complicated. After we beat Robert, when I thought I’d lost all of you, she saved me. Not as you did from Ramsay, but it mattered. What we had mattered.”

“It’s her you wish to marry.”

When he said nothing, save to nod, Sansa did so in turn. Her expression as blank as unmarked parchment. Slowly, gently, she eased his hands from her body.

“You are good to me. Kind and understanding. Out of affection or guilt, I’m quite unsure.”

“Sansa-”

“We are sharing secrets, Jon. There’s more you should know. You will have to trust that this is not meant in malice, but out of the same good you meant me. I think Daenerys is still at Dragonstone.”

Things slowed to a crawl. The snow falling impossibly slow, his mind failing to comprehend precisely what it had heard. Sansa saw so and showed pity on him.

“Maester Medrick, one of those letters he dropped was bound for Dragonstone. Addressed to Princess Daenerys. I think Wyman has known for some time. There’s been something… off about him. The last time I heard him speak of Daenerys being in the Free Cities, he was lying.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Lady was in the room.” Sansa said simply and no explanation was needed.

She shared the bond with Lady he once had with Ghost. A secret neither of them had never needed to discuss to know the truth of. His wolf dreams were forgotten then, instead he tried to remember the one he’d endured under Ramsay’s knife. Of a glittering silver beauty awaiting him in a place he knew.

Daenerys on Dragonstone. Has she been there this whole time?

Waiting?

“If Manderly knows, do you think the same of your father?”

Sansa became cool to him then. “If I thought one way or the other, I’d not betray him. I’ve learned my lesson. Be careful in how you broach this, Jon. Whatever becomes of our betrothal, I wish you to be my king. Father feels the same but to unjustly accuse him…”

A howl rose up from somewhere close by. Towards the edge of camp. One that was familiar to them.

“Grey Wind?” He asked and Sansa shook her head.

“Nymeria. Something’s wrong.” She closed her eyes and another howl was heard soon after. “They’re coming. Men. Through the stakes. They stink of oil. Jon, they want to kill.”

Ambush.

He was turning to shout at Gendry when a sentry’s horn sounded just to the west of them. That was all he needed to order the crannogmen to surround Sansa. She shot a look full of admonishment at him as he led Gendry and Willem off to the commotion.

They joined many of the other guards heading to the stakes ringing the camps. Already fighting had begun near the closest horse lines. Even without the wolves the sentries had sniffed out the attack long before any of the foe could reach their horses. Men ran about with torches, falling on the invaders who came in groups of threes or fours. Some carried casks of oil, others blades.

Most were dead by the time Jon and his friends entered the fray. He drew his blade but found no chance to use it. Even limping, Willem slew the first Bolton man they drew near, spilling his guts in the snow. Gendry did not have his warhammer, but when a man came at him with sword and shield, his dirk did well enough.

Jon nearing a foe of his own, one dressed in leathers with the Dustin emblem, when they locked eyes and he came to a stop. He knew him. This was Osric. The captain who’d fought beside the Night’s Watch during the Second Sons’ ambush.

“Arstan?” Osric asked in wonder. Before Jon could answer a sentry charged out of the darkness and lashed out with the shaft of his spear, knocking Osric senseless into the snow.

Gendry was doing worse to another he’d driven to the ground. Jon might not have taken notice if not for the savagery Gendry showed in beating the man. His friend’s powerful fists raining blow after blow upon the foe’s chest and face.

“Hey! Gendry! Leave off!” Willem grabbed hold of Gendry’s pummeling arm. “Prisoners are good to have! The smashed up ones, not so much.”

“Not him! Not him!” Gendry roared, fighting Jon too when pulled him back. “Let me kill him! Jon! Let me!”

“What’s wrong with-” Willem’s words fell away as he took a look at fallen man. Suddenly the knight attacked as well. Driving a foot into man’s groin and cracking a sword handle across his jaw.

Then Jon saw why. This was no sergeant or ordinary man-at-arms they were beating.

“Bastard.” Ramsay Snow spat blood at him. “Jon Snow-”

Willem booted him in the chest as Jon grabbed at his own. The agony of having his flesh flayed away returned, yet somehow he found the strength to drag Willem and Gendry away from Ramsay. The fiend lay on the snow, defeated and bloody, much like his raid.

The fighting was over as quickly as it began, its pitiful end marked by the attempted escape of one lone Dreadfort man. The pink man emblazoned on the shield slung over his back made his retreat through the stakes easy to follow. An arrow thudded against the shield but it was no protection against Nymeria and Grey Wolf. They struck as one out of the darkness, taking the man apart piece by piece.

The direwolves were still at their grisly work when his uncle and bannermen arrived with what felt like half their army. His heart was pounding and hand gripping his sword tightly when he spotted Lord Wyman among them. Jon was tensed for a fight when Ser Kyle Condon kicked over a cask of oil.

“Twenty, my lord.” Ser Kyle did report, waving his torch at the scattered corpses. “From where they came in and carried with them, I wager they meant to steal the horses and burn our stores. Five still live.”

An anguished shout drew the eye to where the Greatjon had just slit a Bolton man’s throat.

“Four.” The Greatjon said, using his cloak to wipe his hand clean.

“What a damn fool thing to do.” Dacey Mormont remarked before catching the Greatjon’s glare. “Not you. The raid itself. Why send so few to attack a camp so well guarded? Even with oil they’d only burn a few tents before we’d be on them. Who could be so stupid?”

“Um, this one.” Willem called out, pointing at the groaning form of Ramsay at Jon’s feet.

“Here sits Ramsay Snow.” He told them. “Bastard of the Dreadfort, last living heir of Roose Bolton. Now my prisoner.”

Surprise rippled through the gathered northmen, even Lord Eddard betrayed some to gaze at Ramsay. Yet Jon’s eyes with on his uncle, searching that face he loved and admired for some sign he was party to Lord Wyman’s lies.

You saw no sign in the Freys either. It was Ghost that knew.

Ghost that died for it… my trusting ways cost me what I love.

“That’s the bastard?” The Greatjon bellowed, holding up his knife and stomping at Ramsay with murder in his eyes. “The Leech Lord took my son! Cut his head off! I’ll saw through your neck inch by inch if I have to!”

Jon pointed his sword at the Greatjon then, bringing him to a stop.

“The lord misheard me. This man is my prisoner. Try and take him at your peril.”

“Jon!” His uncle started. “There’s no need-”

“Your grace.” Jon corrected. “If you name me your king then treat me so, Lord Stark.”

Lord Eddard’s brow furrowed in disappointment. Jon was tempted to say more when he chanced upon the glimmer of red hair in the torchlight. Sansa was there, the Reeds with her, all three working to the fore of the cordon. Those who failed to step aside for Sansa were forced to by Lady. Their coming calmed the angry words he’d yet to speak and he let them die upon his tongue.

Only for Lady to erupt in a savage snarl as soon as the wolf saw Ramsay. Her teeth were bared in threat as Ramsay opened his bloody mouth to show his own. A red smirk forming as the pale-eyed monster leered at Sansa.

“There she is. That one was supposed to be mine.” Ramsay said, shaking his head. “It would’ve gone better for you then. Oh yes. Where’s the other one? The Frey girl?”

“Don’t speak to her.” Jon ordered and it was Sansa who defied him.

“Her name was Roslin. She died.” Sansa swallowed. “In hiding from you and those like you.”

“Pity. I meant for her to die on the run…”

“Enough.” He put his blade to Ramsay’s neck so forcefully he drew blood. This only served to amuse the fiend.

“I cut you worse than that. What’s the matter, Snow? Taking a liking to that one? My softhearted brother did too. He lived to regret it. You’ll all regret rebelling against my father and I. Just ask Umber and Forrester heirs”

“Bastard filth!” The Greatjon roared and Ramsay shook some at the sheer loudness.

“I’m the heir to the Dreadfort, kill me and my father will not spare any of you. The Lannisters are already coming through the Neck, fifty thousand strong and-”

“He’s a liar.” Osric groaned, coming to his knees and raising his hands at the guards lowering spears at him. “Please, Lord Stark, hear me out. We met once, long ago with my lord Willam. Know that I serve the Lady Dustin, not this swine-”

“I’ll have your tongue!” Ramsay snapped so Jon let him have the back of his hand.

“I do recall you. Osrith, is it?” Lord Eddard asked.

“Osric.” Jon said. “We’ve met as well. At Barrowton, when I went by Arstan. In honor of a good man who shielded me from harm. Ser Barristan Selmy.”

Osric’s eyes widened. “So it’s true. My lady played host to a king and none of us were the wiser.”

“Roderick was. He wished me well. I doubt you or your lady would’ve done the same.”

“I can’t speak to that.” Osric admitted before spitting in Ramsay’s direction. “I’ll say this though, Lord Bolton will not be trading for his bastard. Not after this mess. We weren’t supposed to attack you! He was ordered to Castle Cerwyn after some nonsense about a raven to the south. Ramsay asked my lady for some good men as an escort. That’s all we went to be… you have to kill him for what he’s done. For the ends he led my men to.”

His uncle grunted. “Willam would have been ashamed to see you fighting for Ramsay’s like.”

“Aye but we had to my lord. The bastard gave me little choice. Join this folly or doom the Dustins. Ramsay and that scum Brown Ben, they know King Jon was at Barrowton. They’ve been holding it over my lady’s head. Threatening to tell the Leech Lord and she’s already wary of him. He lingers around young lord Roddy. The boy’s damn near all my lady has left with her father and brothers lost…”

“You’re as dead as they are.” Ramsay rasped. “All of you! Believe his lies and be damned for it! My father knows I’m his true heir!”

“Be silent now.” Sansa said, her eyes alive as she stared at Osric. “Good man, you say your lady thinks her kin all dead?” Osric nodded. “The Lady Barbrey is too bereft, for we hold her brother, Roger. The new Lord of the Rills.”

“She will be glad to hear so-”

“Not if Lord Bolton is told Roger now declares for my father.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at that as Lord Eddard rounded on Sansa, who seemed caught between them.

“Sansa, you’re mistaken.” Lord Eddard spoke in his fatherly tone. “Roger has refused to change his loyalties.”

“I know, father. He’s worries for what the Boltons will do to Lady Barbrey. She fears Lord Roose learning of Jon’s time with her. Dire predicaments for both the lord and lady.”

“Roddy too.” Jon added, his mind following the trail Sansa’s words had left. “Have Medrick ready a letter. One for Lady Barbrey, which names her and Roger our dear friends and fellows conspirators. A letter we’ll make sure Lord Roose can intercept.”

“A feigned betrayal.” His uncle stroked his beard, eyes closed in thought. “The Boltons will have to purge the Dustin and Ryswell ranks of any hint of disloyalty. Our enemy bleeds itself.”

“But it’s not true!” Osric pleaded. “The lady and young lord could be killed!”

“That’s likely.” He agreed, embracing the cold caress of the wind. “Unless Lady Dustin asks a question of herself. Who is more willing to forgive her trespasses, Roose Bolton, or Lord Eddard and myself? The wrong answer will surely mean her death. Roddy’s too.”

Osric was chewing on this when Sansa came to him, Lady driving Ramsay to cringe deeper into the snow.

“You and father should send Osric back with promises of pardons.” She said, her breath a pale mist as she glared at Ramsay. “So we might use the good in Barbrey’s heart against his father.”

“There’s a decent idea here.” His uncle limped to join them. “We must talk on this further.”

“Talk and hearts!” The Greatjon pointed his dagger at Ramsay. “It’s his head that needs to be sorted! We’re supposed to be bringing justice back to the North. Well I demand justice for my boy! Cut off the bastard’s head and let the Dustin bugger carry it back with your plots!”

“You scream nearly as loud as your son.” Ramsay sneered. “Not quite as high though. He sounded like one my girls when he saw the blade waiting for him.”

“NO!” The Greatjon gave a roar of anguished rage and rushed at Gendry at Willem. Lady moved quicker, leaping between the men and holding the lord back with her snapping jaws.

Ramsay taunting him the whole time.

He saw the treachery behind them. Ramsay had been watching, listening. He knew their divisions and was trying to bait the Greatjon into the fight Jon threatened him with.

To trick us into doing battle. As the storm brought Mors and I together.

Not again. This snow will not blind me.

“Lord Umber.” He spoke over Lady’s growls and the lord’s cursing. “My lord, I can you justice but not in the way you ask.”

“Make sense.” The Greatjon fumed and Jon found Uncle Eddard and Sansa at a loss as well. This worsened when he had Gendry and Willem lift Ramsay to his feet.

“Ramsay Snow.” Jon held his sword before him. “As King of the Seven Kingdoms, I declare you guilty of rape, murder, the banned use of flaying, and kinslaying.” He saw Sansa start at that. “For these crimes and all you’ve done against House Stark and the peoples of the North, no punishment I can visit upon you will serve as justice. Yet a message must be sent. Hold him.”

He pulled a dagger then, all watching as Jon began to cut away at Ramsay’s clothes. The fiend trembled some, probably fearing Jon meant to flay him in vengeance. This wasn’t about revenge though. The idea was as cold as his steel, but it spoke to the anger within him.

When Ramsay stood naked and shivering, Jon faced the camp.

“We have all heard of Ramsay Snow’s hunts! Of those poor women he set naked into the woods. To hunt with hounds. Who here wants vengeance for them?”

A thousand voices clamored for it.

“Who here wants vengeance for Smalljon Umber? For Rodrik Forrester? For the North itself?”

An entire army shouted back. All crying for blood. They seemed ready to charge into battle here and now.

“We all want vengeance but this cannot be about that! The North demands justice! So let the North decide the fate of Ramsay Snow!”

Many quieted then but whispers continued as Jon sheathed his sword and stood before Ramsay.

“Release him.” He commanded of his knights, who shared a worried look between them. “Go on then, Ramsay. Run. Flee into the night just as you forced all your victims to. Try for the Winterfell if you wish.”

“It-t-t’s a t-t-trick.” Ramsay shook his head, arms clutched about himself.

“None will cut you down. I leave you to the mercy of the North. Go. Now.”

Ramsay was not alone in his disbelief. Sansa and Uncle Eddard, Gendry and Willem, even the Greatjon gaped as the naked form of Ramsay Snow took off running. The Bolton heir was struggling through the stakes when the Greatjon tried to give chase, only for Lady to block him again.

“What is this?” The Greatjon asked hotly. “Justice? He’s getting away!”

“Jon, we cannot let him go.” His uncle beckoned his captains on. “If he should reach Winterfell, he’ll speak all he’s heard. Our plans for the Dustins, there’ll be no hope for them.”

Lyanna hoped.

“Hold, Lord Stark.” Jon replied, squinting into the night as Ramsay grew fainter near the edge of the forest. When the naked man was altogether lost from sight, Jon whistled.

A whistle that earned a gasp from Sansa. She knew it well. All the children at Winterfell had used it.

“Jon, no.”

He whistled again and they came. Grey Wind and Nymeria, both bloody from feeding on the Bolton dead, joining Lady as Jon reached down to pick up Ramsay’s cloak.

The wolves eagerly awaited as he held it to their snouts. Nymeria took to growling and licking her fangs. In Grey Wind’s eyes, Jon saw something familiar. A glimmer of understanding where no words need be spoken.

I had that with Robb.

Then Grey Wind was off. Nymeria following close after. Both following Ramsay’s trail into the night.

Lady lingered, whining some as Sansa held out a hand. Stopping her direwolf from joining the hunt.

“Jon- Your grace, there is no honor in this.” His uncle sounded disappointed.

“No. I say its justice all the same. The direwolves returned to the North, and it is the North I gave Ramsay over to. We can talk over your misgivings later.”

A howl was heard from deep in the night and Lady answered. Still she stayed by Sansa, who now turned away, heading back into camp.

“Lady wants to go with them.”

“Less than she wants to be with me.” Sansa turned to look at him sadly. “She’s seen enough blood, my king. As have I.”

Doubts nagged at Jon as he watched Sansa leave. Somehow, her words made him forget why he thought this a good idea at all.

Then the screaming started.

Notes:

Don't even start about how I should've posted this before the Battle of Bastards! Commence people thinking it inspired me!

Lies! Lies I say! LIES!!!

Notes:

A_Cold_Wind_Blows betas this work and he's awesome. I love constructive criticism so send it my way, with a bloody trebuchet. I usually post snippets or previews on Tumblr under DolorousEdditor.